Wanderlove (19 page)

I’ve always felt closer to my dad. He’s a numbers guy, sort of endearingly awkward. Very much a man of few words—often no more than a couple. Like when I found that old sketchbook of his in the bottom drawer of his desk. It was just after fast-track admissions came in, when Toby was acting like a jerk and I was flailing, and it could have led to a heartening dialogue, a fresh link in a connection that had grown fragile over the years.

But all he said was “It’s nothing.”

He probably thought he was being encouraging—like,
my
art’s nothing compared to yours—
but it instantly cauterized the conversation. Soon after, when I told him attending a nearby state school made more sense than SCAA, he asked if I was sure, and that was it. So that was that.

I skim the emails from my friends. Reese’s are short, sweet, and concerned, while Olivia’s are stream-of-consciousness, paragraph-free text bricks describing her latest promo modeling gig and her fights with Jessa Hanny, topped with not-so-subtle no
strings!!!
reminders.

I decide to write them back first.

To: “Olivia Luster”

Subject: The Caribbean!

Hey,

Sorry I haven’t written. So you know that tour group I was talking about? I ditched them. I’ve met some amazing people, and we’re having a crazy awesome time. One of them’s a guy. Calm down! It’s not like that. But he’s not my only chance. We’re heading to this crazy party island, and I still plan to keep my promise. You know the one.

You’re totally missing out.

Love, B

To: “Reese Kinjo”

Subject: The Caribbean!

Hey,

Sorry I haven’t written. Remember when we used to sit by your pond and skip all kinds of crap in the water? I’ve gotten really good at it here. Even when there are waves.

I’m not thinking about He Who Shall Not Be Named at all, except when I typed that. It’s hard for me to say you’re missing out without sounding like a jerk, but . you are. I guess that just means we’ll have to come back someday, together.

Love, B

I can’t bring myself to email my parents.

I wait outside, leaning against my backpack, while Rowan finishes his call. Across the road, muddy-legged kids push each other on a dilapidated swing set, which resembles a crumpled paper clip. Through the open door, I can hear the rise and fall of Rowan’s voice.

“To dive,” he’s saying. “And that’s it.” I try to imagine Starling and Rowan as children. Starling would have chaotic blond hair and skinned knees. Rowan’s dark hair would flop in his face, his eyes unnervingly large. He’d be reserved, thoughtful, while Starling would be domineering, brash, the kind of little girl who elbowed her way up the monkey bars ladder and spit from the top. She’s protected Rowan ever since the beginning. From schoolyard bullies. Bellowing cousins. Imaginary yeti. They spoke in a secret language that would impress Tolkien. They called each other Ro and Star.

I’m so enthralled by this history, I almost forget I’m making it up.

Rain starts falling again, and the kids scatter. I grab my backpack and drag it inside, where Rowan’s still sitting in a wooden phone booth on the far side of the room. Impulsively, I buy a map of Belize from a stack beside the register. I didn’t think of Googling the island, but at the very least, I can have some idea where we’re headed.

I glance over as the tone of Rowan’s voice changes.

“I told you, the money’s not the issue. Of course I need the money. But if I finish my Divemaster cert, that won’t be a problem.” He pauses. “There’s no arguing with you when you’re like this!”

I thought he was talking to Starling, but now I’m not so sure. I don’t know whether to approach him or act like I haven’t heard anything. As I’m hovering there, indecisive, Rowan notices me. We lock eyes for a split second. “I’ve got to go,” he says quickly, and hangs up.

“Are you okay?” I ask. When he nods, I can’t help adding,

“Who was that?”

He heaves his backpack onto his shoulders. “Never mind.

We’d better catch our bus.”

Day 9, Afternoon

Rainbows

“Do you know what highway we’re on?” I ask Rowan, who’s sitting beside me on the bus.

“Southern,” he replies without glancing up from his book.

I stare at him a moment before turning back to my map.

I’m still not sure who was on the other end of his phone call in the Internet café. But if I ask again, I’ll sound like I’m pes-tering him. And when I go over what I heard, I decide there’s not enough to go on—at least, not enough to risk breaking our hours-long argument-free stretch, which, for us, is a marathon.

With my little finger, I trace the Southern Highway north-ward from Punta Gorda on my map. Near a city called Dangriga, it turns into the Hummingbird Highway, which has got to be the best name for a highway I’ve ever heard—not that there’s much competition. We’ll probably be taking the Coastal Highway, which branches off of the Hummingbird Highway heading north. Both join the Western Highway, which leads from Belize City back to the border of Guatemala. I feel like a child enthralled by a sandbox universe.

Hours and miles conquered by my eyes in an instant. I mouth the names of Belizean places, bouncing them on my tongue.

Cockscomb, Caracol, Orange Walk. Nim Li Punit, Crooked
Tree, Gallon Jug.

‘Community Baboon Sanctuary,’ I read out loud. “Baboons? I thought baboons were African.”

“They’re actually howler monkeys.” Rowan sticks his thumb in his book. “Black howlers. The locals call them baboons.”

“You know everything, don’t you?” I glance again at my map. “It’s not so far from Belize City.”

“No, maybe an hour away.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Sure. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s worth a trip. The guide goes with you in the forest and calls the monkeys down. If you’re lucky, he’ll have a howling contest with one of the males. I’ll take you there sometime.”

