The Black Sheep (8 page)

“No, I mean the Del Monte Center. They've taken over the food court. Some poor old lady got swarmed for tuna salad last week.”

“That's why I always go for the mock egg,” I say. “I hear they hate tofu.”

Mitch's smile widens. “If you promise not to tip Judy off, I'll take you to see them tomorrow.”

Okay, so maybe this isn't the worst night of my life, after all.

M
anhattan leaps into the open dresser drawer and attacks the orange circle of light that is tracking across my clothes.

“You'll need to wear a bathing suit,” Meadow whispers.

“A bathing suit?” I whisper back. “Why?”

She peers up at me, and the beam of her tiger head flashlight hits the ceiling. “Because you'll be tracking otters.”

I had to tell Meadow about my plans to sneak out early with Mitch. I was afraid she'd make such a commotion when she found me gone that the overnight crew stationed outside in the van would alert Judy.

“He said ‘seeing' otters, not tracking them,” I say. “I don't even own a bathing suit.” If I did, I certainly wouldn't be wearing it on a date, even if it's only a date to see otters.

“How can you not own a bathing suit? Everyone owns a bathing suit.”

“Why would I need one? There are no pools in New York City.” Okay, they exist, I've just never been in one of them. Bankers don't need to swim, so my parents don't waste time on water. In fact, I only know how to dog paddle because Lucy's family took me to Florida to visit Nana Russell and she taught me the basics.

Meadow is so thrown by this news that she has to turn to Logan for support. As in Logan Waters, the pop star for whom she recently erected a shrine in the corner, featuring posters, CDs, magazines, and other groupie paraphernalia. I think she's hoping he'll watch the show, see the shrine, and come to take her away from all this.

The flashlight hits Logan's smile and gives her strength to carry on. “You're such a freak,” she says.

“This from the girl who went through my magazines and drew devil horns on the model Logan is dating.”

Meadow grins, as unfazed by her freakish behavior as I am by mine. So what if I don't have the right otter-watching gear? When a Black Sheep runs into a situation for which she isn't prepared, she simply creates a new rule, in this case:
Adapt, Adjust, and Ad-lib
.

“Either keep the light steady or give it to me and go back to bed,” I say.

She trains the beam on my drawer once more, and I ease a pair of shorts and a T-shirt out from under the ferret. It's just the right outfit for a sunrise walk along the shore.

Meadow shines her light on my face so that I can see my reflection in the mirror while I apply eyeliner and mascara. Then I twist my hair into a casual updo and pull out a few tendrils. It may be a quarter to five in the morning, but if there's even a slight possibility that Mitch considers this a real date, I can't go with flat hair, and eyes that look lash-less when no one is aiming a flashlight at me.

“You're going to a lot of trouble for some otters,” Meadow observes from her perch on the bed.

“We're going on to the aquarium later. Maurice likes me to look my best.”

“Did you know otters are in the same family as weasels and ferrets?”

“Maurice is not a ferret, and I want you to apologize to him later for saying so.”

She snorts. “You're awfully calm for someone who doesn't like water.”

“It's no big deal.” Why would it be? I've been watching otters for weeks and today I'll see them in a different setting, that's all. Even a confirmed New Yorker likes to feel the sand beneath her feet once in a while.

Frankly, I'm more nervous about trying to get along with Mitch. We've never lasted more than an hour together without a fight. Plus, I'm worried that he'll pull some stunt like taking me on a really tough hiking trail just to prove his manhood. Lucy says guys do stuff like that all the time. But if Mitch does get all macho, I will cope. A Black Sheep takes it as it comes.

Meadow directs her light out the window and onto the driveway. “You'd better hurry. Mitch is loaded up and ready to go.”

Over her shoulder, I see Mitch standing in the circle of light beside the van. He cuts a finger across his throat to signal that we should turn off the light.

“What was that on the roof of the van?” I ask, as the light goes out. “A boat?”

