SYLO

SEVEN

The Lobster Pot Festival was the annual blowout that marked the end of summer. Three blocks of Main Street in Arbortown were closed off to traffic, making the whole downtown feel like one big party. Restaurants set up carts loaded with hot dogs, sodas, and lobster rolls. There was a band on every other corner playing rock oldies. Red, white, and blue banners hung everywhere. It was bigger than the Fourth of July.

This was my fourth Lobster Pot Festival and the most crowded by far. Oddly, there were a lot of faces I didn’t recognize. Since the festival fell so late in the season, it was geared mostly to locals, but there were plenty of non-locals there to enjoy the day. I figured it must have been because the warm weather had stuck around longer than usual, so many tourists did, too. That was okay. I liked the energy. Kids ran everywhere. People wandered around in their khaki pants, Izod shirts, and Topsiders while downing loads of ice cream and cotton candy. Arcade booths were busy with guys trying to impress girls with their ability to knock over bottles with a baseball or hit free throws. Old folks danced in front of the bands, not caring what anybody thought of them. There was a sailboat race in the harbor and fireworks at the end of the day to cap it all off. It was always a great event… the last blast of summer.

I wandered through the crowd, looking for Quinn. Instead, I found Olivia. She was off by herself in a small alleyway, pacing and talking on her cell phone. As I walked closer, I could see that she was deep into a conversation. I didn’t want to interrupt, so I stood on the sidewalk, waiting for her to finish… and heard what she had to say.

“No!” she cried. “No, this isn’t what I agreed to. I’ve already been here too long.”

She was pissed off.

“I want off, now. Right now,” she demanded. “Before it’s too—”

She kept trying to get a word in, but whoever she was talking to wouldn’t let her. I felt bad eavesdropping and started to move away when she spotted me. Her eyes widened as if she had been caught doing something wrong. I froze, not sure what to do. She looked me square in the eye and I saw that she was not only upset, she was crying.

“Stop,” she said into the phone, suddenly cold. “I get it. Goodbye.”

She punched the phone off.

“I’m sorry,” I said nervously. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” she said, wiping her eyes. “That was my mother. I’m so embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. Is she coming to the festival?”

“No,” Olivia said curtly. “She went to the mainland to do some shopping…while I’m here.” She said this with a shrug and a big fake smile as if this were the last place she wanted to be.

“Are, uh, are you all right?” I asked.

She sniffed and nodded. “Yeah. Just homesick. I didn’t think we’d be staying here for so long. But hey, things change.”

I wanted to put my arm around her and tell her it was okay and I’d make sure she had a good time at the festival, but I didn’t get the chance.

“Homesick?” Kent exclaimed as he walked up with a swagger. “That’s not allowed on such an awesome day.”

Olivia smiled bravely. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

Kent stared me down and said, “I’m surprised you can walk, Rook.” He looked to Olivia and added, “It was an ugly night for our boy.”

I wanted to argue and defend myself, but he was right.

“Sorry, Tucker,” Olivia said with sympathy. “Maybe football isn’t your sport.”

I opened my mouth to argue with her, too, but stopped. She was probably right too.

Kent put his arm around her waist and said, “C’mon, let’s have some fun.”

Olivia giggled coyly and nodded. “Yes. Let’s.”

She seemed to have shaken her dark mood, though I couldn’t help but think it was an act, because she reached out and touched my face and in that brief moment I saw the sadness return to her eyes.

“You are such a good guy, Tucker. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” I asked, genuinely confused.

“Take care of yourself,” she said as Kent led her off.

It was a weird thing for her to say. “Take care of yourself”? It sounded so final, like we’d never see each other again. Who knew? Maybe we wouldn’t. Her mother might give in and take her away from Pemberwick at any time. Her school had to be starting soon. All the more reason for me not to care that she had picked Kent over me.

I decided not to give it another thought. The day was about having some festival fun. I bought a hot dog and a soda from a cart, downed both, and was about to go for seconds when I caught sight of Tori Sleeper. She stood by herself in front of Molly’s Candy Store, leaning on a parking meter and sipping a Moxie. A band was playing an ’80s song (badly) and she was bopping her head to the beat. Her hair was down and loose for a change and she didn’t have on her baseball cap. I almost didn’t recognize her.

I wanted to walk right up and ask her if she was having a good time. I wanted to tell her about what Quinn and I had seen on our midnight ride. I wanted to ask her why she always looked so sad. I wanted to…but I couldn’t. Quinn had said she wasn’t interested and that was good enough for me. So I put my head down and walked past.

“Tucker!” she called out.

