by Tom Shepherd
Ahmad frowned, turning to Tanella. “Blake—Blake—you’re the daughter of Nathaniel Blake?"
She nodded.
“My uncle is Dr. Robert Thornburg,” I said, feeling more desperate as the moments passed.
“I’ve read some of Dr. Blake’s articles on Arab affairs. He is quite brilliant.”
“Oh, I love Arab affairs.” I bit my tongue and turned six shades of crimson. Did you ever feel really stupid and couldn’t help getting stupider? I mean, I had to get his attention somehow—God! Why did he keep looking at Tanella?
“Let’s find time to talk, if that is convenient,” Ahmad said to Tanella. “Perhaps dinner this evening?”
“Certainly.”
Abdu’l bowed and led the young Emir away, his robes rippling in the light breeze off the ocean.
“Did you see the way he looked at you?” I groaned. “He likes you. I meet a billionaire Prince, and he likes you!”
“He just wants to talk about his country. Politics and—”
“He asked you for a date! And you accepted.”
She blinked. “A date?”
“Dinner, tonight?”
“Well, I don’t consider that a date.”
“I can’t believe it! You stole my future husband.”
“Sally Ann, he’s just interested in my political views.”
“Ooooooh, no! His eyes bulged when he looked at you. This isn’t fair! You’re the smart one, I’m the hot one. Why can’t I get the prince?”
“You’re making too much of this.”
“I’m blonde! I’m incredibly cute! Boys should be falling all over themselves to buy me Cokes and walk me to the pool.”
She held up her smartphone. “Did you hear?—they’ve upgraded that tropical storm to a hurricane watch.”
I scowled. “You are definitely abnormal.”
Tanella laughed. “Let’s find the gift shop.”
We followed signs toward a set of small buildings near the beach and found the gift shop, but they didn’t carry Winterwhite or Scientific American. In fact, the shop lady said the closest place Tanella could find Dr. Blake’s beloved tooth powder was the town of Brunswick, fifteen miles away on the Georgia mainland.
“Dr. Blake will have to squeeze the tube like the rest of us.”
“Dad hates toothpaste. Calls it ‘mouth goo.’ Winterwhite powder is the only dentifrice he’ll use. Maybe he packed enough for the week.”
We started back to the hotel when my cell phone blared, “Hit the Road, Jack!” I cursed softly, so Tanella couldn’t hear and disapprove of my bad language. Only one caller set off that alarm from my library of ringtones.
“Sally Ann? It’s me, Mark Bricchetti.”
“Why did you think I’d want to talk to a dog like you? I’d rather talk to Boston. At least he never called me an idiot in the lunchroom!”
Boston was his black-and-white Border Collie. I liked Boston. I hated Mark. At that moment, anyway. Tanella was giving me the raised-eyebrow look. She knew who was on the phone.
“I’ve always liked Mark,” she said in her best Sunday School voice.
I muted the phone. “Doesn’t count. You like everybody.” I took a cleansing breath, unmuted, and proceeded like a lady. “What do you want?”
“May I please speak to Tanella?”
To hell with the lady crap. Now I wanted to strangle him. First the Prince, now my ex-boyfriend? Does everybody want to talk with Tanella? She’s never had a boyfriend. I’ve had five or six. I can’t remember.
“You dump me,” I reminded him, “and six months later you call my number to hit on my best friend?”
“No! I need science information. Tanella is—well, Tanella. Girl genius.”
“Google it and go away!”
“No! Please, this is very important. Life and death.”
I grunted. “And you called me too dramatic?”
“I apologize for whatever I did when we were together.”
“You didn’t do nothin’, that’s the point!” The roar of surf filled my ears. I wanted to drown him, but the fool was a lifeguard. “Look, we’re on vacation at Barrier Island. We just got here, so don’t bother Tanella. We’re checking in.”
“Summer vacation ended last month.” He obviously thought I was lying.
“Special field trip thingee with her dad and my uncle Bob.”
“Sally Ann, please, please, please—ask Tanella if she’ll speak with me. For just a minute.”
I muted the call. “I’m hanging up,” I told her.
“What does he want?”
