“Brazilian?” the man guessed.
“Close,” Carmen said, rolling her eyes at Shy.
“Portuguese?”
“I’m Mexican American.”
“Mexican? Really? What kind of Mexican?”
Carmen actually laughed out loud. “Just plain old Mexican, sir. Same as this guy.” She pointed at Shy. “We’re both half.”
Shy was staring the oilman down now, waiting for the next bit of racist shit to come flying out of his mouth.
“Wow,” the man said. “You all look different from the Mexicans we got in Texas.”
“Believe it or not,” Shy told him through a fake-ass grin, “not all Mexicans look the same, sir.”
Carmen stepped on Shy’s foot and shot him a dirty look. But it wasn’t like the guy heard a word anyway. He was too busy pulling another woman into the mix, a slender twenty-something brunette in a black one-piece.
Shy took Carmen’s elbow, asked her in a quiet voice: “Could I talk to you for a minute?”
She brushed away his hand without even looking at him. “Nah, I wanna see this culo’s ring.”
Shy stared at the side of her face.
So he was definitely the one taking the rap for last night. Like he’d executed some premeditated master plan, and Carmen was just an innocent bystander.
Okay.
“Where are you dining tonight?” Shy heard the oilman ask the woman in the one-piece.
She looked at him, confused. “Destiny?”
“And what time’s your seating?”
“Eight-thirty.”
“Well, how about that?” the oilman said, turning back to Carmen and Shy. “She’ll be there for the big show.”
“What show?” the woman said, curious now.
“I’m asking my lady friend to marry me tonight at dinner. In front of everyone. They’re even giving me a microphone.” He held out the Tiffany’s box again, popped it open.
“Jesus!” Carmen said, staring at the massive ring.
The other woman held a hand against her chest.
Shy studied the two of them. Eyes all bugged. Mouths hanging open. He wondered if pretty girls looked at expensive rings the way guys looked at pretty girls. And where’d that leave a no-money-having high school kid like him?
There were now a few other female passengers huddled around the oilman’s ring. A cocktail waitress Shy had never met. An older gray-haired man and two pretty girls around Shy’s own age. The older man turned to look at Shy, and Shy turned away from the girls. One of them was probably his daughter.
He leaned toward Carmen and tried again. “Seriously, though, I really need to talk to you.”
She glanced at her watch. “No can do, Mr. Space Sancho. I’m already running late.” She patted him on the shoulder and added: “I did write out some new rules for us, though. If you’re lucky I’ll even tell you what they are. You’re on break during the late dinner, right?”
Shy nodded. Things were even worse than he thought.
“Meet me at the Destiny hostess stand and we’ll watch Romeo propose. Then, if I’m feeling charitable, we can talk.”
She spun around her amp and microphone without a goodbye, started wheeling her way toward the staircase.
Shy didn’t have a good feeling about these new rules.
He watched Carmen’s ponytail sway back and forth across her back like a lazy pendulum, telling himself: Don’t look at her legs, don’t look at her legs, don’t look at her legs.
He looked at her legs.
9
A Dinner Invitation
When Shy returned to his towel stand, he apologized to the small group of people that had gathered there. He ducked under the counter, handed out a few fresh towels, a dart set, a pack of cards, a Game Boy. He had everyone sign the checkout sheet on his clipboard with their cabin number.
He looked up as the last person in line stepped forward—one of the girls he’d just seen checking out the oilman’s ring. “We need stuff for Ping-Pong,” she said, pointing over her shoulder. Standing a few yards behind her was the other high-school-aged girl and the man with gray hair.
“Let’s get you guys set up,” Shy said, reaching into one of the drawers in front of him. He grabbed three paddles and a pack of Ping-Pong balls, handed them to her over his stand. “Best paddles we got right here. Just took them out of the package yesterday.”
She didn’t even look at them, just gave a bored expression and said: “Do I have to, like, sign my name or something?”
Shy pointed at the sign-in sheet, watched her pick up the pen and write her name. Addison Miller.
She was even prettier up close. Straight blond hair down past her shoulders. Light-green eyes. A few scattered sun freckles on the bridge of her nose and along her cheeks. Strange how a pretty girl’s face could instantly put Shy in a better mood.
“So, you any good?” he asked, motioning toward the paddles.
She frowned like his question was the lamest thing she’d ever heard. “We’re only playing because my dad’s making us.”
Before Shy had a chance to respond, a floppy-haired kid stormed up to the stand, saying: “Hey, asshole!”
Shy looked down at him. “Excuse me?”
“What, are you deaf?” he said in his squeaky little voice. “I called you an asshole. I just came over to get stuff and you weren’t here.”
The kid was maybe ten years old and rail thin. Hair hanging over his eyes. He looked like a damn Muppet.
Shy forced a smile even though he wanted to toss the kid into the pool. “Sorry ’bout that, little man. But I’m here now. So, what can I do for—?”
“Don’t call me ‘little man’ either,” the kid snapped. “Just because I’m young doesn’t mean you can disrespect me.”
Shy was speechless.
The gray-haired man suddenly appeared, saying: “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What seems to be the trouble over here?”
The kid pointed a finger at Shy and barked: “This asshole’s not doing his job.”
Shy no longer wanted to toss the kid in the pool, he wanted to pin his little Muppet head against the towel stand.
The gray-haired man smiled at Shy. “This one’s got a mouth on him, doesn’t he? What do you think”—he glanced at Shy’s name tag—“Shy. Do we push him overboard?”
The blond girl rolled her eyes at her dad.
“Maybe we do, sir,” Shy said, trying to play along.
The kid cursed under his breath again, then said: “Just give me a stupid golf club and a ball.”
The other girl was there now, too, looking entertained as she ran her fingers through her long black hair.
Shy turned to open the closet behind him, saying: “Let’s see what we can do for you, money. Ah, here we go.” He handed over a slightly bent club and the most nicked-up golf ball he could find. “This should be perfect for you.”
The kid inspected the ball with a disgusted look on his face, but he didn’t say anything. Just turned and started up the stairs behind him, toward the Recreation Deck, where the miniature golf course was.
Soon as the kid was out of sight, the gray-haired man held out his hand to Shy, said: “Jim Miller.”
Shy shook hands with him. “Shy Espinoza. Thanks for stepping in with that kid.”
“Somebody had to,” he said. “You’ve already met my daughter Addison. And this is her friend Cassandra.”
“Nice to meet you guys,” Shy said, giving them a proper Paradise smile.
Cassandra flipped her hair from one shoulder to the other and popped her gum. Addison rolled her eyes again. Shy could tell neither of them wanted any part of this conversation.
“So?” Addison said, tilting her head at her dad. “Are we going?”
But her dad was still grinning and staring at Shy.