Delta Girls (15 page)

NATHAN SEEMED ESPECIALLY
charged up during the short program; there was an intensity in his eyes, in his hips, that almost scared her. Karen could barely look at him as she skated; she had to force herself to keep her own movements strong. The audience ate it up, though. And they seemed to like her, too. People in the stands threw flowers and stuffed animals tucked inside barf bags with her name written across the waxy paper. Karen was embarrassed at first—she could barely look up and wave to the crowd—but Isabelle ran over and helped her pick up the presents.

“How cool is that?” she asked, waving a penguin in Karen’s face. “No one else gets their loot in barf bags. You, my friend, have arrived.”

The fact that Isabelle called her “friend” was more exciting than any thought of arrival.

Nathan shot Isabelle a look, then grabbed Karen’s arm and pulled her over to the kiss-and-cry.

THEY ENDED UP
in fourth after the short program, and that was by a hair. Isabelle and her cousin were second to last; Karen wondered if they’d regret their Disney trip, but they didn’t seem bothered in the least. Isabelle, in fact, was thrilled by the fact that she had received a couple of flowers, even though they looked ripped from larger bouquets meant for other people.

Deena scooped all the gifts into a couple of large Saks Fifth
Avenue shopping bags that still smelled of the cosmetics department.

“You’ll need to step it up in the free skate,” she said. “Fourth won’t get you into Nationals.”

“Only I can get us into Nationals,” Nathan said to Karen. “Don’t you forget it.”

KAREN FUMED ON
the way back to the hotel. She wanted to kick Nathan’s seat until he yelped, pull his hair until tears sprung into his eyes. He was unusually silent as they drove past palm trees and bright pink storefronts and women showing their shoulders to the sun. Deena was quiet, too. Karen knew they were both mad at her, for whatever reason. For finding a friend. For not getting them into first place right off the bat.

The humidity made Karen’s body feel twice its usual weight when they got out of the car. She was ready to slog through the heat up to her room, bury herself in a book for a couple of minutes before it was time for more Pilates practice, when Nathan grabbed her arm.

“What?” She whipped around to face him. The dense air jiggled, nearly viscous, against her skin.

“I’m sorry for before,” he said. “If I was a jerk.” He corrected himself.
“When
I was a jerk.”

Something inside Karen unknotted, but she tried not to let it show on her face.

“This is a big deal, this competition,” he said.

Karen was about to say “I know,” but he kept talking.

“I know I shouldn’t take my stress out on you,” he said, “but my dad is in the hospital, and I let myself get all wound up …”

Karen hadn’t thought about Nathan having parents before, especially not sick ones. He hadn’t said a word about them; as far as she knew, they had never been to any of his competitions. She couldn’t imagine him as a baby, a boy. He seemed like someone who had always been twenty-three. Who would always be
twenty-three. Who had sprouted fully formed, clad in spandex, from the center of a rink. It was strange to imagine an older version of Nathan out there somewhere, a compromised version, his head pressed against a scratchy hospital pillow. Strange to think that somewhere she had a father, too. At least someone who had donated sperm; she was a turkey baster baby, her mother had told her, bred to be a skater. From championship stock, just like a show dog. She might as well have sprung from the ice, herself.

“It’s okay.” She was pleased to see his face soften, his breath release. And even though she didn’t, not really, she said, “I think I understand.”

THEIR FREE SKATE
felt different this time. More emotional. When Nathan, as Tristan, died at the end, a wave of real grief crashed over Karen. She had never seen Nathan as vulnerable before, as mortal, even in all their months of fake dying. Now, seeing his eyes closed, his body quiet against the ice, she knew, knew in her bones, that someday he would not be in the world; even with his occasional jerkiness, this seemed a fact too horrible to bear. As she died in his arms as Isolde, she had to swallow down the urge to sob. A few tears escaped anyway, trailed into her ear, dripped against Nathan’s face.

“I see I got you wet,” he whispered as they stood and bowed to thunderous applause, and even though it was kind of a gross thing to say, it was a Nathan thing to say. She put one arm around him and squeezed tight as she waved to the audience, happy to feel his heart thumping against her shoulder.

