A Dazzle of Zebras

By Carrie Muller

Tracy Andrews is decidedly not looking forward to senior year. Senior year leads to graduation, which leads to her three best friends scattering to different colleges, which leads to widespread calamity, probably, and quite possibly total societ

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carrie Muller
• Release date: Oct 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986188218

Book preview

A Dazzle

of Zebras

Carrie Muller

A DAZZLE OF ZEBRAS.

Copyright © 2022 Carrie Muller.

All rights reserved. First edition.

Printed in the United States of America.

www.carriemuller.com

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022911738

Hardcover ISBN 979-8-9861882-2-5

Paperback ISBN 979-8-9861882-0-1

Ebook ISBN 979-8-9861882-1-8

Design and cover by Travis Markel.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Disclaimer to the disclaimer: Listen. Writing is complicated. Is it an art? Is it a science? No. Absolutely not. No one knows what it is in reality, but ancient wisdom suggests it’s more of an alchemical process. We take bits and bobs from our lives and mash them all together and what comes out is basically a memory casserole, dense and strangely chunky.

The point is, if you read this book and think you recognize yourself or someone you know or something that happened in real life, you may be right, in part. But you’re also mostly wrong. And when you think about it, what is real life, anyway? Can anything truly be considered real? How can we even know for sure?

Anyway. Stay tuned for my next book’s disclaimer section, where we will dive further into the philosophical and existential implications of epistemological nihilism.

This one, this first one, is for Grandpasir.

Thanks for taking a long-winded 

eight-year-old seriously.

One

I guess it’s technically my fault the four of us are out here before the sun, lined up somber as a funeral, while next to us a seagull vomits delicately on a piece of kelp.

I’m freezing, Alfie says. He hitches his puffy jacket tighter around himself. I am literally going to freeze to death right here on this beach.

How convenient, Sophia says. We can bury you at sea.

I smile, but my cheeks are numb from cold. Just roll you into the waves and let the tide carry you off.

Nick just yawns and tucks his chin into his hoodie like a sleepy tortoise.

Thick fog clings to the water, but I can still make out the surfers in their dark wetsuits, bobbing on their boards as they wait for a wave. They seem so content. If I were out there, I’d be shouting, Why didn’t I bring snacks? at no one in particular.

"It’s August, Alfie says. It shouldn’t be this cold in August."

It’s sixty-five degrees, Sophia says. Straighten up.

I click my tongue. You’ll be sweating to death in a few hours when the haze burns off. Enjoy the cold while you can.

Nick stretches his lanky arms over his head. Can we do this already?

It was Nick’s idea to come here that first summer. I had been bubbling over with nerves about the switch from junior high to high school. What if I get lost? I thought. What if I can’t open my locker? What if I go to the wrong room and it turns out to be a woodshop class and I accidentally saw off a finger? He thought it might calm me down a bit to go to the beach, and since then it’s become a tradition. Today marks our fourth—and final—year.

Alfie shivers ostentatiously. "This is California. It’d be one thing if we were in the Bay Area, but this half of the state is supposed to be warm. I’ve been hoodwinked."

You should write a strongly worded letter, says Sophia.

Yeah. I frown. To the sun.

With a frustrated sigh, Nick takes a long step toward the water. His lemon-yellow Chucks leave deep imprints in the wet sand, and his arm moves in a graceful arc as he sends a flat rock out to sea. It lands in the shallow surf with a glunk.

What’d you wish for? Sophia asks.

I wished you would all hurry up and make your stupid wishes so we can go get breakfast already.

Have some sentiment, Nicholas! I say. This is our very last end-of-summer-beach…go-to-the-beach-and-throw-a-rock-and-make-a-wish…in-the-ocean…early-morning…thing.

Who named it that? Alfie cuts in. It’s catchy. We should print it on a t-shirt.

This doesn’t make you feel all sappy and nostalgic?

Not really, Nick mumbles.

What! I say, scandalized.

He shrugs. It’s just another day. Like when people come up to you on your birthday and they’re like, ‘Do you feel any different?’ It’s like, no, not really. You’re not a whole year older since the day before, you’re only a day older. What’s really going to change from the last day of summer to the first day of school? Not that much.

