Free Spring Tide by K. Dicke

his shirt. “It’s the best of your collection, Fred. Very offensive, more power to ya. I do not shake booty.”
    “Do too. Now, I’m not lookin’ to get all up in your business but you’re one of my best and I need to know if you’re flakin’ out.”
    “Boys.”
    “Derek?”
    “Derek? Why would you say that?”
    “Hunch.” He gave my shoulder a push. “How many players you involved with little girl? You don’t strike me as a juggler.”
    “I do not juggle boys. I think I’m crushin’.”
    “You don’t think you have a crush. You have one or you don’t.”
    “Never had one before. Don’t worry about it, Freddy—I’m not flakin’.”
    “Who’s the crush?” He put his hand on his cheek and his voice jumped an octave. “Is it me?”
    “You couldn’t handle a girl like me.” I winked at him.
    “Everybody gets a crush once. You’re just getting yours really, really late. The thing about crushes is that they go away or turn into somethin’ nice.”
    For the entire shift, I willed myself to stand still and not give in to the music in my head that provoked me to involuntarily groove. It messed me up. I couldn’t work as quickly. Freddy gave me more to do, slapping his butt. A few minutes later, I caught Alonzo swiveling his hips, the new dishwasher guy moonwalking. I kept my sight on my board or saucepan because if I met anyone else’s eyes, they’d bust into some wacko dance move. In the last hour, I became my own worst enemy. They cheered, I was humiliated, and the kitchen was a full-out disco.
    Once I’d finished for the night, I went to Nick’s. Derek wasn’t there and Sarah and her king were on the couch, all over each other. I decided I’d walk up the street to Jericho’s, see if any lights were on—standard recon as far as I knew, having never done anything like it before. I just wanna see who he lives with. It’s not ’cause he’s totally smokin’ hot.
    Two lots down from Nick’s was the big Spanish-style hacienda at the end of the beach. Jericho’s truck was parked in the drive and I buzzed the doorbell twice to no answer. I peered around the side of the house and started toward the beach, hearing voices on the deck above me.
    “Hey, it’s Kris! I rang the bell …”
    “Hey hey.” Jericho’s head popped over the short wall of the deck. “The steps are around the other side, but if you give me your hand and put your foot there, I’ll pull you up.”
    I tossed my backpack to him, crammed my foot in the lattice, took his hand and the electrostatic shock, and climbed over the low wall.
    Jericho introduced two guys seated at a table.
    The tall one gave a salute and the other nodded. They were surfers, white lines around one ankle, laid-back disposition. He lives with others of his kind.
    “We’re taking off, man.” The tall one got up.
    “Don’t. I’m only stopping by for a couple minutes,” I said.
    “You are?” Jericho took my hand, another zap.
    “You’re cool. Things to do.” The other started for the steps.
    They crossed the stone pavers and left via the beach while I looked around. Big terra cotta planters of yellow hibiscuses were spaced along the exterior walls. A pergola covered in vines shaded an area next to the house and in middle of the deck there was an oval pool tiled in deep blue.
    “Swim?” he asked.
    “I can.”
    He smiled. “Do you want to?”
    “Sure. Where can I change?”
    “You have a suit?”
    I picked up my backpack. “I have everything.”
    “Ready to cut and run then?”
    “Ya never know what the day will bring.”
    “Well said.”
    He brought me inside. The furnishings were simple and comfortable in a palette of tans, creams, and greens. The main room rose two stories in height and where there weren’t doors or windows, the walls were covered with seascape paintings: some oil, some watercolor, some large, some small, each one different. This is a grown-up house. Where’s the trash, the mess, the stolen fiberglass figures