I stopped dead. Had I heard what I thought I’d heard? I turned around to see that Tori was looking right at me. I pointed to myself dumbly as if to ask, “Me?”

“Got a minute?” she asked.

I sure did. I put my hands in my pockets and walked back to her as casually as possible, which meant I had to force myself to keep from running.

“What’s up?” I asked, trying to sound equally casual.

Tori didn’t smile, but kept her eyes locked on mine. Quinn was right. The girl was confident. And intimidating. I couldn’t tell if she wanted to be social or punch me in the face. The terrifying thought hit me that she was going to rip me a new one for telling Quinn I thought she was hot. Even though I hadn’t. Even though I did.

“You guys were out on the bluffs last week,” she said with no emotion.

I don’t know what I expected her to say, but it wasn’t that. I did my best not to register surprise.

“We were riding by,” I said, trying not to reveal anything. “Why?”

“Quinn said you saw something.”

“When did he tell you that?” I asked, giving up on being coy.

“Last Saturday. Outside of Lesser’s Fish Market.”

Right. The knots. He hadn’t been embarrassing me in front of Tori after all, he was telling her about what we saw. It made me slightly less pissed at him.

“I don’t know what it was. There was a big shadow floating over the water and it just…blew up.”

Tori nodded thoughtfully. I could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. She dumped her empty soda bottle into a trash can and said, “What was it?”

“My dad thinks it was a military exercise. Quinn thinks it was a UFO.”

“What do you think?” she asked, her eyes boring right into me. Challenging me. Why did this girl make me so nervous?

“I—I have no idea.”

Tori thought about what I had said, then looked away from me and back to the crowd. It was like she was done with me and had retreated back into her own world. I stood there awkwardly, not sure of what to do or say next.

“You know this song?” I asked. “It’s from an old movie. Back to the Future. My parents make me watch it once a year whether I want to or not.”

Tori didn’t react. She wasn’t being obnoxious; it was more like her mind had traveled somewhere else. She stood there leaning on the parking meter with her arms crossed.

“Ever see it?” I asked.

“No.”

“Oh,” was all I could think of saying. I waited a few seconds then said, “Good movie.”

It felt as though the temperature had suddenly dropped twenty degrees but there was no way I was going to skulk off like some loser.

“A lot more people here than last year,” I said, lamely.

Tori didn’t look at me when she said, “I hate this.”

“What?” I asked. “The song? The band? The festival?”

“Yes.”

Yikes.

“Tucker!” Quinn exclaimed as he jogged up, thank God. “I just parked the DeLorean, Future-Boy!”

Tori didn’t react.

“You know, Back to fhe Future,” Quinn said to her, hoping for a reaction.

“She’s never seen it,” I offered.

“Seriously?” Quinn asked, sounding shocked. “I’ve got the DVD. How ’bout if we all go over to my house tonight and watch it?”

Tori continued her non-reacting.

“I’ve got Junior Mints!” he added temptingly.

I had to laugh.

Quinn sniffed the air and said, “Hmm…who smells so lemony fresh?”

Tori finally showed life. Her back went stiff, she jammed her hands into her pockets, and she hurried off.

“See ya,” she said and disappeared into the crowd.

Quinn and I watched for a second, then I punched him in the arm.

“Ow!” he wailed. “What was that for?”

“Idiot. We worked on a lobster boat all summer. What did they tell us to use to get rid of the fishy smell on our hands and clothes?”

Quinn thought for a second, then winced when the realization hit him.

“Lemon juice.”

“Her dad is a lobsterman.”

“Ooh. I guess that wasn’t cool. But at least you finally talked to her.”

“Probably for the last time, thanks to you.”

“Sorry, man. I’ll apologize.”

He started to follow her but I grabbed his arm to stop him.

“Don’t make it worse. Let’s just go watch the end of the race.”

As we made our way through the crowd, I thought about Tori’s sudden, embarrassed reaction. After having worked on a lobster boat all summer, I understood that it was not a glamorous job. At the end of the day, you were tired and cold and yes, you smelled like fish. Quinn and I did it for extra summer cash. But Tori was a pro. That one brief moment had given me a little peek into her odd personality. She didn’t seem like a happy person, especially with the comment about hating everything. She may have been confident, but she was also self-conscious. It made her seem less odd, and a bit more human.

“C’mon,” Quinn called as we pushed through the crowd, headed for the town pier. “The boats are coming in.”

The Lobster Pot Regatta was the centerpiece event of the festival. It’s a sailboat race that’s open to year-round residents only—no weekend sailors with more money than skill. The one-mile course looped around Arbortown harbor, beginning and ending in front of the town pier. The winner got bragging rights for the year and his or her name engraved on a battered old lobster pot. It’s kind of like the Stanley Cup, but rather than drinking champagne out of it, the winners drank warm beer.

