Unbreak My Heart

by Melissa Walker

  Amanda read all of these thoughts on my face. We were connected that way.

  “Ooh, I should have told you I had on a bikini top!”

  “Uh, yeah,” I said. “I mean, not that we have to wear the same thing, but …” I stopped, not sure how to phrase I want to look cute too! without sounding whiny.

  “I have an idea,” said Amanda, reaching over to pull up the bottom of my tank top.

  I stiffened.

  “Clemmy, trust me,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

  So I lifted my hands and she looped the bottom of my tank through the neckline, creating a makeshift bikini in one fell swoop. She adjusted it over my bra straps expertly.

  I looked down at my chest. Not bad.

  “Thanks!” I said.

  “One more thing.” Amanda reached into her bag and brought out a bottle of bright red nail polish called That Girl. “I’ll do yours first.”

  With our glossy ruby nails, we sat up on the blanket, peering from behind dark sunglasses and lazing around like we owned the park, giggling at our horoscopes and reading guy advice from Seventeen out loud.

  And by the end of the afternoon, I felt as cherry-red hot as Amanda did, because she rubbed off on me like that.

  chapter three

  Day three on the Illinois River. We started out near our house, which is close to Joliet, and now we’re heading toward Peoria. I know the route in great detail because Dad has navigation maps all over the place. He’s constantly updating us on knot speeds and wind patterns. Thrilling.

  My parents are big boat people. Dad was in the navy for a few years after college, and Mom grew up with parents who sailed. They’ve always had this dream that we’d go live on a sailboat, but they also have jobs and stuff—and Olive and I have school—so it’s not like the dream was very realistic. Until my dad, who’s a teacher, convinced my mom, who’s a lawyer, that she had enough seniority to request a sabbatical this year. Thus, the Great Summer of Boating.

  Hoo-ray.

  Despite the fact that my mom is officially the first mate of the ship, meaning my dad’s right-hand woman, Olive is trying to usurp that role by wearing a silly navy hat and shouting “Aye-aye, Captain!” whenever my dad breathes. I have no interest in participating in the sailing, and I’ve mostly been down below in my cabin listening to music and itching for an Internet signal. But I know I’d just make myself more unhappy if I could stalk people online and read their “OMG we’re having so much fun this summer!!!” updates. It’s better to pretend Bishop Heights doesn’t exist.

  Tonight we’re anchored in a tiny inlet off the main river, which is pretty narrow. Olive helps Mom lower the chain, tugging on the anchor to be sure it caught. I sit in the cockpit waiting for dinner—“SpaghettiO Surprise al-fresco,” Mom calls it. She brings out bowls of what appears to be a mix of SpaghettiOs and hamburger meat, plus canned peas and sour cream baked together. I’m not saying it’s bad, I’m just saying it is definitely from A Man, A Can, and a Plan. After we eat, I go to my cabin and continue being a moody loner. It’s hard to be antisocial on a forty-two-foot boat, but I’m managing pretty well so far. As long as I eat family dinner with them, my parents mostly leave me alone.

  Still, as I hear Mom and Dad and Olive play a game of Triple Solitaire on the fold-up table—laughing and shouting and slapping their hands down on each other’s cards—I feel a pang.

  I shut off my iPod and listen for a while. At first they’re talking about the game. Olive is small, but she has really fast hands.

  “No fair!” says Dad. “I couldn’t tell if that ace was spades or clubs.” He wears thick glasses, so he’s always complaining like this and using his eyes as an excuse.

  “I’m the only one with just two eyes in this game,” says Mom. “And I’m wiping the floor with your combined eight.”

  Olive stays quiet, but I can almost picture her concentration as she shuffles through the cards in her hands, three at a time, three at a time. She’s always got a plan.

  Suddenly I hear a wild round of slap-downs, and then a victorious “I win!” from Olive. “Never count your chickens before the cart, Mom.”

  I hear my parents crack up—Olive is always mixing two expressions, like “Never count your chickens before they hatch” and “Don’t put the cart before the horse.” I smile in spite of my perpetual bad mood. But then I hear my sister’s feet coming down the hallway toward my door, and I frown again.

