Paper Towns — Chapter no 8

8.

“Well, first off, we will get caught,” I said. I hadn’t started the minivan and

was laying out the reasons I wouldn’t start it and wondering if she could see

me in the dark.

“Of course we’ll get caught. So what?”

“It’s illegal.”

“Q, in the scheme of things, what kind of trouble can Sea-World get you

into? I mean, Jesus, after everything I’ve done for you tonight, you can’t do

one thing for me? You can’t just shut up and calm down and stop being so

goddamned terrified of every little adventure?” And then under her breath

she said, “I mean, God. Grow some nuts.”

And now I was mad. I ducked underneath my shoulder belt so I could

lean across the console toward her. “After everything YOU did for ME?” I

almost shouted. She wanted confident? I was getting confident. “Did you

call MY friend’s father who was screwing MY boyfriend so no one would

know that I was calling? Did you chauffeur MY ass all around the world not

because you are oh-so-important to me but because I needed a ride and you

were close by? Is that the kind of shit you’ve done for me tonight?”

She wouldn’t look at me. She just stared straight ahead at the vinyl

siding of the furniture store. “You think I needed you? You don’t think I

could have given Myrna Mountweazel a Benadryl so she’d sleep through

my stealing the safe from under my parents’ bed? Or snuck into your

bedroom while you were sleeping and taken your car key? I didn’t need

you, you idiot. I picked you. And then you picked me back.” Now she

looked at me. “And that’s like a promise. At least for tonight. In sickness

and in health. In good times and in bad. For richer, for poorer. Till dawn do

us part.”

I started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, but all her teamwork

stuff aside, I still felt like I was getting badgered into something, and I

wanted the last word. “Fine, but when Sea-World, Incorporated or whatever

sends a letter to Duke University saying that miscreant Quentin Jacobsen

broke into their facility at four thirty in the morning with a wild-eyed lass at

his side, Duke University will be mad. Also, my parents will be mad.”

“Q, you’re going to go to Duke. You’re going to be a very successful

lawyer-or-something and get married and have babies and live your whole

little life, and then you’re going to die, and in your last moments, when

you’re choking on your own bile in the nursing home, you’ll say to

yourself: ‘Well, I wasted my whole goddamned life, but at least I broke into

SeaWorld with Margo Roth Spiegelman my senior year of high school. At

least I carpe’d that one diem.’”

“Noctem,” I corrected.

“Okay, you are the Grammar King again. You’ve regained your throne.

Now take me to SeaWorld.”

As we drove silently down I-4, I found myself thinking about the day that

the guy in the gray suit showed up dead. Maybe that’s the reason she chose

me, I thought. And that’s when, finally, I remembered what she said about

the dead guy and the strings— and about herself and the strings.

“Margo,” I said, breaking our silence.

“Q,” she said.

“You said . . . When the guy died, you said maybe all the strings inside

him broke, and then you just said that about yourself, that the last string

broke.”

She half laughed. “You worry too much. I don’t want some kids to find

me swarmed with flies on a Saturday morning in Jefferson Park.” She

waited a beat before delivering the punch line. “I’m too vain for that fate.”

I laughed, relieved, and exited the interstate. We turned onto

International Drive, the tourism capital of the world. There were a thousand

shops on International Drive, and they all sold the exact same thing: crap.

Crap molded into seashells, key rings, glass turtles, Florida-shaped

refrigerator magnets, plastic pink flamingos, whatever. In fact, there were

several stores on I-Drive that sold actual, literal armadillo crap—$4.95 a

bag.

But at 4:50 in the morning, the tourists were sleeping. The Drive was

completely dead, like everything else, as we drove past store after parking

lot after store after parking lot.

“SeaWorld is just past the parkway,” Margo said. She was in the

wayback of the minivan again, rifling through a backpack or something. “I

got all these satellite maps and drew our plan of attack, but I can’t freaking

find them anywhere. But anyway, just go right past the parkway, and on

your left there will be this souvenir shop.”

