Girl at Sea

by Maureen Johnson

  Girl at Sea

  Maureen Johnson

  For Mary Marguerite Johnson,

  the world’s greatest mother,

  arguably its best nurse,

  and the person likely to find

  the most safety violations in this story

  Contents

  Map

  London, May 1897

  The Secret That Dare Not Speak Its Name

  Where There Is a Balloon, There Is Always a Pin

  Mementos and Omens

  Your Kind of Crowd

  Dangerous Contraptions

  Mental Scarring and Jokes That Aren’t Funny

  The Sea Butterfly

  The Sea Rules

  The Champagne Suite

  London, November 1897

  At Sea

  Kidnapped

  Confinement, Not Solitary

  The Snoop

  Rules and Transgressions

  The Escape

  A Brief History of Floridian Girl-Lifting

  Eurotrash Springs Eternal

  Kill It If It Moves

  The SS Bell Star May 1897

  Rescue

  The Venom

  Oyster Girl

  Choices

  Temptations and Voices

  A Kind of Truth

  A General Malfunction

  The Exchange

  The Date

  Do Not Push the Shiny Orange Button

  Mistaken Identity

  Impulsive Decisions

  The Diver

  The Stone

  Prisoners

  The Great Beyond

  The Truth

  Kos, Greece, March 1905

  The Worst Summer of My Life

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Maureen Johnson

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Map

  * * *

  London, May 1897

  Lightning flashed over Big Ben, and a bruise-like darkness draped over the dome of St. Paul’s. On the streets of London, sudden claps of thunder caused horses to start and carriages to collide. The British Museum was packed with people seeking shelter from the oppressive weather within its massive halls, among its great stones. Unfortunately, too many people had the same idea; there was hardly room for them. The pressure in the air grew as screaming children ran between the display cases and tables, knocking into them. Crowds bumped around the priceless Elgin marbles from the crown of the Parthenon.

  Eighteen-year-old Marguerite Magwell slipped through easily, not really noticing the chaos that was going on around her. She was even unaware of the ominous sky outside. If you had asked her at that moment if it was hot in the museum, she would not have been able to answer. Her own body was bone cold. The humidity that dampened her cornflower blue dress simply made her colder. She was hatless and gloveless. Her blond hair was loosely pinned up and curled wildly in this intense weather. Her appearance was not a concern; she didn’t know what she looked like, didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was the small slip of paper she clutched in her right hand. In her mind there was one thought only: go to Jonathan. Jonathan Hill had been her father’s favorite student, besides herself. Jonathan needed to know. Jonathan could help her now, at the only time in her life when she truly did not know what to do.

  Other people noticed her. Even in this state, Marguerite was striking, equal parts wild and delicate, with a face whose fine proportions could have been immortalized in marble. People eased aside as she pressed her way forward to the statue of Ramses II in the long Egyptian gallery. The statue occupied a place of pride in the columned hall. Marguerite fixed her eyes on the cold, pupil-less ones above her, the eyes of a king dead for thousands of years. She had never understood until this moment why the Egyptians tried so hard to preserve themselves after death. How wonderful it must have been for them to believe so strongly that the dead lived on, that they could be reached, that they would need their bodies!

  No time to think about that.

  She continued on, pushing between the overstuffed display cases and people, moving from room to room, feeling like she had less and less air to breathe. The door she was looking for was unmarked. Most people would not have been able to tell that it wasn’t just a wooden panel between two cases of monkey skulls. The curators worked behind these secret doors, unseen by the populace, in offices even more crowded than the museum floor itself. Having practically grown up in the museum, she knew exactly what she was looking for. Marguerite moved aside two little boys who leaned on the panel she required and pounded on the door with the flat of her hand. A moment later, a familiar face appeared, smiling, slightly dazed. Jonathan’s sandy hair was in need of a barber’s touch, and he had ink all over his long fingers.

  “Marguerite!” he said, shifting his collar nervously. “What brings you to the museum today? Sorry, I’ve been writing all morning; I don’t want to cover you in this…Oh, I’ve just gotten it on my neck, haven’t I? Never mind….”

  Marguerite could not bring herself to say why she had come just yet. Her throat was dry, and it felt like a hand had grabbed it and was squeezing it.

  “It’s very hot today,” he sputtered, noticing her distress. “Would you care to take a walk around the courtyard with me? They’re selling lemon ices in the square.”

  “Lemon what?” she asked abruptly.

  “Ices?” he repeated.

  “Oh. Ices.”

  There was a darkening at the windows, and a great crack of thunder broke above the museum, causing several ladies to cry out. A moment later, there was a pounding on the roof as the rain came down.

  “Listen to that,” Jonathan said, looking up at the ceiling. “It’s like the great flood out there. I suppose that rules out the possibility of the lemon ices. Let me get the porter to start turning on the lights so that they—”

  “I have news of my father,” she interrupted.