“THAT WAS AMAZING.”
Isabelle ran up to them as they walked to the kiss-and-cry, still wrapped around each other. “Total goosebumps.” She held out her arm to show them her pale stippled flesh.

“Thanks.” Karen tried to keep her voice calm, crisp; she
didn’t want to upset Nathan by seeming too excited to see Isabelle.

“Do you want to go check out Kennedy Space Center with us?” asked Isabelle. “It’s just a couple of hours away.”

Karen could feel Nathan’s body stiffen. “I better not,” she said. “We have training to do.”

“What training?” laughed Isabelle. “You just finished competing! You should let yourself have some fun.”

“We’re going to Nationals,” Karen said, even though they hadn’t received their scores yet. “But that’s something you wouldn’t know anything about, now, is it?”

Isabelle looked as if Karen had just slapped her in the face, but Nathan pulled her closer, so for a moment, it felt like a decent trade-off.

“Fine,” said Isabelle. “Have fun with the asshole.”

Karen wanted to chase after her, to say
Wait
, to say
Nathan’s not so bad
, to say yes, she actually did want to go the Kennedy Space Center with them, but Nathan kissed the top of her head and it felt like an air gun, like something nailing her into place.

F
ROM THE PIER THE NEXT MORNING, I COULD SEE A TENT
set up in the field, not too far from our car. The dark green dome looked like a giant brussels sprout rising from the earth. I didn’t want to go past it and whoever was potentially staking us out inside, but there was no other way to get to the car, get to work.

“Let’s tiptoe,” I told Quinn. “They might be sleeping.”

She grabbed my hand and we crept forward like cartoon spies, Quinn stifling giggles.

The tent door unzipped with a loud metal whine when we neared the car; we both jumped back, my heart pounding wildly. I was relieved when a sleepy-eyed woman with blond dreadlocks emerged, sunburn across her freckled chest. She was probably around thirty-five, maybe a bit older. No camera or gun, as far as I could tell. Her breasts hung low beneath her tank top. Her Indian print wrap skirt was coming undone; there was a large gap at the slit. I tried not to look at the slice of pubic hair it revealed next to her sturdy thigh.

“So this is the women’s camp.” She walked over to introduce herself. Her accent was thick, Australian, and I couldn’t quite make out her name. It sounded like
Absadee
. Her handshake was firm and enthusiastic.

“Absadee, like rhapsody?” asked Quinn, clearly entranced.

“You could say that.” She smiled and shook Quinn’s hand. Quinn winced at the hard squeeze. “Are you a poet?”

“No.” Quinn looked embarrassed, as if the woman had asked if she picked her nose.

“You have the vocab,” she said.

It’s because of me
, I wanted to say as Quinn beamed;
I bought her all those books
.

“I’m a poet myself,” the woman said with pride. “Abecedarian.”

“ABC what?” I was glad Quinn asked. I had never heard the word in my life.

“All my poems follow the alphabet. Just like my name—A-B-C-D-E.”

“That’s how you spell your name?” Quinn’s mouth was wide open. Abcde nodded.

“I bet your teachers were confused,” I said.

“Nah,” she said. “I was Abbie back then. Changed it to Abcde when I started publishing.”

“I’m Izzy,” I said. “This is Quinn.”

“Z and
Q
, great letters,” she said. “Ten points each in Scrabble.”

“Except you can’t use proper names,” said Quinn.

“True,” said Abcde.

“And there’s only one Z,” Quinn said.

“We’ll have to play sometime,” said Abcde. “I can tell you’re a worthy opponent.”

I suddenly felt possessive of our boat, our game, a travel set with tiny magnetic letters. “Our board is missing a few tiles,” I said.

“Just makes it more of a challenge.” Abcde shrugged. “A lipogram.”

A lipogram sounded like a medical procedure, or an envelope filled with globs of fat, but before I could ask what it really was, Quinn asked if she could touch Abcde’s hair. I tried not to feel jealous as Abcde bent down and Quinn reached out to pet the thick woolly ropes.

“Are you from Australia?” Quinn asked when she took her hand away.

“Perth,” said Abcde, stretching back up.