“On my left, there are about seventeen thousand souvenir shops.”

“Right, but there will only be one right after the parkway.”

And sure enough, there was only one, and so I pulled into the empty

parking lot and parked the car directly beneath a streetlight, because cars

are always getting stolen on I-Drive. And while only a truly masochistic car

thief would ever think of jacking the Chrysler, I still didn’t relish the

thought of explaining to my mom how and why her car went missing in the

small hours of a school night.

We stood outside, leaning against the back of the minivan, the air so

warm and thick I felt my clothes clinging to my skin. I felt scared again, as

if people I couldn’t see were looking at me. It had been too dark for too

long, and my gut ached from the hours of worrying. Margo had found her

maps, and by the light of the street lamp, her spray-paint-blue fingertip

traced our route. “I think there’s a fence right there,” she said, pointing to a

wooden patch we’d hit just after crossing the parkway. “I read about it

online. They installed it a few years ago after some drunk guy walked into

the park in the middle of the night and decided to go swimming with

Shamu, who promptly killed him.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, so if that guy can make it in drunk, surely we can make it in

sober. I mean, we’re ninjas.”

“Well, maybe you’re a ninja,” I said.

“You’re just a really loud, awkward ninja,” Margo said, “but we are both

ninjas.” She tucked her hair behind her ears, pulled up her hood, and

scrunched it shut with a drawstring; the streetlight lit up the sharp features

of her pale face. Maybe we were both ninjas, but only she had the outfit.

“Okay,” she said. “Memorize the map.” By far the most terrifying part

of the half-mile-long journey Margo had plotted for us was the moat.

SeaWorld was shaped like a triangle. One side was protected by a road,

which Margo figured was regularly patrolled by night watchmen. The

second side was guarded by a lake that was at least a mile around, and the

third side had a drainage ditch; from the map, it looked to be about as wide

as a two-lane road. And where there are water-filled drainage ditches near

lakes in Florida, there are often alligators.

Margo grabbed me by both shoulders and turned me toward her. “We’re

going to get caught, probably, and when we do, just let me talk. You just

look cute and be that weird mix of innocent and confident, and we’ll be

fine.”

I locked the car, tried to pat down my puffy hair, and whispered, “I’m a

ninja.” I didn’t mean for Margo to hear, but she piped up. “Damned right

you are! Now let’s go.”

We jogged across I-Drive and then started bushwhacking through a

thicket of tall shrubs and oak trees. I started to worry about poison ivy, but

ninjas don’t worry about poison ivy, so I led the trail, my arms in front of

me, pushing aside briars and brush as we walked toward the moat. Finally

the trees stopped and the field opened up, and I could see the parkway on

our right and the moat straight ahead of us. People could have seen us from

the road if there had been any cars, but there weren’t. Together we took off

running through the brush, and then made a sharp turn toward the parkway.

Margo said, “Now, now!” and I dashed across the six lanes of highway.

Even though it was empty, something felt exhilarating and wrong about

running across a road that big.

We made it across and then knelt down in the knee-high grass beside the

parkway. Margo pointed to the strip of trees between SeaWorld’s endlessly

gigantic parking lot and the black standing water of the moat. We ran for a

minute along that line of trees, and then Margo pulled on the back of my

shirt, and said quietly, “Now the moat.”

“Ladies first,” I said.

“No, really. Be my guest,” she answered.

And I didn’t think about the alligators or the disgusting layer of brackish

algae. I just got a running start and jumped as far as I could. I landed in

waist-deep water and then high-stepped across. The water smelled rank and

felt slimy on my skin, but at least I wasn’t wet above my waist. Or at least I

wasn’t until Margo jumped in, splashing water all over me. I turned around

and splashed her. She faux-retched.

“Ninjas don’t splash other ninjas,” Margo complained.

“The true ninja doesn’t make a splash at all,” I said.

