Read Monterey Bay for Free Online Page A

stared up at the ceiling.
    â€œI’ll need to look into your eyes,” he said.
    â€œThen look.”
    She kept her gaze fixed firmly upward. He snorted in either amusement or frustration. Then, suddenly, he was the only thing she could see: his body covering hers but not touching it, his legs spread wide, his torso held aloft on bent elbows.
    â€œWhat am I supposed to do?” she asked.
    â€œNothing. Just stare at me. Stare the life right out of me.”
    The air was gray dust and her fingers were driftwood. She had been taken here against her will, just like the
Styela
, and she would end up like them, too: prodded and observed and put to death. Her earlier instincts had been right. Resist, retreat, run.
    But then she met his eyes and a different set of concerns surged forth. Just a few hours earlier, she had been so proud of her portrait of him. Now she felt differently. It wasn’t enough to represent something faithfully. The important thing was the order in which it all happened. Was she, in other words, taking something whole and breaking it apart? Or was she building up disparate elements until they formed a known shape? Her father always judged his success on the product, on the amount and quality of what came out. But what if it was actually about what went in?
You’re getting somewhere
, she told herself.
You’re finally getting somewhere.
But then all she could think about was her left shoulder. He was stroking it with his thumb, tracing the seam in her shirt.
    â€œExplain it to me,” she said. “Explain it like I’m the dumbest person in the world.”
    The thumb stopped. But then it resumed its tracing.
    â€œYou’re not dumb at all. I’ll bet you did marvelously in school.”
    â€œI’ve never gone to school. Just to work.”
    â€œWhich I suppose explains the Surrey collar,” he said, popping the fabric. “Very debonair.”
    â€œMy father and I share a tailor.”
    â€œOf course you do.”
    â€œPlease. Explain it.”
    He sighed. There was reticence in his expression and she knew why. She had never tried to justify her drawings to anyone because she knew it would sound complex, and complexity could easily be mistaken for weakness.
    â€œLike I said before,” he began carefully, “I collect specimens from the tide pools. Then I preserve them and sell them to universities. But I also do other things.”
    â€œThe essay.”
    â€œYes. And other essays much like it, none of which I can ever seem to get quite right. I like trying, though. I like to think about poets and composers and artists and their access to the divine. There’s the shark oil situation, which I believe in fervently. I’m trying to get the real story from both the fisheries and the population scientists to determine just how many sardines are left in the bay and whether or not we should keep on canning them. In my more optimistic moments, I feel like I’m just one idea away from figuring out a whole new method of categorizing each and every living thing. And someday I’m hoping it will all come together in a clear and beautiful way. In a way that even the dumbest person in the world will understand.”
    From somewhere on the street outside, the sound of glass breaking, women howling in laughter. She had always thought her father was ambitious, but his goals were nothing comparedwith this. The biologist’s fingers moved from her collar to the side of her face. She felt very ugly. Very young.
    â€œPlease,” she said. “Don’t.”
    â€œOh,” he said, pushing himself back onto his heels. “I thought you were—”
    â€œI’m not,” she replied, the words slightly emptier than she intended.
    â€œI’m so sorry. I don’t usually try that sort of thing unless I’m quite certain.”
    â€œCertain of what?”
    At this, his eyes went blank. Then he stood from the bed and