Free Freaky Green Eyes by Joyce Carol Oates Page A

past myhead to fasten eagerly upon another, more promising guest who’d just arrived.
    â€œExcuse me, dear! We’ll catch up later.”
    There came our host, Bud Blount, to say hello to me. He was a hearty, red-faced man of about fifty with thick graying hair on his head and a darker patch of hair at the deep V of his sports shirt. “Your father says you’re quite a swimmer, eh? Diver? Me too. I mean, I used to be. In college. C’mere, darlin’.” He wanted to show me his Olympic-size pool, which was visible from one end of the redwood deck, but he was distracted by other guests, including my father, who were praising the wine he was serving and asking about its vintage. I would have slipped away while they were talking, but Mr. Blount had hold of my arm. He said, “My sixteen-year-old, Sean, is a helluva diver too. Sean? Where’s Sean, Leila? Tell you what, I’m going to propose that you two sexy kids change into swimsuits and put on a little performance for us, eh? I bet you’re terrific. My diving days are over.” He chuckled, patting his hard-looking stomachthat protruded over the belt of his khaki shorts. “All I can do now are belly flops, but kids like you, you’re in terrific shape.” Mr. Blount not only tugged my ponytail fondly, like I was five years old, but made a playful swipe as if to pinch my bare midriff.
    Hey! I didn’t like this. But it happened fast, and Mr. Blount was obviously not a bad guy, just gregarious and trying to be funny the way Dad was sometimes when he’d been drinking. So I resisted the impulse to push away from him. I gave him the excuse that I wasn’t “swimming or diving right now”—it was “that time for me.” This was a Freaky trick: acting like I was really really embarrassed, and causing Mr. Blount to be embarrassed, too, after he caught on. His heavy face was flushing a deeper shade of pink. He mumbled, “Well. I’m—sorry.”
    â€œSome other time, maybe. Invite us back.”
    Samantha and I had a nice bunk-bed girls’ room on the second floor of the lodge, and Dad’s room was just across the way. It seemed strange to be in a placelike this, like a hotel, without Mom close by to supervise us. Samantha whispered, “We could call her, Franky, couldn’t we? Just to say hello.” But the cell phone was mine, and I vetoed the idea.
    I didn’t bother unpacking most of my things. Left them in the suitcase. We were staying only three nights.
    There was to be an outdoor barbecue, a suckling pig roasted on a spit. The smell of roasting flesh permeated the air and was both mouthwatering and sickening. (Twyla was a vegetarian. I was fully intending to become a vegetarian, too, except I knew Dad would be annoyed: he called it a “hippie affectation.”) I was feeling more and more Freaky-restless, wondering why I was here. Wondering why I hadn’t had the courage to tell Dad I’d prefer to spend the Fourth of July in Skagit Harbor with Mom.
    You wouldn’t, ever. You don’t have that courage .
    Know what you are? A hypocrite .
    Freaky’s derisive voice in my head.
    Before the barbecue, while it was still daylight,Mr. Blount took some of his guests out on his forty-foot sailing yacht Triumph II to look for whales. I was excited about going—I loved those smallish killer whales that relate so strangely to human beings—but the air was cold on the water; the wind blew spray into our faces, and the season was no longer summer but felt more like November. And Samantha was frightened of the way the boat bounced and bucked sideways against the waves.
    Mr. Blount was at the helm, and Dad was his cocaptain. The two men were laughing and shouting, “Whale! Whale ahoy! To the starboard, keep your eyes open.” We kept our eyes open but didn’t see any whales; or, if we saw them, we didn’t know what we were seeing in the roiling