“Ooh, touché.”

I was watching Margo pull herself up out of the moat. And I was feeling

thoroughly pleased about the lack of alligators. And my pulse was

acceptable, if brisk. And beneath her unzipped hoodie, her black T-shirt had

become clingy in the water. In short, a lot of things were going pretty well

when I saw in my peripheral vision a slithering in the water beside Margo.

Margo started to step out of the water, and I could see her Achilles tendon

tensing, and before I could even say anything, the snake lashed out and bit

her left ankle, right below the line of her jeans.

“Shit!” Margo said, and she looked down and then said “Shit!” again.

The snake was still attached. I dove down and grabbed the snake by the tail

and ripped it from Margo’s leg and threw it into the moat. “Ow, God,” she

said. “What was it? Was it a moccasin?”

“I don’t know. Lie down, lie down,” I said, and then I took her leg in my

hands, and I pulled up her jeans. There were two drops of blood coming out

where the fangs had been, and I leaned down and put my mouth on the

wound and sucked as hard as I could, trying to draw out the venom. I spit,

and was going to go back to her leg when she said, “Wait, I see it.” I

jumped up, terrified, and she said, “No, no, God, it’s just a garter snake.”

She was pointing into the moat, and I followed her finger and could see the

little garter snake skirting along the surface, swimming beneath a

floodlight’s skirt. From the well-lit distance, the thing didn’t look much

scarier than a baby lizard.

“Thank God,” I said, sitting down next to her and catching my breath.

After looking at the bite and seeing that the bleeding had already

stopped, she asked, “How was making out with my leg?”

“Pretty good,” I said, which was true. She leaned her body into mine a

little and I could feel her upper arm against my ribs.

“I shaved this morning for precisely that reason. I was like, ‘Well, you

never know when someone is going to clamp down on your calf and try to

suck out the snake poison.’”

There was a chain-link fence before us, but it was only about six feet tall.

As Margo put it, “Honestly, first garter snakes and now this fence? This

security is sort of insulting to a ninja.” She scampered up, swung her body

around, and climbed down like it was a ladder. I managed not to fall.

We ran through a small thicket of trees, hugging tight against these huge

opaque tanks that might have stored animals, and then we came out to an

asphalt path and I could see the big amphitheater where Shamu splashed me

when I was a kid. The little speakers lining the walkway were playing soft

Muzak. Maybe to keep the animals calm. “Margo,” I said, “we’re in

SeaWorld.”

And she said, “Seriously,” and then she jogged away and I followed her.

We ended up by the seal tank, but it seemed like there were no seals inside

it.

“Margo,” I said again. “We’re in SeaWorld.”

“Enjoy it,” she said without moving her mouth much. “’Cause here

comes security.”

I dashed through a stand of waist-high bushes, but when Margo didn’t

run, I stopped.

A guy strolled up wearing a SEAWORLD SECURITY vest and very

casually asked, “How y’all?” He held a can of something in his hand—

pepper spray, I guessed.

To stay calm, I wondered to myself, Does he have regular handcuffs, or

does he have special SeaWorld handcuffs? Like, are they shaped like two

curved dolphins coming together?

“We were just on our way out, actually,” said Margo.

“Well, that’s certain,” the man said. “The question is whether you

walkin’ out or gettin’ driven out by the Orange County sheriff.”

“If it’s all the same to you,” Margo said, “we’d rather walk.” I shut my

eyes. This, I wanted to tell Margo, was no time for snappy comebacks. But

the man laughed.

“You know a man got kilt here a couple years ago jumping in the big

tank, and they told us we cain’t never let anybody go if they break in, no

matter if they’re pretty.” Margo pulled her shirt out so it wouldn’t look so

clingy. And only then did I realize he was talking to her breasts.

“Well, then I guess you have to arrest us.”

