She is right. As we work, greenish blues fade to teal. Blue-black fades to blue-gray.
I am tired and still shaky from vomiting earlier, but I do everything that’s asked of me. There is no music, no radio news, no podcast playing. No sound at all but June’s and Meer’s voices, nowand again talking about whether something is rinsed well enough, or whether a certain shirt should go into the dye again.
At one point I excuse myself and check my phone to see if Kingsley has sent me anything, but there’s nothing. I write to him:
I’m here at Hidden Beach.
I hope you didn’t worry I’d be angry to find out about Meer. I’m not at all. I feel so lucky to have a family connection, even with someone I’ve only just met.
One thing: June didn’t know I was coming. I’m not sure how that happened, but I think she’s okay with me staying, at least for tonight.
See you tomorrow. /Matilda
Meer folds his apron down, takes off his shirt, and puts it into the pot. His shoulders are darkly tan, and he has the long, narrow look of someone whose weight hasn’t caught up yet to his height. He has writing and drawing all over his torso. At first I think it’s tattoos, but it’s actually only Sharpie, half washed off. In the center of his abdomen, in bubble letters, it saysRead a freaking book.Lower down on the left, where Meer presumably drew on himself, there is an upside-down picture of three skulls, in classic tattoo-artist style. On his upper back, someone has drawn an awkward cartoon sailboat with the nameFartFaceon the hull, plus a series of spirals that represent waves.
I tamp Meer’s T-shirt down into the dye, watching the Shirley’s Hardware logo sink beneath the surface. When I look up, there’s another person in the room.
He seems familiar, but I can’t place him at first. He’s abouteighteen, white, shirtless and jacked, like a surfer who spends time in the weight room—very good-looking in a brainless, living-his-best-life way. His eyes are huge and the brightest of blue. His blondish hair is bleached light at the ends. The color hasn’t been refreshed in maybe a year. Like Meer, he’s covered in Sharpie. There’s a beautifully drawn donkey on one shoulder, and a seal on the other, plus a series of ornate anchors and an old-fashioned pinup girl on his left arm. His right arm has bubble lettering from elbow to wrist readingMeer smells great all the time.
“Are you Brock or Tatum?” I ask.
He grins at me, and his smile is so dazzling I can’t help but smile back. “Brock.” He turns to Meer. “Who’s this?”
Meer explains and Brock hustles over to where I’m standing by the stove. He opens his arms. “Bring it in, Matilda.”
“What?”
“You’re Meer and Kingsley’s family, and they’re like family to me, so you’re like family to me.” He wraps me in a nice-to-meet-you hug that I’ve only encountered before in Hollywood, with some of Saar’s actor friends. It’s a lot of naked boy skin.
“Oh my god,” I say when he releases me. I’ve put together why he looks familiar. “You’re Sammy.”
“Paul-David Brock.”
“But Sammy. Meer didn’t tell me you were Sammy.”
“He isn’t Sammy,” says Meer.
“Of course not,” I say, flushing.
I have seen Brock be Sammy for I don’t know how many hours of my life. A lot. His TV show,Men and Other Critters,stopped having new episodes a couple years ago, but there are clips on TikTok all the time. It’s impossible to escape videos of Brock saying “Don’t tell me, I don’t wanna know!” and “Girls are so much smarter thanme.”
He played the eldest of five kids being raised by three adult uncles. The uncles were clueless macho jerks, and Brock and his four television sisters ran those jerks absolutely ragged for many seasons.
“People think they know me sometimes,” Brock says, hitching himself up to sit on the kitchen counter. “But they only know Sammy. Which isn’t me. Which is a very, very long way from me.”
I have an impulse to apologize, but my mother always says that many women apologize when they’ve done nothing wrong, like they’re apologizing simply for existing. She never wanted me to be one of them. So I swallow mysorryand say, “Of course I don’t know you. But I’ve seen you be very funny on TV. Good to meet you, Paul-David Brock.”
“We’re in the indigo,” says June. “Are you in or out?”
“I’m in,” says Brock. She hands him an apron and a bucket of damp cloth. “I left Sammy behind a long time ago,” he tells me as he begins wringing out the fabric over the sink. “I used to carry him around. Y’know? He was this younger, better version of me that everybody recognized. He always had funny things to say. He had his picture on billboards. I felt like the real me was just a worn-out, uglier Sammy. No idea where he ended and I started.” He stops working for a second and looks directly at me. “Well, the answer was to say goodbye to Sammy completely. And not ever think abouthim.”
“And how’s that going for you?” I ask.
“Well, it’s not actually possible. But it’s an idea. Kingsley and June, those guys effing saved me. I’m so ever-loving grateful.”
“Aw, shush,” says June. “We’re lucky to have you here.”
“Matilda, do you want to do your shirt?” Meer asks.
