St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves by Karen Russell

regal-looking, with these leonine dreadlocks and laughing black eyes. He’s bashed me into the gym wall several times and “borrowed” my dollars, but we’ve never had what you’d call a real conversation.
    “I’m Ollie,” I remind him. “Oliver White? We have class together. I’m staying over at the Bowl-a-Bed Hotel….”
    “You staying on this side of the island too? Small fucking world,” Raffy says. He narrows his eyes and gives me the once-over, and I am painfully aware of my dimpled arms, my effeminate blond curls, my collared shirt on which every button has been dutifully buttoned. I feel my planisphere bulging conspicuously in my pocket. But Raffy just nods at me, visibly relaxing.
    “Well, Ollie…” He turns to the girl, who hands him a big burlap sack. He holds it open for my inspection. “We could use a third. Are you in?”
    I peer inside the bag. It’s empty, except for one lone potato peel.
    In what?
I wonder. They’re all staring at me expectantly, even Petey. In the uncomfortable silence that follows, the only possibility I can come up with is that Raffy wants me to get in the sack. I try to swing my right leg over, and end up kicking the little girl in the shin.
    “No, you retard!” Raffy yells. “Not in the bag. I want to know if you’re in on our baby turtle smuggling ring.”
    “Shhh,” the girl says, a finger to her lips. “Don’t talk about retards that way in front of Petey.”
    We all stare at Petey. He’s resumed his dance, shaking the flashlights with such gusto that the tinfoil’s peeling off, chunks of aluminum big enough to wrap up a ham sandwich. Shimmering bits of foil fall all around him, revealing swatches of Petey’s skin. He looks sort of like the Tin Man from the
Wizard of Oz,
were the Tin Man to contract some leprous skin disease. I don’t mean to, but I can’t help it: I gasp when I first glimpse the skin on Petey’s arm. In the moonlight, he looks like he’s made of liquid silver.
    “We think Petey’s an albino,” Marta explains.
    “And a retard,” Raffy adds.
    “Mentally handicapped.” She frowns, punching him in the arm.
    “Special,” I say, and it’s true. I think that Petey might be the most special person I have ever seen.
    “Hi, Petey,” I say. “Good to finally meet you.”
    Petey waggles his silvery fingers at me.
    “What about the rest of you?” I ask. “Who are you?”
    I smile at the girl. She’s cute. She has a freckle-dusted face and these big round glasses with pink frames. She looks like she should be eating vanilla wafers, or pasting evening wear on paper dolls. She definitely doesn’t look like she should be hanging around with guys like Raffy. Or even guys like me.
    “Who, her?” He pinches her cheek. “This my bitch, Marta.”
    “I’m his bitch,” she repeats happily.
    “Oh,” I say. “I’m Ollie. Nice to make your acquaintance.”
    “So, Ollie,” Raffy asks again. “You down for some turtle smuggling tonight?”
    “Um…yeah. I mean, maybe. What is this smuggling ring, exactly?”
    Raffy nods at Marta, who hands me a yellow flyer. I recognize it from the lobby of my hotel. They’re posted all over the place on the island, in English and Spanish and Creole:
    WARNING: DISTURBING A SEA TURTLE NEST
IS A VIOLATION OF FEDERAL AND STATE LAWS
    As you may be aware, the months of June–August are prime time for sea turtle eggs to hatch. Baby turtles possess an inborn tendency to move in the brightest direction. On a natural beach, they will orient themselves by the reflection of moonbeams and starlight on the water. However, in recent years our hatchlings have become disoriented by artificial lights, which beckon them away from the sanctuary of the ocean.
    On the coast of Namibia, a nest of disoriented hatchlings walked into a beach barbecue and were burned to a crisp.
    On the shores of Greece, the fatally bright lights of the discotheques lured thousands of baby turtles to their deaths.
    Let’s not make the