A Map for Wrecked Girls

by Jessica Taylor

  A security guard threw out his hands. “Yo, buddy! This is private property. You can’t drive that thing through here!”

  Alex parked the rickshaw a few feet ahead of me. “It’s on the sand side now, buddy. Public beach.”

  The guard crossed his arms and muttered something about a permit.

  “What do you think the boys are like here?” Henri scrutinized a group of guys playing volleyball in the pool. “Emma?”

  “Tanned.”

  “What?” Her voice drifted and I knew she’d noticed Alex.

  He pulled off his sunglasses, and for the first time, I saw his eyes—green and rimmed with lashes that would give Henri’s falsies a run for their money. He held the temple of the sunglasses in his mouth while he dug a piece of paper from his pocket. Our eyes met over the guard’s shoulder, and he took the sunglasses from between his lips. And he smiled. His eyes crinkled at the corners in a way I liked.

  He didn’t smile at Henri, who was right beside me in a bandeau top and string bottoms. He chose me. Me, wearing a T-shirt and cutoffs, and my hair in a messy ponytail.

  Henri swung her legs over the side of her lounge and rested her chin on my shoulder. “Oooh. Emma likes what she sees. I think you should go talk to him. If you have the lady balls. You know I love it when the ballsy side of you comes out.”

  My cheeks burned with the memory of that night, that party, that mistake.

  The security guard took off then on his Segway and left Alex to put away his license.

  Henri spread her calves with her coconut-scented sunscreen, and rubbed it in until they were evenly glossy. “I really think you should go talk to him, Em.”

  “Fine.” She would only have more ammunition against me if I didn’t.

  Alex’s attention drifted from the wallet in his hand, and a corner of his mouth lifted as I walked up.

  I swallowed. I didn’t know what to say. “Nice bike.”

  “Well, thank you.” He ran a hand along the shiny silver handles. “She’s all mine.” He nodded to the dolphin screen-printed on the front of my shirt. “That is one wicked T-shirt.”

  It was kitschy and touristy—I’d bought it in the gift shop our first day in Puerto Rico. “Stop it.”

  “I mean it.” He leaned on his handlebars and gave me a wink. “You wanna go for a ride or do you just enjoy breaking the hearts of lesser mortals?”

  I pushed a loose curl behind my ear. “A boy with a well-worn line? I should probably stay away from you.”

  “Well-worn? Fine.” He leaned forward more, smiling. “What’s your sign?” I laughed and he said, “Seriously, have you seen much of the island? Gone snorkeling or sailing?”

  “Mostly just the resort. And some stores. My sister and I shopped.”

  “Consumers. Excellent.” He gave me a sweet, crooked grin. “The more of you, the better.”

  “My sister did most of the shopping. I watched.”

  He lifted his chin and looked past me. “Is that your sister?”

  Henri wore a smug smile from under the awning. She thought I was going to screw up any minute—I knew how her mind worked.

  I nodded.

  “By the way she’s looking at you, I’d say you’re in desperate need of a getaway car.”

  “You’re offering your services?”

  His expression didn’t change, but something did. There was amusement—in his eyes, his mouth. “Does that mean you’re saying yes?”

  I climbed into the rickshaw.

  We pedaled around the island for hours. I liked him because he talked and talked, yet talked about nothing. There was no pressure to be clever with Alex or be anything at all but myself. When he dropped me off at my hotel at sunset, we didn’t know a thing about each other except for our names. His first name. My first and last.

  “You’re a first-class passenger, Jones.” He removed his sunglasses and tapped them against his full bottom lip. “Are you up for an adventure tomorrow?”

  “I—” All my boldness vanished, and I looked for any excuse. “My sister—”

  “You’re both invited. My cousin, Casey, he’s got this great boat. He’s usually toting tourists around all day, but the boat’s free tomorrow. You want to come by? Have a beer or something?”

  Memories of San Francisco with Henri flooded my mind—before the chasm opened between us. Boys and beers and adventures that lasted until sunrise. In Alex’s cousin’s boat, maybe we could have a piece of that back. “When and where?”

