Act I: Breakfast (for his life was a charade, an act) began at eight. Seto was in his place by seven-thirty, was there to watch the sun leak through the floor-to-ceiling windows till the hotel dining hall sloshed full of daylight.
When the show had still not started by eight-thirty, Seto's gut swirled with panic. Where were they? Where were they? Couldn't they hear the audience booing, see them abandoning their seats? Seto drew shallow breaths, choking on the air. This wouldn't do. How could he say his lines like this?
"Hiya."
Seto flinched, badly, beneath the hand on his shoulder. The girl withdrew, annoyed.
"Weirdo. Are you just sitting here?"
Flaring fireworks died down and Seto recognized her dark pigtails from dinner the night before. He answered her with his hands pressed wide and flat against the linen tablecloth.
"Breakfast was supposed to be at eight," he said.
"Yeah, well," she tromped in a circle, emphasizing the room's emptiness. "Looks like the adults missed the memo."
Adults didn't...Gozaburo didn't...miss memos.
"Hey!" cried the girl, waving. Three other kids, two boys near his age and a younger, short-haired girl, crossed the sun-striped carpet and congregated at Seto's table. They were in various stages of pajama undress, boasting bedheads and bare feet. He remembered them all from last night.
"You're Kaiba's kid, right?"
"Why're you dressed up?"
"You waiting on the adults?"
Seto shrank under their scrutiny. Four was too many. He'd felt extra-wimpy lately, and if he tried to run, the larger boys would catch him.
"Where are they?" he made himself ask.
The taller of the boys elbowed the other in the ribs and winked. "Where I'd be if I could…" His friend snickered.
"Seeing women," Pigtail Girl said flatly, in response to Seto's blank look. "Partying, drinking, you know."
Oh…?
"They're nearly always gone till supper," she went on. "We're skiving off. Wanna join?"
Seto regarded the dining hall. One older man now sat near the steaming breakfast bar, reading his coffee, drinking his paper.
Wait
He could wait for Gozaburo. Or he could...if they were all together, the punishment might be spread thinner...fat chance of that...
The short-haired girl had drifted to the windows, a silhouette against them. Her overlarge night shirt whispered against her calves. "It's beautiful today," she said quietly. "The ocean."
Seto gazed at her.
"Right, budge up, then," said Pigtail Girl. "I'll get you a T-shirt."
His hands left dark, incriminating prints on the tablecloth.
Act II: The Boardwalk was bizarre. It was a beautiful morning—temperate and clear. Everything glittered, from the boardwalk where they wandered to the baby blue horizon. But Seto couldn't relax.
He felt engulfed by Pigtail Girl's spare clothes, a purple shirt that screamed Aloha, khaki capris, floral flip-flops; he could see Tall Boy and Plaid Boy (so named for his swim trunks) looking over their shoulders, snickering. He deserved it, else he would've smashed their faces in. Pigtail Girl ambled just behind the pair, chatting with them, carrying a beach bag over one shoulder. Short-haired Girl kept quiet.
"Where to first?" asked Pigtail Girl. A pair of cyclists coasted past them.
"Shopping for some boy clothes?" suggested Plaid Boy, wagging his eyebrows at Seto. Tall Boy guffawed.
Seto ignored them. A turgid tension turned his stomach. He hadn't broken a rule in...he didn't know how long. Bent them, resented them, sure. But broken? He'd end up broken. Rather than haunt him, this began to thrill him. He heard a crackle—felt a reckless flame ignite.
"Let's shop," he said loudly, decisively. "Who's got money?"
The group gaped at him. "He knows more than three words, after all," said Tall Boy.
Pigtail Girl grinned, intrigued. "I've got money. Mum gave me loads."
Seto nodded. "Let's go, then."
He led them up the boardwalk, past pastel rows of condos to the shops. No one questioned his direction; in fact, they seemed pleased to be led by him. Their compliance bloated his confidence. He felt sick with satisfaction.
Pigtail Girl freely supplied her mother's funds, and before long they were a patchwork of costly new digs. Seto scorned the sun and bought a black brand-name hoodie and dark jeans. He returned his donated clothing to Pigtail Girl, who smirked and stuffed them into her brand-new bag.
Out in front of a tacky souvenir shop sat a woman offering henna tattoos. They all sat for a design. Seto's heart still raced. What the hell, he thought. He'd be dead by nightfall anyhow. He asked for a dragon. It covered the entire right side of his face.
When it was finished, his squad oohed and ahhed and complimented him and followed him to the next storefront. They didn't laugh at Seto anymore.
Act III: Lunch was necessary. They dragged their sandalled feet down the boardwalk.
