Lobos

Spring on the Maryland coast is mild and balmy. In the day the sun is bright and warm and flares down on the beaches, so when barefooted children rush downshore to the sea they feel the warmth of the sand with their toes and taste salt on the breeze. But at night there is no such warmth, and the water is deeply cold and ebbs and flows with the tide. The waves crash and the land cools and the coastal winds pour into the bay like sighs of the Mother Earth, and if rain comes it comes tenderly, soaking into the sand and soil.

By the middle of March the nights grow shorter and clearer and across the bay families camp out on Assateague Island, where they can see stars. The tents they bring litter the backshore, and before sundown they build campfires in divots they’ve dug in the sand. For hours the smoke from them rises in plumes and across the water the island appears wholly dark save for those huddled fires. Then when they burn down to their embers they are buried, and the children sit close to the water with their parents and look up at the universe. The stars glitter like gems on a tapestry. The world feels old and whole and beautiful. For a while there is no sound but the breaking of waves and the wind. Families return to their tents. Some time later a pair of wild horses canters over a hill and moves down onto the deserted shore. The two pause to graze lightly before moving on again.

At the end of the month it rains tenderly over Fenwick Island, near Delaware. It rains only once but for long enough that in Ocean City the roads are slick and reflective and on the beaches the topmost sand is soaked through until it turns hard and dark. In the days after it is colder and there is a thin mist that rolls over the island that turns to dew in the mornings, and as the land warms the coastal winds blow out of the sea to clear the mist away.

In spite of the rain it is a good week for business. For several days students of every star and stripe and hailing from any state or school across the seaboard arrive squeezed into an almost unceasing succession of cars, vans, and trucks for their latest shot at spring break. And in their zeal, they—perhaps accidentally—completely upend the day-to-day on this unlucky spit of land. Shrewder business minds will have prepared for them, just as they’ll reserve stock for the busy summer months, but in the end even that can only do so much. It will not keep them from crowding the few streets when the sun is high, or from drunkenly exposing themselves on the beachfront. It will not stop them from spitting at bartenders, or shattering new glassware, or holding apoplectic shouting matches out on the floor of restaurants. And when, alas, they are refused entry and there are simply no more worlds for them to conquer, it will not prevent them from stalking the boardwalk like lobos, snapping at patrons, grinning widely with their teeth.

But, after dark, even lobos return to their dens. Past midnight when the doors slam shut on the sanctums of the soused and restless and otherwise damned, they too must slink homeward, to rented rooms. Up through the main road with streetlamps at every interval, they strike out northward—by foot, by car, by rideshare—until they reach another part of the city that will indulge them. There, sparse motels brim with slumbering brethren, and, if thirsty, a Starbucks coffee shop steeps nearby. And for the poor, the hungry, the wretched refuse of those teeming shores, there is a McDonald’s restaurant glowing a lurid, 24-hour welcome, just around the corner.

Across the street from the McDonald's is a lot that feeds into a series of tidy beach houses on piles driven into the ground. Beyond that is a sand path through the marram grass leading onto the beach. In front of one of the beach houses, at the bottom of the steps, there stands a swarthy Italian boy with rakish looks. He wears loose beachwear and leans over the railing, and in the little light he is smoking a joint. From under the balcony he stares out over the beach at the water and watches the black waves crash and ebb with the tide. He checks his phone, exhales, and puts it back in his pocket.

The front door of the house opens and at the top of the steps is a skinny Chinese boy, college-age, with sunken eyes and a mop of hair. He walks down about halfway before he stops.

Santino, he says.

Hm?

You want something to eat? Byron’s using up the rest of the eggs.

Santino continues to look out at the waves. He takes another hit of his joint and checks his phone again. I’ll be up soon, Paul. Y’all go ahead.

Okay.

Paul turns to go, then stops and stays where he is on the step.

Santino.

Yeah?

When are you going back to Dartmouth?

Santino shrugs his shoulders. I don’t know. Probably sometime Saturday?

When’s the next time you’ll be home from school? To meet up?

Santino turns to look up at Paul strangely. Summer. Like the rest of y’all. He laughs through his nose. What’s up with you? You want some? He offers him half the joint, still lit.

