Chapter 10 Dancing Shrimp
dancing shrimp
Small and energetic, swaying with the current, seemingly unbothered.
Grandpa is in a right grumpy mood, squinting over surfaces as he snaps his way around the house with his beechwood walking stick. “Where’s my damn hat?”
I stifle a laugh and point from the couch I’m lounging on to his head.
Even that he doesn’t see well, and I tell him too.
He prods me with the end of his stick. “Rascal. I always wear my other one when I rock. Been with me every concert of my life.”
“Pax Polo doesn’t play for another forty minutes,” Trent says, not looking up from his laptop. “Squint a little harder.”
“I’ll help you, Grandpa.” I leap off the couch, adding in a staged whisper, “Remember you love me more.”
Grandpa huffs a laugh but lets me help, and I loudly declare myself the greatest hat detective to ever live—acting talent has to be put to good use sometime.
Grandpa snorts. “If we find it in the freezer, I don’t wanna hear a word about it.”
I search the hooks by the front door where Grandpa claims it was hanging. The only smallish thing I find is a doily on the floor. Must’ve slipped out of the bags I stowed here for Moana.
“What does it look like exactly?” I ask.
Grandpa jerks his walking stick at one of the hallway photos. “Denim newsboy cap from the 70s.”
I glance at the photo. And . . . a flicker of familiarity . . .
A denim cap. Faded at the brim. Slightly tilted on Grandpa’s younger head. It looks like—
It really looks like . . .
Oh.
A prickle races up my nape. My stomach tightens.
I think I’ve seen this cap before.
I think—Oh, no.
I school my expression fast. Heart thudding, I put my acting to good use, throwing a smile over my shoulder. “Okay, Grandpa, here’s the deal. You sit right there, read the newspaper, and I—magician extraordinaire—will make your hat reappear.”
“I leave here in thirty minutes.”
“That’s all I need.”
I turn smoothly. Calmy. Casually . . . and snag Trent from his laptop, yanking him into the hallway.
A brief flicker of surprise crosses his face, but he doesn’t fight me, just lets himself be dragged. I toe a pair of his shoes towards him and grab my sneakers.
“We have a problem,” I say.
He raises a brow but doesn’t break stride.
I shove my foot into one shoe. “I sort of know where Grandpa’s hat is.”
“Sort of know?”
“He told me not to put the donation bags there. Made me promise his coats wouldn’t end up in them.” I wince. “His cap must’ve fallen off the hook.”
Trent stills for a second. Just a second. Then snaps on his shoes. “We’ll find it at Moana’s stall?”
“One of her three friends’ stalls.”
From the lounge, Grandpa calls out. “I’m hard of seeing. Not hard of hearing.”
I shove my heel into my second shoe and we bolt for the door, Trent already a step ahead. As I flee, I call back, “Thirty minutes, Grandpa. You agreed!”
Newtown is literally two streets away; Trent and I get into the thick of the festival in under five minutes. Unfortunately, in my haste, I left my phone behind.
Which means I don’t have Moana’s number.
Which means, I have no idea where her bookclubbers’ stalls are.
Trent throws me an exhausted look that’s also just a bit amused as he slips on his ever-present sunglasses. “Greatest hat detective to ever live.”
“Look for second-hand stuff. Anything vintagey.”
I take the lead past stalls of gorgeous hand-crafted stuff—oils, cheeses, nuts, teas. Floral soaps, balms, jewellery.
And then, divine luck.
Racks of vintage dresses, suits, and there!
A table of neatly folded clothes. A denim hat.
I pound towards it and snatch it up in one triumphant swoop.
A thrill zips through me. Got it!
Then, in the same heartbeat, a gut-sinking realisation.
There’s resistance. There’s a shape underneath. The hat is rising.
The hat turns and a glare burns into me. The old man clutches his hat like a most prized possession, voice gravelly with outrage.
“I’ll put up a fight!”
Behind me, Trent exhales slowly, so slowly it’s deliberate. Hands rest on his hips. A tiny, slow shake of his head.
I’m momentarily punched of all words. Then they return. Not with a horrified ‘Sorry’, mind you, but with a laugh and a “Suppose there’s no chance of buying it off you?”
A warm hand curls around my wrist and Trent gently steers me away. With enormous patience. Like he’s expected this level of audacity from me. Like he’s known from the first time I bowled into his dead-starfish life: some waves are better floated with than fought.
The crowds thicken and it becomes a side-stepping mission to get to the next second-hand stall. But someone has just walked past me holding a leather jacket against themselves. So we must be close.
“Hey, sexy,” a bold voice booms out, and I turn instinctively. Although, the way his eyes shift to me second . . . Well, I get that. He curls a hand towards me anyway. Before him is a table holding three cups. “Want to try your luck?”
“Actually, I—”
“First go is free.”
I’m over there in a hop, leaning on the table, catching his eye with glee as he pops a ball under one of the cups and starts moving them.
Trent exhales behind me.
Slowly at first and then faster the cups move, and I follow because, one, it’s free, and two, I really think I know which cup the ball is under.
It turns out, I don’t. But I get the next delighted laugh when he asks for a dollar to have another go, and I tell him to check his shirt pocket.
Trent’s shadow falls over me. “Ika. Hat. Now.”
Right. Hat. Time check?
“Fifteen minutes,” Trent says, reading my mind.
“Wow. And you think I’m the magician.”
“I think you’re something, alright.” And just before we race off he grips both my arms and gives me a brief shake.
“W-what are you doing?” I say, a little breathless at how his hands cup my upper arms, below the sleeves of my T-shirt. And a lot confused at the rest.
His grip steadies me, a second too long. Heat lingers under his fingers before he shakes me again, light, playful. “Just checking.” A pause. Then, “I was beginning to think you were made of coins.”
