No Ponyboy

by Faithna Geffrard

Tall white buckets filled with squirming Spanish mackerel sit in shallow groves on the sand. Peering down I watch the sleek, shiny, and silver-blue mackerel open and close their mouths in silent protestation. Their slow death always saddened me. 

Because I cannot fish despite returning trips to the shoreline where Papa and the boys exhaust themselves trying to teach me, I plant my body on a grainy mountain of sand. My being here is a result of new laws limiting the quantity of fish per person. I am not a person when I ask the boys to make space for me in their games. I am not a person when I lay the truth at Papa’s feet and he choses not to believe me. My personhood matters as a buffer to uniformed men who might roam the beach.

The best time to fish is before the sun is too high. The sky was an inky shadow when the four of us found our places in the old blue Toyota Tacoma. In the front the air conditioner competed with the radio and the excited shouts of Papa and Micha’s conversation. In the back, Matthew leaned his head against the window to grasp the last dregs of sleep. Next to him, I squinted through the dark into a copy of The Outsiders. 

Far from Oklahoma, I am a Haitian girl speeding towards the gritty sand of Florida’s east coast. There are no greasers or socs here. Any harm that may tempt me is dissuaded away by a father who survived Duvalier. But there is something in the text that speaks to me. The uncertainty of decision making is daunting. 

Last month my essay won a countywide contest. Contestants and their parents were invited to a lavish dinner across the Blue Heron Bridge on Palm Beach Island. It would culminate in a reception where the top three recipients receive checks for college tuition. The deadline for reservations was approaching and to Papa, I said nothing. 

It isn’t the fear of ‘no’ but of what might happen if he agrees. What will happen if we enter that other world? 

At the beach, I slipped a pink, flattened origami swam into the book as a placeholder. Nothing of importance is worth bringing to the beach. 

My inattention doesn’t keep me planted for long. In a weary groan, I stand and dust off my pants. It’s almost noon, the cool breeze of our early morning excursion is replaced by a warm, thick wind that whips the skin. Grey pelicans swoop down into lashing blue waves for their breakfast. 

Like an astronaut my first steps are wide and laborious. Sand slithers into my sneakers.