"I'm starving," moaned Plaid Boy, clutching his padded gut. They'd been bombarded by the smell of fried food all morning. Seto didn't want food, but it was getting hot. He needed water, at least.
"How about there?" Pigtail Girl pointed to a massive outdoor café up ahead, marooned in its own sea of plastic tables and chairs. It crawled with seagulls and tourists. The group turned to Seto.
"Sure," he said. They went.
The line was long and crowded and hot. There was some respite beneath the shade of the bleached blue awning, where Seto found Pigtail Girl several minutes later, poking holes in the ice of her drink with her straw.
"They still in line?" she asked him, and he nodded as he set his tray across from her and sat down. She eyed its pathetic offerings—a sad little pyramid of mozzarella sticks. "That's all you got?"
"I'm not hungry."
Something in this scene reminded them both of that morning. Pigtail Girl brought her straw to her lips, ruminating.
"Old Man Kaiba," she said.
Seto stiffened. "What about him?"
"Everyone knows he sucks," she went on, sucking her straw for effect. "Everyone knows he doesn't give a proper shit about you, either."
"I'm aware," he said darkly.
"Charlie's dad sucks, too, ya know."
Charlie? Oh. Charlotte Ennis. Ennis Enterprises. Short-haired Girl. Her father's money was in mining, mining the materials that his father bought. Seto had sat between Gozaburo and Mr. Ennis last night. Both men had stunk of cologne and tobacco.
"You're not the only rich kid who's got it rough," said Pigtail Girl, tossing a french fry to an eager colony of gulls. Nonchalant as ever. It pissed Seto off. Before he could retort, the boys found their table; and with a tinkle of her sand dollar earrings, Pigtail Girl breezed into the next subject.
Seto picked at his mozzarella sticks à la the birds until Short-haired Girl—Charlie—suddenly appeared at the table.
"Over there," she said to them, pointing, breathless, more lively than Seto had seen her all day. "Just there."
"Huh? Where?"
"What is it?"
Seto was on his feet, squinting. Crouching amid the throng of shorts and thongs, timid and terrified and utterly unnoticed, was a skinny yellow dog. Though it trembled and winced at all the noise and activity, it still attempted to sniff out fallen food—and was nearly trodden on by the oblivious horde. It was so small.
Still a puppy, Seto thought.
"He looks like a mutt," said Plaid Boy around a greasy mouthful of pizza.
"She looks hungry," murmured Charlie, opening and closing her hands, staring at the dog. In her fervor she must not have gotten food.
Seto held out a mozzarella stick. "Here."
She accepted it without breaking concentration. Then she crept toward the dog.
The dog noticed her attention. She laid her ears back and flattened herself against the café wall. Still, Charlie approached...Seto watched, riveted, waiting for the inevitable...sure enough—when Charlie was only a foot away—the dog took off running.
Charlie ran after her.
Seto crammed the rest of the mozzarella sticks into his hoodie pocket and took off after them both. He followed the shifting path of their ruckus, skidding past indignant patrons, and burst out onto the boardwalk. There they went, sprinting down the beach, shrinking by the moment.
Seto shot a look back at their table. The boys had already turned back to their food. Pigtail Girl gave a casual wave.
"Go on," she shouted. "We'll catch up to you!"
Act IV: The Ocean might've gone on forever.
They were a long, long way up the shore by the time the yellow dog began to tire out.
Seto worked to keep pace, forced his legs to keep pumping. Charlie's dark hair bobbed in front of him. Charlie's dad sucks, too, ya know. Why the hell had Pigtail Girl told him that? Why'd she think he cared?
The yellow dog skidded to a halt at last, showering Charlie with sand, sniffing frantically at a stinking, overflowing trash can. Seto bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath.
"Hey…" he managed. "If we...just wait...she might…" He sat down heavily. Charlie nodded, too worn out to speak, and followed his lead, dropping the crumpled mozzarella stick between them and the dog.
Sure enough, when the trash proved fruitless, the dog's nose led her to the mozzarella stick. She watched Charlie and Seto, wary, who watched her back with the same expression. Quaking with fear but driven by hunger, her tongue shot out for a stolen taste—and with a tiny growl that scared only her, she dragged it several steps away from the pair and scarfed it down.
She licked her chops, still watching them. Suddenly she lunged at Seto.
"Ahh!"
He fell backward, shielding his face with his arms, but she only plunged her nose into his pocket and wrestled free another mozzarella stick. This time, she ate it between them, close enough for Charlie to reach out a gentle hand and stroke her fur. It was immediate: The dog leaned into the touch, still shaking but desperate for affection.