He’s wrong. He’s completely wrong. But there’s no point in arguing. I’ll let him have this one.

Alfie pulls his rock out of his jacket pocket next. I wish—it weren’t—so—COLD! Like a puffy little catapult, he leans back and then chucks the rock into the crest of a wave.

Nice, Sophia says.

I was aiming for the surfer.

Oh. Well, good effort, anyway. Definitely not a waste of a wish. She slips her arm through mine and huddles closer. What’re you gonna wish for, Tracy?

I don’t answer right away. If this were the summer before junior year, if there were no clock counting down the seconds to the last day of high school, I’d wish for something dumb and jokey. Like a pony. Or a castle made of waffles. But this year is different.

I dunno yet, I whisper. What about you?

Wishing I don’t get Mr. Dixon for history.

Solid, solid.

And that I get into all the colleges I apply to.

Right.

And being valedictorian wouldn’t be the worst thing ever.

This is getting to be a lot of wishes for one rock, Sophe.

She laughs. I’m an overachiever.

Throw it already, Alfie yells.

Her stone skips over the surf and slips beneath a swell. She gives a satisfied nod.

They all turn to me expectantly. I smile pleasantly back at them, my hands stuffed in my pockets.

Any day, Trace, Nick says. Lifeguard Jeff is gonna get here pretty soon and he will throw us to the sharks if he sees us.

How do you know he’s not already here? I say. He could be hiding under that bunch of kelp just waiting for you to pass by, and then he’ll grab you by the leg and blow his whistle all shrill and loud.

Why does he hate you so much? He’s like, twenty. Alfie scuffs his boot cast in the sand. He broke his ankle at Nick’s family’s Fourth of July party and just graduated off crutches.

He hates all of us by extension, I say. I suspect there was a jellyfish incident.

There was no jellyfish incident, Nick mutters. Jeff used to be cool. Kind of. He was friends with my sister. But then he became a lifeguard and all his fancy lifeguard powers went to his head, so whatever.

Someone sounds jealous. Sophia needles him with her elbow, but he ignores her.

We stand there a moment longer, until Alfie clomps over and places his hands on my shoulders.

Tracy. You must throw your rock.

I can’t decide what to wish for, I say. "What if I wish wrong, and there are all these unforeseen consequences? What if I somehow wish myself out of existence? What if I—Alfie. What if I accidentally wish for bangs?"

We’ll pick a wish for you. His face blooms with excitement. Wish that—ooh, wish for Nick to have a tiny, wispy mustache.

A throaty laugh bursts out of me. Would he have to dye it blue like his hair?

I think a contrast might be nice. Maybe like a bubblegum pink.

Nick slinks toward the water.

Where are you going? Sophia calls.

I’m gonna go find my rock. I want a wish redo.

She darts after him, laughing, and catches him around the middle to pull him back to the group.

Wish for summer school to be canceled, he says.

No! Mr. Teakman’s taking us to get donuts to celebrate our last day. We can’t miss Donut Day, Nicholas!

You guys get donuts in P.E.? Sophia asks, looking skeptical.

Nick rolls his eyes. "It’s summer school P.E."

Plus it’s a two-mile walk to the donut shop, I add. And it can’t be canceled. I need this credit or I’ll have to take P.E. during the school year and that would mess up my All-Language Senior Year.

ALL-LANGUAGE SENIOR YEAR! Sophia shouts.

You should watch yourself with that, Tracy, Alfie says. If you learn too many languages your mouth will get stuck like that.

What does that even mean...?

Exasperated, Nick collapses to the sand. We live here now.

I wouldn’t mind that, if we’re being honest. We could catch fish for food. Make friends with a bob of seals. Play pranks on Lifeguard Jeff. I’d be perfectly okay if this school year never started. Or—fine, I guess it can start, but if it does start, then it can’t end. We’ll just stay in senior year perpetually, and nothing will ever change, and we can wear the same outfits every day like cartoon characters, and we’ll be best friends forever and ever the end.

