Girl at Sea

by Maureen Johnson

  Once she had a cup of coffee in her body and felt herself waking, her natural inclination for order and composition came out. She sorted out the various useless gadgets, like the lemon zester, the crème brûlée torch, and the candy thermometer. She arranged the fruit in a bowl, made a row of tomatoes along the windowsill, and put the bread into a more pleasing formation. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, Clio did like to cook. And these were nice, fresh ingredients. She sifted through the boxes and came up with a pile of basics. She pulled out some eggs, smoked bacon, peppers, onions, garlic, and cheese and set to work. She would make a big frittata—a big omelet cooked in the oven. That would shut everyone up.

  She beat the eggs in a bowl, fried up the bacon and let it drain and crisp, and grated the cheese in a fancy canister grater. She had just gotten to chopping up the vegetables when Aidan slipped in behind her. He didn’t say hello, or good morning, or even excuse me. He just squeezed in and started riffling through the refrigerator until he got what he wanted, which was a can of soda.

  “You complain about oysters, yet you drink soda for breakfast?” she asked. “That’s some interesting nutrition.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with nutrition,” he said, leaning against the sink and cracking open the can. “No one has ever fallen over dead from drinking a can of Coke. But raw seafood is an actual health risk. The oyster should be left alone so that it can get sand in it and get irritated enough to make a pretty, pretty pearl.”

  He had on cargo shorts and a T-shirt from some event at Yale called “Tuesdays at Mory’s.” (Clio guessed that he probably had a lot of Yale-related T-shirts.) Again, the clothes were too big. The hair was a little flatter today, coming down over his forehead a bit. Clio liked it better that way. He wasn’t bad-looking at all. Just a little conceited and annoying. Elsa could take care of that, though.

  “So you’d rather have a bunch of chemicals?” she asked.

  “Everything’s chemicals,” he said dismissively. “I don’t care. Give me a nice cold can of corn syrup and delicious caffeine any day. What’s on your head?”

  “My hat,” she said.

  “Do I get a hat?”

  “Nope,” she said. “You only get a hat when you get a job.”

  “I have a job,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Can’t tell you,” he answered, smiling a little.

  “Why?”

  “Your dad said not to. He’s the boss. He has a hat too.”

  Clio turned back to her cutting board and onion. She could feel him watching her steadily turn the onion into a pile of evenly sized squares.

  “You look like you know what you’re doing with that knife,” he said.

  “I took a cooking class in Japan once. They’re serious about knives there.”

  “Oh, right,” he said. “Must be cool to be rich.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said. He was bringing her headache back and reminding her that she was not having a good time at all.

  “So you’re telling me you’re not rich?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you,” she said, chopping evenly, rocking the blade back and forth on the board.

  “We’re on your dad’s yacht. You probably see why I’m having a hard time with that one.”

  Clio pushed the onion into the frying pan, where the hot bacon fat sizzled. Then she wheeled around, still holding the knife. Aidan backed up.

  “Two things you should think about,” she said. “One, things aren’t always what they seem. Two, never piss off a girl with a very big knife.”

  “I get it,” he said. “Your dad is one of those rich guys who likes to keep it real. So you’re not rich, rich. You’re just theoretically rich. That’s why you have a job and a hat. And a knife. Which is big.”

  This wasn’t cute. It wasn’t funny. It was insulting. Clio hated people assuming that she was rich, hated having to explain that they weren’t. It wasn’t that she was angry about not being rich; it was that the questions were so probing. They were about something very painful in Clio’s life—the loss of all they’d made, her parents’ breakup. Most people got the hint that maybe this wasn’t a great topic. But not Aidan.

  He watched her cook up the vegetables in the pan, slurping and smirking away.

  “Leave some runny,” he said, nodding at the eggs as he slipped back out. “I like them that way.”