Meadow snickers. “Oh my God, you're even more of a freak than I thought.”

Black Sheepism has been progressing in leaps and bounds lately, but it's desperately short on information in the relationship department. Last night's fiasco with Aaron and Jordan didn't give me much faith in what I've picked up from
Cosmo
either. Especially since they were relatively normal guys and Mitch is far from that. He is the freak in this equation, not me. Who would invite someone on a date without specifying it's on the high seas? When he said he'd take me to see otters “in their own environment,” I assumed we'd be staying in
ours
to do it.

The least he could do is try to make polite conversation. I've been doing all the work en route to Nature-ville, and it hasn't gone well. Clearly, he's not a morning person. I started out all bright and chipper, asking questions and generally being dateable. All I got in return were grunts. I asked why he's bringing a boat along, and he said, “It's a kayak.” So then I asked if he does this often and he said, “Yes.” Running out of steam, I asked if the otters would be up by the time we got there.

“As long as they set their alarm,” he said. “I called ahead to say we're coming.”

Okay, it was a stupid question, but at least I'm trying. It's rude to invite someone out and then ridicule her, if you ask me. But I can be as silent as he is, if not more so. A Black Sheep enjoys spending time with her own thoughts.

The sky is lighter by the time we pull onto the shoulder and get out of the van. Mitch unhooks the red kayak and takes it off the roof. There's a yellow one strapped beside it.

Uh-oh.

“This one's Maya's,” he says. “Can you carry it?”

Of course I can carry it. If Maya can, I can. Technically, it's not that heavy, just long and cumbersome. I keep losing my grip and smashing it into things. Each time, Mitch flinches. There's enough light now to see that.

As I follow him down the winding path to the shore, I make up my mind that this is definitely not a date. Maybe it's some kind of test to see if I warrant a real date. Or maybe he's going to bump me off to end the TV show. I should have brought Meadow along as protection.

If it's a test, I fail miserably ten minutes into the walk, when I trip over a rock and fall under the kayak. Mitch puts his down and pulls mine off me. “Just leave it here,” he says. “I'll come back for it.”

I trail after him empty-handed, trying to plot my escape. I know that Mitch is a pro at kayaking, but he won't be in the boat with me and he isn't much of a talker. If I have to figure out how to drive the thing on my own, I'm in big trouble.

“Are there sharks out there?” I call after him.

“It is the ocean,” he says.

Mitch, too, has mastered the art of answering questions any way he wants.

“Have you seen any around here?” I ask.

“Not
right
around here. How close do you mean?”

“You're trying to scare me.”

“No,
you're
trying to scare you. I'm just helping out.”

I see there's a price to be paid for hanging out with smart, hot guys. They toy with you like sharks tossing a surfer's severed limb. “Do sharks eat otters?”

“As appetizers,” he says. “Kayaks are the main course.” He turns, and I see his teeth glinting in the gloom.

It was actually better when he wasn't speaking. Then I could almost imagine that we were destined for each other.

Dawn is breaking by the time we finally reach the shore. Mitch sets his kayak on the ground and says he's going back for Maya's.

“I've got a better idea,” I say. “Why don't I watch you from the shore?” A Black Sheep cannot grab life by the tail if a shark grabs her first.

“You're coming with me, City Girl. The otters got up early just for you.”

* * *

Mitch sets the second kayak beside the first one and opens his knapsack. “First things first,” he says as he tosses something dark at me. “Put on your skirt.”

My skirt? What's he doing carrying a skirt? Is it something kinky? If so, he's in for a disappointment. I whip the fabric back at him. “I'll be more comfortable in shorts, thank you.”

Mitch shakes his head, bemused. “Most people wear it
over
their shorts.” He wraps the fabric around his waist to demonstrate and pulls the attached suspenders over his shoulders. “It snaps onto the cockpit to keep you dry.”