“What brings you here?” I asked, wanting to break the smile between them.

“A beautiful California.” Abcde swept her arms out to take in the pear trees and the river and the heat of the day. The hair in her armpits was almost as thick as the hair on her head.

“ABC,” Quinn said with a grin.

“Exactly.” Abcde winked. “Actually, I’m teaching at the Squaw Valley Community of Writers later this month.” She slid her ribs from side to side, like isolations at the beginning of a dance class. “I flew in early to explore the Golden State.”

“How’d you end up here?” I gestured to her tent.

“I heard about the Delta and had to check it out,” she said. “Delta is the letter D, you know.”

“In Greek,” said Quinn.

“Exactly.” Abcde smiled. “Couldn’t pass up an alphabetical place.”

“Alpha, beta, gamma, delta …” Quinn rattled off.

“D was actually a hieroglyph before it was a delta,” said Abcde, and Quinn looked so eager for the knowledge, it made me want to weep. “A pictogram for a door, or perhaps a fish.”

“The letter
D
does kind of look like a fish,” said Quinn, rapt. I shot her a look to make sure she wouldn’t say anything about the whales.

“Anyway,” said Abcde, seeming to suddenly remember I was there, “I just stumbled upon the farm last night. They said I could
set my tent back here—other women around and all.” She winked at Quinn.

“How long are you planning to stay?” I asked. Not long, I hoped.

“Don’t know,” she said. “Thought I might hang around a couple of days. Heard they need some help picking pears.”

“It’s hard work.” Her arms looked too soft for picking. She’d be full of scratches within five minutes.

“I’m up for it,” she said. “A poet’s got to use her body every once in a while.”

Her muscles would be screaming within half an hour. Less.

“Besides,” she said, “it’s good to be in the dirt. Most of America is a bit clean for my taste.”

“A Bit Clean.” Quinn was grinning. This had become a game for her.

“Automatic soap dispensers at the airport, even. That white spurt—it’s like some stranger ejaculating in your hands.”

“Ew,” said Quinn. I hoped she had no idea what that really meant.

“Ew, indeed,” said Abcde. “Cleanliness is not next to godliness, as far as I’m concerned. Dirt is where life comes from—what could be more divine than that?” She pinched some soil from the ground and rubbed it over her heart; specks of it tumbled down the front of her shirt.

“A Bit Crazy,” I whispered to Quinn, who tried not to laugh.

I SURREPTITIOUSLY CHECKED
Abcde’s nails as we walked over to some trees at the edge of the orchard. They were short, boxy—bitten, maybe. That was good. Long nails could break right through the skin of a pear. Another reason there aren’t many women pickers, Mr. Vieira had told me.

I had always kept my nails short, but they used to be polished, usually a clear opalescent sheen, each nail a gleaming oval, like its own tiny ice rink. My hands used to be smooth as pears,
carefully manicured, kept in soft gloves at night, slathered with lotions. Now they were callused and scratched and caked with dirt, and I loved them because they did work that mattered.

“I should give you some pointers before you start picking,” I told Abcde, glad to have a chance to boss her around a little.

It actually felt nice to be in the role of the teacher, to tell her about lifting, not pulling, about limb rub, about sunburn, about what size pear to pick, what to leave on the tree; I was glad to know I had gained some useful skills in my short time there, ones I could pass down to others, especially others who seemed to think they knew it all already. We practiced on a tree at the edge of the orchard. She was a willing but sloppy student, her face determined, but her hands tender, easily tired. “Arms be courageous,” she said to herself under her breath. “Don’t endanger fruit.”

I WAS WORRIED
—and, to be honest, a little hopeful—that the other pickers would tear Abcde to pieces. They had accepted me reluctantly, and that was only over time, as my picking improved. She moved through the branches slowly, ploddingly. Plus there was the whole ABC thing. But for some reason, the other pickers were happy to welcome her to the team. Maybe because she spoke Spanish. Maybe because she didn’t wear a bra. Maybe because a few more pickers had left in the wake of the ICE paperwork, and everyone knew the more pears picked, the better, even if it was by a weirdo Australian poetess. I’m sure it also helped that she wasn’t getting paid.