  She knocks.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Want to play cards?” She’s hanging on the door handle as she peers into my room. I watch her eyes roam around, taking in my scene. iPod at the ready, balled-up tissues on the nightstand, pink feathered pen, and journal open at my side with manic marks in it.

  I swat the journal closed in case her glasses are strong enough to let her read from that far away. I’ve been writing about Ethan again.

  “No,” I say.

  She smiles at me in spite of my negativity. It kind of annoys me, and that makes me feel bad, which makes me more annoyed. Vicious cycle.

  “Okay,” says Olive gently. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Then she closes the door softly and goes back to the main cabin.

  I hear them shuffle the cards while they talk about me. I don’t know why they don’t get that we’re on a boat where I can hear everything.

  “When is she going to snap out of this?” asks Dad.

  “She just needs some time,” says Mom.

  “She’s sad,” says Olive. And her little voice, so full of sympathy for me even though I’ve been mean to her, makes fresh tears spring to my eyes.

  I feel guilty. I write that down in my journal. Then I curl up in a ball and listen to my family play cards without me.

  The next morning, Dad makes an announcement: we’re going to stop at a marina outside of Peoria today for gas and supplies. Our job options are emptying the marine-head holding tank (which is pretty much cleaning the toilet) or going ashore to stock up.

  Once it’s clear that I’m not going to be able to avoid a task by closing my door and putting in earbuds, I volunteer to go for supplies. The marine toilets completely freak me out.

  I take a quick “navy shower” as Dad refers to them—that’s where I turn on the water to get wet, turn it off while I soap up and shampoo, then turn it back on to rinse off, so the water’s on for, like, a total of one minute, maybe two. Conditioner? It’s a luxury of land life.

  I’m combing out my wet hair when we pull into the marina. I throw on a white tank top and jean shorts over my bathing suit. Then I slip into my boat shoes, which actually look pretty cool on-boat or off-. They’re slate gray with white laces, and they make me feel very nautical.

  I grab four canvas eco-bags from the galley cabinet, and Olive meets me in the cockpit. My parents are already hooking up the holding tanks to the marina’s waste-suction hose. Dad hands me a few twenties and a list he and Mom made. “See what’s available at the dock deli,” he says. “They should have most of this stuff.”

  I nod and start off toward the general store—it’s not really called the dock deli, that’s just Dad being Dad. I know that Olive’s on my heels. I can already feel my legs wobbling; you lose your “land legs” after a few days on the boat, so standing on solid ground again actually feels shaky.

  I open the screen door to the store and hold it for Olive. She slips inside and grabs the list from my hands. “I’ll get the evaporated milk and the raisins!” she shouts. And then she’s off to explore. The store is pretty standard for a marina shop: gray wind-washed wood, big live-bait tank with bubbling filters along the wall, a surly bearded guy at the counter with a toothpick in his mouth, just waiting for the boaters to arrive and buy overpriced supplies. There’s a poster in the back that makes sexist jokes about why a ship is called “she.” One example is “She shows her top-sides, hides her bottom, and when coming into port, she always heads for the buoys.” Bad puns are really popular with boat people. Just ask the couple dock
ed next to us who named their boat Knot Shore.

  I pick up a basket and start walking through the aisles, finding Mom’s requested chamomile tea (she forgot it) and Dad’s giant pack of cinnamon gum (he never brings enough to last more than a few days). As I’m rounding the corner to look for strawberry yogurt, my basket collides directly with someone else’s—someone who’s filled his basket to the brim with bananas. One bunch falls to the ground.

  “Oh, crap!” says the redheaded guy attached to the fruit overload.

  “Sorry,” I say, rubbing my stomach where my own basket jammed into me.

  We both lean down to pick up the bananas, and—boom!—our foreheads collide.

  “Damn!” he says as we stand up. He’s holding his head, one eye shut, the other cocked at me, with a big grin on his face.

  Then he puts his hands out in front of him, the basket dangling on one arm.

  “Okay, back away,” he says.

