“I know.”
“Fox-Sea Lady,” he counters.
“Surfvivor,” I say.
“Knot Tonight.”
“Frayed Knot.”
“I think I’ve seen that one!” His chest rises with laughter. “They dock in Chicago sometimes, right?”
“Yes!” I turn around to face him. “It took me forever to get the double meaning, and when I did, I thought, Not worth the effort.”
He laughs. “Okay, Boatilicious.”
I smirk at him. “Have you noticed that all of yours are a little naughty?”
“Are you spelling that K-N-O-T-T-Y?” he asks. “Because you should. You’re a boat girl, you know.”
I lean back against him again and laugh, and I imagine that comment would have made me bristle at the beginning of the summer. But now, being a boat girl seems like a pretty cool thing.
When he smiles at me, I feel like I’m sitting
under a heat lamp. I live for the times when
his fingers brush my leg at lunch, or when we
pass in the hallways and he raises his
eyebrows at me, like we have a secret. I
should feel bad—and I do, most of the
time—but how can I stop thinking about him
when seeing his face makes me feel so alive?
I know you’re not supposed to look back on your diary until you’re, like, forty or something, but I often flip to a few months ago and reread what I wrote. It seems like my feelings change all the time, so even just a little while back I might have seen things totally differently.
Case in point: I can’t believe I wrote that entry about Ethan just two months ago! The way I’m feeling now, about James, is so much better. It’s like Ethan was just in my imagination somehow. Nothing was ever real with him. He was with Amanda. James is with me.
chapter thirty-five
“But you’re always with him!” shouts Olive, sticking her lower lip out in a world-class pout.
“I am not,” I say. “We’re out at sea and we’re not even on the same boat! I’m on a boat with you. How could I always be with him?”
My logic is flawless.
“Whenever we dock at a marina, you run over to Dreaming of Sylvia and you won’t let me come with you,” she says. “It isn’t fair.”
I look to Mom for help, but she just shrugs.
“Olive is making a valid request, Clem,” she says. “She wants to spend time with you.”
“You and James have been hanging out a lot,” says Dad.
I roll my eyes.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” says Mom. “You know we like James. I just think your little sister wants some attention too.”
“She has all day with me almost every day!” I say. “We’re trapped on a boat, in case you guys haven’t noticed.”
“Please, can I come with you today?” asks Olive.
How can I explain to my ten-year-old sister that what I really want to do is go over to James’s boat and curl up with him in his cozy stateroom and kiss until my mind is completely scrambled? That’s what I’ve been doing for the past week, whenever we’re docked together, which James and I are making sure happens basically whenever we’re docked.
We haven’t discussed the Ethan and Amanda situation a lot, but I did tell him about the day I went on Facebook and saw that she and Ethan were back together.
“That’s crazy,” said James.
“I know,” I said.
“You didn’t have any messages from the guy, what’s his name?” he asked.
“Ethan.”
“Ethan,” he said, like the sound of the name bothered him. “You didn’t have any messages from him?”
“No.”
“Does that make you upset?” he asked.
“Not really.” I was more upset about the “BITCH” message from Amanda, but I didn’t mention that—I didn’t want to face it.
“Are you over him?” asked James.
“I think so,” I said, truthfully. “But I mean, I don’t know if I have anything to get over. It wasn’t real.”
He smiled, brushing back a piece of hair from my forehead. “You still felt something.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But I spent the beginning of the summer thinking that the pain I was in had to do with missing Ethan, like he was what mattered.”
“He broke your heart, huh?” asked James.
“No,” I said. “At first that’s what I thought the hurt was about. But I don’t think it was.”
“What do you mean?”
“He didn’t break my heart,” I said. “I did. Losing Amanda did. It isn’t about Ethan.”
James looked at me then, and a smile started to spread across his face.
“Good,” he said. “Because this Ethan kid? He sounds like a dick.”
I let a little laugh escape me then, and James pulled me in for more kissing. I know they say laughter’s the best medicine, but kissing? It’s definitely also Top 5.
“Clem!” shouts Olive, shaking me out of my in-the-cabin-with-James dream state. “Please, please let me come today?”
I look at her pathetic pout. It’s easier for me and James to, um, snuggle on his boat because his dad usually takes the dinghy out fishing as soon as they tie up at the marina. He got mad at us the other day when we hijacked it to go for a ride because we didn’t get back until after six, and he “needs to have a line in by 4 p.m.”
Lightbulb!
“Okay, Olive,” I say. “You can come with me.”
“Yay!” she says, rushing over and attacking my waist with a little-armed bear hug.
Then I say, real casually, “Oh, why don’t you bring your fishing rod?”
“Do you guys fish off the boat?” asks Olive.
“Um, sometimes!” I say.
Mom eyes me suspiciously.
“We do,” I lie. “I mean, we would if we felt like it.”
Dad laughs. “Fishing? Is that what they call it these days?”
Could my parents be more humiliating?
“Let’s go,” I say to Olive. Then I stick my tongue out at Mom and Dad. They both laugh at me.
