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

same mistake here in Loomis County! Please turn off all outside lights between the hours of dusk and dawn.

    REMEMBER: SEA TURTLE HATCHLINGS RELY ON
    NATURAL LIGHT TO ORIENT THEMSELVES.
    DO NOT INTERFERE WITH THE MOON !
             
    “Did you read that first part?” Raffy asks, dreamy-eyed. “A federal offense!”
    “You’re going to use a mentally handicapped man to help you steal baby turtles?” I ask.
    “Yup!” the girl says brightly. “We’re going to trick those silly turtles into walking into our burlap sack instead of the ocean. Isn’t that right, Petey?”
    “Tuuuurtles,” he says in his creepy monotone drawl.
    “But…but why?”
    They all stare at me blankly. Raffy shakes the letter in my face, as if it’s an open invitation to lure endangered species away from their natural habitat and into a burlap sack of certain doom.
    “I mean, what are you going to do once you have all the turtles?”
    Raffy waves my question away. “We’ll figure that part out later. Don’t people keep them as pets? Or eat them in soups, or something?”
    “Tortoiseshell accessories are really trendy now,” Marta says helpfully. She beams at Raffy.
    “Tuuuurtles,” Petey says.
    “Okay,” I say. “But I still don’t get why Petey has to wear the trash can and the tinfoil and the festive lights. Doesn’t that seem…unnecessary?” I want to say
unnecessarily cruel.
“Why can’t we just scoop them up with our hands, or sweep them into a dustpan or something?”
    “Because,” Raffy says, rolling his eyes at Marta as if I am the mentally handicapped one. “It’s
funnier
this way.”
    Wowie zowie, I think. This is the most truly evil scheme that I have ever heard.
    “Okay,” I say. “What’s my job?”
             
    Two hours later, Petey is sweating profusely, and the turtles have yet to emerge from their nest. His calves quake with exhaustion in a way that makes the dance a lot less amusing.
    “These fucking eggs better get cracking,” Raffy grumbles. “School starts in a few more weeks.” He turns to me. “How long you here for?”
    I shrug. My dad is here with a group of his retired astronaut buddies, and my guess is that we’ll stay at the Bowl-a-Bed until Dad exhausts his pension or his lunar nostalgia, whichever comes first.
    “Well, don’t dip out on us, Ollie. Meet us here tomorrow morning. We’ll do some practice daytime crimes.”
    I gulp. “But these crimes…I mean, we only commit comical and ironical crimes, right? We don’t actually hurt anybody?”
    “Please,” Raffy laughs. It’s not a pleasant laugh—it makes you feel like he’s giving you mean little pinches all over your body. “I’m on my summer break here. I save the real crime for the school year.” He grins at me. “Hold up, I do remember you. One of the Sci-Fi boys, right? I always had you figured for a fucking dork, kid, but you a’ight.”
    “Um, thanks…” And then, a second too late: “You’re a’ight as well…. So, okay, then…” I try to keep my voice casual, as if being invited to join a crime ring with a cute girl and the coolest kid in my grade is a routine occurrence for me. “See you tomorrow?” I turn to go, but Raffy grabs me and whirls me around.
    “Hey, you dropped something,” he says. “Fell out of your pocket.” He reaches down and shakes the sand off my
Starry-Eyed Guide to the Galaxy—For Kids!
    Uh-oh. I hope that it is too dark to read. I hope that Raffy is illiterate. I think:
Don’t open it—don’t read the title—please God just give it back to me.
    Raffy starts flipping through the pages.
    The
Starry-Eyed Guide to the Galaxy—For Kids!
was a gift from my father on my twelfth birthday. Molly and I aren’t exactly little kids anymore, but Dad hasn’t seemed to notice. Besides, it’s not like anybody’s written a Guide to the Galaxy for Awkward Pubescent Boys yet. Anyhow, I kind of like the glow-in-the-dark graphics.
    I’m less fond of the book’s other