  He penned some directions on the back of my hand. As I turned toward the mile-high hotels nearly dusting the clouds, he cleared his throat. “I’m going to need payment for the ride.”

  I patted down my pockets. My wallet was in the backpack I’d left with Henri.

  “A kiss’ll do.”

  “Ha,” I said. He laughed, and I remembered the ten I’d stuffed in my shorts pocket after buying the dolphin T-shirt the other day. “Here.”

  “Keep it. You were . . . unexpected.”

  “No, really. You earned it. That was a lot of pedaling.”

  He folded the bill in half and tucked it away. “Thank you.”

  I hesitated, tugging the legs of my shorts down my thighs. Then I caught his chin quickly in my hand and kissed him on his cheek, feeling smooth skin and faint stubble, smelling sea salt, sun-warmth.

  Maybe it didn’t make sense that I thought—that I knew—he could save our vacation. But attaching myself to Alex would prove something to Henri, make her proud of me for growing up. For being a girl like her.

  It wasn’t fair to use him, but at the time I didn’t care—after all, I’d learned from the very best.

  “Stay together,” Henri mimicked after Alex had been gone for a few minutes. She got to her feet and brushed off the seat of her shorts. “I’m heading back. Where does he get off telling us what to do?”

  “Henri, stop.”

  She shoved through the tangles of vines and, holding on to a tree, contorted her body through the limbs.

  My sister wanted me to go after her. She wanted everyone to always want something from her that she’d never give.

  I stayed on the ground, keeping my arms crossed to stop me from pushing up from the dirt and following. Besides, Alex would be back soon. But she could get lost or hurt alone in the jungle. Seconds slipped by and Jesse’s words came back to me—Henri was always trying to destroy herself.

  At the place where she disappeared, I parted the vines. Trees were tightly spaced, close enough I almost couldn’t fit between them. I twisted and ducked under branches.

  “Henri!” I yelled. “Henri!”

  Sun glowed through the next set of trees—the leaves were translucent as tissue paper. The air felt cooler, not as sticky, almost wet. Wet. My hopes so high, they floated to the clouds, I stepped through.

  A narrow channel of water twisted through a small clearing. I panted, skidded down a shallow slope, and dropped to my knees in soft brown mud. My fingers skimmed the top of the water and sent ripples cascading. Sulfur wafted up, and I gagged. Stagnant water wasn’t drinkable—we’d give ourselves parasites or malaria or worse.

  But this water held something else.

  Beneath the murky surface was the most unusual pattern of olive green and chocolate brown with the palest beige stripes. I reached into the water.

  Yellow eyes opened and glowed up at me.

  I shrieked, pulled my hand back. Jaws widened into a padded mouth studded with teeth. I jerked my foot away just as the jaws snapped shut, and in an instant the creature emerged from the mud. A flat, scaled tail—the whole reptile had to be as long as I was tall. An alligator? It barreled closer and my hands flew out before I could think, grabbing at roots, leaves, dirt. I clawed up the bank. It was faster than me. Wild creatures were supposed to be more afraid of us. I opened my mouth and screamed. It
kept coming. My fingers locked on a thick, loose branch. The creature reared back with a low, crunching growl, like tires skidding on gravel, and lunged forward. The weight of my body behind my swing, I knocked it across the face. Gasping, I held the branch high—ready to strike again. It sank into the swamp. Camouflage-patterned tail and scaled hind legs. Body with a green diamond spread across its back. Long head. Snout and yellow eyes. It vanished. And I scrambled up the rest of the bank, crashing right into Henri.

  I threw my arms around her.

  “Em, what happened?”

  “We heard you screaming.” Alex tugged us apart and raked his eyes over me. “Are you hurt?”

  Pointing toward the water, I gasped out something, I don’t even know what.

  Henri backed farther up the embankment. “What the hell was it?”

  “I don’t know. An alligator? It was like five feet long.”

  “Caiman.” Alex’s hand covered his mouth. “They’re not alligators. More like crocodiles. But smaller, more aggressive. And agile. Casey knew a fisherman who lost a hand to one last spring. Mating season. They said she had a nest close.”