When we get to Dreaming of Sylvia, James greets us from the cockpit.
“Hey, hey, lovely ladies,” he says.
Olive grins and takes James’s hand as she boards the boat.
I step up on my own.
“Hi there,” he says to me, kissing me quickly on the lips.
“Sorry about this,” I whisper, eyeing Olive. “I was thinking maybe she and your dad might—”
“Dad’s kind of sick today,” interrupts James. “I was hoping we could go to your boat, actually.”
“I’d rather not,” I say, half smiling. Although I’m in a loving-my-parents phase, I do need some time away. The hours on Dreaming of Sylvia have saved me these past couple of weeks. And not just because of the kissing.
“Yeah!” says Olive. “That boat gets booooring.”
James smiles. “Okay, we’ll stay here. Let’s set up on the dock, though. I don’t want to wake up Dad.”
He grabs three towels and we spread them out along the wooden planks near the boat. Olive drops a line in next to the pier, where she’ll probably only catch little sunfish, if she hooks anything. But she’s happy to be included.
And really? I don’t mind having her here. If we’re not going to kiss in the cabin anyway, that is.
“My mom used to fish off the dock,” says James, once we get settled onto our towels. We’re both leaning against a wooden pole, sitting side by side as Olive casts and reels, casts and reels, in front of us.
“Oh yeah?” asks Olive. “What did she catch?”
“She never caught much.” He laughs and looks far away, like he’s thinking back. “It didn’t matter, though.”
He turns to face me, and his eyes are lit up with remembering. “Dad would come back from fishing out on the dinghy like he still does, and Mom would send me into the cabin to wash u
p for dinner. Then she’d look in the cooler for Dad’s biggest catch. When I came out of the cabin—and this went on until I was, like, ten—she’d hold up the biggest fish and pretend that she’d just caught it. Dad would beam at her like he was so proud, and she’d laugh and laugh. I thought she was a magical fisherman, always catching something when I wasn’t looking.”
I smile. “That’s funny.”
“She was a practical jokes person,” he says. “She always had an entertaining way to trick me.”
“You didn’t go out fishing with your dad?” I ask.
“Nah,” he says. “I usually stayed on the boat and hung out with Mom. Dad’s fishing ritual is kind of solitary, actually.”
“I love fishing with my dad,” says Olive, reeling in another empty hook. She doesn’t even frown, though, just casts it back out into the water with a flick of her wrist.
“Yeah,” says James. “I loved dock fishing with Mom too. And I always believed it was her catch, somehow. Dad didn’t even mind.”
“Is it hard to, you know … remember stuff about her?” I ask. I’m thinking about Amanda, and how every time I’ve thought of her this summer, the memory has come with a sharp pang, because maybe it feels like she’s gone, really gone.
“No,” says James. “She’s still my mom.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised. “You’re not, like, mad or something?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head adamantly.
I tilt my head and look at him, wondering at the way he carries on, just smiling, so effortlessly. How does he do it?
He must see the question in my eyes, because then he says, “I was. Believe me, I was. I didn’t talk to her for months—Dad made me go to therapy a few times and everything.”
I look over at Olive, who’s concentrating on her rod. “And that helped?” I ask.
“Yeah,” says James. “It did. I wish my dad would go, though. I think it would help him realize that even though it ended, the memories of us as, like, a family are still there, almost tangible.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just because the situation turned out kind of messed up doesn’t mean that my memories aren’t valid,” he says. “They’re still true, still real.”
He shakes his head, laughing at himself. “I’m kind of quoting my therapist,” he admits.
I lean back on the pole and smile. I want to play his words over and over so I’ll remember them. When I first met James, I thought he rambled on and on, but none of the guys at my school are as eloquent as he is. Does it come with having a mom leave?
“Like, there was this time when my mom caught me trapping fireflies in a jar in our backyard,” says James. “They were running out of air and I had no idea, so she shook them free. She promised that they’d come back that summer to light up for me in thanks, and that we could sit outside and talk to them, just like our whole backyard was a jar full of magic. She and I sat out there every night before Dad got home from work—just watching them and making up names for them and telling stories. I swore I could tell them apart, though I guess I was imagining that, because who can even tell a girl firefly from a boy firefly—let alone specific named fireflies. But it was the best …”
I watch Olive cast out again, jig her reel at a little nibble, and then sit quietly and wait for a bigger bite. The sunlight glints off of her glasses. The waves lap at the boats beside us. James’s red hair blows softly in the summer breeze as he talks. He does ramble. But it’s the best. I look around at him, at Olive, at the waves.
“Got it,” I say, interrupting him.
“Got what?” asks James.
I smile and give him a light kiss. “My memory of today.”
chapter thirty-six
You draw like a true artist.
You’re nice to my little sister.
You have the best hair color on the planet.
I pause, chewing the end of my marker. We’re sailing today—trying to reach the Mississippi border. It’s the beginning of our last week out on the water. I can’t believe the summer’s almost over.
