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Anthony Martin / Barracuda Lagoon SHERRY DIDN’T COME HOME until morning. When she rode in on a purple, single-speed beach cruiser and a head full of acid, I knew right away where my daughter spent the night. I had put the scene down at the lagoon off limits at dinner the night before. “But they say the people are so nice, mama,” Sherry had contested in her sweetest soprano. She looked calm now, like the Pacific morning haze she pedaled in on, as I waited for an explanation. “And?” “And it’s all so . . . hip.” She accentuated the last word with closed eyes and a tight-lipped smile. “Saying I’m sorry would be dishonest.” “And the bike?” I’d seen others like it in town, all painted vibrantly and piloted by plain, teenage girls sporting striped stockings beneath plaid skirts cut at the lower thigh. Sherry remained silent and sank into the sofa in our den. I motioned to the leather-bound book in her hand. “What’s that?” She smiled another dreamy smile and handed it over. “Another blessing,” she said. “From my new family on the bus.” “The bus?” I opened the book and flipped through its blank pages. A small, dusty photograph of an old school bus parked next to the lagoon, a two-story ferry with wrap-around viewing deck floating just off the shoreline, was tucked inside the front cover. “Oh, the bus. We joined hands there and sang songs and I met many kind souls, mama. Kindred spirits with vision.” 159

Mojave River Review - Winter 2014  

Our inaugural issue, featuring poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and hybrid literary works. Photography for this issue by Frank Foster. Featured...

Mojave River Review - Winter 2014  

Our inaugural issue, featuring poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and hybrid literary works. Photography for this issue by Frank Foster. Featured...

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