“He wants to go out with you.”
“No, he doesn’t, Sally Ann. What does he really want?”
I groaned like Charlie Brown. “Scientific information.”
She smiled. “May I speak with him?”
“Sure. And any rock stars who call for you.” I handed over the phone. On speaker mode.
“Can I be of assistance, Mark?”
“Uh—hey, Tanella. How’s Barrier Island?”
“Warm and breezy,” Tanella said. “But we’re on hurricane watch. May have to evacuate.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“So, what’s your question?” Tanella said.
“Look, I’m—uh—playing a video game. It’s a quest on this alien planet where dinosaurs are still alive. Very realistic. My character is trapped by a sleeping dinosaur, and he has to sneak past it without waking the beast. What can I do to keep it snoozing?”
I poked my nose at the phone. “Quit wasting Tanella’s time! We’re on vacation. I hope the dinosaur eats you!”
But she was intrigued. “Are the graphics good? Can you identify what kind of dinosaur you’re facing?”
“Don’t know the species. Definitely a monster-class carnosaur. Big eyes, narrow skull, massive fangs, little hand claws, thick chicken legs.”
“How accurate is your data?” she said.
“Hella accurate,” he said soberly.
“No feathers?”
“None that I can see.”
“Any distinguishing behavioral characteristics?” Tanella asked.
“Well, he passed out cold when a truck horn sounded.”
“Interesting. Some scientists believe meat-eaters could only detect prey when it moved.”
“Like the movie?” Mark said. “When the professor and the little girl froze in place, the T-Rex couldn’t see them.”
“Exactly.”
“So, what does his fainting spell have to do with nearsighted predators? Wait. They can’t see him if he’s motionless!”
“Right. This species might have a primitive ‘play possum’ survival tactic. It faints because groups of predatory enemies won’t be able to tell a sleeping dinosaur from a large rock. It all depends how much paleontological data went into the design of your game.”
“Game? Oh, yeah. What if he starts to wake up? In the game.”
She smiled slightly. “Try singing the school song.”
“You’re punking me. Is Sally Ann putting you up to this?”
“Absolutely not,” Tanella said. “Music will probably sound like predatory growling, keeping him sedated. It might work.”
“Might work. That’s the best you got?”
“If not, try something different,” she suggested. “When you re-spawn after he kills you.”
At Mark’s end of the conversation, I heard Aaron Hooper whisper, “That ain’t funny.”
“Anything else you need?” Tanella said politely.
“Prayer.”
She laughed. “Have a nice day.”
Tanella handed back my phone. “Let’s see where we’re staying.”
I grunted. “Far away from Mark Bricchetti, thank God.”
Two
When we checked into the hotel we got a neat surprise. Me and Tanella had a two-room loft on the top floor, alone.
Party time!
Unfortunately, a roach floated in my punch bowl. Eric had to bunk with us. Fortunately, he g
ot his own room, although we shared a TV in the living room. Uncle Bob and Dr. Blake controlled the exit, since you descended a flight of stairs and passed through the adult’s suite before reaching the hotel corridor. Still, it was as close to living alone as I’d ever been. We even owned a refrigerator!
As we unpacked in the girls-only bedroom, Tanella chattered about the history of Barrier Island. “This hotel was built in 1886 as a millionaires’ club. It still has a tidewater sewage system.”
“Really?” I wasn’t listening, but pretended to be while looking for a place to plug in my cell phone charger.
She frowned. “You don’t know what that means, do you?”
“Uh…sure. Refresh my memory.”
“The buildings have underground pipes and tunnels for sea water to wash away sewage with the tide.”
“Yuk.”
Tanella’s always full of interesting crapola like that.
“It’s an old system, dating to the 19th century, when J.P. Morgan and John D. Rockefeller were regular visitors to the island.” She glanced out the window. “They sailed their yachts from New York and moored them over there. That’s the original wharf.”
No idea who these dudes were. But—hey, anybody who owns a yacht is okay by me. Made a mental note to ask the desk clerk if ol’ J.P. or John D. left any teenage male descendants lurking in these salmon-painted halls.