  Clio clenched her teeth. She poured the eggs into a pan, carefully layered in the vegetables, crumbled in the bacon, and sprinkled on the cheese. It was a perfect frittata. Or it could be. But as she stuck it in the oven, she resolved to keep it in there until she was absolutely certain that the eggs were as dry and rubbery as erasers.

  “These eggs are a little dry,” her father said, poking at his slice of frittata. “Something wrong with the stove?”

  The sun streamed in through the glass doors, causing the leather sofas to glow a pristine white. The group had gathered for the breakfast-lunch at the white lacquer dining room table. Aidan threw Clio one of his narrow-eyed looks across it.

  “I’m not an actual chef,” Clio said. “Results may vary.”

  It was a shame, really. It would have been so good. Still, it had been worth ruining the frittata to see Aidan have to chew a bit harder.

  “So,” her dad said. “Did you pick all of your classes for next year yet?”

  “A few months ago.”

  “Did you give any more thought to taking Greek on the side?”

  “Not really.”

  “What kind of Greek?” Julia cut in.

  “Greek…Greek,” Clio said.

  “Julia knows three variations of Greek,” her father explained. “Mycenaean, ancient, and Koine.”

  Clio wasn’t sure how to respond to this. Not too many places to go with that one.

  “Is that what you teach?” she finally asked.

  “No,” Julia said. “I teach conservation methods, how to deal with manuscripts, history. Not language.”

  “Julia’s a working archeologist,” her father cut in again. “Also a conservationist. Kind of like your mom.”

  Clio really didn’t want to hear her mother and Julia being compared, especially by her dad. There had to be some kind of rule about that.

  “It’s wonderful that your father took you to learn Greek,” Julia said, breaking the awkward silence that followed the last remark. “I heard all about it. You’ve led such an interesting life.”

  “You could say that,” Clio said.

  “Do you have ketchup?” Aidan asked, still poking at his eggs sadly.

  “I don’t think so,” her dad answered.

  The smell of food drew Elsa down from the Champagne Suite. Again no makeup, nothing fancy. Just snug, soft red shorts and a white shirt. Her hair tumbled loose and had curled up a bit. Even with no effort at all, she had the natural beauty thing going on. She dropped down at the table, shook her head at the eggs, and reached for the coffee. Clio watched Aidan’s gaze automatically shift to her. It was natural, like being drawn to a fireplace on a cold day.

  “We’re going somewhere?” she asked, her British accent sounding both morning-sexy gravelly and chipper at the same time.

  “You sound tired,” Julia said. “Long night?”

  A crackly mother-daughter vibe passed between them. Clio didn’t exactly get what was being implied, but it looked like Julia knew about the champagne.

  “Oh, right,” Clio’s dad said. “Are you…feeling better?”

  Elsa looked understandably confused. Clio had never mentioned the monster case of cramps that she had bestowed upon her the night before.

  “Where are we going?” Clio asked, changing the subject. “And when do we get back tonight? I never got a chance to make my calls.”

  “Right…” he said, pushing aside his plate. “Come up to the wheelhouse with me.”

  They got up from the table and went upstairs together to where Martin was waiting alone, driving the boat.

 
; “I’ve got it, Martin,” he said, taking over. “Go grab some breakfast.”

  “Can’t wait,” Martin said with a smile. “I’ve been smelling that for the last half hour. I’m starving!”

  Her father assumed the controls haughtily. There was no doubt that the boat was full of fancy and complex widgets, but the truth was, the little tiny wheel and the lights on the panel looked like the controls of a complicated video game. Plus it wasn’t like the boat required complicated steering. The GPS seemed to be telling the boat where to go anyway.

  “Here’s the thing,” he said. “We’re going to be out on the water for two weeks.”

  Obviously, he thought that if he just slipped it in there like that, all quick, it would somehow be okay. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.

  “Two weeks,” Clio repeated. “You just took off from shore without telling us that we were going to be gone for two weeks?”

