Citrus County Read Free Page B

into the other pocket she’d slid a shallow, lidded bowl full of lox. Once she and her father and her little sister had boarded the boat and snapped the straps of their lifejackets, Shelby spread her brunch feast, complete with sliced tomato and capers and cream cheese. They’d rented a pontoon boat and planned to cruise the spring system of Citrus County until they saw a manatee. They’d been told they could swim with the manatees if they liked. Manatees had no natural defense other than size, and that very size got them stuck in canals at low tide and cut up by boat propellers. The man who rented the boats had explained all this from beneath the brim of a blue ball cap adorned with the words asshole! The man said Citrus County never got hit directly by a hurricane and, in his personal opinion, that’s why the manatees had chosen this spot.
    Shelby’s father, a man with limp hair that parted and re-parted as the wind blew, a former boxer who spoke with an accent that could’ve come from anywhere, was always trying to expose his daughters to new things—new foods, new terrain, new ideas. He felt he had to be twice the parent, Shelby figured. And he was. Shelby did not feel deprived.
    Shelby’s sister Kaley had brought along her book about Manny the Manatee. Immediately after breakfast, Kaley stowed the book under a seat, along with her precious watch that always read 3:12 and the rest of the orange juice. Kaley would soon turn four. She looked up at Shelby, displeased that Shelby had seen her stash spot. This was something Kaley did lately—hoarded. She wore, as always, socks but no shoes.
    After Shelby had cleaned up the remains of the bagels and lox, her father puttering them out into the deep water, she took out her vocab words. She had the definitions memorized. This week the theme was bureaucracy. She wanted to go through the whole semester without missing one word of one definition.
    ”You’d like my word from yesterday,” her father said. “On my calendar at work: poshlust . It means bad art. It’s Russian, I think.”
    Shelby folded the paper in her hands and slipped it into her pocket. “Mr. Hibma told us about that. Posh lost . We had that for a word. It means more than bad art. Means bad art that most smart people don’t know is bad.”
    “Like what?”
    “Mr. Hibma doesn’t give examples.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “He doesn’t feel he needs to prove his statements. He feels that examples are petty.”
    “Well, his poshlost sounds like elitism to me.”
    “Mr. Hibma wishes elitism would come back into style.”
    “I met that guy,” Shelby’s father said. “He’s one of those cool pessimists.”
    “Dad,” Kaley broke in. “Will the manatee bite me?”
    “No, the manatee loves you.”
    “Is he sleeping?”
    “He might be.”
    “Where are we going?” Shelby asked.
    “Not a clue.”
    Shelby’s father had steered them down a river which had rapidly tapered into a house-lined canal. They approached a cul-de-sac. Shelby’s father put the boat in reverse to avoid hitting a dock, then began to execute a three-point turn. The boat was unwieldy. An old man came out into his backyard in order to stare at Shelby’s father as his three-point turn became a five-point turn, a seven.
    “Thanks for your concern,” Shelby’s father shouted.
    The man wagged his head. “There’s a sign,” he squawked. “At the mouth of the canal.”
    Shelby’s father righted the boat and they headed back out to the main confluence of springs, past moss-laden oaks and palm trees that grew out of the ground sideways. They rounded a bend. The sun was out, warming the aluminum frame of the pontoon boat and the damp turf that covered the deck. Kaley, socks soaked, padded over and leaned on Shelby’s leg.
    Shelby closed her eyes and let the breeze tumble over her. She knew her family was getting by in the way people like them got by. They were making it. They did things on the weekends. Their moods went