“Today the place belongs to the Hochberg Institute,” Tanella said, "founded ten years ago by Mr. Hector Bennett. He’s a multi-billionaire.”
“Seriously rich guy?”
She nodded. “Dad says he owns half of Manhattan. President Bush tried to appoint him Secretary of Commerce, and President Obama wanted him for Ambassador to Saudi Arabia. He refused both.”
“Wow! Does he have any kids? Preferably boys our age?”
“No children.” Tanella pulled a black dress from her suitcase and hung it in the free-standing closet. “Dad knows him from college. I think Mr. Bennett invites him here just so they can sing On Wisconsin.”
I pulled off my T-shirt. “Wanna go swimming?”
“Later.” Tanella draped a pair of blue jeans over a wooden hanger, tugging on the cuffs. “Sally Ann, don’t you think there’s something strange about Prince Ahmad’s arrival at the Island Club the same time my father and your uncle are giving lectures?”
I shrugged. “He came for the program. He’s an Arab, so he oughta be interested in Arabian lectures.”
“Except the seminar is about the American Civil War.”
“So, why did they invite Uncle Bob and your dad? They don't teach American history.”
“Dad has a longstanding fascination with John Singleton Mosby, but his actual field is international relations and diplomacy,” she said. “And Dr. Thornburg’s specialty is the economics of the Middle East.”
“So?” I said, slipping out of my shorts and tiptoeing bare-bottomed to the bathroom. My pasty white belly, buttocks and breasts flashed in the mirror as I crossed the tile and threw back the shower curtain. “Tanella! There’s a hot tub in here.”
She came to the door as I cranked hot and cold. “Don’t you think it’s an odd coincidence that two scholars of Middle Eastern Studies just happen to be here when an entourage from Utaybah appears?”
I ignored her brain teaser. “Know what I think? Hot tubs and Arabian Princes. This is going to be a great week!”
Tanella just smiled. “I’ll read for a while.”
I closed the bathroom door and sat on the edge of the hot tub as it filled. Prince Ahmad was interested in Tanella. The only person who called my phone today, Mark Bricchetti, wanted to speak with her, too.
Or did he?
What if he really wanted to talk with me, but I growled at him and so he pretended to ask Tanella a bunch of questions about some lame computer game? I reached for my phone. What did I have to lose today? I already lost Prince Charming, and the sun hadn’t set yet.
Deleted Mark’s number months ago, but I found his incoming call and hit redial. It rang and rang. I kept checking the hot tub to make sure it didn’t overflow while I waited for him to pick up.
Finally, an answer. “Hello?” he said hoarsely.
“Mark, it’s Sally Ann. How’s it goin’?”
“Oh, you know, sameo-sameo.”
I was right! He sounded really nervous. Good. He’s worried if I still like him or if I’m calling to bash away some more. Go for it, girl.
“Look, I was thinking, ‘What the hey? Maybe we oughta try getting back together.’ I mean, you obviously still like me. That lame excuse about talking video games with Tanella? You really wanted to talk to me, didn’t you? I mean, you almost kissed me behind the dumpster at school, remember?”
“How did you get this number?”
“Re-dialed from the call logs. What, is this not a good time?” I heard a wheezing, beastly sound. Still playing video games?
“No, this is definitely not a good time,” Mark said.
“Okay, well, I’ll be back to Augusta next weekend.”
“Great, great.”
“So, you know, if you want to get together—”
“I’ll call you.”
“Good.” I made a little humming sound. This conversation was turning me on. “I’ll let you kiss me this time.”
“Uh… yeah. Well, there’s lots of things we could do together.”
I squealed. “Are you talking dirty to me?” OMG! He wants me, bad.
“Hold that thought. Gotta go. Don’t call back. I’m in church.”
He hung up.
“Do they make video games with dinosaurs in church?” I said to a disconnected phone. “Or was I just dumped again?”
The tub was nearly full. I slipped into the roiling waters and let the warm jets caress me and vowed that no good mangy Italian dog Mark Bricchetti would never do likewise.