I’m okay.

Suit yourself.

Paul steps up to the front door of the rented house and lets himself in. The living room is a congealed mess of furniture and laundry items and half-packed luggage, and one of the couches has been converted into a bed. A tall, lanky boy with a slight hunch is leaning on the wall next to the other couch, holding a beer. Another boy—bespectacled, cheeks pocked with acne—lies flat in the recliner in the center of the room. In the adjoining kitchen a third dark-skinned, chubby boy prepares to scramble half a dozen eggs. All three are Korean, and all are varying levels of sauced.

Santino says we can start eating without him, says Paul.

Bro, that must be longest joint anyone has ever smoked. How long has he been out there? asks the lanky boy.

He’s doing something with his phone, too.

What?

I don’t know. He’s just checking it.

Hey, Daniel, tell Paul about the time you set your sister up with Connor Flaherty. A voice rises up out of the recliner, chuckling.

Shut the fuck up, Seung-hwan, says the lanky boy.

Now Seung-hwan is laughing. Did you even know he was gay?

Daniel is incensed. I’m not even friends with him. How the fuck was I supposed to know?

The chubby boy shouts over the stove. He used to run around with that Julia girl. Weren’t they together or something?

Apparently not.

That’s a damn shame. I had a thing for her.

What?

Yeah, sophomore year. We were in the same English class. If I knew Connor was gay, I’d have asked her out.

This is apparently one of the funniest things Daniel has ever heard. Shut the fuck up. You? Byron Lee?

Seung-hwan chips in. You know, he never struck me as the type.

What the fuck do you know about type, Seung-hwan? Byron seems insulted.

Not you, dumbass. Connor Flaherty.

Oh. Yeah, you couldn’t really tell.

Wasn’t he on the fucking football team?

And then there is more laughter.

When it dies down, Daniel finally collapses onto the couch he’s been circling for the night. He takes another swig of his beer and lays himself out with his head on the armrest and exhales audibly, like some psychiatric patient.

Jesus Christ. I don’t wanna go back, bro.

Where? School?

Yeah.

Who does?

Daniel sits up and gesticulates. No, I really mean it. It’s so boring, bro. It’s so fucking boring. It’s all bullshit. I can’t fucking stand it.

Bro, chill.

He’s fucking plastered.

Is Tufts that bad? Maybe change your major or something.

Yeah, maybe, bro. Maybe. Daniel lies back down, suddenly dizzy. Whatever.

At this point Byron has finished scrambling the eggs and begins plating them. He divides them into five portions on five identical plates and when he's done he looks proudly upon them, like a beaming father.

Eggs are done, he says.

This news rouses the dead. Seung-hwan emerges out of the recliner, his hair briskly tousled. Daniel slips his empty beer between the couch cushions and shambles over, to the table.

Wait. This isn’t that much, Byron.

Yeah, bitch. I’m hungry.

Byron bristles. There’s five of us and six eggs. What more do you want from me?

There is a staccato noise and a click as Santino opens the front door and comes back inside.

Daniel exclaims with mock excitement. Well, look who it is! Our prodigal son. Kindly gracing us with his inestimable presence. He curtsies shakily.

Seung-hwan laughs. Yo, you are so fucking fried. What the fuck are you even doing?

All of them sit down around the dining table. They are eating but Santino seems unusually excited, and while the rest of them busy themselves with their food he proceeds to show Byron his phone and discusses it with him in hushed tones. This snub toward the rest of them does not go unnoticed.

What are you showing him, Santi? asks Seung-hwan. Share with the class.

Santino smirks giddily. It’s nothing.

No, really, like, what is it?

It’s nothing. Really, nothing.

Santino looks back at his phone and there is a moment when he smiles and it is a smile that contains his heart and soul. It is a smile that comes from the eyes, that he would know you and like you and want you to do well; a wondrous, rapturous smile.

It’s a girl, says Paul.

What?

Santino is slightly taken aback. Oh. Uh, yeah. Yeah, it is. He raises an eyebrow. How’d you know?

Paul chews on his eggs. Good guess.

Let’s see her. Daniel leans forward.

Nope. Can’t do it.

Is she from school?