  “Wonderful!” He touched her hand lightly. “How’s the work in Pompeii going? When does he arrive home? Did I get ink on you? Oh, I did, didn’t I? Here, let me—”

  “He doesn’t,” she interrupted him again.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, already grabbing for his handkerchief and dabbing the spot of ink on her hand unsuccessfully.

  “His ship,” she managed.

  “His ship?” he repeated. “What about his ship? Marguerite, are you well? Do you need to sit down? You’ve gone very pale.”

  She held out her tightly closed fist, the paper sticking out of it. Jonathan carefully pried it loose. She watched him take in the words. He reached up and held the doorframe, then looked at her.

  “Marguerite, I—”

  There was another enormous crack overhead. The heavens were screaming. It was as if the waters were coming for her as well. The whole world would drown.

  “He’s gone,” she said.

  * * *

  The Secret That Dare Not Speak Its Name

  Ollie was in aisle five of Galaxy Art Supply stocking oil paints when Clio Ford emerged from the manager’s office. From her vantage spot by the modeling clay, she could watch him for a moment, drink it all in.

  Ollie Myers. Absurdly tall at six-foot five. His hair was shaggy today. He was wearing a deep navy blue button-down shirt and a wide, seventies-style tie. He looked down over the slots that the little tubes went into, carefully making sure that the right colors went into the right places. He cared about that, and it killed her. It really did. She could watch him putting paints away all day. Sad, but extremely true.

  Time for the show.

  She was standing straight, so she slumped a little and arranged her face into a mask of minor melancholy. She approached slowly. />
  “Hey,” she said.

  Ollie turned. Good reflexes. (He used to do all-terrain skateboarding. Very badly, he said. Very, very badly. Humble as well. Could you ask for more in a man? No. It was impossible. All human wants had been fulfilled in him.)

  Which was why this could never work. She had to be dreaming.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Well…” Clio began. “I’m only a junior in high school, and apparently, most Galaxy employees are in college. And I have no retail experience. No job experience at all, actually.”

  “Oh,” Ollie said. His face fell.

  “But…” Clio went on. “I have this.”

  She held up her arm, showing the long tattoo that wound around her right forearm: an electric-blue-and-pink zipper with three yellow-and-black stars flying out of the toggle.

  “You got the job!” he said.

  “You know it!” Clio said, feeling herself beaming.

  Clio had prepared for the interview with her typical precision. White jeans, gently streaked with lavender paint from when she repainted her room. A pink short-sleeved T-shirt from a manga publisher. A chunky belt she’d made herself by attaching laminated matchbook covers to a plain old leather belt from a thrift store. Long, honey-brown hair worn up, pinned in place with two green cloisonné chopsticks. And the master stroke, her tattoo boldly on display. No long sleeves, no arm warmers, no sticking her arm behind her back. No excuses. The freak flag was flying at full mast.

  Her cell phone buzzed in her bag. It had gone off four times during the interview. She ignored it.

  “I’m still amazed,” she said. “I didn’t think they liked to see tattoos at job interviews. Unless you’re applying to work at a meth lab. Or a tattoo parlor. I guess that would make sense….”

  “Or an art store,” he said. “I told you that tattoo would do it. Daphne loves Masahiro Sato. You were in the second she heard he drew that.”

  “She did get excited,” Clio said, remembering the glow in the store manager’s eyes when she said the name of the man who had drawn her tattoo. He was one of Tokyo’s most famous manga artists. He had a massive cult following.

  “This may be a historical moment,” she said. “This is the first time one of my dad’s insane impulses actually worked out for me.”

  “Your dad wanted you to get the tattoo?” he asked.

  “Not exactly,” Clio said. “It’s a long story. A long, boring story.”

  “I doubt that,” he answered. “I guess I’ll have to make your name tag. I can even make it now. Want a name tag?”

  Ollie was from Texas, and he had a voice that dripped low and slow into Clio’s ear. He could draw out the words name tag and make it sound like something you would deeply want and cherish forever. She found herself nodding heavily. He took her to a back corner of the store, where there was a small cabinet and a computer. He reached into the cabinet and produced a little machine.

  “Okay,” he said. “It’s C-l-e-o, right?”

  “C-l-i-o.”

  “Is that a family name or something?” he asked.

  “Not exactly,” Clio said. “I was named after a Muse.”

  “A Muse? As in the Greek Muses?”

  “Yep,” Clio said. “Weird parents. What can I tell you?”

  “You’re a muse,” he said. “I’ve always wanted a muse. Can you help me paint?”

  “I’m the muse of history,” she said. “Is that any help?”

  “A muse is always a help,” he said, typing into the label maker.

  Muuuuse. How had she never noticed the magical power of the Southern accent before? In the eight months that she had known Ollie, she had realized that it was attractive, but she hadn’t heard it much. Their exchanges took place at the counter, when he was telling her how much stuff cost. Even still, he could make things that cost “eight dollars and sixty-four cents” seem worth every penny.