  “Well, you were sleeping,” he said. “From what I understand, you were sleeping off some champagne. And I know about Aidan being in your room. Don’t think I missed that. You’ve already violated three of the rules. You overslept and didn’t do your job. So you can’t complain.”

  Even if she had been busted, this was totally unacceptable by any standards.

  “What about Internet access?” she said, her desperation increasing. “How do we get that?”

  “We don’t have it,” he said. “Like I said, your mom knows you’ve arrived. What you need to do now is follow the rules, Clio. We’re all in this together out here.”

  “I can’t believe you,” she said. “You just cut us off from the world?”

  “It’s only for two weeks,” he said. “It’s good for you. People spend too much time staring at screens, playing with devices.”

  Clio looked at the many, many screens and devices on the control panel. He was one to talk. No. No, this could not be happening. If she had to wait two whole weeks before calling Ollie, who knew what would happen? Who knew what that slutty Galaxy girl, Janine, could be doing to him at this very moment?

  “Now,” he said. “I could have yelled, but I think you’ve learned your lesson, so why don’t you get back downstairs and finish breakfast with the others? Let’s start fresh, from now. This is the beginning of a great journey.”

  Kidnapped

  “He’s kidnapped us,” Clio said, staring down at the eggy plates that had been left on the lacquer table. “My father has kidnapped us. He’s turned us into slave labor. That’s illegal, right? That’s insane.”

  Elsa yawned widely, rubbed her eyes, and reached for the coffee.

  “I have to send an e-mail at least,” Clio said. “This is war. I’m not kidding.”

  “You know,” Elsa said. “I honestly don’t mind. It’s probably better this way.”

  “How could this be better?” Clio asked.

  “I can’t call. I can’t write. I’m just gone. I remember reading something about how they used to cure people of things like heroin by putting them on slow boats. Like slow boats to China, where they couldn’t get any drugs. They go through withdrawal, but they arrive cured.”

  “Alex?” Clio asked.

  Elsa nodded. “You don’t know what I’d give to be cured of him,” she said. “I didn’t sleep well. I haven’t been able to for a while. I always dream about him. It’s sort of easier not to sleep. That way I don’t see him. But I always do fall asleep, and there he is. If I dream about someone every night, does that make me obsessed?”

  “No,” Clio said. “It just means you’re upset.”

  Elsa smiled. Even with her eyes puffy and her hair tousled, it was hard to imagine how anyone could break up with her.

  “So,” Elsa continued. “As long as we’re stuck out here, I can’t make drunken phone calls late on a Saturday or send long e-mails about how I’m angry, or how I understand, or how he’s a bastard…. It changes all the time, the stuff I want to write. Now I can’t do anything. It feels kind of good.”

  “Well, now we both need Aidan for something. You need him to help you get over Alex. And I need him for Internet access.”

  “Your dad just said there isn’t any,” Elsa said.

  “He was lying. I’m sure of it. Plus this boat is wired all over the place. You should see the wheelhouse. It looks like mini-NORAD up there. They just don’t want us to use it because they are being very, very weird.”

  “Wow,” Elsa said. “You’re really observant. And I guess it’s not surprising. My mom is kind of secretive about her work. This time, a little more so than normal.”

  Clio’s com crackled to life.

  “Number Five and Number Six!” it said. “Number Two is going to take you on a safety tour when you’re done.”

  Elsa tried to help with the dishes, but she was tired and slow. Clio stuck her on the sofa, where she promptly fell asleep. Clio looked down at her peaceful figure and tried to decide whether her bunkmate was an insomniac or a narcoleptic. Then she put in her earphones and plowed through the dishes. It took her an hour to restore the galley to order.

  Martin came down, as promised, from the locked session in the wheelhouse. Aidan and Julia did as well, but they continued right downstairs.

  “Where are they going?” Clio asked.

  “We have a workroom down there,” he said. “A little one. Come on. Let me show you the safety features. Your dad walked me through them last night.”