  “Huh?” I ask.

  “You’re obviously an assassin sent to kill me by collision,” he says.

  I smile slightly and touch my forehead, which is throbbing a little.

  “I could say the same thing about you.”

  Just then, Olive rounds the corner behind the redheaded guy and hits him—smack!—in the butt.

  “Ooh, sorry!” she says, hurrying past him to get to me. She throws condensed milk into our basket.

  “What the—?” says redheaded guy. “Two assassins?!”

  I laugh then, and the sound surprises me.

  He smiles. “You’ve got a nice laugh, Miss …”

  “Williams,” I say. “I mean, Clem. I’m Clem.”

  “I’m James,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  He waves his non-banana-basket-holding hand and I smile. As I may have mentioned, he’s got flaming red hair and about a million freckles. He’s also supertall and has a grin that engulfs his face. I decide he’s cute before I can help myself.

  He leans down and successfully picks up the fallen banana bunch.

  “Sorry again,” I say, edging past him to get to the refrigerated aisle.

  “It’s quite all right,” says James in a game-show-announcer voice. “I’ll see you around!”

  I keep moving toward the yogurt.

  The bell over the door jingles about a minute later, and I imagine Red is gone, back to his boat full of bananas. Which is kind of gross if you think about it, because bananas in tight spaces start to turn and make everything smell and taste like banana. Ick.

  Olive and I check out a few minutes later, and we walk back to The Possibility. She chatters on about how she only got the Double Stuf Oreos because Mom said she was allowed to pick one treat that wasn’t on the list, and this was like a family pack of treats for us all. I smile at her.

  “I support the Double Stuf decision.”

  “Thanks, Clem!” she shouts, and then she skips ahead, her small body wobbling under the weight of two full canvas grocery bags.

  I take my time strolling down the dock to the boat.

  There’s a tortoiseshell cat stepping along the wooden planks, and I watch her walk toward an old lady who’s holding some kind of silver reflecting screen under her chin.

  “Ahoy there!” says the lady as I pass. She’s got a scratchy voice, like she’s smoked for a long time. My grandmother has the same rasp.

  “Hello!” I shout, waving my arm in the air to greet her. Boat people tend to be louder and more enthusiastic versions of land people. I guess that’s so you can hear and see each other out on the water, and it spills over onto land, too, with real boaters—they’re always shouting and gesticulating. This silver-screen lady is no exception.

  She puts down her reflecting device and waves me over to her end of the dock. I walk slowly toward her. You can’t really ignore boat people. You’re not in a hurry to get home, you don’t have anything pressing to attend to. You’re sailing. It’s summer. There are no excuses not to chat.

  “Honey, I just love those little sneakers you have on,” says the old lady. I notice that her hair is dyed that funny yellow that whitehaired people get when they try to stay blond. Her face is sweet-potato orange and her wrinkles are strong and deep, like she’s baked for years. I wonder if she’s heard about skin cancer and SPF, but I decide it’s not my place to tell her.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I got them in Chicago.”

  “Oh, city girl?” she says. “I should have known by your walk.”

  I laugh, for the second time today. “No. Suburban girl. But maybe I’ll move to the city one day.”

  “You should, honey,” she says. “That’s where adventure lies.”

  I think that I’ve had enough adventure for a while, but I don’t say that to her. “I’m Clementine.”

  “Oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’ Clementine!” I hear a booming male voice coming from the cabin of sun-lady’s boat, and a rounder, more masculine version of the silver-screen lady appears in the cockpit.

  “Ahoy there!” he says. This must be their standard greeting.

  “Hi,” I say, noticing that he’s also Oompa Loompa–colored. But his hair is gray and white, not blond. Otherwise, they could be boy-girl twins.

  “I’m Ruth, and this is George,” says the raspy voice.

  “We’re doing the Great Loop!” says George. That’s what the route we’re traveling on is called; it encircles the east coast of the United States and even goes up into Canada, but we’re just sailing a small part of it.

  “We are too,” I say. “Well, not the whole thing. My little sister, Olive, and I have school, and our parents have to go back to work in the fall.”