…Maybe I’m being childish. No—I take it back, I’m definitely being childish. I just feel like the minute we all leave here, the minute I throw this rock in the water and we start to walk away, it’s all over. Or it’s all…started. I can’t even tell which anymore. Something will have started and something else will have ended, but either way it feels like too many changes and I am not interested, grazie mille.

But I guess they’re right. I should stop being stubborn. We can’t stay here forever. We need food. Nick and I have summer school. Alfie has to go to band camp, even though his broken foot means he just sits on a bench the whole time. And Sophia has to…I don’t even know. Do more SAT prep, or rescue children from a burning building, or cure cancer or something.

Fine! I say at last. I’ll throw the stupid thing.

Slowly, I pull my fist out of my pocket, bring it to my mouth to whisper a wish, and then throw. It sails farther than the others, disappearing into the froth of a crashing wave.

Weird splash, Alfie says.

That’s because it wasn’t the rock. It was a shell. I threw a shell into the ocean. The rock is still safe in my other pocket.

Great, Nick says. Can we go now?

He scrambles to his feet and stalks away from the water. Sophia chases after him, jumping like an excited puppy to bat the sand off his back. Alfie puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me a small smile before hobbling off, as well.

I stare into the waves a moment longer, running my thumb over the smooth surface of the stone in my pocket, overly pleased with my own cleverness. Technically, the school year can’t start until we all throw our wishin’ rocks. That’s the rule. If I never throw mine, senior year can never really begin. Time, you have been bested again! You fool!

The wind is picking up more. It barrels at me, pushing me backward as if to say, You can’t stay here, Tracy. You are not a fish.

You’re right, wind. I’m not. I’m a stupid human who has to do stupid human things.

With a heavy sigh, I turn away and trail after my friends.

Two

8:16 a.m.

Kickball field.

Seven hours left of summer school P.E.

I’m so tired, I moan, stretching one leg out on the metal dugout bench. Nicholas, why’d you make me get up so early?

Ignoring me, he wheezes, I think I’m melting. He peels off his messenger bag and moves it to his shoulder, leaving a sweat sash across his chest. He’s wearing this shirt he got in eighth grade that used to say TIME IS AN ILLUSION, but now it’s so faded it just says TIM in the spot where you’d put a name tag.

The haze has burned off, and the heat is here with a vengeance. As in, I think my arm hairs are starting to singe. As in, I’m pretty sure I know how it feels to be a baked potato. If I had an egg, I’d crack it right here on the kickball field and fry it up for a quick snack. I mean, sure, it’d probably taste like dirt, and there’d be little pebbles and bits of grass and things in it. But that’s the price you pay for convenience.

You should sit down, I tell Nick.

On a metal bench? I’ll pass.

I loll my head back lazily. "Suit yourself, mein Freund. I happen to like a warm buttock."

He makes a gurgling noise in the back of his throat. Please don’t say ‘warm buttock,’ Tracy.

Gettin’ ya all riled up, huh?

He just whimpers.

When my turn comes, I take my stance at the plate: chest slumped, head cocked, arms hanging uselessly at my sides. Rahi Nepram, his mouth falling open in concentration, winds up carefully and rolls the big red bouncy ball straight down the line.

It’s sort of a riches-to-rags story that Rahi is here at all. I’m pretty sure he was just like a normal dude until his GPA fell last year because he kept skipping class to hang out with his girlfriend from Trinity High. Miranda Wrathbone. Nick thinks she sounds like a villain in a Dickens novel. They broke up really publicly at junior prom last year, according to Sophia, and now he has to make up all these credits. However, being moderately athletic, he adds a little integrity to our games. With him here, we’re more than a bunch of slackers trying not to fall over. With him here, we’re a team of slackers trying not to fall over. 

I hop over all three pitches, making each jump more elaborate and dramatic than the one before. I end with a twirl and leave the plate before Mr. Teakman rouses himself enough to yell, Out! from behind the net on his beekeeper’s hat. I’m not sure why he wears that hat. He’s also wearing shorts, so bees could still sting him on the shins.

I high-five Nick as he passes me for his turn at bat. At kick? Kickball terminology is confusing.

