Wanderlove (21 page)

Sandoval sounds Latino.”

“I thought it was more of a professional
school, is all.”

“Isn’t that a man’s head on a woman’s
body?”

“You have so much potential.”

Toby was sitting at his art table, leaning over an expensive pad of bristol board, when I arrived at his house. I rapped my knuckles on the doorjamb and he jumped, slamming the pad shut. Like I’d caught him cheating on me. It sure felt like it.

He was supposed to be the wounded one, and yet
he
was having no problem drawing.

Almost two months had passed since SCAA’s fast-track admissions were announced. Acceptances were overdue. But every time I’d broached the subject with Toby, he’d changed it. Usually by groping me and trying to lead me out to his car.

That day I was determined we’d talk, and nothing else. Even if I had to force the sentences out of him with a piece of charcoal to the jugular.

“I was just searching online,” I began. “About housing at the academy. We have a few choices. I thought we might want to stay in the same building. . . .” Toby opened his pad of bristol again without replying.

Why was he making this so awkward? Had it really been only a couple of months earlier we were laughing together? Maybe we never did, and I’d turned the past into a fantasy. Just like our future one, which faded with every second of his silence.

“There’s something I should tell you, Bria.” In moments of half clarity, I knew my relationship with Toby was a sand castle pummeled by waves. I should have been the one to kick it over—to break up with him—a million times, for a million reasons. But instead, I kept scaling the walls to higher towers, trying to avoid its inevitable collapse. Which meant I set myself up for the fall that came next.

“I’m going to Chicago.”

“For a trip?”

“For college.”

I sank onto his bed. “What are you talking about?”

“I got into the Art Institute of Chicago. I’d be crazy not to go there—it’s a great school.”

“So’s SCAA!”

He exhales. “Sure it is. But it’s not Chicago. I’d be crazy if I didn’t take the chance to live somewhere like that.”

“But . . . that means you applied months ago. Why didn’t you tell me?”

There was so much condescension in his smile I wanted to pry it from his face. “You’re right,” he said. “I should have told you earlier. But you were just so excited about going to the academy together . . . I didn’t want to disappoint you.” I balled my fists so hard they cramped. He knew he was wrecking me, and I knew he knew it, and still I couldn’t make myself behave. “But I didn’t apply to other art schools!”

“That’s your fault, Bria. You can’t blame me for your own self-sabotage.”

And therein lay the shittiest part of all this: he was right.

I gambled my future on a lopsided relationship, all because of a promise. It was the promise of a fantasy: two kindred spirits (okay, I despise that term, but you know what I mean) united by a love for art and—I thought—for each other. Exactly what my combative, incompatible parents never had. It wasn’t that Toby was faking his feelings for me. But he wanted me only as long as he could believe he was better.

For the first time, I realized that.

And for the first time, I was
pissed off.
That he’d kept all this from me. Hid the truth so that every decision I’d made in the last few months I’d fumbled at blindfolded—without the knowledge I needed to do what was best for myself. Too bad it took my fantasy castle crashing around me to make me see clearly.

I stepped forward. Opened my mouth.

And before I could speak,
he
dumped
me
.

“Look,” he said. “It’s been fun, Bria, but it’s obvious we’re going our separate ways. We might as well not drag it out all summer, you know?”

There’s nothing that can quite describe the feeling. All that power and fury boiling through my veins sealed up before I could vent it. I’m sure Toby had known what was about to happen. He’d seen the determination on my face. At long last, I’d been ready to do what I should have done ages earlier— dump the boy who’d helped take my art.

But he took that from me too.

I look up as the water taxi approaches the dock. It’s the biggest boat we’ve taken so far. A substantial crowd has gathered around us, lugging suitcases, backpacks, and boxes of Tang and Quaker oats. “Ready?” Rowan asks me.

I close my sketchbook—careful not to slam it—and tuck it inside my daypack while Rowan watches mildly. For once, I don’t care. I’m not going to hide it anymore. That doesn’t mean I’m going to show him all my drawings, but I’m not going to be ashamed, either.

Because I’ve decided this is it. I’m finished. I am closing Toby inside these pages. On the island, and every day after, for the rest of my life, I’ll be new.

I’m done looking back.

“Ready.”

PART 3

The Island

Art to me, is seeing. I think you have got to use your eyes, as well as your emotion, and one without the other just doesn’t work.

~Andrew Wyeth

A painting doesn’t have to have a profound meaning. It doesn’t have to “say” a word. We fall in love for simpler reasons.

~Harley Brown

Day 10, Evening

Laughingbird Caye

Something about the mainland must attract clouds. Because as soon as the water taxi pulls out of the harbor and into open water, they fall away. The ocean changes from gray to blue.

Then, gradually, as the setting sun spears it and the sandy floor nears the surface, it brightens to a luminous turquoise.

“I told you!” Rowan shouts over the roar.

When I turn to grin at him, I find his face just inches from mine. We’re sitting hip to hip with Belizeans of every variety: buff guys with tiny children, teenagers in booty shorts with manicured nails, a trio of white women with beads in their hair, an enormously fat man in a yellow Lakers jersey. When the guy to my left leans over to tie his shoe, I catch a peek of his boxers: red, with cartoon hamburgers and french fries.

There are almost as many travelers as there are locals. Rowan assured me Laughingbird Caye is primarily a backpacker destination, but some of the girls resemble Olivia more than Starling.

