by Jenn Bennett
“Really?”
“Near perfect.”
“Shut up! Then it’s true?”
“Who cares?” he says, shrugging. “Test scores don’t measure intellect. They just prove you’re good at taking tests. And who cares if you can get into an Ivy League school if you can’t afford it? None of them offer scholarships. You still have to pay. All the rest of the colleges offering full rides want extracurriculars and students ‘of character.’ I think we can all agree that’s not me.”
“But—”
“It’s not even what I want to do. No one stops to ask me that. My mom wants me in college. My dad wants me to take over the boatyard.…”
“What do you want?”
He hesitates. “Maybe I’ll show you sometime. If you’re interested …”
“I’m interested.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Hey,” he says. “Did you ever call the woman at the magazine?”
“Oh, her. Uh, she hasn’t gotten back to me,” I lie.
He squints at me, and I remember his talk about the invisible wall and honesty.
“Okay, fine. I haven’t emailed her yet. What if she’s heard about the police station? Or …”
“I’m sure she hasn’t seen your mom’s nude photo,” he says after a moment.
“Now I’ve got seasickness to add to the mix. Regatta Week … ugh.”
“You can beat that with practice. Email her,” he insists, “if that’s what you want to do. I wish you wouldn’t, because I personally don’t think you should go to Malibu, but that’s just my stubborn and ill-informed opinion.”
“Did I tell you about the ticking time bomb that is my grandmother returning from Nepal next year? I can’t stay in Beauty forever, even if I wanted to. You want me to be teeth-gratingly honest? Well … there you go.”
He looks hurt for a moment but sighs deeply. “I get it, okay? You should do what you want, and that’s the important thing. Email the magazine.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Do it. Weasel your way in there, Saint-Martin.”
“Hustle.”
He smiles. “Hustle.”
We blink at each other, and … there it is again. A little thrill that wasn’t there before. Nothing that I can point to definitively, but it makes every tiny hair on my body flutter as if an unseen breeze has gusted inside my clothes.
“The sun makes your freckles darker,” he says in low, raspy voice as his gaze trails over my cheeks and nose where the wind is blowing loose tendrils of hair.
He reaches out for me. Fingers splayed. Slowly. He’s going to touch my face, right now, right here. I hold my breath, waiting to feel that shocking warmth again.…
But.
His hand stops midair and flexes, hanging there for a moment as if all his muscles have been turned to stone. He blinks rapidly and then withdraws his arm, mumbling an apology under his breath that I barely catch. And the disappointment that rolls over me is fast and intense and completely unexpected.
I look away, rattled, bewildered, and pretend to stare out at the water. The sun’s falling out of sight, making the sky all purple, casting long shadows. Too long. Golden hour is gone.
“Stomach back to normal?” he asks in a quiet voice.
“Think so.”
“Good.” He turns in his seat to switch on the engine. “Your hour’s up.”
Oh, thank God. I need some space. To process what’s happened here today.
Or maybe to forget.
He takes it slow getting me back to the boatyard. Even still, I cling tightly to the boat and keep my eyes on the horizon. It helps. I really hate that he was right.
When we get back to the dock and he maneuvers Big-Enough into place, I practically tumble over myself and nearly fall on my face trying to get back onto shore. He offers a hand, but I refuse it. Unhelpfully, he tells me I need to practice being out on the water until I can get over my seasickness. Short, slow trips.
I’ve got another cure: never going out on the water again. And maybe staying away from him until I figure out what happened out there …
“Hope you enjoyed your charter, Saint-Martin,” he says, sounding like the boy I’ve come to know over the last couple of weeks, sarcastic and dark and slightly distant. Not someone who makes all the hairs stand up on my body.
“The views were a ten,” I say, pretending I’m my normal self too. “The captain was kind of a jackass who drove like a maniac—”
“You drive cars, not boats.”
“—and nearly made me puke my guts out.”
“Sounds like a personal problem.”
“I’ll be filing a complaint.”
“No refunds, remember.”
