Piper
The next day, I head to the park for a morning of cleaning tanks and feeding animals and assisting guests. It’s hot and sticky outside, but Turtle smiles approvingly when he sees me sweeping the path leading to the tidal touch pools, which is all the encouragement I need.
It’s been a while since I’ve come here alone after closing.
The pool at the Towers has proven to be a pretty effective escape lately, and I’m getting my fill of the park during work hours, which is a lot less risky.
Still, I decided to check in on the rays and the sea turtles during my break; I miss my quiet nights with them.
I spend the better part of my shift thinking about Henry.
Late last night, I searched for him online.
I found a trove of information concerning Henry Walker, a retired NBA player born in the eighties, but it wasn’t until I launched into a real deep dive that I came across my Henry in a few local news articles about his cross-country achievements.
I don’t know what sort of information I was hoping for, but long-distance running isn’t very juicy.
Hunting for him on socials was a bust. No Facebook (not surprising—Tati’s the only weirdo I know who uses Facebook) and no Snapchat (also unsurprising—Henry doesn’t seem like the type).
He has an Instagram account, but it’s private.
All I can see is his profile photo (George Washington’s illustrated face—unhelpful).
He’s posted three photos, follows eighteen people, and has seventy-six followers.
I was tempted to raise his follower count to seventy-seven, but then he’d know about my virtual stalking.
I have some pride.
I keep thinking about his suggestion that we set up his dad with my sister. Henry is cute and smart, which means his dad likely is too, if there’s truth to that adage about apples falling from trees. Tati would approve of Henry, which means she’s sure to like his father.
This is so going to work.
Except when I get home from the park, Tati’s in a mood.
“Work stuff,” she snaps when I inquire during dinner.
Once, a few years back, I asked her why she didn’t ditch her apartment management job and go back to interior design.
The reasons were varied and delivered in an exasperated tone, but the gist was that her position at the Towers gives us a lovely yet affordable place to live, results in reliable twice-monthly paychecks, and doesn’t require her to waste time hunting for a position at a design firm, building a client list, or working her way up from the bottom all over again.
“Adulthood requires sacrifices,” she told me, like she was the only one who’d lost out.
Now, she lets her angst out in a barrage of complaints: my beach bag tracked sand into the laundry closet, I left my breakfast dishes in the sink, and my room’s still a mess. “Have you started drafting admissions essays?”
“Not yet.” She’s nudged me about getting a jump on this task about twelve hundred times. She wants me to go to college in-state—no farther than Tallahassee, which is only two hours from home. She wants me to get a business degree. She wants me to be practical and boring.
“You never do what I ask,” she grumbles, tucking into her stir-fry.
Before dinner, she found printouts about Hawai‘i Pacific University’s marine biology program on my desk and predictably lost her mind. “Hawaii’s almost five thousand miles away!” she squawked, crumpling the paperwork.
Those miles have a lot to do with why I find Hawaii appealing. When I tried to tell Tati all the other reasons Hawaii interests me, she literally put her foot down, hard, on the floor. “Absolutely not.”
She says she wants me to go to college locally because she’ll miss me if I’m far away, and because she wants to be sure I’m safe and cared for, and because out-of-state tuition is sky-high. I believe her—I do. But I often wonder if there’s more to it.
She didn’t get to chase her dream.
Why should I?
As I slip out of the apartment after dinner, I make myself a promise: I’m going to leave Florida after high school.
I’m not sure where I’ll go—maybe a university, maybe community college, or maybe I’ll spend a year working various jobs to get a feel for different career paths.
Whatever the case, I need a break from the Sunshine State.
One more year, I think, passing the pool. And then, freedom.
But a different sort of freedom could come even sooner, if Henry and I can figure out a way to nudge his dad and my sister into a relationship.
He’s all smiles when he swings the door open.
His dad’s apartment is a mirror image of ours, but while Tati is meticulous about cleanliness, Henry’s dad appears to give zero shits.
The living room isn’t dirty, per se, but it’s cluttered with sports equipment and flip-flops and restaurant supply catalogs.
The sofa pillows are all over the place.
A huge TV spans most of one wall. There are half a dozen remotes on the coffee table, along with a stack of Sports Illustrated magazines and an empty water bottle.
“It smells weird in here, doesn’t it?” Henry asks while I take it all in.
I sniff the air. “I don’t think so.”
“Kind of, though? Like…dude?”
Laughing, I say, “You’re a dude. You’re supposed to be impervious to the stench.”
“So there’s a stench?”
“Not even a little bit.” I inhale again. “All I smell is French fries.”
He grins and leads the way to the dining room.
“I made us a snack,” he says, gesturing toward the table.
It’s set with paper plates and bottles of soda. There’s a platter of perfectly golden fries in the center, plus a supersize jar of tartar sauce and a bottle of ketchup—the latter, I suspect, a kindness to me.
“All that’s missing is candlesticks.”
“My dad’s fresh out,” Henry says, pulling out a chair for me.
I sit, then help myself to a generous serving of fries. He does the same, then spoons a dollop of tartar sauce onto my plate.
“Really?” I ask.
“Just try it.”
I do, reluctantly.
It’s kind of good.
“I’ll refrain from saying I told you so,” he says, wearing the smuggest expression.
I laugh and throw back a few more—the stir-fry Tati served was less than delicious; in our home, nutrition trumps flavor—while taking stock of my surroundings.
Table, chairs, buffet. Not one piece of artwork on the walls.
No fresh flowers or knickknacks or personal touches.
