Things You Should Know by A. M. Homes

sirens.”
    â€œI thought something exploded.”
    â€œHe broke a bone in his foot?” she asks.
    â€œHis toe.”
    There is silence.
    â€œYou made the papers,” someone says.
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    In the late afternoon, when she’s alone, the innkeeper arrives.
    â€œI saw it happen, I water the flowers at night right before bed. I was outside and saw your car at the light. Your fellow had the strangest expression on his face. The car surged forward, between the trees, it went out over the water and then nose-down into the muck. I saw you fly over the windshield, over the water. And he was standing up, pressed against the steering wheel, one hand in the air like he was riding a bucking bronco, his foot still on the gas, engine gunning, blowing bubbles into the water. I dialed 911. I went looking for you.” He pauses. “I saw you flying through the air but I couldn’t see where you landed.”
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    A human gyroscope, a twirling top. She landed at her grandmother’s house, a big old beach house on the block leading down to the ocean. She landed back in time, in the house of her youth. She sat on the porch, propped up in a wicker chair. Her grandmother read her stories of adventure and discovery. At night, when she was supposed to be sleeping, her mind wandered, daydreaming. She dreamt of a farmhouse by the water, of a small child hiding behind her skirt, a dog barking.
    It was a summer in exile; off the party lists. No one knew which side to be on, there was talk of a lawsuit, “too ugly for summer,” friends told her.
    â€œTo hell with them,” her grandmother said. “I never liked any of them, their parents, or their grandparents. You’re a young woman, you have your own life, what do you need to be married for? Enjoy your freedom. I never would have married if I could have gotten out of it.” She leaned forward. “Don’t tell anyone I told you that.”
    At ninety-seven her grandmother set her free. At the end of the season her parents came home from Italy. “Pretend it never happened,” her mother said. “Put yourself out there and in no time you’ll meet someone new.”
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    In the morning, she goes back to the beach, her hair smells of salt, her skin tastes of the sea, the scent of sex is on her, a sweet funk, a mixed drink, her and him and her, rising up, blending.
    She goes back down to the beach, proud, walking like she’s got a good little secret. As soon as she sees him, she blushes.
    He doesn’t know she is there, he doesn’t know who she is, and what would he think if he knew?
    She watches as he squirts white lotion from a tube, filling his hand with it, rubbing the hand over his chest, his belly, up and down his arms, over his neck and face, coating himself. He lubricates himself with lotion and then shimmies up the ladder and settles into the chair—on guard.
    If he knew, would he think she was a crook, stealing him without his knowledge, or would he think it was nice to be desired, had from this strange distance?
    Another boy, older, walks barefoot down the warm boards of the bathhouse, his feet moving fast and high, as if dancing on hot coals. She stays through the morning. He is not the only one, there are others. It is a constant low-key sex play, an ever-changing tableau.
    This year they have new suits, their standard Speedos replaced with baggy red trunks. Beneath their trunks, they are naked, cocksure, tempting, threatening. It is always right there, the bulge, enjoying the rub of the fabric, the shrinking chill of the sea.
    She watches how they work, how they sweep the deck of the bathhouse, set up umbrellas, how they respond to authority—taking direction from the man with the clipboard. Before settling on two or three of the strongest, most dominant, she watches how they play with each other. She chooses the one with the smoothest chest, and another with white hair, like feathers fanning out,