“You really should post a sign.”
The corners of his mouth curl. “I’ll bring that up to management.”
I turn to leave and hold up a hand over my shoulder, trying to seem cool and unfazed. Definitely not someone who’s completely confused by what just happened and wants to get out of here ASAP. “Adieu, Captain Lucky. If that is your real name.”
“Goodbye, shutterbug.”
I ignore that.
When I’m halfway down the boatyard, he calls out behind me, “Hey, Josie?”
“Yes?” I say, stopping again.
“You never took any pictures,” he points out.
Ugh. I was hoping he didn’t notice that. “Guess I’m in the wrong town if I’m not good on boats, huh?”
“Don’t give up just yet,” he says, tying up the boat. “After all, you could acclimate. Might surprise yourself one day.”
Maybe I’m surprised already.
WELCOME TO BEAUTIFUL GREEKTOWN: A white neighborhood sign sits at the junction of Battery Street and Atlantic Avenue. The earliest Greek immigrants to settle in Beauty were fishermen who worked in the South Harbor in the late 1800s. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)
Chapter 12
Nothing happened.
Not really.
But if that’s true, why do I still feel like this? How come, now that I’ve been back on shore for a couple of hours, no trace of seasickness, all I can think about is Lucky?
And the way he looked at me. The way his hand flexed when he reached out to touch me.
The way it made me ache when he didn’t.
Because that’s the worst part of it. I wanted him to touch me.
I think about that. I think about his hand on my back when I was in the middle of that dizzy spell, and the way his thumb circled the bones in my spine. How shockingly warm his skin was when we bumped into each other. The way he stared at me. The way everything felt different between us.
The way we talked when we left each other, like nothing had changed.
Maybe I’m still seasick after all.…
“School is boring, Mom. I want to hear about Nepal,” Evie says to Aunt Franny on her laptop as she lies sprawled across her bed.
I’m sitting below her on the floor, out of sight from the screen, on a braided Amish rag rug that’s leaving marks on the backs of my thighs. It’s just after eleven p.m., and Mom left the apartment an hour ago because she needed to “take a drive around the harbor” and “get some fresh air.” Hard for me to argue with that, seeing how I took a forbidden boat cruise earlier tonight. Anyway, I was giving Evie the lowdown about said boat outing when her mom Skyped; it’s morning in Nepal.
I don’t really want to be here, listening in to their private mother-daughter convo, but Evie made me stay. They don’t talk long, and she wants to hear the rest of my juicy boating story. I’m not sure I want to give her all the details. It feels too raw right now. And how do I explain it? He “looked” at me in a different way? Sounds ridiculous. Maybe because it is?
I’ve got to stop thinking about him.
Aunt Franny looks thin and tired—I caught a glimpse of her on the screen before I ducked down here. She’s only five years older than my mom, but I don’t think Nepal agrees with her. Gue
ss it wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone if my grandma’s Having a Great Time! postcards are all one big fat lie. It’s the Saint-Martin way, after all.
While listening to Aunt Franny tell Evie about the school in Nepal that she and Grandma are teaching at, trying to get my mind off Lucky and the boat ride, I stare at a shelf of Evie’s weird taxidermy collection—a mouse wearing a tiny wizard outfit is the only one I truly like—and space out momentarily.
Until I hear Aunt Franny say something.
“—surprised she has the guts to move back to Beauty, frankly, since whatshisname is out of the navy and back in town.”
Hold up a minute. What’s this all about, now?
I look up at Evie on the bed.
She looks down at me with wide eyes.
Aunt Franny is talking about my mom … and some guy. Some navy guy.
“Who’s ‘whatshisname,’ Mom?” Evie asks when I prompt her by yanking at her pajama pants leg and mouth the question. “Who are you talking about?”
“I can’t remember his name. It was high school.”
“High school? Why would Aunt Winona care about someone from high school?” Evie says. “What’s up with this mystery man? Spill the beans, Mom.”
Her mom is silent for a moment. “No one, baby. I shouldn’t have said anything. That’s all in the past, and not our business.”