Island after island floats by in the distance, each a squat patch of green bordered by tiny threads of white. The wind makes my eyes tear up, but I can’t stop looking.

“That’s it,” Rowan says. “That’s Laughingbird Caye.” I’m a little confused, because all I see is a strip of mangroves. But as we speed alongside it, houses begin to appear: boxy structures on tall stilts, with decks, painted lemon yellow and purple and Caribbean green. Docks protrude like wooden fingers, and coconut trees tilt at precarious angles.

Pelicans with tousled heads hover in the wind.

The young guys driving the boat cut the engine and the current surges around us. I lean over the edge and gaze into the clear water as we head to shore. The sandy floor is mottled with sea grass, and I can see every blade of it. Black-and-yellow fish dart in and out.

“They’re like bumblebees,” I say to Rowan.

He smiles at me, but it looks more like a wince.

“What’s on your mind?” I ask.

“Don’t be mad.”

I feel a little nervous. “I won’t.”

“I was just thinking how it’s too bad you won’t see all the fish up close. You’d have to get in the water for that.” I don’t say anything.

But while Rowan collects our backpacks, I kneel at the edge of the dock. I can hear two sets of waves: the tiny ones lapping at the shore and, out at sea, bigger ones surging against the reef—the second-largest barrier reef in the world.

The breeze shudders in the palms. And for the first time, I finally feel the distance between me and Toby, me and my parents, me and the life I’ve left behind: hundreds, thousands of miles, even millions.

I feel like I can do anything.

Rowan’s standing beside me, one backpack in each arm.

We’re the only ones left on the dock. “Sure you’re prepared for this?” he asks.

“Prepared for what?”

“The madness.” He smiles that strange smile again, the wincey one I can’t decipher.

The engine of the water taxi starts, and I glance over. A new crowd is sardined inside it, their vacation at an end. Like mine will be in just ten days. Half my trip’s already passed. It makes me feel like crying. I wish there were a way to make time slow down.

“I guess,” I say.

But I don’t get up. I spread my hands on the dock. It’s baked warm, even though the sun is almost gone. Then I lean back until I’m lying down, both my hands flat against the gray wood. I try to take up as much surface as possible, absorbing the lingering sunlight, the anticipation of tomorrow.

I hear Rowan kneel beside me. I glance over at him, and he smiles at me; it’s a real one this time. “I guess there’s no hurry,” he says.

I pat the dock, and he obliges, lying on his stomach with his cheek on his arms and closing his eyes. I watch him for a while, feeling sort of possessive. Whatever Rowan’s been through in the years that separate us, now he’s just trying to be good. It’s ironic, almost, that I’m trying to be the opposite.

“Thank you,” I say.

His eyelids flicker open. “For what?”

“For this.” I reach toward the horizon, grasping at it with my fingers. “All of it. I wouldn’t be here without you. And I haven’t thanked you yet.”

“It’s nothing. My pleasure.”

I tip my head to the side so I’m facing the sea. But I’m still aware of him, lying beside me.

All of a sudden, the dock starts to vibrate, then pound. I shriek and sit up as a spray of water hits me in the face. A dripping-wet, massively tall guy has thrown himself on top of Rowan’s back.

Rowan curses, reaching around to swat him. “Get off me, you ogre. Bria . . . meet Jack.”

Jack kisses Rowan on top of his head, then rolls off. With a start, I recognize him: the third backpacker from the airport.

Minus the stocking cap, his head’s shaved down to a layer of sheer blond fuzz. His apish arms dwarf Rowan’s. When he extends a hand to shake, mine disappears. “You’ve got to be the dive partner,” I say.

“Divemaster,” Rowan interjects, sitting up. “He leads the classes. I just assist.”

“In other words, he gets paid even worse than I do,” Jack says. He has an accent—probably Scandinavian, although I can’t deduce which country. “He just can’t stick in one place long enough to finish his training.”

“That’s because he’s afflicted with. . . ,” I begin, but stop myself just in time.

“How’s Marius?” Rowan asks.

“Sick as a dog. He’s staying with his parents in San Ignacio. You’ve saved us, my friend. All the dive shops are booked.

The island’s already packed, even though Lobsterfest isn’t for days. People want to get their dives in before they’re too bombed to see the fishies. We can help with that, too—”

“I’m not helping with anything. How many students do we have?”

Jack laughs and tugs Rowan’s ponytail. “We’ll talk about it later. But yeah, we’ve got four students. Or five, maybe—is she diving?”

They’re both looking at me. Rowan shakes his head. “She won’t dive.”

In the wake of their weird exchange, his comment bristles me more than ever. I don’t want this new guy thinking I’m afraid of the water. Even if I sort of am.

“How do you know, if you’ve never asked?” Rowan looks at me like I’ve sprouted moose antlers. “Fine, Bria. Do you want to dive?”

“Probably not.”

He exhales noisily. Jack grins at me, then Rowan, displaying a pair of cavernous dimples. “She’s a challenge, isn’t she?

This is great. You’ve found yourself a brand-new Starling!” Rowan and I avoid each other’s eyes.

“Oh, come on,” Jack says, grabbing my arm and hauling me to my feet. My head reaches only his chest. “Our friends are waiting at the shop. With boatloads of rum punch—my special recipe.” He lifts both our backpacks and, with one on each shoulder, heads for shore.

“Show-off,” Rowan mutters.

Day 11:

Island Life

“Rowan’s got Hyperactive Diver Disorder,” Jack tells me at breakfast.