Body Surfing

half finished, but Jasper figured it was well past noon, and he’d put off talking to his girlfriend long enough. He needed to find out what had happened last night. He stabbed the pitchfork in the earth and headed down to the river to make sure he wasn’t disturbed—his dad had checked on his progress twice already—but well before he reached the water, a voice floated to his ears.
    “’Ere we go!”
    There was the pop of a carbonated beverage and, a moment later, a long “Aahh!” The voice was male, loud, off-key; the “aahh” sounded more like a mating cat than lip-smacking satisfaction.
    Jasper would know that voice anywhere. It could only be Mason “Jarhead” West, a twenty-something gas jockey who worked at the Stewart’s on Route 9H, where he sold beer to high school kids in exchange for invites to their parties. For such a big man, he was surprisingly genial—docile when sober, positively puppylike when drunk, which was most of the time. He wasn’t “short-bus stupid,” as Q. had once put it, but it did seem to take an effort for him to close his mouth. The impression wasn’t helped by the fact that he was also partially deaf, and had the hard-of-hearing’s habit of tonelessly shouting everything he said.
    Jasper peeked out from behind a clump of mountain laurel. Jarhead had one foot on top of a Styrofoam cooler, his love handles spilling from the ragged remains of a Hudson High football jersey.
    “You gotta thread it through the body, Danny. Damn fish’ll just nibble it off if you do it that way.”
    Jasper noticed the second person now, a tall skinny boy—no, a tall skinny girl with dark hair cut in a retro ’80s wedge that angled in front of her right eye like a pirate’s patch. She was hunched oversomething, a fishhook apparently, and her tight gray T-shirt had rolled over her waist, exposing a couple inches of pale taut tummy. When she glanced up Jasper saw that she was way too hot for Jarhead. Must be his sister, he thought. Or a dyke.
    “Fuck you, Jarhead,” this girl—Danny—was saying. “Where’d you get these worms anyway? They keep breaking.”
    “What?” Jarhead threw his head back, drained a good third of his can.
    “I said,” Danny shouted, “the worms keep breaking.”
    “Breaking?”
    “Breaking, ripping, whatever. They tear in half when I stick the hook in.”
    “That’s why I said you gotta thread ’em through the body. What are you, deaf?” Jarhead’s donkey laugh echoed over the water.
    “Whatever.” Danny looked up again, and from his hiding place Jasper saw that her face was almost as angular as her haircut: long chin, sharp cheek and jawbones. Too severe for him, but still, he knew she was the kind of girl some guys cream over. Nice tits too, especially for such a thin chick. “Keep it down, would you?” Danny said now. “You’ll scare away the fish. And gimme a beer already, for Christ’s sake.”
    Jasper waited until Jarhead bent over, his pants riding dangerously low and exposing two half moons of pale ass cheek. He cupped his hands over his mouth and boomed in his best megaphone voice: “Attention poacher! You are in violation of local ordinance OU812! In compliance with state law YRUGay, I am hereby placing your hairy ass under arrest!”
    Jarhead stood up so quickly he knocked over the cooler and sprawled in a spray of ice water and silver cans of beer. Danny jerked up, and, judging from her high-pitched yelp, caught her finger on the hook she’d been holding. Jasper stumbled out from behind the bush, laughing hysterically.
    “Oh, I got you bitches. I fucking got you good!”
    “Who—Jasper?” Jarhead said, eyes narrowing, jaw hanging lower than ever. “Man, you fucking scared the shit out of me!”
    “You know this idiot?” Danny stuck her bleeding finger in her mouth, then spat it out again. “Aw, fuck. Worm guts. Fucking gross.”
    Jarhead joined Jasper in a fresh round of laugher. “This is Jasper, man. Jasper, this is Danny. She works down at Stewart’s with me. Hey, how ’bout that party at Caitlin Reese’s last night? The bitches was off the hook!”
    Danny rolled her eyes. “Jarhead, don’t talk black.”
    “Don’t talk back?”
    “Don’t talk black.” Danny wiped blood and fish guts on her jeans. “It’s uncool when white guys talk black. Cute stunt,” she added, walking over to Jasper and sticking out her hand.
    Even in sandals she was about a half inch taller than Jasper. Her shirt had rolled even