Olive knocks on my door.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
I hesitate, but then decide she can be helpful.
“I’m making a list for James,” I say.
“Of what?”
“Just nice things about him,” I say. I want it to be a list of things like the stuff my family said to me the other night, things maybe he doesn’t hear. I feel bad about that—everyone should know the nice things about themselves.
“Are you going to give it to him?” she asks.
“Of course!” I say.
“So it’s not like your diary or private or anything?” she asks.
“Nope,” I say, glad I haven’t gotten very far. I’m definitely going to add some kissing stuff after Olive leaves.
She sits down on my bed and tilts her head, thinking.
“He talks really fast when he’s excited,” she says.
I write it down, and then I add, “You talk slowly and thoughtfully too.”
“He smiles and laughs all the time.”
“You’re right,” I say, copying that onto the page.
“He makes you smile,” she says.
I blush, but I write it down.
“I really like him, Clem,” she says.
I almost write, “Olive really likes you,” but then I realize she’s just saying that to me. Like, approving of him for me.
“Thanks, Livy.”
“He’s not anyone’s boyfriend, is he?” she asks, her eyes wide.
I laugh at her. That question probably would have sent me scowling earlier this summer, but now I know myself better, I know I’m not that girl.
“He’s my boyfriend,” I say.
“Good,” she says, hopping off the bed. “I’m gonna go get a snack.”
She runs out of the room and I go back to thinking about James. My boyfriend. I feel a giddy smile cross my face.
You joke around with Ruth and George and
think that “old people rule.”
Your kisses make me feel like I’m dancing.
You found me a new song with my name
in it.
As we get closer to the next marina, I peek out the window and see James standing on the dock. There’s a light rain falling, and his red hair is blowing all around his face. His hands are in his pockets, and he looks like he’s been waiting.
“James!” I hear Mom greet him from the cockpit.
“Clem?”
James is calling my name.
I scramble up into the cockpit and lean over the side of the boat, out into the rain.
“Hey!” I shout, unable to squelch my grin. As soon as we’re tied up, I jump off the boat and onto the dock.
James opens up his arms. I squeeze him tightly.
That’s when I notice he’s shaking a little.
I pull back. “What’s wrong?”
“I need your help,” he says. “I need … I think I need your dad.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
I feel Mom step down onto the dock—she must see that James isn’t himself.
“James, what is it?” she asks.
He bites his lip then, and I have the urge to sweep him up in my arms and hold him close. But my mom is here. And she does it instead.
He leans on her shoulder and lets her hug him. I feel so helpless. I don’t know what to do.
Olive peeks her head out from the cockpit and then disappears. A few seconds later, she and Dad are on the dock with us.
Mom lets James go, and he wipes his face with the back of his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says, looking at my dad. “I didn’t know who to ask …”
“What’s wrong, son?” asks Dad, and I love him for his tone, for his Dad-ness.
“He just got so angry all of a sudden.” James hangs his head like he’s ashamed. “He’s mad at her, I know, but this time it’s …”
“Your f
ather?” asks Dad.
James nods.
Olive and Mom stay behind, but Dad and I follow James to the other side of the marina, where Dreaming of Sylvia is docked.
Before we went, James had to explain to Mom and Dad about his mom. They looked a little shocked—Mr. Townsend hadn’t even told them about the separation. That didn’t surprise me after seeing him hide his tears that one day, but I didn’t bring it up—that moment feels private and sacred, still.
When we reach the boat, James brings us around to the back. That’s when I see the scratches on the aft end, where the cursive letters that spelled out Dreaming of Sylvia used to be.
“He used a screwdriver or something, I think,” says James, running a hand over the angry marks.
Dad puts his arm on James’s shoulder. “Let me talk to him.”
We slowly climb aboard. James goes into the cabin first, followed by my dad. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should be here.
I take a deep breath, though, and I step inside too. It’s stuffy in the living room, like no one’s opened the windows for a day. Then I notice that there are books pulled off the shelf, and a broken glass lies on the floor. Dad and I wait in the main cabin while James knocks on the master V-berth door.
I stare at the photo I saw that first night we had dinner on Dreaming of Sylvia. The glass over it is shattered in a spiderweb pattern reaching from the center, but I can still make out the image. James looks about three or four, and his mom is holding him in her lap while his dad stands above them with his hand on her shoulder. She has his red hair. I feel a rush of sadness for their broken family and I think I might cry, but then I hear James opening the door to the V-berth.
I hear Mr. Townsend say something in a muffled tone, and James peeks his head back out.
“He doesn’t really want—” starts James.
Dad moves forward.
“James,” he says softly. “Let me. You and Clem go up top.”
James nods and comes back into the main cabin. He looks at me and gives me a half grin. Always trying.
“Let’s get some sun,” he says quietly.
I go outside and we step our way up to the bow. We plop down on the hatch above the V-berth. James leans against the mast and I sit next to him, crossing my legs in front of me.
Unbreak My Heart Page 17
