Wanderlove (7 page)

Day 4, Morning

My Walk of Shame

I wake the next morning to roosters screeching. My first sensation is surprise: so I managed to fall asleep after all.

My bed at La Casa Azul turned out to be a second-level bunk in a filthy dorm room shared with seven backpackers stinking of lake water and armpits and worse. All night the bedsprings gouged my back. A chill wind moaned faintly through the fissures in the walls: La Llorona, sensing my distress, seeping in to offer me her place. I tried to avoid using the bed’s gray sheet out of pure disgust. But too soon I was shivering beneath it, my eyes on the ceiling rafters, searching for moving things.

What’s worse, I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d overheard last night on my way back from the shared bathroom—Starling and Rowan, talking about me.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Rowan said. “She’s never even traveled before.”

“I like her.”

“It’s a terrible idea, Starling. I don’t want to be anyone’s babysitter.”

“Come on! It’s only for two weeks. And she’s got so much potential. You remember what it was like. If you hadn’t met Jack when you were eighteen—”

“I’d have saved myself a whole lot of grief.” I hurried back to bed, cursing that stupid word.
Potential
.

It’s exactly what Toby said about my art.
Potential
signifies almost-there-but-not.
Potential
means I’m lacking.

And anyway . . . potential for what?

The rooster screeches again. What time is it? I seem to be the only one awake, though I don’t know how my roommates can sleep with the glaring daylight and shrieking poultry. I scrape myself out of bed and slide my dirty feet into my sandals. My skirt looks like a crumpled napkin. Holding one hand over my eyes to shield then from the light, I push open the door and slip out.

The common room is empty. Down by the water’s edge, several villagers in bright clothes are slinging burlap bags onto the dock. I hear a buzzing sound, like a chainsaw starting up. I squint across the lake. A boat is heading toward us, leaving behind a trail of white. The volcanoes complete a perfect picture.

I glance over my shoulder at the common room. Still empty.

If I leave now, no one will stop me.

The buzz grows more urgent as the boat approaches. I can see the inconsistencies of rock on the distant volcanoes, iced with light. Everything looks different in the morning. When the sun rises higher, it will all fade to blue. My throat feels tight.

“
Veinte quetzales,
” says the boat driver, the same guy as last night.

It’s easier this way, I tell myself as I fumble in my pocket for a bill. Damned if I’m not dying to fulfill my so-called potential, but I’m not going to do it with people who don’t want me around. Rowan will be delighted to know he dodged babysitting duties. And while Starling might mourn her loss of a travel project for a second, I bet she’ll be just as relieved.

“
Tienes otro
?” The boat driver points to a tiny tear in the bill I gave him.

“Sorry, I don’t understand.”

“
Necesito otro
. Is no good.”

“What, because it’s torn?” I touch the rip.

He nods.

“But this is all I’ve got.”

Suddenly, a hand jams a crisp fifty in front of me. “
Por
dos
,” Starling says. She’s wearing red-framed glasses and a souvenir Nicaragua T-shirt over drawstring pants, her hair in a messy braid hanging nearly to her waist. “You sneaky bitch,” she mutters at me, even though she doesn’t sound angry. “I haven’t even had my coffee yet.”

“What are you doing here?”

She climbs into the boat and sits beside me, scooting closer as a Mayan woman squeezes past her. “I’m saving you.”

“From
what
?”

The boat engine starts, and she has to shout her next words over the roar: “From regret!”

“I don’t get why you care so much,” I shout back.

“I can’t stand to watch an opportunity for travel transcen-dence wasted. It would ruin
my
trip too.” I narrow my eyes at her, but she just laughs. “Come on, Bria! We want you to come along. I mean it.”

She’s lying. Or half lying, at least. But I can’t bring myself to tell her what I overheard late last night. It’s too humiliating. Instead, I point to my ear and shake my head with a gri-mace, like I can’t hear her over the sound of the engine. Then I turn away, rest my arms on the edge of the boat, and do my best to conjure up a kraken.

As soon as Starling and I enter the hotel lobby in Panajachel, Marcy pounces. “You ungrateful kid!” All the things I planned to say scatter. I stand there, agape, while Marcy yammers on about decency and responsibility and respect. A few feet behind her, the rest of my tour group gawk with eyes the size of snow globes.

“You know I’m responsible for your welfare, and then you take off for the night without telling anyone, leaving nothing but an incoherent message at the front desk. Eight other people paid the same amount you did, and you had every single one of us worried sick. How can you be so self-centered?” Self-centered? For going to a party for the first time in months? For being a normal teenager for a few hours?

I want to be offended. But . . . maybe she’s right.

That’s what this trip is about—doing what’s best for myself. Becoming independent. Obviously, Global Vagabonds isn’t helping that cause. Tagging along with Rowan and Starling isn’t a perfect alternative—really, I’d just be leaving one game of follow-the-leader for another. What’s more,

Rowan doesn’t want me along. And even if he did, both he and Starling think I have a boyfriend, so I’d be dragging a stupid Toby-faced lie behind me the whole time.

There are a thousand reasons not to go with them.

The question is, what will I regret more—daring to go off with Starling and Rowan, or spending the remainder of my trip watching Dan violate maps?

It’s not even a question.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I really am. I know I’m not making this easy on you. But I really do think it’s better this way. Now you don’t need to worry about me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m going off on my own. Kind of. Actually, I’m going off with her.”

Marcy glances at Starling, who winks.

“Are you kidding? I won’t allow it! You’re just a teenager.

Your parents entrusted Global Vagabonds to take care of you—”

“I’m
eighteen.
My parents had nothing to do with this trip.”

It’s true. Mostly. When I told them I was traveling this summer, my dad muttered about losing his paperwork help.