  There wasn’t a lot to see. Their home for the next two weeks wasn’t even the size of a small house. What had seemed like such a magnificent boat last night quickly shrank to a seagoing veal pen.

  “There’s a lot of white furniture in here,” Clio said. Along with the white table and chairs, the two sofas and the chair and a half were covered in white leather.

  “It all came with the boat.”

  “I don’t really trust people who buy leather furniture,” Clio said, looking at Elsa’s sleeping figure on the sofa. “Furniture is supposed to be soft and welcoming. Leather is sticky and gets hot and cold. There’s something inhuman about a leather sofa. And white leather. That’s not designed for any kind of real life. It’s too sterile. It’s like something in a mental hospital. Where did this boat come from again?”

  “There was quite an ugly divorce,” Martin said, sliding open the glass doors and leading Clio outside to the deck. “A banker and his wife in London. This boat was the husband’s toy, and the wife sold it off at a fraction of the cost. Still expensive, but…crazy things happen in divorces.”

  “I know,” Clio said.

  “Right,” Martin said, catching himself. “Well, I think this one was a lot more uncivil than your parents’. In any case, let’s look at some of the safety issues. I’ve always enjoyed those safety displays the airline staff does before takeoff. Tell me how I do. Now, the main issue at sea is obviously sinking. Fire is a concern, but there are lots of smoke detectors and extinguishers. You need to know what happens if the boat goes down. That right there next to the window is the EPIRB.”

  He pointed to a little orange cylinder attached to the outside wall of the cabin.

  “It’s a pretty cool device. It contains a unique registered serial number. If it’s activated, it sends out two radio frequencies, one at 406 megahertz and one at 121.5 megahertz….”

  Clio felt her eyes glaze slightly.

  “The 406-megahertz signal goes to a geosynchronous weather satellite, and the Coast Guard can get your exact position by tracing the serial number. The 121.5 and 406 also go out to any boats or planes nearby. Basically, the EPIRB allows rescuers to pinpoint you instantly. And it self-activates.”

  “How does it activate?”

  “Hydraulically, in ten feet of water,” he said, walking to the back of the boat. “So you don’t really want to be here if it’s working. Apparently, the rule at sea is that you’re never supposed to get off your sinking boat until the water level is up to your waist and you can step right into whatever it is you’re escaping into. Which would be this.�
�

  He tapped an orange box that was clamped just under the back of the boat.

  “It’s a six-person raft. It wouldn’t be fun to be out here in this, but you should probably know where it is. Both walls of the deck back here are just life jacket and oar storage.”

  He reached for a handle that was cleverly worked into the wall so that it could barely be seen and opened up a ten-foot-long storage space neatly stuffed with orange jackets.

  “I think we have about twenty or something,” he said. “If anyone falls overboard, throw these and get on the com immediately. If the raft is needed, we’ll all be in it, so there’s no need to go through that.”

  “What about that raft?” Clio said, pointing at the little motorized one that had shuttled them back and forth to the dock and was now lashed to the back platform.

  “Too small,” Martin said. “That can only carry three people, and it offers no protection. That’s about it. This is the end of your tour. I hope you enjoyed it. You don’t have to tip.”

  She tried to smile.

  “Now that I’ve fulfilled the very minimum in terms of your physical safety,” he said, “how are you doing?”

  “I’m alive,” she said. “He could have told me he was on a date.”

  “He was worried,” Martin said. “But he really wanted you here, and he was afraid you wouldn’t come if you knew he was bringing his new girlfriend.”

  “I tried not to come anyway,” Clio said.

  She didn’t have to lie to Martin. Martin had been the voice of reason all along, back when he worked with her father, back before.

  “Well, he’s really glad you’re here. He misses you all the time.”

  “Then he shouldn’t have left,” Clio said before she could catch herself.

  Martin sighed and gave her a “you know it wasn’t that simple” look.

  “I know,” Clio said, sitting down and looking over the side. “Forget it. So, how did you end up here?”