  Ripples fanned over the swampy surface.

  “Water’s no good anyway,” Alex said. “Stagnant. Can we catch a fucking break?” He flicked the water off his hand and froze as he focused on me. “You okay, Jones?”

  “We have to get out of here.” I almost couldn’t breathe. “Now. Right now.”

  I darted past blurs of ferns and trees and swinging vines, far ahead of Alex and Henri as I followed my markers, all the way back toward the beach. The jungle pressed down on me with each step. As I finally collapsed onto the raft, the weight of Alex’s hand spread against my back. He didn’t say anything, just sat quiet, watching the ocean.

  Wherever Henri had gone, she didn’t come back to me.

  CHAPTER 6

  FOUR AND A HALF MONTHS BEFORE

  Henri and I had epic movie dates almost every Sunday afternoon. We’d ride BART to the Cineplex off Haight Street and make it at least a double and sometimes a triple feature before we’d head over to Chinatown for dim sum.

  When Mom was working, San Francisco was ours for the taking.

  Henri picked the first movie, an adaptation of a book from that author who writes about white people who kiss in the rain. It wasn’t really my thing, and it had never been Henri’s before, but she dabbed at her eyes when the guy almost couldn’t find the girl before she caught her airplane. Our next movie—the one we’d miss for sure if the concession stand line didn’t move along—was a musical comedy about two a cappella groups competing for a state championship. The second movie was my choosing.

  Henri looped her arm with mine as we stood in line. “Em,” she said into my ear. “I know the guy behind the counter. You want free popcorn? Extra butter?”

  We’d shared a giant box of Mike and Ikes we brought in from the 7-Eleven to save some cash. The sugar rush left me nauseated and I needed something that wasn’t sweet. “Yeah.” My hand dove into my pocket. “Mom gave me an extra twenty. I can get it.”

  “It’s not about the money. Don’t worry, I got this.”

  She unwrapped herself from me, and I took a few steps back while she leaned onto the counter and asked for a large popcorn, half butter and half caramel. The boy was helpless. I hated how easy it was for her because it meant I’d have to watch her flirt her way into more free snacks every Sunday.

  I’d heard Ari giving Henri a bad time about our Sunday movie dates last year.

  What Ari didn’t understand was that Henri and I had always been defined by each other. Anyone without a sister couldn’t have understood.

  Nobody could hold the same place in your heart as your sister. Love or hate her, she was the only person who grew up exactly like you, who knew the secrets of your household—the laughter that only the walls of your house contained or the screaming at a level low enough the neighbors couldn’t hear, the passive-aggressive compliments or the little put-downs. Only your sister could know how it felt to grow up in the house that made you you.

  Lately, though, I’d felt Henri slipping away.

  As we waited for our popcorn, I caught a flash of my dad’s prematurely gray hair around one of the pillars in the lobby.

  “Henri, look.”

  “Oh, God, it’s him. And—” Henri stepped behind a pillar and pulled me to her side.

  I peeked around and saw her in her Parisian-chic striped top, skinny black pants, and ruby-red flats. She didn’t have a name in our household—we called her she or her, and if Henri was talking, she was most definitely it.

  Our dad wore a douchebag Tommy Bahama shirt and I knew she had picked it out.

  “He brought her here,” Henri said. “Here.”

  She blinked her thick lashes fast toward the ceiling, her eyes glossy, wet.

  This place, this theater, for the last two years I’d thought of it as ours—just Henri’s and mine—and before that, it was just a Jones family Friday night.

  Maybe the theater had really been theirs. Everywhere, I saw them—from the high counter where my dad would lift eight-year-old Henri’s toes off the purple carpet so she could pay for our tickets to his popcorn order that Henri was still replicating: half butter, half caramel.

  “Maybe we should go say something,” I said.

  She noticed me watching her and waiting for an answer. “What would you say?”

  “I don’t know? Hi?”

  Henri tugged at her collar and crossed her arms, making herself small behind the pillar. “What would be the point of that?”