My mom bellyached about my squandering my college funds, even though she’s the one who put that title on my savings.

But in the end, I think they were glad I got my mopey self out of the house. I’ll bet my mom’s going through my closet right this second, selecting shirts with a maximum boob-stretch factor to borrow.

Now Marcy’s shouting. “But you already paid for everything! If you leave the group, your money’s wasted. You’re not getting one penny back.”

“A bargain for the lesson learned,” I say.

Okay, it wasn’t really. But it sounded good.

When I rejoin Starling, my heart pounding, she claps me on the shoulder. “Holy cojones! Damn, girl, that’s the second time I’ve watched you rip somebody a new one. Color me impressed.”

I can’t help grinning.

We start for the staircase to gather my things, but suddenly I stop. “Hey, would you mind going on up without me?” I hand her my key. “There’s someone I need to talk to.”

The Vagabonds are already in the street by the time I catch up with them. Dan sees me first and pokes Marcy in the side. She faces me and plants her hands on her hips. “Having second thoughts? After that display, I don’t know if the group’s comfortable enough with your presence—” Ignoring her, I head for Glenna Heron, professional beadworker. I tug her a few steps from the others and, in a low voice, thank her.

“For what?”

“For not telling Marcy where I went.” I pause. “Did you tell her?”

She shakes her head. “You’d have done the same for me . . . that is, if I’d ever had the opportunity. I missed that part of being young.”

“What part?”

“The
exciting
part.” She smiles at me from under her floppy hat. “I’ll send you a beaded necklace. So you can refer all your friends.”

Starling West’s unPacking List 
A.K.A. Things you should not bring to Central America, or anywhere else you go, ever, as explained to Bria Sandoval, travel virgin

Full-size bottles of tea-tree conditioner
Shoes with heels higher than one inch
Ergonomic travel pillows

Strawberries & Champagne body spray,
or any other kind

Purple leggings

Anything with spangles

By the time I get back to my room, Starling has completely ransacked my suitcase. Clothes are scattered all over both beds, draped over the backs of chairs, piled on the dresser. Underwear dangles from the bedpost. Cosmetics are strewn across the floor. My sketchbook sits on the bed, the elastic strap still wound around it. I hope Starling’s not the type to snoop.

“I called Hal to let Rowan know you’re officially a member of the family,” she says. “For two weeks, at least.” I smile weakly. My boldness from moments ago is dissipating by the second.

“But this . . .” Starling spreads her arms. “This is
disastrous.

The worst case of overpacking I’ve ever seen. I’ve managed to pare it down. But you’re not going to like it.” I push aside a pair of denim shorts with the tags still attached and sit on the bed, one hand on my sketchbook.

“Which pile do I get to keep?”

“The one beside you.”

“And what am I supposed to do with all my other stuff?”

“In theory, you could mail it home. But it might not get there. And it would be really expensive. The noble thing to do is to give it away—though I don’t think the villagers will want anything to do with this.” She twirls a glittery halter top around her index finger.

“That’s not mine.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“No, seriously. It’s my friend Olivia’s. I’ve never even worn it.”

“Olivia must be an interesting girl.” Starling stretches the top between her fingers and shoots it into the trash. I picture Olivia’s reaction and smirk. I’d love to see Olivia and Starling stuck in an elevator. As long as I wasn’t stuck inside with them.

“How about we shove your extraneous shit in your suitcase and leave it on the sidewalk? With a sign: ‘finders keepers,’ in Spanish. Then we’ll locate a backpack.”

“Can I at least look through the stuff I’m giving away?” Without waiting for a reply, I shove aside my pink quick-dry capris and swipe the white sweatshirt from Glenna’s bed.

“This stays.”

“Not a chance! It would take up half your backpack. And you’ll never need it. Where you’re going, even the rainiest days are warm.”

I unfold the sweatshirt and hold it at arm’s length. I have it memorized: the ragged cuffs, the front pocket worn coarse inside. It reaches all the way to my knees when I wear it to sleep.

I know Starling’s right. And it’s humiliating that I kept it in the first place, let alone brought it all the way to Central America. So I screw up my face and force myself to remember. Not the good parts, the parts that made me stay with Toby long past our expiration date. But the shitty parts. The betrayals.

Like the way we ran into this girl from Toby’s old school, and he gripped the back of my neck a little too tightly so I wouldn’t say anything stupid, and after, got mad when I asked who she was.

The way my mom thought he was
just so cute
, and acted way more enthusiastic about my having a boyfriend than she ever did about my drawings.

The way he wouldn’t even get out of the car the only time I took him to my favorite beach. I
t’s way too cold
, he said. He only opened the door to toss out the condom wrapper.

The way, when we talked about attending SCAA together, he said
no matter what
, over and over, like a promise.

Maybe I was stupid for believing, and even more stupid for wanting to believe. But either way, he fooled me. When it all fell apart, I was genuinely surprised.

With that, I shove the sweatshirt into the trash can so forcefully it tips over, while Starling looks on, her expression impossible to read.

Day 4, Afternoon:

Wanderlove

I follow Starling down Calle Santander with a garbage bag, containing the fortunate few of my belongings, slung over my shoulder. Not a single spangle desecrates the lot. The bag still weighs a ton, but that’s partially my fault. I insisted on including a second pair of jeans.

“You’re going to swelter,” Starling says, tugging up her drawstring pants.

“I’d rather swelter than look like a belly dancer.” She snorts, then links her arm through mine. Apparently, talking shit is the key to Starling’s good graces. As we walk, she tells me we’ll spend one more night on the lake, and then we’ll leave for Guatemala City. A necessary way station, she calls it, like Bangkok or Delhi—unsavory, yet unavoidable.