“Mom—”
“Evie,” her mom says over the laptop screen, “that’s enough. If Winona wanted us to gossip about her, she’d tell us herself. End of story.”
Great. Mom will never tell me, and I definitely won’t be asking. Mom will shut that down faster than a food inspector visiting a rat-infested pizza parlor. But now I’m super curious about Navy Man, who was possibly some boy in high school … who would have been reason enough to stop my mom from coming back to Beauty?
Now I’m remembering when we first came into town and how nervous she was, and I thought it was all the town gossip or possibly the Saint-Martin curse. But now I wonder if it’s something more.…
I ponder this while Evie asks her mom about Grandma Diedre, who refuses to participate in these calls—they have no Wi-Fi in their living quarters, and she hates having to walk down to a local internet café. And just when I’m thinking of leaving Evie’s room to give them some privacy, my phone buzzes inside the pocket of my shorts. A text from a local number. Not in my contacts.
Have you recovered from our excursion on the SS Too Big?
My heart skips as I smile at the screen. Well, then … Guess he wasn’t lying about memorizing numbers. I quickly add him to my contacts and make sure Evie can’t see my phone before typing a response.
Me: I see what you did there, funny man. Def should have used Sunset Charters. They promised champagne + smooth jazz.
Lucky: U would have yacked that up. I gave u old fish and sealant. Where’s the love?
Me: It’s at the bottom of my empty bank account.
Lucky: Told u a million times, you don’t need to pay me back
Me: Told you a million times, I do.
Lucky: Next time, I’ll bring smooth jazz and a barf bag.
Me: Next time, we sit on the dock.
Lucky: How about dinner, instead?
I stare at the screen, hot and cold chills running up and down my arms. Is he … asking me out on a date? That can’t be right. Can it? Smashing my hopes, he rapidly types another text before I can reply.
Lucky: Remember Sunday dinners? Cousins. Uncles and aunts. Neighbors. Backyard cookout? My mom asked me to invite u.
Oh. Not a date.
But that was silly of me, duh. He’s my friend.
Friends don’t date.
Regardless, dinner with his family might be … good. I used to love Sunday dinners at Lucky’s house. I looked forward to it all week, like a big nerd.
Me: Not sure how to respond to “my mom made me ask you.”
Lucky: Didn’t say she MADE me. Give me a little credit. I’m exercising free will.
Lucky: But if it’s too weird, I’ll tell her you’re busy.
Me: I’m not opposed to weird. Did you tell your mom I nearly upchucked in your boat?
Lucky: Again, not MY boat. And yes. *steeples fingers*
Me: Oh God.
Lucky: You work at the Nook tomorrow?
Me: Until 7.
Lucky: Meet me in the boatyard side alley at 7:15.
Me: I didn’t say yes yet.
Lucky: I hate begging.
Me: Knowing that is its own reward. See you at 7:15.
Okay, then. Sunday dinner. At the Karrases. I just agreed to that. Not intimating at all. I’m not feeling like my insides are melting. No sirree, Bob! Not me. Guess I’m gonna need to find another excuse to give Mom for tomorrow night, since I’m technically not supposed to be seeing Lucky, as Mom put her foot down—forbidden territory, stay away from that boy. He’s a vandal, Josie. Him. Not me. At this point, I’ll need a garbage truck to haul away all the lies I’ve been accumulating.
I also need to remind myself that I don’t want to get too attached, so I leave Evie, retreating to my room, where I pull out my father’s fashion photo book. And I lay on the rug, turning the slick, glossy pages, re-memorizing the details of each photograph, reminding myself that there are other things out there in the world. Brighter, shinier things. And if I want them badly enough, I can have them. I just have to stick to my plan.
Lucky 2.0 might be a mirage.
I should be careful with him.
I should be careful with my heart.
* * *
It’s easier than I expected to come up with a suitable lie for Sunday dinner. I just tell Mom that I ran into Bunny Perera at the doughnut shop—true—and that I’m meeting her at the Quarterdeck for coffee … not true.