My hands swing up to his elbows as I lean in with a laugh.
“I wish!” I pull him along now, skating around people under the blazing heat of the sun.
Really, the festival couldn’t be on a nicer Wellington day.
There’s not even any wind. But the heat does make me a little thirsty.
And quite a bit hungry. God, why does everything smell delicious?
So much glorious choice. Roti wraps. Hungarian fried bread. Potato rostis. Curry puffs. Satay. Polynesian barbecue. Fruit scoops. Katsu burgers.
Sausage sizzle.
I halt, my hand finally letting Trent’s forearm go.
He follows my gaze. “Thirteen minutes.”
“That’s pork. Pig. Part of a hog. We need to get one for Grandpa.”
“Clock’s ticking.” He shoos me along.
“It’s also fuel!”
His hands meet the back of my hips and steer me forwards. Nearer the stages set up for sounds.
Music vibrates through the street, followed by hearty applause. Off a side street, more crafty stalls appear.
Trent drops his hands at the sharp ring of his phone.
He answers. “Grandpa?” Pause. His head snaps around, scouting the crowd we just shimmied through.
“We’re close to where Pax Polo is performing.”
And not close to finding the hat!
I pivot hard, spot a clothing stall, and bolt.
There are more stalls ahead.
Wallet in my pocket. Armed. Ready.
Hat, hat, hat . . .
Trent finds me two minutes later, a breezy scent buffing at my side.
“Grandpa’s already on the way?” I ask, eying a box of vintage accessories.
“Neighbour’s walking with him.”
I snap my head up, eyes pinched. “Nice neighbour. Betraying us like this.”
I shove a bag into Trent’s hands and dive back in.
Trent peers inside, slides his sunglasses down, and levels me with a look. “Why did you buy so many hats?”
I surface, breathless. “I panicked!”
I yank out a slightly crushed fedora. “Maybe one of these can . . . replace it.”
My shoulders sag. The fedora crumples further under my grip.
What could possibly replace fifty years of Grandpa’s rocking memories?
The gap between us is small, but Trent shifts into it. A half step closer.
He’s holding the bag so tight his knuckles are white. Maybe he’s annoyed with me. Maybe he’s just angry at The Situation.
I brace for a whatever he’s about to say. It’ll come out measured, but it’ll cut to the bone.
This isn’t something that can be laughed off. Grandpa treated that hat like a part of him.
How could I lose it?
My pulse pounds. I hold my breath. I cannot look up.
Even seeing his clenched fist is too much.
The silence stretches just long enough for it to ache.
Something in me curls in, that old fear. When I make mistakes, I’m punished. And people . . . leave.
A soft exhale. A sudden tickle at my jaw.
Fingers gently push up my chin.
I swallow.
Open your eyes, he says wordlessly.
I open them the barest fraction.
Not to frustration. Not even to Trent’s usual composed mask.
His sunglasses are shoved up onto his head. Solemn eyes try to hold mine. There’s a glisten in them.
“I know this feeling,” he murmurs.
A breath. His fingers curl away, and his voice drops lower. “Aren’t I also trying everything to replace what he loved?”
A sob seizes my throat, violently, unexpectedly.
I’m practiced at turning such things into a laugh. A slightly mangled laugh. Pitiful, for sure.
But I . . . don’t like this laugh.
Today, it feels wrong.
And . . .
I’m suddenly falling forward, muffling the tail end of it against Trent’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
His breath falters, and he stays very still, like he’s letting himself hold the weight of me. Then, slowly, his fingers slide to my nape, a single stroke down my back, measured, careful. Like he’s memorising something maybe he shouldn’t.
“Dyl—Ika?” he murmurs.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yeah?”
A pause. A shift.
“Grandpa’s hat.”
On a held breath, I whirl around at the prompt of Trent’s outstretched finger.
The Hat.
It’s in the hands of an interested customer.
I launch forward. Denim is flipping in his grip.
Grandpa’s voice is getting closer. I bolt.
The world blurs. Stalls streak by in colour and scent.
“Just what I was looking for,” The Customer says.
“Twenty dollars.”
A wallet appears.
“Thirty!” I bark, skidding to a halt. The whole stall rattles.
The Customer blinks at me. I flash him my most charming smile. “I really need that hat.”
He shrugs. “First in, first served.” His card hovers over the reader.
No. Nope. Not happening.
“I donated this accidentally,” I say, too fast. Too desperate.
The Customer glances at the stall owner.
She eyes me. “Don’t recognise him.”
The Customer shakes his head. “Good try, mate.”
Grandpa’s voice again. Closer. No time.
Enough talk. I snatch the hat and slam it onto my head.
“Nobody takes this from me.”
I slap two crumpled twenty-dollar notes onto the table and run.
“Quick, quick!” I come at Trent and Grandpa, and careen right past them.
They catch up just as Pax Polo stirs the crowd into a scream. We press in close. The only way to hear. Grandpa claps a hand on Trent’s shoulder. “Find us some cold drinks, lad.”
Trent hesitates, but then he’s gone, swallowed by the festival tide.
Grandpa turns to me.
“I’d have been sad to lose the hat,” he says.
I start to take it off, but his hand lifts, stopping me.
The music pulses around us. A throb beneath our feet.
“But one thing I know as an old, learned man . . .” He taps his cane to the beat.
Then he starts dancing.
I blink. Stare.
He boogies some more, curling a finger for me to join.
“Sometimes you gotta accept and move on.”
I reach for the hat again.
“Wear it for now,” Grandpa says, pointing at the blaring sun. “Until it stops burning.”
Then, with a sly grin, he pulls off a slick turn—one that looks dangerously close to sending him to Emergency.
I reach out. “You good?”
He just laughs. “When you’re ready . . . step into it.”