Rowan says the last part so matter-of-factly, it takes me a second to catch it. Despite how sketchy and secretive he was acting while on the phone, I break into a grin. “Is that right?”

“Fairy-child, if only you should take my hand, I would show you things beyond your wildest dreams.” My expression makes him laugh. “What’s that from?”

“Some book I read.”

“I should have known.” I pause. “Did she follow?”

“How could she resist? Of course, she ended up devoured.

But at least she saw some far-out sights beforehand.” Rowan returns to his book.

Still feeling sort of fluttery, I locate Laughingbird Caye on my map. It’s part of a constellation of islands off Belize’s northern coast, shaped like a half-moon. I fold the map and trade it for my sketchbook. I flip to a blank page, consider drawing a baboon, and draw the Global Vagabonds hysterical giraffe logo instead. Rowan doesn’t glance at me once.

I want to keep going, but I can’t concentrate. Because of the rain, all the windows are shut. The bus is an oven of exhaled breath. I wedge my knees against the seat in front of me, like Starling does. The vinyl makes a ripping noise. I drop my feet.

“How do people
do
this?”

Rowan closes his book again. “Do what?”

“Get around.”

“Belizeans? The same way we do. They drive or take the bus.”

“I meant other travelers. Not travelers like
us
—I mean travelers with money. Somehow, I doubt they take chicken buses.”

“They rent cars. Or they fly.”

“There’s a plane?”

“Sure. Belize has a couple local airlines.”

“How long does it take?”

“From Punta Gorda to Belize City? Maybe half an hour. If the plane stops in Placencia or Dangriga, an hour. Flights are expensive, though.”

I look out the window. Spindly, wind-bent trees dot the countryside, broken occasionally by rivers or canals. Gashes of red mud streak the roadside. A mountain range looms hazily in the distance. As I watch, we pass a solitary concrete house on stilts, with a black dog panting on the porch. “In a plane,” I say, “you’d miss the scenery up close. The way we see it.”

“Travelers like us?” he says with a grin.

I recall what I said and elbow him in the side. Still smiling, Rowan tips his head against the window and closes his eyes.

I try to sleep, but can’t. So I make a list instead.

Annoying things about backpacking

Sleep deprivation.

Backpackers who stink like old wet laundry.

Putting on your backpack. (It’s fine once
it’s on, but slinging it onto your back is
like using a single arm to lift an extremely fat seven-year-old, or maybe
even a nine-year-old in my case.)

A constantly gurgling stomach, even if you
just ate.

That permanently soggy place between
your back and your backpack.

Something always aches. (Like your calves, or your shoulders, or the place
where your shoe rubs your heel, or your flip-flops gash the wedge between
your toes.)

Something always itches.

Below I draw an archetypal backpacker pair. I’m careful to make them anonymous, but the girl still looks a little too much like Starling.

At a bus stop in the middle of nowhere—seriously, I haven’t seen a house for like half an hour—a mustached man in a suit and tie climbs aboard. He sets a briefcase on the front seat and stands in the aisle. His pants are too short, and I catch a flash of scrunchy white socks, the Hooters Girls kind from the eighties.

“Greetings, friends!”

He launches into a monologue so heartfelt I wouldn’t be surprised if he dropped to one knee and started reciting Shakespeare. I assume he’s some sort of salesman, though I can’t understand 90 percent of what he’s saying. I thought Belizeans spoke English. Finally, he opens his case and whips out his extolled merchandise: a stick of Halls cough drops.

Magic pills to cure all your ills!
I stifle a giggle and glance at Rowan. He’s sleeping. It reminds me of Glenna’s incorrigible napping when I first saw the lake.

Glenna. I haven’t thought of her in a while. I hope she’s found some quality beads.

The monologue continues as the salesman brandishes product after product, distributing them through the rows of passengers. A portable sewing kit. A pack of neon orange circle stickers, the sort people use at garage sales. Notebooks with fake leather covers. Glitter body spray. A pair of those narrow wraparound glasses with prisms in the lenses, so everything you look at turns to rainbows.

On impulse, I wave him over.

“What would you like?” he asks in perfect English.

“The glasses.” I dig through the pocket of my shorts for my easy-access cash. I haven’t been wearing my money belt. I pull out a wad of paper, but it’s not money—it’s our list of off-limits topics. Soaked. Nothing left but a gummy wad of wood pulp.

“What language were you just speaking?” I ask the salesman as I search my other pocket.

“Kriol. The national language of Belize.”

“The national language isn’t English?”

“English is our official language. But it isn’t
Belizean.
”

“Oh.” I finally find some cash, and we swap.

I put on my glasses and look at Rowan. He transforms into an expressionist painting. Rainbows bounce off his eyebrows.

His hair shines in a halo of color.

I count back the days we’ve traveled together. Tomorrow is Sunday. If I include Chichicastenango—I’d never count the airport; let’s erase that from the universe—it’s been eight days. A little over a week. According to Olivia’s older sister, college relationships count as double in dorm-time. That is, when both parties are living together in the dorms, a three-month relationship is really six months. If that’s true, how accelerated are travel relationships? Or in this case, travel friendships? They have to be similar—people colliding at warp speed, sharing breakfasts and bedrooms and secrets. So what’s a week, then? Three weeks? A month?