  “Don’t worry, love,” says Ruth. “One day you’ll be a retiree like us, and you’ll be able to sail all you like!”

  “Can’t wait,” I say, thinking that I will never do another summer like this, stranded with my family and my guilt.

  I feel the cat rubbing at my legs.

  “Is she yours?” I ask.

  “Mrs. Ficklewhiskers.” George steps off the boat with a groan. He bends over to scratch her under the chin.

  “She’s a pirate cat,” says Ruth.

  “Oh,” I say. Huh? “Well, I should get these groceries back to my mom.”

  I turn to walk away, and Ruth says, “Don’t lose that stride.”

  “I won’t,” I say. “Thanks.”

  But really? I have no idea what she means. Boat people are often crazy. Did I mention that?

  Still, crazy people can be fun—especially during a summer when the sane ones aren’t really speaking to you. So I let myself enjoy this moment on land, in the sun.

  The redheaded guy was about my age, I think. He didn’t look at me like I was a total bitch or some kind of horrible human being. Neither did George or Ruth. They seemed to like me. So did Mrs. Ficklewhiskers, the pirate cat. And I get that that’s because they don’t know me or what went on with me last year or anything. But still. They all treated me like I had a blank slate. Like I was just plain Clem, a girl with a pretty laugh and a nice walk.

  But I guess if they knew me, they’d hate me too.

  chapter four

  “Ouch!” My elbow slams into the edge of the main cabin doorway as the boat rocks to one side. “Olive, sit down!” I order my sister into a safe spot on the sofa.

  I get up to check on Mom and Dad—to see if they need any help above deck. I’m wearing my thick yellow slicker (that’s what Dad calls it, in a dorky voice), but I still get blasted with sideways rain when I peek my head out of the cabin.

  We woke up this morning to a light drizzle. Dad wanted to move anyway—his schedule has us going forty miles today, which will take eight hours at our five-knot speed—and we set out. But we’ve run into a much bigger storm now that it’s early afternoon. We’re just looking for shelter.

  “Clem, get back down there!” shouts Mom over the howling wind. She’s manning the captain’s wheel while Dad untangles some ropes near the bow. We hit a
wave and my shoulder lurches into the door frame again, but I’m ready this time and I turn so that it doesn’t hurt.

  I poke my head back out and look forward to make sure Dad’s okay. He waves at me with a big grin on his face. As ridiculous as it sounds, he kind of loves this.

  “Okay,” I say to Mom. “Call me if you need help.”

  “Just keep Olive seated.”

  I go back down and find Olive in the galley, trying to reach the peanut butter.

  “Dude, this is not snack time,” I say. “Sit. Down.”

  “I was going to make you something for lunch,” says Olive, relenting and walking over to me on experienced sea legs.

  “I’m not hungry.” Who can eat in this toss-and-turn situation? She’s crazy.

  We sit together on the couch and I pick up my book, but the words swim in front of me whenever a wave hits, and it makes me feel nauseous. I put the book down.

  “Remember when Amanda threw up?” asks Olive. She laughs just like she did that day.

  “Yeah,” I say, smiling slightly.

  It was the summer between seventh and eighth grade, and Amanda and I were on the boat for the weekend with my dad and Olive.

  “Do you think each colored chip has a different flavor?” I had asked.

  We were waiting for the Funfetti rainbow cake to cool before we frosted it.

  “Sure,” said Amanda. “Blue is blueberry, pink is strawberry, yellow is banana …”

  “I don’t know.” I dipped a spoon into the frosting container and tried to fish out a pink chip. “They all taste kind of vanilla-y to me.”

  “Have some imagination, Clem,” said Amanda, fluttering her electric-blue-mascaraed eyelashes. “It’s more fun if they’re flavored.”

  I shrugged. Baking on the boat was this thing Amanda liked to do. “Isn’t it crazy that we can make a cake while floating at sea?” she’d say. And I’d remind her that we were on a lake, but that didn’t seem to matter. Like with the rainbow chip “flavors,” boring facts did not deter her colorful worldview.