Wanderlove (23 page)

“Fancy finding you here.” He crouches beside me and lifts his sunglasses.

I shrug. “It’s the place to be.”

“Actually, we saw you from the boat.” He nods at the two girls standing behind him. “These are two of my students—your roommates, Emily and Ariel. They’re from Florida. Eighteen, just like you.”

We eye each other in that suspicious way that’s such a betrayal of our gender. Ariel has long blond braids and wears a T-shirt over black bikini bottoms. Emily has cropped black hair and a double nose piercing. She wears tiny shorts and a yellow bikini top. They both hold bottles of Belikin beer. Their sunglasses are enormous. Spring Breakpackers, I presume.

“Are you an artist?” Emily asks, pointing at my sketchbook. “I am too. Can I see?”

I shove it into my daypack and zip it up.

“Yikes,” she says.

I feel like a jerk. “Sorry . . . It’s just kind of personal.”

“Just wait until you have a juried exhibition.
Then
it gets personal.”

“There wasn’t a jury!” Ariel objects. “Just teachers. And it wasn’t an exhibition—it was a show in the school cafeteria.”

“That still counts.”

As they bicker, Rowan sits beside me. I pull my daypack onto my lap in an effort to cover a fraction of my nakedness.

Why am I acting so strange? I am baffling myself. I have to remember these girls know Rowan even less than I do, and they have no problem with their respective lack of shorts and shirt.

“So how’s your day been?” he asks, unaware.

“Hot. Yours?”

“Refreshing. The water felt great.”

“You went in the water? I thought today was for, like, bookwork in the classroom.”

“We took the boat out to the reef for a bit. Brought some snorkels, splashed around.”

No wonder he seems so relaxed. I picture Ariel and Emily, entirely shirtless and shortsless, splashing around beside him.

I clear my throat. “So what did you see underwater? Anything vicious?”

“One stingray.”

“There aren’t really stingrays. Really?”

“He was just a small one.”

“It looked pretty big to me.” Emily squats between us.

“Bria, are you certified?”

Ugh
. “No, I’m not.”

“So why aren’t you learning to dive with us?” I sigh, because it’s getting old. Last night, I suffered through the interrogation of various drunk divers. Apparently, when you’re a die-hard scuba aficionado, the nether regions of the sea equal nirvana.

It strikes me as strange Rowan hasn’t spoken about diving much. Then I recall the way he guiltily slipped me the dive book. He probably doesn’t want me to think he’s pressuring me by talking about his greatest love. It makes me feel like an evil person.

“I’m sure it’s amazing and all,” I say diplomatically, “but it’s just not my thing.”

“Mine neither,” Ariel says. “But I’m still doing it.” Emily smirks. “She’s right. She was utterly chickenshit, but I convinced her.”

“It didn’t help that my parents wanted me to, and they paid for this trip.”

“For
your
trip. I had to pay for mine.”

“With money your parents gave you!”

“My parents don’t even know I’m here,” I say.

All three of them stare at me. Too late, I realize how it sounds—like I’m trying to make Emily and Ariel seem like prodigal daughters. It’s not like my money didn’t come from my parents, technically, though I earned it doing paperwork and data entry for my father.

“What are you—like, a runaway?” Ariel asks.

Quickly, I shake my head. “What I mean is . . . my parents know I’m in Central America. But they don’t know I’m on this island. They think I’m with a tour group. Rowan and his sister helped me escape.” I grin, like it’s just so incredibly funny.

“So you’re
kind of
a runaway.”

“That’s pretty intense,” Emily says, looking at me with obvious respect.

“Your parents still think you’re with that tour group?” Rowan asks. He leans back on his hands so he can see me better.

“It doesn’t matter. They wouldn’t care.”

“But have you talked to them at all?”

I don’t like the tone of his voice. It makes me feel anxious, even though I’m not exactly sure what I’ve done wrong.

“Rowan, you know I haven’t. You’ve been around me the whole time. What’s the big deal, anyway? I’m eighteen.”

“Eighteen is only a few months away from seventeen.”

“And nineteen’s only a few months from eighteen,” I argue, even though I know he’s almost twenty, so that isn’t exactly true. But he ran off a couple of weeks after he turned eighteen. He told me at the lake; I’ll never forget it. So why’s he acting all self-righteous?

“How do you know that Marcy lady didn’t call them?” he says. “According to what you said, she seemed pretty irate. I can picture it now: ‘We last saw your daughter with some hippie druggie girl, and we’re terrified she’s gone and joined one of those jungle cults you hear about down here, one of those Jim Jones things—’”

“Rowan, would you stop? It’s my business whether I call my parents or not.”

“I suppose.” With one finger, he taps his sunglasses so they fall over his eyes. “But I still think it’s immature.” I feel like I’ve been punched. “Well, do
your
parents know where you are?”

“My parents are off-limits,” he says, unfazed. “Remember our list?”

My jaw drops. I can’t believe Rowan brought up our list in front of these strangers. Even though it’s been only a few days since we wrote it, the thought of it humiliates me. Especially after our conversation yesterday in Belize City. I thought we’d moved past that.

“What list?” asks Ariel.

“Never mind.” I stand up. “Look, I’ll catch you all later.

This heat is making me sleepy.” I dig through my daypack until I locate my sundress. I feel three pairs of eyes watching as I tug it over my head, get stuck for a disconcerting second, and then yank it into place.

I don’t notice Rowan following me until my first foot hits the sand.
“What?”
I demand.

He holds up his hands. “Wow—you’re prickly today.”

“I refuse to validate that with an answer.”

“It wasn’t a question.”