“But that’s the thing. I’m ’bout to get off and go home and have a beer

and get some sleep, and if I call the police they’ll take their sweet time in

coming. I’m just thinkin’ out loud here,” he said, and then Margo raised her

eyes in recognition. She wiggled a hand into a wet pocket and pulled out

one moat-water-soaked hundred-dollar bill.

The guard said, “Well, y’all best be getting on now. If I were you, I

wouldn’t walk out past the whale tank. It’s got all-night security cameras all

’round it, and we wouldn’t want anyone to know y’all was here.”

“Yessir,” Margo said demurely, and with that the man walked off into

the darkness. “Man,” Margo mumbled as the guy walked away, “I really

didn’t want to pay that perv. But, oh well. Money’s for spendin’.” I could

barely even hear her; the only thing happening was the relief shivering out

of my skin. This raw pleasure was worth all the worry that preceded it.

“Thank God he’s not turning us in,” I said.

Margo didn’t respond. She was staring past me, her eyes squinting

almost closed. “I felt this exact same way when I got into Universal

Studios,” she said after a moment. “It’s kind of cool and everything, but

there’s nothing much to see. The rides aren’t working. Everything cool is

locked up. Most of the animals are put into different tanks at night.” She

turned her head and appraised the SeaWorld we could see. “I guess the

pleasure isn’t being inside.”

“What’s the pleasure?” I asked.

“Planning, I guess. I don’t know. Doing stuff never feels as good as you

hope it will feel.”

“This feels pretty good to me,” I confessed. “Even if there isn’t anything

to see.” I sat down on a park bench, and she joined me. We were both

looking out at the seal tank, but it contained no seals, just an unoccupied

island with rocky outcroppings made of plastic. I could smell her next to

me, the sweat and the algae from the moat, her shampoo like lilacs, and the

smell of her skin like crushed almonds.

I felt tired for the first time, and I thought of us lying down on some

grassy patch of SeaWorld together, me on my back and she on her side with

her arm draped against me, her head on my shoulder, facing me. Not doing

anything—just lying there together beneath the sky, the night here so well

lit that it drowns out the stars. And maybe I could feel her breathe against

my neck, and maybe we could just stay there until morning and then the

people would walk past as they came into the park, and they would see us

and think that we were tourists, too, and we could just disappear into them.

But no. There was one-eyebrowed Chuck to see, and Ben to tell the

story to, and classes and the band room and Duke and the future.

“Q,” Margo said.

I looked up at her, and for a moment I didn’t know why she’d said my

name, but then I snapped out of my half-sleep. And I heard it. The Muzak

from the speakers had been turned up, only it wasn’t Muzak anymore—it

was real music. This old, jazzy song my dad likes called “Stars Fell on

Alabama.” Even through the tinny speakers you could hear that whoever

was singing it could sing a thousand goddamned notes at once.

And I felt the unbroken line of me and of her stretching back from our

cribs to the dead guy to acquaintanceship to now. And I wanted to tell her

that the pleasure for me wasn’t planning or doing or leaving; the pleasure

was in seeing our strings cross and separate and then come back together—

but that seemed too cheesy to say, and anyway, she was standing up.

Margo’s blue blue eyes blinked and she looked impossibly beautiful

right then, her jeans wet against her legs, her face shining in the gray light.

I stood up and reached out my hand and said, “May I have this dance?”

Margo curtsied, gave me her hand, and said, “You may,” and then my hand

was on the curve between her waist and her hip, and her hand was on my

shoulder. And then step-step-sidestep, step-step-sidestep. We fox-trotted all

the way around the seal tank, and still the song kept going on about the stars

falling. “Sixth-grade slow dance,” Margo announced, and we switched

positions, her hands on my shoulders and mine on her hips, elbows locked,

two feet between us. And then we fox-trotted some more, until the song

ended. I stepped forward and dipped Margo, just as they’d taught us to do at

Crown School of Dance. She raised one leg and gave me all her weight as I

dipped her. She either trusted me or wanted to fall.