“My dad used to be an optimist.” Shelby halted. “And I used to be a realist.”
They’d reached a fork in the trail. Toby nodded to the left. Shelby was sweating, her skin lustrous.
“I guess I’m a pessimist now,” she said. “My dad says he hates pessimists.”
“You can call yourself whatever you want,” Toby said. “The same things are going to happen to you.”
“The bad things, anyway.”
“Especially the bad things.”
“What happened to your mom?” Shelby asked.
Toby felt how soft the sand was under each of his steps. In this part of the woods, it was like beach sand. He didn’t look at Shelby.
“You were young when she died, right?”
“I didn’t know her and neither did my uncle.”
“Why not?”
“I was too little. We lived far away from here.”
“Where?”
“Another part of the state.”
Shelby was still holding Toby’s elbow. “Is your uncle your dad’s brother?” she asked.
“I don’t talk about this stuff,” Toby said. “It really doesn’t matter whose brother anybody is.”
“Well, what did she look like, your mother?”
“I don’t have any pictures of her. I think she had long hair.”
“Can’t you see her in your mind?”
“What does it matter what she looked like?”
“I think it matters,” Shelby said.
“I don’t think it matters at all,” Toby said, sharply. He guided his elbow out of Shelby’s grip.
She got the hint. She didn’t ask any more questions. The trail hardened and then, near a buzzing power substation, turned to a gravel road. The library came into view, its parking lot swarming with old people and high school kids who couldn’t yet drive.
Inside, an elderly gang barked questions about their tax forms. The librarian held a tolerant look on her face and repeated the statement, “I am not an accountant.” Shelby waded toward the computer lab and Toby went to the periodicals. He perused the wall of magazine covers and chose something about animal psychology. He found a cushy chair. He was still upset over Shelby grilling him about his family. Next thing, she’d want to come over for dinner or something. Toby’s family was his own business. He rubbed his eyes. The front of the magazine he’d chosen featured a shark relaxing on a dock, a radio nearby, a bottle held in its fin. Toby opened to the table of contents and couldn’t make sense of it; it was just a bunch of words. There were so many magazines, and none of them were meant for Toby. He didn’t belong where he was. He didn’t belong in the library, or in Citrus County. He didn’t belong in this padded, institutional chair. It wasn’t right that he was a human being on planet Earth. A mistake had been made.
Toby felt a tap on his shoulder and started. Shelby was done already.
“That was quick,” Toby said.
“E-mail. That’s kind of the point.”
Shelby pulled Toby out of the chair and they filed through the old folks and made their way past a faction of listless skateboarders. They took the frontage road instead of the woods.
“I have to tell you something,” Toby said. “You can’t ever come to where I live. My uncle can’t handle visitors. It could be bad.”
“Is he crazy?” Shelby asked.
“Certain things set him off. New people are a bad idea.”
“You know where I live and I don’t know where you live. Seems like that gives you an advantage.”
“Believe me, my uncle isn’t an advantage.”
“Does he have a job?”
“He works alone.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“Mostly to himself,” said Toby. “I can’t have anyone know he’s not well. They might lock him up or ship me off somewhere.”
Toby did not deny that Uncle Neal was crazy. But Shelby’s aunt sounded crazy. Her dad was crazy, now. Coach Scolle was an asshole. Mr. Hibma was a weirdo. In the northern part of the county there were churches full of Pentecostals who handled snakes.
Toby and Shelby headed down the frontage road, mincing their steps for potholes. Meaty insects hovered. Toby and Shelby walked past the back of a restaurant, where a bunch of smoking waitresses with big purses smiled at them. They strolled beyond the Goodwill and into the parking lot of a strip mall. Every store was closed but one, a flag shop. A bell dinged as they entered. A thin man wearing high-tops and a bandana came out from the back and said he was doing inventory.
“Please don’t steal anything,” he said. “You look like good youngsters, so I won’t check to make sure you have money.” He sighed theatrically and returned to the back room.
“I bet that works,” Toby said. “Begging every single customer not to steal.”
“Could backfire,” Shelby said. “Could put the idea in someone’s head.”
“You going to take something?”
“Not today. I have money.”
Toby had noticed that Shelby was never without a small amount of cash. She was a prepared chick. She had everything she needed, which wasn’t much, parceled throughout the pockets of her shorts. Toby watched her. The flag shop was lit with weak lamps and a large fan was set up in the corner which managed to ripple the merchandise and dance wisps of Shelby’s hair around. She bit her bottom lip as she browsed, working her way through the flags of many nations, through twenty variations of the Confederate flag. Universities. Mottoes. Cartoon characters.
“Found one,” she called to the guy in back. She yanked it off the rack, unfurled it on a counter near the register, and stood aside. It was brown and white, about 6' by 4'. In the center, toward the bottom, was an official-looking seal, and in each corner was the print of a palm and fingers. The greater part of the flag was occupied by regal letters which spelled out LICENSED HANDJOB ACCEPTANCE STATION. This made Toby nervous. He wondered what the clerk would think.
“You look flustered,” Shelby said. “Before I knew you, I never took you for such a flustered dude.”
“Before I knew you, I wasn’t,” said Toby.
“I’ll touch your penis in a couple weeks, okay?”
Toby didn’t force a laugh or pretend he hadn’t heard Shelby. He stood there.
The guy in the bandana emerged, a tape gun in one hand.
“What happened?” he asked.
Shelby paused. “I zeroed in on the goods I wish to purchase is what happened.”
The guy edged closer. When he saw that Shelby had a flag on the counter and cash in her hand, he relaxed his grip on the tape gun and stood up straight.
“Wow,” he said. “You two aren’t nomadic vandals. You’re a nice young couple.”
Shelby took Toby’s hand. The clerk proceeded to ring up the flag without seeming to notice what it said. He folded the flag into a snug triangle and wrapped it in paper like a deli sandwich.
“Shipment next week,” he said. “You should stop back by.”
“Count on it,” Shelby told him.
“More humorous sexual stuff.”
Shelby handed over the money and told the clerk to keep the change. She forced the packaged flag into one of her pockets.
“Please be safe,” the clerk said. “You two are the best youngsters I’ve ever had in here.”
Toby moved toward the door, not sure if he was pulling Shelby or she was pulling him. As they passed back into the night, the bell on the door dinged. They regained the frontage road, a stretch that had no light at all. The stars were out. They weren’t twinkling.
“Where you going to fly that?” Toby asked.
“I’m going to nail it to the front doors of Central Citrus Baptist.”
“What for?”
“It’s a musical issue,” Shelby said. “Some offensive music was snuck into my house.”
“Offensive?”
“It’s hard to explain.”