Lost in the River of Grass

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“The miracle of the light pours over the green and brown expanse of saw grass and of water, shining and slow-moving below, the grass and water that is the meaning and the central fact of the Everglades of Florida. It is a river of grass.”

   —Marjorie Stoneman Douglas,
The Everglades: River of Grass

 

…

“the world is mud-luscious. . .
the world is puddle-wonderful”

—e. e. cummings, “[in Just-]”

 

…

“Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts.”

—Rachel Carson,
The Sense of Wonder

1

Mr. Vickers takes the seat behind the bus driver. The other fourteen kids pile in behind him in pairs, like ark animals. Since I'm last on the bus, my choice is to sit next to him or sit alone. He's left room for me, but is nice enough not to say anything when I drag my gear to the back row.

The ride to where we're going in the Everglades is long, and a hot, gritty, diesel-smelling wind swirls in through the open windows. I've been staring out at the same scenery for an hour: a long, straight, black water canal, a levee, and miles and miles of saw grass.

My poor parents thought they'd died and gone to heaven when I got accepted into Glades Academy this year, but school started three weeks ago and I hate it more every day. I either feel invisible or like a sore thumb. No one talks
to
me, just about me.

This weekend field trip wasn't required, so it didn't occur to me to sign up. First off, I couldn't care less about seeing a swamp, and secondly, it cost more than my parents could really afford, but Mr. Vickers, my science teacher, talked me into it. “Divide and conquer, Sarah,” he said, as if being with fewer students will give me better odds of making a friend. There are ten boys on the trip and four other girls. The boys are okay, but the girls are clumped together like a tar ball on the beach.

Mr. Vickers feels sorry for me. I can tell because, when he turns to point out something he wants us to notice, he includes me and smiles.

I curl up on the back bench, put my head on my duffel bag, and pretend to sleep in spite of the chatter and laughter from the front.

I guess I did doze off, because when Mr. Vickers calls, “Breakfast stop,” I jerk awake, sit up, and look out. We're pulling into the parking lot of the Miccosukee Indian restaurant. I don't feel hungry until I smell bacon frying. Then my stomach starts to growl.

We're expected at the restaurant; a single long table is set for us. I'm the last one in and have to take a seat at the end opposite from Mr. Vickers—teacher at one end and me, the token poor-but-promising student, at the other.

There are two waitresses. When one gets to our end of the table, Adam—at least I think that's his name— orders a hamburger.

“Breakfast only,” the waitress says. “No burgers 'til eleven-thirty.”

“I don't like eggs. How 'bout a grilled cheese sandwich?”

“Only breakfast until eleven-thirty.” She pops her gum.

Two of the girls are named Amanda; the third and fourth are Brittany and Courtney. The Amanda on my right orders a cheese omelet.

“Okay,” Adam says. “I'll have a cheese omelet, too, but hold the eggs. Just bring me the cheese, two pieces of wheat toast, and an order of fries.”

Brittany, who's sitting next to Adam, giggles.

“Hash browns,” the waitress says.

Adam rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

I only have ten dollars with me and can't remember if breakfast is included in the price of the field trip. “I'm not very hungry,” I say, and see Mr. Vickers glance up.

“This is all one check,” he tells the waitress at his end of the table.

“Come on, dearie.” Our waitress drums the pad with her pencil.

I don't look at her. “Two eggs over easy . . .”

“I can't hear you,” she says.

“Crisp bacon, pumpkin bread . . .” My stomach growls so loudly, Amanda laughs out loud. “And hash browns, too, please.”

Where I live in Coconut Grove there are frequent gunshots, so when an engine backfires in the canal behind the restaurant, I instinctively duck my head and squeeze my eyes shut.

There's another backfire before the engine sputters to life. A moment later, an airboat skims past the rear wall of windows, its benches loaded with tourists. An Indian guide is perched on the seat mounted in front of the cage that covers what was once an airplane's propeller.

“I'd love to ride in one of those,” Adam says.

“Me, too,” Amanda says.

I don't say anything until Mom's advice pops into my head.
Be friendly. Don't expect them to come to you; you have to make the first move
. “Me, too,” I say.

“You, too, what?” Amanda says.

“It would be fun to go for an airboat ride.”

“We just said that.”

“I know. I'm just agreeing that it would be fun.”

She looks at me like I'm the underbelly of an earthworm, then says to Adam, “I've got my mother's Visa, maybe we could talk Mr. Vickers into letting us pay extra and go for a ride. Then again,” she stares at me, “probably not, if we couldn't
all
afford to go.”

My mother's one of the cooks in the school cafeteria, and I'm on a scholarship—not because she works there. I'm on the swimming team. I'd like to jump in that black water canal and swim out of here. Or better yet, drown Amanda in it, then swim home.

When breakfast comes, my eggs are overcooked and crusty brown on both sides. The bacon's nearly raw, and the hash browns are the shredded frozen kind I hate and still cold in the middle. I eat the center out of one egg, a crispy edge of a strip of bacon, and the pumpkin bread, which is greasy but good.

 

…

The restaurant is almost directly across the highway from the entrance to Everglades National Park. In spite of the forty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit, traffic whizzes by at sixty and seventy. Mr. Vickers makes us all get back on the bus for the ride across the road.

“We're going to take a tram ride out to the observation tower,” he shouts when we get there, over the racket of everyone gathering their stuff. “Our driver will stay here, so you can leave your gear. If you have a camera, bring it.”

I have an old maroon Wilderness Experience backpack with two separate zippered compartments. I put Dad's camera in the bottom of the pack, my wallet in the top, and follow the others off the bus.

Before the tram ride we have to listen to a park ranger's canned speech about the damage the sugar industry is causing and how endangered the Everglades ecosystem is. I'm listening to his monotone and fanning away mosquitoes as I watch shiny black birds inspect car grills for freshly squashed insects. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of yellow, then hear a thud. I back away from the others and peek around the corner of the park's office building. Lying on the ground beneath a window is the prettiest little bird I've ever seen outside of a pet store. It's bright yellow, with a black bandit mask over its eyes. The window, which reflects the trees like a mirror, shows a dusty print and a few yellow feathers where the bird struck it. I walk over to look more closely. Its sides are still moving. I carefully pick it up and carry it back in cupped hands.

“This poor little bird hit the window,” I say to the ranger. “But it's still alive.”

Everyone crowds in for a look.

“That's a male Common Yellowthroat warbler,” he says. “Best to put it back where you found it. Few survive an impact with a window, so it will die, or come to and fly away.”

I don't like this guy. “Something might get it before it has a chance to wake up.”

His smile is condescending. “Always best to let nature take its course.”

“If the building wasn't there, the bird wouldn't have hit it.” I feel my cheeks heat up. I'm not good at speaking my mind. What I want to say is that the building is in the way of nature taking its course. As usual, it hasn't come out right. I walk around the corner, like I'm going to put the bird back under the window, but instead I slide him into the pocket of my dad's shirt, which is tied around my waist.