Seto plucked bits and pieces of bread from his pocket and tossed them to the dog, and Charlie stroked her fur. So the trio sat for several minutes, uncomfortable and whole.
But the sun was cooking them, and Seto ran out of mozzarella sticks, and the dog reluctantly ran out of trust. Before long she stood, shook sand all over them both, and trotted up the beach with only a half-look back.
"I gotta get out of this thing," Seto said, standing and yanking off the hoodie. He wore a long-sleeved souvenir shirt underneath, a size too big, one tag still hanging off the cuff.
Charlie hugged her knees to her chest, gazing after the dog. "I wish we had more for her," she said softly.
Seto regarded the girl, feeling a neglected but familiar surge of protectiveness. He didn't want to see Moku—to see Charlie looking so alone and forlorn. He dumped his hoodie and his shoes next to her.
"I'm gonna swim," he said. "You can sit here and melt or you can come, too."
She looked up at him, squinting for the brightness. "I don't have a swimsuit," she mumbled.
"So what? Me either."
She said nothing. He turned away from her and slunk over hot sand to the shore.
They were past the larger hotels; the beach wasn't as crowded. A few families splashed in the surf, pounced onto wave boards, chased wayward Nerf balls. An older couple strolled by.
When the tide met him, Seto gasped with relief. Cold water bled through his pant legs. He kept on till the waves were at his waist. They picked him up at intervals, holding him in weightless suspense, as though debating whether to draw him in or send him back.
Seto stumbled back a few anxious steps, settling for knee-deep. Besides, he wanted to see how far he was from Charlie. He looked and was startled by the sight of her plodding toward him.
He didn't smile anymore, but his eyes glowed briefly with acknowledgement. She stopped where the water swirled around her calves. She said something, but the laughter of the ocean and the children buried it.
"Huh?"
"The dragon," she said, touching her cheek. "I like it. It looks really cool."
He'd forgotten it. How?! It covered his whole goddamned face. "Thanks. What did you get again?"
She waded closer and, keeping her head down, presented her palm to him. Hidden in a crease was a miniscule flower.
"Nice." She was smart. And he was an idiot. He felt like he had a baseball lodged in his throat. He gulped; he could barely swallow around it.
An angry wave shoved Seto forward, and as he collided with Charlie, she caught him in a hug. He was too stunned to protest.
"I like it," said Charlie to the sea, over and over—cast back to the surf like discarded shells. "I like it...I like it."
Act V: Dinner was surely over by now.
Seto and Charlie walked and walked. A hungry silence paced between them, hounding them like a dog that lunged for throats instead of mozzarella sticks. The long summer sun sank into the ocean, drawing a shroud over them, beating them to the grave. The other kids had never come looking.
When their luxury hotel rose into view, Charlie grabbed Seto's hand and squeezed once, her grip fierce and brilliant with terror, and then let go.
Silence tracked them through the lobby, trailing sand, tattooed and wrinkled and caked with dried saltwater; up the elevator; into the dining hall.
Pigtail Girl saw them first. "Hiya," she called with a wave.
Seto and Charlie stared. They stammered to the table.
"D-dinner was at seven." Seto fixed his eyes on Pigtail Girl. He was afraid to look around, to look for him. "Where…?"
Pigtail Girl shrugged. "Never showed up," she said, and laughed. "Must be a real bender they're on!"
Tall Boy added, "You guys look like hell."
Plaid Boy gestured to the haphazard piles of desserts strewn across the table. "Help us eat this shit! We saved some for you."
Charlie nodded. She almost cried. "Thanks. Thanks."
Seto collapsed into a chair.
Denouement
Everyone else went to Pigtail Girl's room to watch a movie.
Seto stood over the sink in his bathroom and scrubbed till in the mirror a raw red smear leered back at him. He took two pills. He lay sideways on the bed. His face stung. The air conditioning sounded like the ocean.
He thought about Charlie, standing in the ocean, buffeted by it, clinging to him and whispering over and over, I like it. I like it.
On the walk back—when Charlie had taken his hand and squeezed—she'd pressed what felt like a seashell into his hand.
He examined it in the near-dark. It was chunky and dog-yellow. Not like a seashell at all.
Probably junk. He'd toss it...
...or he'd give it to his brother…
...tell him it was real gold...
Sleep took him before a smile could find him.
PIECE #12: BROTHERHOOD
Doctor's Note: This chapter is another favorite for me, although I had a hard time figuring it out and I'm still not sure if it communicates well.
When writing about the years Seto spent with Gozaburo, I think about the atmosphere of a novel called The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt. It's a gorgeous and tragic book, and I highly recommend it.
Thank you for reading! - Dr. MP