Never dull your shine for somebody else. – Tyra Banks.
REMORA MELANIE
I’m a remora, the sucker fish. No one else calls me that, but I cling to a shark named Kurt. Ever since I came to Ohio from Connecticut to live with my dad, I’ve held onto Kurt Remora-style. He pays attention to me, and I tell him the difference between a verb and an adverb, a fraction and a minus sign. I protect him from being in secondary school forever. He’s at least a year older than I am, but he hasn’t reached the depth of seventh-grade subjects yet.
He forgets the difference between your and you’re between the first and second cigarette. I can smell the smoke on his jacket hours later. Sometimes, on other days, I detect something else, too. A sweeter smoke. Amazing that I can notice anything over the scent of the same shirt he’s worn for a week. Red plaid, frayed collar.
“Want to try a joint?” he asks me as we sit on swings in a park across from the school, about twenty minutes before we need to be in our first class. “Whatever mood you are in, it will make it bigger and better.”
Since I usually feel like the inside of a clogged garbage disposal, an enhanced downer doesn’t appeal to me.
“No thanks. Some other time.”
Then he tells me about playing basketball with his uncle last week. “He’s really cool. Kind of funny that we get along. He’s nothing like what you’d expect in a cop.” He says cop with the same tone he would use to talk about poop.
I don’t ask him about it. We just glide along. There’s a dead bird under a tree two feet from us. I don’t want to talk about that and hope he doesn’t want to either, so I tell him about how my mom and I know spaghetti is done when you throw it against the wall and it sticks.
He doesn’t ask if my parents live together, and I don’t ask for details about anything in his life either.
Remora and sharks don’t bond; they coexist. Commensalism.
“Let’s skip school today,” he says. “Play arcade games at the mall.”
“Sure.”
I can fake my excuse by calling Dad. He’d never know where I was anyway. No big deal from my end. He’ll call the office and say I have a virus.
I imagine my father showing up and seeing me with Kurt—for the shock value. My dad’s out of town more often than he is home, although he would never let Mom have me right now. Not until she’s in remission again.
Who says I’m not responsible enough to stay to help her? I’ve been thirteen for three months now. I can cook any microwave dinner available. Then, I think about how I’m a remora—smart enough to know what it is, a fish that rides a bigger fish—not savvy enough to be a warmer-blooded creature.
Of course, warm-blooded creatures bleed bright red. I don’t want to think about the day Mom passed out and sliced her head. I called 911. Minutes before it happened, I’d argued that I wanted to get an expensive new phone. I couldn’t accept the fact Mom was less than the perfect giver she’d always been—making up for Dad’s distance. She got better, somewhat, but something called Multiple Sclerosis never goes away completely, especially not in the later stages.I’ve been told I have a high IQ. Unfortunately, I have a low tolerance for reality.
The next day Kurt and I show up two minutes before being marked officially late. I missed a quiz and then rush through it between Science and lunch. Kurt texts me as I’m getting ready for my last class. Meet me by the back fence after school.
I don’t get a chance to answer. I’m called to the office. Apparently, the guidance counselor wants to see me.
“You seem withdrawn,” she says facing the closed door.
An odd thing to say to a slab of wood.
“I’m okay.
“Okay as in you don’t feel like talking?”
“My grades are fine. Just not perfect.”
Her office has beige, almost colorless walls, with pictures on her desk of kids and a golden Labrador retriever.
She pats my hand, just once. I want to trust her. I want to ask if she knows anything about the remora of the West Indies. The Aborigines sang about them. I want to explain how sometimes you just need to latch onto the side of a shark and ride along, but the question sounds non-sequitur.
“Well, Mel, I called you in because you have a brilliant mind, incredible intellectual talent. Your grades have slipped steadily. I’d advise you to stay away from Kurt Blester. His parents could buy the school. But… well, I’m not sure how to say this. It’s just that you could be headed into more trouble than you want. I’m not judging Kurt. I’m saying he’s confused right now. Confusion won’t lead you toward the kind of life and career you were born to find. Do you understand the difference?”
I nod, even though I don’t understand at all.
My name is Melanie, not Mel, and if the secret about Kurt’s family’s financial status isn’t safe, my thoughts aren’t either. Or does she think I already know everything about Kurt? Because I’m with him so much. I change the subject and tell her I can’t decide which school to consider for ninth grade because I heard criticism about the math programs at both local choices. She doesn’t bring up Kurt again until I get up to leave.
“Right.” I wave goodbye without letting her see more than the side of my face. I can’t hold a controlled façade longer than it takes to get into the hallway.
“Thanks,” I call back as an afterthought, not that I follow her reasoning. I want closure to this conversation.
I have scarcely joined the crowd between classes when the fire alarm sounds.
“This is not a drill,” a voice from the loudspeaker announces.
Kurt is already outside. I won’t follow him—not so soon after meeting with the counselor. I do watch every move he makes. His hands clutch the outside of his pockets and then let go, in spasmodic motions, as if something inside the cloth could bite him. He shivers, although the air is warm.
The firemen and police arrive.
Kurt squeezes his eyes shut. He appears to be mouthing, no…no…no.
I think about what the counselor said about Kurt’s family. Are his parents like ghosts in his life, untouchable and unavailable? Or is it worse? I think about how I wanted my dad to see me with him, for shock value. Have Kurt and I been riding, or drowning together?
One of the firemen comes to a loudspeaker. “The cause of the fire has been determined. A lit cigarette in a trash can in the boys’ restroom.” He continues to talk, giving the usual lecture. The principal lets us know when we can go back into the building. Sooner than originally expected.
Kurt glances around so quickly that his head almost turns as far as an owl’s.
Don’t run. Please. Just don’t. They’ll know you did it.
My thoughts don’t reach Kurt. He bolts but doesn’t get far. He must have been running without looking where he was going. He lands directly in the arms of a police officer.
A gasp comes out of me like a small, popped bubble.
I move closer.
“Uncle Mike!” Kurt cries.
The policeman reaches into Kurt’s pockets and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Tell me the truth and I will do everything I can to help you.”
Kurt, the shark, stops swimming. He follows his uncle.
I wonder what happens to remoras who remain still. And alone.
Then the counselor comes up next to me and puts her hand on my shoulder.
I try to remember what it was like being with my mom. Before I became a fish.
When I was a girl.
terrypetersen 