He gives three little Charlie Brown kicks, missing each one, and I let out a long Whoo! as he slouches back to the bench. We’ve made our own game-within-a-game of trying to fail as spectacularly as possible at every sport they make us play. We call it Whiffball. As in, Aw, nuts! Whiffed it again! In fact, that’s the official slogan of Whiffball. However, what we lack in athletic ability, we more than make up for in enthusiastic cheers. Do the sports! we yell. Make a point! Goal a…thing.

Chanting’s the best.

Hey. Nick points to the girl currently at kick. Do we have a new Whiffball player?

Whiffball is a two-person game, I say dismissively, but I still watch out of the corner of my eye.

With her hands on her hips, the girl waits for the ball to reach her, then takes a great, long step clear over it and ends in a deep lunge.

Strike three, Mr. Teakman calls.

She bounces up and strides back toward the bench. Apparently Mr. Teakman has forgotten how many outs that is. Or maybe he doesn’t care. Either way, we don’t switch, which is fine with everyone—even Rahi, since he’s the only one who can pitch and it’s too painful for him to watch anyone else try.

She’s good, Nick says.

The girl in question is named Penny Nickel. For real. Apparently her parents looked at this newborn infant and thought about their last name and just said, Screw it. She’s very tall, with long, golden hair and long, golden limbs—giving the impression that she was named after the wrong coin. She’s on the morning announcements. And student government. And I heard the seniors wanted to make her prom queen last year, even though she was only a junior. I’m not even sure why she’s in summer school with us, because she’s lettered in three sports. I don’t know which ones, but one time she wore all three jackets to school simultaneously—two of them stitched together like a cape and the other one tied around her waist.

She jogs toward us. Makes eye contact and smiles. Plops down on the bench next to Nick. Then she opens her mouth and begins to speak directly to us.

Hey! I’m Penny.

And I panic.

"Háozhū!" I chirp.

Nick slides me a bemused side-eye, but Penny looks confused. Which makes sense. Since what I said was not in fact a greeting but instead the Mandarin word for porcupine.

Oh—sorry, she says with a small smile, am I interrupting?

Nope, Nick says. Just watching the game.

This is weird. This is really weird. Why is she talking to us? I’m going to say something dumb, I know it.

View’s not bad either, I say jauntily, like I’m in an old black-and-white movie.

There it is. There’s the dumb thing.

Penny laughs, and it’s how I would imagine a banshee laughing—a full-on shriek of mirth. Keepin’ it tight, Rahi! she yells toward the pitcher’s spot.

Oh, lordie. That’s not what I— Oof. This is uncomfortable.

Although, if I’m being honest, Rahi isn’t exactly the Elephant Man—with his thick eyelashes and small, athletic frame, like a matador’s. Not that all matadors are small. Or are they? You’d think the short ones would do better—smaller target for the bull to hit. But maybe the tall ones can run faster? I’ve always thought of matadors as nimble and compact, but I could be wrong. That could be a gross stereotype that matadors really hate.

Eventually Mr. Teakman notices we’re on our sixth or seventh out and calls for us to switch positions.

Penny slaps her thighs as she stands up, then gives us a little wave. See ya later, then. Rahi tosses her the bouncy ball and she stops to chat with him.

Yep, see ya. As soon as she’s out of earshot, I whirl around and jab a finger into Nick’s chest. "J’accuse!"

What?

You love her so much.

What! he says. Whatever, man. You were the one who kept vomiting words at her. Maybe you love her! J’accuse you back!

I sweep an imperious look his way. He can deny it all he wants, but he’s got that squirrely look of someone with something to hide. Which is a look squirrels actually get sometimes. And usually what they’re hiding is a secret acorn stash. Either that or MURDER.

***

10:10 a.m.

Track.

Five hours left of summer school P.E.

The kickball game ended in a draw, with a score of something to whatever. The exact score is unimportant; what matters is, we all had fun.

Well. Except for Rahi, who had to suffer through thirty-eight outs and only one run. That guy hates his life so much right now.

We progressed in a great herd to the football field, where we’ve been walking around the track for…five, six hundred laps now? Nick keeps a running tally of how many laps we’ve walked over the ten days of summer school, but I won’t let him tell me. It depresses me. I’m sure he’ll tell me once it’s all over anyway, and then I’ll be bummed that the number isn’t higher.