Lost in the River of Grass by Ginny Rorby Read Free Book Online

shelves lined with mismatched plastic plates and a couple of bloated, deadly looking cans of pork and beans.
    In the center of the room, another table has been created out of two more sawhorses and a split and peeling sheet of plywood. Four rusty metal folding chairs sit at different angles, as if the occupants had left suddenly. I imagine a fight over cheating at cards and the players leaving to shoot each other in the yard.
    In the far corner are two pairs of bunk beds, head to head. Each has a mattress that looks as if it’d been dragged here from the Dade County dump. A filthy pillow lies at the head of each bunk. Towels and army blankets are stacked along a wooden bench attached to the fourth wall of the cabin.
    â€œIt’s nothing fancy,” Andy says. “But . . .”
    I burst out laughing.
    For a second he looks hurt, then he starts laughing too. “It is only a hunting cabin,” he says, lamely, as I wipe tears from my cheeks.
    In contrast to the rest of the camp, there’s a relatively new wooden swing hanging from a limb of a huge old cypress tree by chains that are beginning to rust. After Andy kicks a picnic-table stump and it crumbles, releasing a swarm of red ants, he takes the cooler to the swing. I pull my shirttail out, catch the duckling, and put it on the ground.
    We sit side by side, each eating from our own small bag of potato chips. Half a bar of cheddar cheese waits on Andy’s knee to be divided, and an open bottle of Gatorade is jammed in the space between our thighs. I loan Andy my Swiss Army knife to cut the apple into quarters.
    â€œThis is a nice knife.” He turns it in his hand. His fingernails are dirty, and the cuticles chewed and ragged. “I forgot, there’s Spam, too.”
    â€œYuck,” I say. “What is Spam, anyway?”
    â€œHam and something. Salami, I think. Read the can.”
    â€œI don’t want to even get that close to it.” I make a face.
    â€œYou’d feel different if you were hungry.” Andy hands me a chunk of apple and one of cheese.
    â€œWell, I hope I’m never
that
hungry.” I crumble a chip and scatter it at my feet for the duckling.
    â€œIt’s good fried.”
    â€œI doubt it.” I take a bite of cheese, then one of apple. They taste good together. “Got any cups?”
    â€œFor what?”
    I tap the lid of the Gatorade.
    â€œWe either have to drink after each other, or . . .” He grins. “I bet there are glasses in the cabin.”
    â€œTough choice.” I take a sip from the bottle, wipe the lip, and hand it to him.
    He takes it, but just keeps looking at me.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œLet’s end the germ problem right now.” He takes my chin, turns my face, and tries to kiss me.
    My stomach does a flip-flop, but I turn my head sharply. “Who said you could do that?”
    â€œI like you,” Andy says.
    â€œWell, I might not like you.”
    â€œDon’t you?”
    â€œI haven’t decided yet.” I smile.
    â€œWell, decide. I only give airboat rides home to people who like me.” He takes a long drink.
    â€œJust turn the bottle,” I say.
    He wipes the rim and hands it back to me. “So, Emerson, what do you do all day in Miami?”
    I take another sip and shrug. “Nothing much. School. Swimming practice. Homework. Play on the computer. You know.”
    â€œSounds like a full and rewarding life.”
    â€œWhat do you do? Gig frogs?”
    It came out as a put-down, but before I can apologize, Andy smiles. “School. Gig frogs. You know.”
    â€œWhat is a gig, anyway?”
    â€œA long pole with a miniature pitchfork at the end.”
    I nod and think of all those cute little green frogs. “Doesn’t seem like much of a meal. Their legs are so little.”
    He looks at me blankly; then it dawns on him. “Not the little green ones. They gig the big bull-frogs and pig frogs.”
    A