I try to stalk away, but Rowan catches my daypack and swings me back around. It might be cute if I didn’t feel like slapping him with a stingray.

“Look,” he says. “I really do think it’s important you give your parents a call. Or an email, or whatever. Just so we don’t have to think about it for the rest of the trip. I don’t want to see your face on CNN . . .” He trails off. “Okay, sorry. No more jokes. But—you’ll talk to them. Right?” I wonder why it bothers him so much. I hate to back down, but I don’t want to fight. On this island, he’s all I’ve got. “Sure, Rowan,” I say with a sigh. “Of course I will.” I just don’t say when.

Day 11:

Friends or Siblings or Whatever

“But Rowan’s so hot,” Ariel says, too close to my ear. “You
sure
you’re not sleeping together?”

“I’m pretty sure,” I reply.

We’re sitting on rope swings at an outdoor bar called Coco Plum. There’s no floor, only sand. As soon as we arrived, Emily ditched Ariel to go flirt with the other two dive students: a pair of dreadlocked guys who’d look like twins if they didn’t have different-colored skin. Ariel, however, seems to have one particular guy in mind. A guy who was supposed to show up an hour ago.

“If I was traveling alone with Rowan for a week, you’d better believe I’d have jumped him by now,” she tells me. “Have you seen his back?”

“His back?”

“He’s so cut. Emily says he’s like some kind of rock star, all drug-damaged and wild under this balladsy surface. After you left the channel, Jack came and told us all these stories about him. Rowan got kind of agitated. It was cute.” I find myself wishing I had been there to defend him, or at least to deflect Jack’s attention. Although I admit I’m curious about the stories.

“Like did you know he used to twirl fire batons?” Ariel asks.

“He
what
?”

“You’d think he’d have caught fire, with all the stuff he was on. He swears he isn’t like that anymore, but you
know
the crazy is just waiting to come out again. . . .” She winds one of her long blond braids around her arm. “So you sure you’re not sleeping together? Because if not, I’ve got to get him before Emily does. Don’t you think he’s hot?”

“If you like the unwashed bohemian type,” I say, feeling mean.

“His eyes are the color of dark blue jeans, did you notice?” I try not to scowl, despising the way I feel. I know I don’t have any right to Rowan. But even though I suspect Ariel isn’t his type any more than I am, her comments make my skin itch. And since it appears he isn’t going to show up anytime soon, I decide I’ve had enough.

“I’ve had enough . . . to drink. I think I’m going to bed.” Ariel perks up. “Do you think Rowan’s back at the hostel?

Want me to walk you?”

“It’s okay. Really. He’s in bed, I’m sure. He goes to bed early. Or sometimes he reads, but he doesn’t like to be disturbed. . . .” I shut myself up.

“See you tomorrow, then.”

I nod. “Tomorrow.”

I leave my drink on the bar and shuffle through the sand toward the exit, where I almost bump into Jack. “Bria! You’re not leaving already?” He stands so close I have to crane my neck to meet his crinkling eyes. “Or are you off to see Rowan?” I shake my head so adamantly he grins, dimples slashing his cheeks. “I’m just tired. You people wear me out.”

“Just you wait. Lobsterfest blows this all away. It’s like your favorite dream and your worst nightmare drowned together in an ocean of rum punch.”

“Can’t wait.”

I take a step toward the exit, but Jack doesn’t move. He smells like fabric softener. It reminds me I need to do my laundry. I could ask Jack where he does his, but I don’t really want to draw out the conversation—even though he’s attractive in a big, goofy, Scandinavian way. “So I guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” I say pointedly, wondering if I’ll have to shove.

“Probably not. We’ll be in the water by seven-thirty. Then back in the classroom. Then back in the water again. You won’t see us until four, four-thirty for the next few days. Our classes are intense—it’s really too bad you’re not taking them.

They pay shit, though, so it’s good we’ve got a few things in the works on the side.”

The beach has turned to quicksand. “Who’s
we
?”

“Don’t worry. I won’t get your travel brother into trouble, I promise.”

Jack reaches out and musses up my hair, like he did this morning. When I slap his hand away, he catches mine and twirls me around before freeing me to go.

I find Rowan on the rooftop verandah of our hostel, relaxing in a hammock with his eyes closed. As usual, a book rests on his lap:
Lolita
. He’s wearing clothes I haven’t seen before—a baby blue linen shirt and frayed white shorts. It’s unfair. He keeps coming up with clothes I haven’t seen, while I’m already rewearing everything. His backpack’s like a perpetually expanding magic trick.

Should I tell him what Jack said? Or should I give him an opening to tell me? The problem with our mutual touchiness is all the uncertainty: I don’t know what will seem like dis-trust. I’m about to bring it up anyway when I notice the plastic cup balanced on a ledge beside him.

“Are you drunk?” I ask in disbelief.

Rowan opens his eyes. “Hey, you.” He stretches, sending the book tumbling to the ground. “I was wondering when you’d show up. The drink’s yours.”

“Is it rum punch? Because—”

“Actually, it’s an apology.”

“The drink’s an apology?” I ask warily. “Why are you apologizing?”

“I never gave you a seaweed.”

“A
what
?”

“A seaweed! That classic Belizean beverage I told you about in Punta Gorda.”

“Oh, right.” I peer into the cup. “Smells like nutmeg.”

“Taste it.”

I try one swallow and shudder. It’s not vile or anything—mostly it tastes like milk and spices—but it
slimes
down my throat. “Why is it so slippery?”

“That’s the seaweed.”

“Actual
seaweed
? I thought that was just a nickname!