  She was right, like she’d been right the day the divorce was finalized and she said it for the first time: Our connection to him died the day he walked out the door. It was past time I’d tried to accept it too.

  “You want this?” said the guy behind the counter.

  He had the mega-jumbo bucket of popcorn in his hands. He winked and asked for Henri’s number, but she scooped it into her arms so fast some of the popcorn scattered onto the awful purple movie-theater carpet.

  “You girls doing anything later?” he said.

  Henri spun toward the theater doors. “Everything.”

  As we rounded the corner, I looked over my shoulder. Our dad was watching us. He knew we were there, and he hadn’t crossed that purple carpet.

  He lifted his hand, but Henri tugged me inside the dark theater.

  The seats were almost entirely empty inside. We loved nothing the way we loved a dark theater. Henri would yell at the screen when the characters didn’t do what she wanted or when the writers had the girls do something stupid.

  Halfway through the movie, she hadn’t spoken a word.

  I wished I could kill the nerve that tied me to my dad, like Henri almost had. I focused on his flaws. But that didn’t help much, not when those flaws were what made him easy to love. I remembered this day—I must have been nine. Mom took Henri to the dentist and my dad and I went shopping for a new car. It was summer. A bright afternoon. We’d test- driven an SUV, but as Dad talked financing with the sales guy, another car on the showroom floor captured my attention. It was the color of maraschino cherries and had only two seats. It looked like Henri’s Barbie car but so much better. I told him that was the car for us, a joke, but he looked to the manager and said, We’ll take it.

  Dad rolled down all the windows on the way home, let me choose the music, and we flew—caught actual air—down the hilly San Francisco streets. That car felt like it had been made for just the two of us. He laughed his big, roaring laugh—the laugh equivalent of a bear hug—and he said, Wait until your mom sees. She’s going to be so surprised. Mom was surprised—but not like we’d hoped. There are four of us, Steven! What are we supposed to do with a car that seats two? I hadn’t even thought about the impracticality of that car. My mom looked angry, but more than that, she look
ed hurt, almost helpless. I felt sorry for her, how he always forced her to be the bad guy, but still enamored with my dad for doing something so wild and spontaneous.

  Later that year, he took a business trip to Ontario in the middle of winter and came home with a tan.

  Now as our hands touched inside the greasy bucket of popcorn, Henri’s eyes locked with mine.

  “Henri, does it ever scare you how dad left the way he did? I mean, our house was his house. His presence felt so . . . permanent, like he couldn’t leave even if he wanted to. But he could and he did.”

  She handed me the bucket and pulled her feet up into her seat and faced me. “It would. Only if I didn’t have you.”

  I took a handful of popcorn into my palm and noticed her glancing toward the theater door. “But you do, and you have Mom too.”

  When Dad left, Henri looked at Mom a little differently. It was almost part sympathy, almost part fear.

  She stared at me for a long time before the corners of her glossy mouth curved upward and she turned toward the screen. “I only need you.”

  I didn’t understand my sister, but I’d seen the way she’d latch on to the nearest person when I couldn’t be at her side. Every time I’d try to disappear into my room to do homework or read a book, she’d do a belly flop onto my bed and start talking about the summertime outdoor concert lineup or she’d make me take quizzes from the backs of magazines.

  Nobody was closer to my sister than me, but even I couldn’t figure her out.

  We stayed after the movie ended, through the credits, and after the lights came up. There was nothing my sister hated more than an ending. Any kind of ending. Happy endings are the saddest of all, she’d say. Because if everything’s happy, then it should never have to end.

  The janitor swept popcorn off the purple carpet as we grabbed our purses and stumbled out the doors and onto Haight.

  Sometimes when I walked down Haight with Henri, I liked to pretend we were hippie girls from a movie about the 1960s, soaking up the sun in the Summer of Love. Maybe that’s why I’d chosen a tea-length sundress with a swirling pattern of turquoise and fuchsia that almost looked like tie-dye. When I’d emerged from my room wearing it that Sunday, Henri said I was lucky we had to wear uniforms to school. I didn’t care.