Henry’s dad could use some help in the home decor department.
I try to picture Tati—smooth hair, flawless skin, signature red lips, courtesy of MAC’s Ruby Woo—in this space.
She wouldn’t quite fit, a rose among daisies.
At the far end of the table sits a laptop, two thick SAT prep books, and clear pouch packed with pens and highlighters.
“Your dad’s gearing up for the test?” I say.
Henry smiles. “He’s not really the studious sort.”
“You seem to be.”
He shrugs. “I like knowing stuff.”
“Me too. But it’s summertime. Why not relax a little?”
“I can’t afford to relax. I’m applying to the U.S. Military Academy—West Point.”
“Is that different from applying to other schools?”
“Yeah, it’s more involved. Like, I had to write to my state’s congressional reps and senators to request a nomination. Applicants have to pass a medical exam and a Candidate Fitness Assessment. There are interviews. Plus, there’s the usual stuff like transcripts and SATs and a personal statement.”
“Whoa. Was your dad in the military?”
He snorts out a laugh. “My dad barely made it through high school, and he partied his way through college. My pop went to West Point—my mom’s dad. He was a colonel when he retired around the time I was born. He was a big part of my life when I was growing up. He passed a few years back.”
“It’s cool that you want to follow in his footsteps.”
His eyes flash with pride; it’s clear he has a lot of love for his grandfather. “For sure. West Point’s competitive, but the Army’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do.” He waves at the prep books. “That’s why I’ve got to spend this summer nerding out.”
“The Army.” I try to imagine having such a regimented, transient lifestyle. Tati would approve of the discipline, but she definitely wouldn’t be okay with me moving far away or stepping into dangerous situations. “What do your parents think about you joining the military?”
“They’re cool with it. My mom grew up an army brat, so she gets it more than most. My dad doesn’t give a shit what I do,” he says, rolling his eyes, “so long as I’m having fun.”
“Is it weird that I already like your parents?”
He laughs. “Nah. They’re likable people. What about you? Post–high school goals?”
I wipe my hands on a paper napkin. “Goal is such a serious word. Mine are more…dreams. And they’re not Tati-approved, so probably nothing will come of them.”
“She doesn’t really have a say, though.”
“Oh, but Henry, you haven’t met her.”
He muses on that, his brows knitting together. I wonder if he’s having second thoughts about setting my sister up with his dad. I’ve made Tati sound like an utter drag.
“What are they,” he asks, “these dreams of yours?”
Sometimes I wonder if my aspirations sound silly, like the longings of a little kid who’s just visited Sea World. But marine biology is the only future I’ve ever wanted.
Henry leans in. Softly, he says, “Piper, tell me.”
God, he disarms me. More than that, it’s nice to have a meaningful conversation. Since my falling out with Gabi, I’ve existed in a world of one.
“Marine biology,” I say. “I want to work with marine animals.”
He smiles. “Like you do now.”
“Yeah, but professionally. With a head full of knowledge about what it takes to help them thrive in their natural environment.” I fold my hands on the tabletop.
“My parents met at the University of New England. My mom studied aquaculture and aquarium sciences, and my dad majored in marine affairs—so, conservation. I wish I could do something similar. Money’s an issue, though. Degrees aren’t free.”
When she sold our childhood home, Tati divided the profit between my parents’ funeral costs and legal expenses, which she vaguely explained as being related to her accepting guardianship, then invested what was left in a 529 college savings plan for me.
So there is money. But given how much out-of-state tuition and living expenses cost, that account will dwindle quickly if I leave Florida.
“I get it, trust me,” Henry says. “But there are scholarships. Grants. Loans.”
“Yeah, there are. And if I go to college, I’ll probably have to apply for all three. My biggest roadblock is Tati. She wants me to do something practical. Something that’ll earn me money and accolades. A career that requires power suits, not wet suits.”
“Uh, with all due respect, who cares what Tati wants? It’s your life.”
True. But what I’d never say aloud is this: My sister gave up everything to take care of me.
She left Boston, a city she adored, and all of the friends she’d made there.
She abandoned a hard-won interior design internship and a boyfriend who had no interest in moving to Florida or helping to raise a kid he didn’t know.
She sold our beloved childhood home to crawl out of debt.
She took a lower management position at a beachside apartment complex because entry-level design jobs are hard to come by in resort towns.
She abandoned her dream of owning her own design firm and chased promotions within the property development company that owns the Towers so we could continue to live here.
We fight like an old married couple, but in the tenderest part of my heart, I’m thankful for Tati.
Also, I feel indebted, like I owe her a white-collar career and a prosperous future. The life she hasn’t been able to have because of me.
“Tell me to shut up if I’m overstepping,” Henry says, “but I think you should give marine biology a shot. It’s your passion, your legacy. At least explore your options.”
“I have a little.” And then I tell him about Hawai‘i Pacific University. The more I talk, the more my excitement grows. “I’d love to live on an island,” I say. “Or in Oregon or South Carolina or in the Northeast, like my parents. I want to leave Florida. I want to see more. I want—”
I want room to figure out who I am apart from my sister is what I’m about to say, but before I can get the words out, the front door opens.
From my seat at the dining table, I watch a man with tousled brown hair and a plaid button-down—a man who looks a lot like The Hangover–era Bradley Cooper—step into the foyer.
My mouth falls open.
Tati’s recent hookup.
Before I can work out what he’s doing here in the apartment that belongs to Henry’s father, Henry greets him.
“Hey, Dad. We saved you some fries.”