I watch as he trades his running shoes for a pair of neoprene booties and straps on a life vest. Anyone else would look like a total nerd in that getup, but the fact that he is entirely unselfconscious about it somehow makes him hotter than ever.

“Hurry up and dress, Cinderella,” he says, hauling Maya's yellow kayak down to the water. “Your pumpkin awaits.”

I sullenly pull on my kayaking gear, knowing that I will not look hotter in it because I'm uncool in the first place.

My nylon tutu sways as I pick my way down to the shore in rubber booties. Mitch is standing knee-deep in the surf, holding the kayak steady for me. There's a tiny opening that I'm apparently supposed to jam myself into without tipping. I stare at the boat, gripped with fear—not of drowning but of something far worse: humiliation. The Black Sheep rules swirl in my head, but I can't catch hold of one that might help me make the first move.

“You'll be fine,” Mitch says, sounding a little nicer. “It's awkward, but the water is shallow and I'm here to keep her steady.”

The correct rule finally lands:
Suck it up
. At this point, what else am I going to do? Sit in the van and wait for him?

Mitch explains how I'm supposed to get into the boat using my paddle for support. He walks me through it step-by-step, making it sound like any reasonably coordinated person could do it.

Twenty minutes later, I accept that I am uncoordinated as well as uncool. Playing twister on a waterbed would be easier than this. I am soaked to the armpits and I still haven't managed to get into the kayak.

“One more try,” I gasp. This time, my sodden shorts sink to my ankles. Mitch is still leaning over the boat, so he gets a close-up of my panties—the ones with the dollar signs all over them that Lucy gave me last year as a joke.

“Ka-ching,” he says, grinning.

“Don't look!” I yank up my shorts and anchor them in place with one hand.

“Then get on with it already,” he says. “The otters are already breaking for lunch.”

With a valiant effort, I swing one leg aboard. Mitch tells me how to use the paddle for balance, but I can't bring myself to lift my other foot off the ground.

Exasperated, he grabs my leg and stuffs it into the boat. The kayak rolls perilously, but he steadies it and attaches the spray skirt. “Don't move,” he says, letting go to climb into his own kayak.

A couple of gentle waves lift the kayak and drop it again. Miraculously, I don't tip. “Hey, this isn't so bad,” I say, turning to look at Mitch. The movement causes my kayak to list sharply to the right.

“Use your paddle!” he calls. “Lean to the left!”

I dig my paddle into the ocean floor and throw my weight over to the other side.

“Not so hard!”

I rock to the right, and am about to flip, when Mitch manages to line his kayak up alongside mine and grabs it.

“Keep your movements slow and gentle,” he says. “Imagine yourself standing on the arm of a seesaw and try to find your balance.”

I've never stood on the arm of a seesaw.
The BLAH
was quite specific about misuse of playground equipment. Still, I can imagine it. Balance is a series of constant tiny adjustments. It's a state of mind.

When I've achieved a Zenlike calm, I begin to follow Mitch's directions for paddling. Just a dip to the right and another to the left and we're off. Slowly but surely, I get a feel for it. Soon I am so focused that Mitch's voice startles me.

“Faster,” he says. And then, “Too fast. Just try to—”

“I'm finding my rhythm,” I interrupt. “You just keep your eyes open for sharks.”

He leads the way out toward a point of land that juts into the ocean. The water gets a little rougher, but with constant recalibration, I manage to make it into the quiet inlet without capsizing. Here, thick forests of kelp spread for about two hundred yards offshore. In the distance, there's a long white beach with windswept cypress trees clinging to the rocky cliffs above it. The pale blue sky above and the deeper blue of the water below make it a breathtaking sight.

I set my paddle down and stare. “This is incredible.”

Mitch actually smiles right at me. “I know, and no one ever sees it, because there's no road access. It's my secret cove.”

He's sharing his secret cove with me! That can only mean one thing: it
is
a real date. For all I know, Mitch may even—