Yeah.

A Dartmouth girl. Fancy.

Byron slapped Santino on the back. Our boy’s going places.

Listen, it’s not a big deal, Santino says. It hasn’t been a thing for very long. But she’s from Jersey too, so in the summer y’all might be able to meet her.

What part of Jersey?

Monmouth County, I think? Middletown.

Seung-hwan feigns disinterest. I guess if I’ve got nothing better to do, I might think about it. Maybe.

Santino laughs. It is a lovely laugh containing the heart and soul—just like the smile. It is a laugh that revels in the beauty of joy, that savors and shares it with all that can hear; a wonderful, mellifluous laugh.

I can’t do it, says Paul, suddenly.

Santino looks at him. Can’t do what?

I can’t meet her in the summer.

What? Why not?

I got kicked out of school.

What?

I got kicked out of school.

Why?

I dropped all my courses.

What? Why? Santino looks confused. Were they hard or something?

Not really.

Then why?

Santino looks at Paul. He has stopped eating. At the end of the table he sits in his seat looking down and there are tears in his eyes.

I don’t know. It was too much.

Too much?

Yeah.

And? What else?

Nothing. It just got to be too much.

What? What the fuck was too much about it?

When he says this Santino knows he’s made a mistake. He can see it in Paul’s eyes and in the air he’s sucked out of the room.

Sorry. I’m sorry, Paul.

It’s okay.

Santino proceeds, gentler this time. What was too much?

Everything.

Is it because of your parents? Because your family moved?

Probably.

Was it something at school?

Probably.

Santino shakes his head, exasperated. Okay, fine. So what are you gonna do now? Your mother's gonna tear your fucking head off.

My dad's moved to China. He’ll take me in.

What about college?

I don’t know. He says I can do it there, if I want.

Santino sits back in his chair. So what, then? You’ve already decided?

For a moment, there is terrible pain in Paul’s face. Then he swallows it. I just wanted to let you guys know. Before I go. He drops his head into his hands. I didn’t know the next time I’d be able to see you.

Paul's words hang in the air for some time, where no one says or does much of anything. Immediately it becomes acutely painful to look at each other. No one is really that sure of what to say in this situation, or how to proceed from here. The only appropriate thing they can think to do is to finish the food set out in front of them—and so they do. Very little is said. Scarfing down the last of their eggs the five of them clear their plates quickly and easily.

Byron gathers the plates and sets them up in the dishwasher. Are y’all still hungry?

Daniel nods. I could eat.

Me too, Seung-hwan says.

Byron scoffs. I’m not making you ingrates any food.

Suddenly Paul raises his head. I heard the McDonald’s here has got special Old Bay Filet-O-Fishes.

Surprised, Santino laughs and stands upright. He grabs Paul by the shoulders. You heard him, boys. It’s our last night. Let’s get a fucking Old Bay Filet-O-Fish.

The five of them tramp down the steps to the lot and jaywalk across the empty street to the McDonald’s. At the counter they order five Old Bay Filet-O-Fishes and two large fries to go. Paul hates ketchup and insists on asking for barbecue sauce. Then they all wait in one of the window booths while the crew members defrost their food and prepare it for consumption. When the food is ready Santino and Paul take the paper bags and they all walk outside and back across the road to the lot. Then Santino gives a loud whoop and sprints onto the beach. The rest follow him, laughing. In the glow of the streetlamps they sit in a row on the sand and distribute the sandwiches. They eat watching the black waves break into foam in front of them.

Santino is sitting next to Paul. He leans over to say something.

We’ll be okay, he lies. We’ll keep in touch. Don't worry.

Byron finishes his sandwich first and with a cry charges downshore to the sea. Seung-hwan follows. They pull up their pantlegs running down into the surf and for both it is deeply cold and a little terrifying. Reaching down Byron aims a splash at Seung-hwan and they engage in a naval skirmish of sorts. Then a truce is declared once both their pants are soaked through to the skin. They hurry back shivering and sit back down on the sand. Daniel gives his shirt to Seung-hwan. Santino hugs Byron to share some of his warmth. For a while there is no sound but the breaking of waves and the wind. They look up at the universe and do not see stars.