  It wasn’t until this last month, when he started talking to her as he restocked the shelves, that she got to hear the accent in all its glory. He was a painter and a freshman at Penn. He shared her obsessive love of beautiful, rich inks. He usually wore a vintage pinstripe jacket, rode an old purple bicycle, and smelled like an art studio—a faintly chemical, extremely familiar and homey smell. He missed his sisters in Austin, had no spare cash, and wasn’t above attending openings of art exhibitions he didn’t like just to get the snacks.

  Clio, on the other hand, was a high school junior with a past and yet very little to say about the present. She tended to make her own clothes. (Out of other clothes, so it didn’t really count. It wasn’t like she was wearing homespun or sweaters she had knitted herself.) She lived in a massive, messy Victorian right near the Penn campus. And once upon a time, her parents had been married, and she and her father had invented a little game called Dive!, which turned into a very big deal. Once upon a time, she had been almost rich, not exactly famous, and totally happy. Her life had been unusual. There was a lot of traveling. A Japanese comic book artist had drawn on her arm. Things like that.

  But an unusual life is not, by definition, a great one. And now, at seventeen, she felt the deficiencies had been made painfully clear. And there was one that was bothering Clio more than any other.

  She had never been kissed.

  It was shocking. It was embarrassing. It was largely inexplicable, but Clio knew the general place where the blame could be cast. But that was a long story, too. One that was about to end, she hoped.

  The phone buzzed again. She shoved it farther down in her bag.

  Ollie carefully tore off the clear sticky strip with Clio’s name printed on it and stuck it to his cheek as he went rummaging in a box for a blank tag. Once he found one, he applied the sticker to it with extreme care. The tag was tiny in his massive hands.

  “Here we go,” he said. “Do I get to pin it on you?”

  “Sure,” she said, struggling to keep her voice from cracking.

  He leaned down to her, which genuinely took some effort, considering he was a foot taller than she was. Now he was at face level with her. He gently pinched up some of her shirt, choosing his spot carefully, just under the left shoulder, directly above her heart. She watched his face as he delicately pierced the fabric; he bit the corner of his lower lip while he worked. The pin shut with a snap, but he didn’t move. He just looked her right in the eye.

  Was this it? The kiss? The one she’d been waiting her whole pathetic life for? Here? Now? In the aisle of an art store? Was that possible? It certainly looked like he was in the right position. Levels correct. Expression correct.

  Pretend you know what you’re doing, she told herself quickly. This is a good general rule in life. When in doubt, pretend that you know what you’re doing. Just go with it. Do something. Fake it until you catch on.

  A man came around the corner and stood behind Clio, waiting patiently. Ollie looked at him over Clio’s head and backed up.

  “Have to help the next person,” he said, a trace of regret on his face. “When do you come in again?”

  “I start training tomorrow,” she said.

  “I’ll train you myself,” he said. “If that’s okay. But you already know your way around pretty well. Probably better than anyone here.”

  He smiled that slow, Southern smile.

  Her phone buzzed again.

  “Someone really wants to talk to you,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “I get that,” he said, closing with a smile before turning his attention to the man, who was already mumbling something about looking for a reliable adhesive for small tiles.

  The phone continued to buzz and shake and generally rattle itself to pieces as Clio walked home. She looked at the display.

  Unknown caller.

  Unknown caller.

  Unknown caller.

  Mom.

  Jackson.

  Unknown caller four more times.

  She was popular today, at least with the unknown caller, who w
asn’t unknown at all. That was her dad. Unknown caller plus insane repetition equaled dad, every time. He could get on a calling jag and be relentless about it. He was like a little kid—once he got an idea in his head, he made a big fuss until he got what he was screaming for.

  Well, he could wait. She needed time to savor this blissful moment. It was a light, gorgeous late afternoon in the springtime, and she wanted to play her favorite fantasy in her head….

  They were at the beach, she and Ollie. They were sharing that brown-and-orange blanket that Clio had gotten in Peru for five dollars—the one she thought would make such a good beach blanket, except she had never taken it to the beach. It covered the bamboo chair in the corner of her room. Ollie wore long, blue trunks with a pattern of flames coming from the bottom of each leg. She wore a red bikini. She didn’t own a red bikini, but she was wearing one. Sometimes her brain misfired in the fantasy and gave her red boots as well, and she would have to fix the image and start again.

  Anyway, they were on the beach, sharing the blanket. Clio’s best friend, Jackson, was there on a towel next to them. Jackson would be trying to read her magazine, but every time she looked up, Clio and Ollie would be kissing again. Obviously, because he was so tall—he was like Mr. Torso—he would have to crane his neck down to kiss her.

  “Seriously,” Jackson would say. “You guys. You have to stop.”

  “I can’t,” Ollie would say. “Come on, look at her! I can’t.”