* * * *
A dip in the hot tub washed that jerk right out of my mind. I felt refreshed and ready to tan. I decided to wiggle into my suit and jiggle down to the pool. So, I unplugged my smartphone and checked the battery. Dang! Still barely charged. I reminded myself to get the battery checked, but took the phone and a set of ear buds with me anyway, desperate for musical companionship. I rode down the elevator, listening to a new Taylor Swift album I’d downloaded.
I know, I know! Some kids at my school hate country. They say it’s totally lame, but I don’t care. Adults are always telling me I look like Taylor Swift. Besides, I’ve always liked all kinds of music—rap, rock, R&B, oldies. But I especially love country. Don’t tell anybody, okay? It’s our secret. Listening with naughty glee as Taylor wailed about her latest breakup, I thanked God that even Tanella didn’t know.
The pool was closed, so I drifted to the old wharf and wandered among the seagoing cabin cruisers which floated on a high tide. This was on the channel side, facing the Georgia mainland, but I wanted sun and sea, not marsh and mainland.
I hiked across the island to the Atlantic beach where the Civil War reenactors were camping along the fence line above the dunes. Tanella had told me the big lumps of sand were off limits to protect the ecosystem, but wood bridges crossed to the shoreline. I noticed the tent closest to the dunes bridge had a sign in a funny, cartoonish script.
Welcome Seekers
Seekers? Seeking what? My curiosity bone was itching, so what the hey? I opened the flap and stepped from sunlight into gloom. Surprisingly, it was cool inside and looked larger than expected, with a wood plank floor. Incense spiced the air, but not strongly, just a whisper of scent—like a perfume bottle, opened but not splashed.
A girl about eighteen years old, I guessed, sat behind an unvarnished wooden table. She was wearing a dark blue robe, and across from her waited an empty chair. And she had golden eyes and red hair, which reminded me of Keshikka, that new girl at Spirit Creek.
“I am Elya-Karoo.” Her smile was slight but pleasant. “Welcome, Sally Ann.”
Okay, that surprised me. How did th
is fortune teller know my name? Probably had an online copy of the hotel registration. Not many teenage girls flocked to a Civil War reenactment weekend.
“Ms. Karoo, is this supposed to be a Yankee gypsy tent?” Well, her robe was blue. I sat in the chair.
“Please call me Elya.”
She offered me a cup of tea, which I didn’t notice until her hand reached for the blue-and-white tea pot. I accepted the cup. It tasted like warm cranberry juice. Not bad.
“Okay, Elya. Are there Rebel gypsies here, too?”
“Not a gypsy. I’m from Miyos. My role is Observer.” Elya-Karoo smiled.
“Are you from Norway?”
“Much farther away. Think of me as a foreign correspondent working a story.”
“Cool. I guess. My family comes from Norway.” She looked more like a Weasley from Hogwarts, and way too young to be a reporter from overseas. But she did have a funny accent. Role player, like Mark Bricchetti? I still couldn’t believe the jerk called me to talk to Tanella!
“So, what have you observed?” I said.
“The surge of history converges around you and your friend.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“No.”
Well, that sat me up straight. “Why not?”
“The future is never specific. It moves, like all living things.”
Now she was starting to sound like Yoda. I shrugged. “Always liked history. Glad to hear it’s surging around me an’ Tanella—right?”
“Great storms approach.”
“The hurricane is coming, for real?”
“Life storms.”
“Okay, sure. Gotta run.” I dropped a dollar on the table.
She pushed it back. “Be cautious.”
“Thanks. Good talk. See you.” I scooped up my buck and left the tent.
I wandered around, listening to Taylor Swift and re-playing that strange conversation, until I found myself far down the beach from the Island Club Hotel. I had get-wet equipment—my Hawaiian towel and favorite swimming suit—but all I’d done so far is sip tea with a nice looney from overseas. I took the next wood bridge over the dune to the Atlantic beach.
That’s where I found the gazebo. What a great place. Gray weathered wood with a shingled roof, it rose above the end of a boardwalk that zigzagged across a shrub zone between island shade trees and high dunes guarding the beach. I watched waves crash against white sand for a while, then traced pelicans, smoke-gray like the gazebo, as they glided over the surf in groups of three or four. I wondered if they were fishing, or hunting girl pelicans.
