Free The Highest Tide by Jim Lynch

were still examining that dang squid.
    When I opened the door, a tall angular lady with a camera strapped diagonally between her breasts looked down and asked me if Miles O’Malley was home. She couldn’t hide her delight when I told her she was looking at him. It fell out in a half-laugh.
    “You were the one who found the ratfish?”
    “ Rag fish.”
    “ You also found that giant squid?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    I thought she was going to squeal. She had one of those faces that would be perfect to hang out with if you were deaf. She wanted to know where my parents were and seemed even more delighted when I told her they were at work. Her eyes ransacked the house. Then I took her outside and showed her my room. She kneeled to scribble Rachel Carson titles and the names of the marine books stacked next to my bed. From my angle, I could see down her unbuttoned shirt to her lacy bra and the upper bulge of mid-sized boobs. I felt obliged to look, knowing Phelps would have swallowed three jellyfish for the view. I showed her my aquarium and talked about my collection business. Her head bopped as if listening to her favorite song.
    I assumed this all fascinated her the way it consumed me, that I’d found someone who—on impact—shared the obsession. After struggling to enlighten Phelps, I was thrilled to find a pretty lady who not only seemed to understand my excitement but even took notes on what I said. She urged me to continue yakking as we strolled toward the bay, then snapped pictures of me, her camera clicking madly as if she’d confused me with some jeans model.
    “Act like you’re collecting stuff,” she directed from behind the lens.
    I glanced around. “At high tide?”
    “Don’t you collect stuff at high tide too?”
    “Not really.”
    “Well, just look like you are.”
    Some kids are terrific pretenders. I wasn’t wired that way, but if you saw the photo you know I squatted and picked up your basic heart cockle shell and puzzled over it as if it were a riddle.
    “What’s that, Miles?” she asked, while the clicking continued.
    A clam shell,” I said.
    “ Really? What kind of clam?”
    She squatted with the camera to her face and her blouse sagging open. I resisted looking again and glanced nervously about to make sure there wasn’t someone kneeling behind me so that I’d trip onto my back at the slightest tap to my chest. Phelps, it won’t surprise you, loved that gag. But there was nobody out there but us. And as my eyes swept across the bay she caught the image that landed in the newspaper of me holding that stupid cockle, gazing out on the water as if I were about to spot another ragfish, giant squid or perhaps a few dozen blue whales.
    The truth is I thought all this would roll into a paragraph deep inside the newspaper somewhere, but then she abruptly demanded Professor Kramer’s and my parents’ work numbers. She also informed me that she intended to talk to Judge Stegner and even Phelps.
    “What for?” The incoming current was delivering a kelp or trash wad behind her.
    She frowned impatiently. “If I’m gonna write a story about you, I need to talk to people who know you, right?”
    “I thought the story was about the ragfish.”
    She laughed. This lady showed every card. “It’s just a little story about the boy who keeps finding cool stuff in the Sound.”
    “What kind of a story?”
    “A good one. A good little one.”
    I nodded, but I was confused. She put her camera away and glanced toward her car.
    “The next good low is at eleven-eighteen tomorrow,” I said desperately, “if you want me to show you around.” I felt like I was losing a friend.
    “I’d love to,” she said, though her face told me that wasn’t close to true. “But I doubt I’ll be able to make that.” She eyed her tiny wristwatch. “Are you considered small for your age, Miles?”
    “Are you considered rude for yours?” It just popped out.
    She stepped back as if I’d fired a spitball at her