See? Only a half lie. Half the guilt.
The Nook is having computer issues, and Mom is so consumed with trying to get the end-of-the-day totals to process that I could’ve told her I was going to have one of Evie’s taxidermy bat wings surgically attached to my back, and she would’ve said, Okay, babe. Be careful.
Leaving her and Evie to close the store, I take the long way past the Freedom Art Gallery and weave my way through tourists to make sure I’m not spotted. When I sneak into the boatyard side alley, I’m a minute late. And I find Lucky pacing around his bike, a black-and-white striped shirt under his leather jacket. The moment he looks up and sees me, I forget all about guilt and my garbage truck of lies. I forget about everything.
His eyes light up as if I’m a winning lottery ticket, and we smile at each other like we’re splitting the jackpot fifty-fifty.
“Sorry I’m late,” I finally say.
“One minute, but I’m not counting.”
I laugh.
The corners of his mouth curl. “Got a surprise for you.”
“O-oh. Hope it’s a vomit bag for my seasick stomach.”
“Even better. It’s an air freshener that smells like old fish and sealant. Here,” he says, handing me a small, rainbow-striped helmet with a flying white horse on the side. “Safety first. Didn’t want to risk my head twice. Now we’ll both be covered.”
“Uh, wow,” I say. “It’s … sparkly?”
“My cousin Gabe uses it,” he explains. “Sometimes I take him for a ride on the weekends to our grandmother’s condo on the harbor.”
I point to the winged horse. It has three unicorn horns. “Tri-corn?”
He shrugs. “He’s really into horses right now, and he wanted it to have three horns.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I remember another boy who loved sea monsters. The kraken?”
“The kraken,” he says excitedly. “Yes.”
“Giant octopus that takes down ships.”
“Badass, right? So much better than a flying horse. Still a fan of the kraken, actually. But Gabe is scared of anything with tentacles.”
“I see.… Don’t remember your cousin Gabe.”
“He moved here aft
er you left. He’s nine, but he’s got a big head for a kid—this is actually an adult helmet that I tricked out for him, so it should fit, I think? Better than my brain bucket.” He helps me slip the helmet on my head. “Yeah. See? Your dome is protected by the power of Trig-asus. Hop on, shutterbug. You’re street legal now. And you get to reintroduce yourself to my big Greek family. This is what happens when you walk into the boatyard and chat with my mother.”
“Sort of regretting that now.”
“As well you should. Too late to turn back now. May God save you.”
Following his reminders about how to ride, I straddle the Superhawk’s seat behind Lucky and put my arms around him, pretending it’s no big deal. I did it before when we went to the hospital. It’s practical, not sexy, and I should not be enjoying the smell of his leather jacket or how solid he feels under my arms.… Wait. Oh God. He can probably feel my breasts pressing against his back.
How can he not?
Oh God. I think I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.
Right. That’s it, then. Should probably just bail now. Jump off the bike and run. No one would blame me. But he’s right. It’s way too late now. With a rev of the engine, we’re pulling out of the alleyway, and me and my boobs and my anxieties will just have to cling to him and pray he doesn’t notice any of us.
The motorcycle bounces on setts and cobblestones as we turn down the boulevard and head west, away from the harbor. We pass a slew of eighteenth century houses with historic-registry signs like the one on our house, two Revolutionary War statues, and a white church with a grand steeple. And after several blocks, when the tourist traffic clears and the streets widen, I spot the familiar sign for Greektown.
No turning back.
The Karrases’ house is a pale blue Cape Cod and not unlike most of the others on the quiet, tree-lined block—simple New England homes with small, neat yards framed in white picket fences. Cars line the curb on both sides of the street, and more are driving around the block, looking for a place to park. Lucky squeezes his bike between two Nick’s Boatyard trucks in the driveway and stops in front of the detached garage that’s painted the same pale blue as their house.
I’ve been here a hundred times before. Hundreds. Literally.