The race was singlehanded, which means only one racer per boat. There were all different classes and types of boats in contention but most were over thirty feet, which meant there weren’t any amateurs. Still, it wasn’t exactly an officially sanctioned event. I think most of the guys drank too much beforehand, but they’re all expert sailors so there were never any problems, except for the occasional puking over the side. Those who hurl might have actually gotten style points, but I can’t confirm that.

Quinn and I pushed our way through the crowd to get as close as we could to the seawall. The race was nearly done, so there were lots of people crowding in to see who would win. Or hurl. Or both. A huge orange float was moored about twenty yards offshore to mark the finish.

“Just in time,” I declared.

Several boats had rounded the final buoy and were headed for home.

“Oh, man,” Quinn said. “It’s a close one.”

There were three boats in contention, all with their mainsails up and their jibs full. That wasn’t always the case. Usually one sailor took a huge lead, probably because he was the least drunk. But this year was going to be different and the crowd sensed it. This was a real race. Everyone started shouting, cheering, and blowing ear-splitting air horns.

“You know anybody racing?” I called to Quinn over the noise.

“Yeah,” he yelled back. “The guy in second place in the Catalina. He’s a friend of my dad’s.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “C’mon Mr. Nelson!” as if Mr. Nelson could actually hear him.

The boat in the lead was a hundred yards from the finish, but Mr. Nelson was closing fast, which made the crowd scream even louder. I don’t think anybody really cared who won, they just wanted to see an exciting finish and this had all the makings of one.

Mr. Nelson cut aggressively inside of the lead boat, looking like he was trying to steal the wind from the leader and then edge him out at the last possible moment.

“Nice,” Quinn commented.

The crowd saw the maneuver and went wild. They sensed a last-second lead change and roared their approval.

Mr. Nelson’s boat picked up speed. The sailor in front tightened his jib, trying to grab every last bit of energy from what little wind he had left, but he was going to lose.

“Any second now,” Quinn said. “He’s going to hang back until the leader loses all of his speed and then cut across his bow.”

That’s exactly what happened. The leader’s boat lost its inertia and Nelson’s boat surged forward. He cut the wheel hard and turned to slip in front of the leader.

“Yeah!” Quinn exclaimed, then suddenly froze. “Whoa. Too hard.”

The crowd realized the same thing. As one, their cheers turned to shouts of warning.

“No! Cut back! Drop your sails!” Everyone was yelling advice that couldn’t be heard.

“They’re gonna hit!” I shouted.

A second later Nelson’s boat collided with the bow of the leader’s boat, knocking it toward shore.

The crowd groaned.

“Jeez, what’s he doing?” Quinn said with a gasp.

I expected Nelson to come around and try to get back on course, but he kept turning. To get to the finish line, he had to travel parallel with the shore. He didn’t. Nelson continued across the bow of the leader’s boat and headed toward the line of floating docks that were strung out from the pier.

“He’s out of control,” Quinn yelled.

The crowd started shouting at him and waving him off, as if that would do any good. Nelson’s sails were full and he was headed directly for the first line of floats.

Someone blew an air horn as a warning, but the boat kept coming.

Several race officials were on the pier, waving frantically, trying to get Nelson to steer off. It was useless. If anything, the boat picked up speed.

“He’s going to crash!” I exclaimed, stating what everybody already knew.

The race officials bailed, scrambling desperately to get off the float and out of harm’s way. The last terrified official leaped from the float onto the pier moments before impact.

Nelson’s boat hit the long float at full speed, its bow raising up like a breaching whale, revealing the underside of the hull. The two structures jackknifed, the bow rising into the air while pushing the float up onto its side. The boat would have kept coming up and over but the keel hit, stopping its forward momentum and twisting the doomed boat until the starboard side of the hull slammed into the float.

There was a horrific wrenching sound as the heavy boat unloaded on the semimovable float. The sails luffed, and finally the boat came to rest.

Nobody moved. Not the crowd on shore or the race officials down on the pier. I think everyone was in shock. That wouldn’t last. Soon the officials would hurry out onto the dock to secure the boat. But that wouldn’t happen for several more seconds.

The quiet pause wasn’t due to the shock that came from witnessing such a horrific crash.

There was something much worse to be seen.

Anybody within viewing distance knew exactly why the boat had crashed. Mr. Nelson was clipped in using nylon lines, standard safety procedure when racing singlehanded. The line was taught, pulling against Nelson, who hung over the aft hatch, not moving.

“Oh man. Is he—?” Quinn said, barely above a whisper.

He was.

It was the day of the second death.