A Thousand Shades of Blue

by Robin Stevenson

  A Thousand Shades of Blue

  and restless but not knowing why. Then Jen showed up, a group home kid with multiple piercings and an attitude to match. She kind of picked me out of the crowd, and we fel into being best friends.

  I’ve never told Jen the truth about Emma’s accident, or about Mom and Dad’s fights. Stil , I miss her. I miss all the laughing and teasing and gossiping. I miss the fun.

  To hell with your parents, she’d say. Go to the damn party. Go find Becca and party your ass off.

  Maybe I wil .

  Z

  Shared Dreams is balanced high above the asphalt on a cradle of wood and steel, a long ladder balanced against her stern for us to climb up and down. It feels strange to be sitting up here, crowded around the dinner table. I can see why they call it being on the hard: that’s exactly how it feels, stiff and unyielding, after four months afloat. On the wall above the table hangs a framed copy of our family mission statement. Dad made us write it before we left on this trip. It starts with Building our Lives through Conscious Choices and ends with Loving Concern and Honesty Toward Each Other. Hah.

  As usual, dinner is a combination of potatoes, onions, tiny local green peppers and canned chicken that we brought from home, by the caseload. Sometimes there’s fresh fish instead, usual y grouper, and sometimes a can of chickpeas—we still have about a year’s supply of those.

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  And that’s about it. You can’t get much here, and it’s all crazy expensive. A single red pepper, if you can find one, costs about six bucks. A gallon of milk is nine.

  Dad’s had too much beer over at the Two Turtles Inn, and he’s in a rotten mood. He starts out by grumbling about the food. “Christ, Laura, can’t you use some spices or something? Do something different with the potatoes?”

  Mom shrugs. “You want to take over the cooking, be my guest. If you’re sick of eating it, I’m just as sick of cooking it.”

  I wish Dad would shut up. In theory, he’s all about gender equality—he’s even given talks about it at conferences: Chal enging Gendered Expectations in the School System. That was the last one. But cook a meal himself? Not likely.

  He stabs at his potatoes with his fork. “And you’ll deal with the guys in the boatyard, will you? Because I’m not just sitting around doing nothing, you know.” He shakes his head. “I’m telling you, if you don’t stay on those guys, they’ll never get around to doing anything.”

  None of us say anything. As far as I can see, our rudder still hasn’t been touched. I suspect this is because of Dad’s nagging, not in spite of it.

  “Have they given you a timeline?” Mom asks. “Do they know when they’ll be able to get to it?”

  “Timeline? Timeline? They don’t know the meaning of the word. They just want our money, that’s al . They just want to charge us for sitting here in this goddamn parking lot, night after night.”

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  A Thousand Shades of Blue

  “Oh, Mitch, I’m sure that’s not true.”

  He pushes his plate away. “You don’t know these people like I do, Laura. You can’t trust them.”

  I hate it when he starts talking like this. I feel embarrassed for him. Maybe I should try turning one of his own lines back on him. Just focus your energy on staying positive and hopeful, Dad. Remember, how you feel is directly related to the thoughts you choose to have. Hah. That’d go over wel .

  “I was thinking about going out tonight,” I say instead.

  “With Becca.”

  As a conversation stopper, I couldn’t have picked anything more effective. Mom and Dad both turn to me.

  “Honey, I don’t know about that,” Mom says. “We don’t real y know her that wel , and she’s a lot older than you.

  Where were you thinking of going?”

  “Eddie’s Edgewater,” I say. “There’s a live band. Local music.”

  Dad snorts. “Local guys, more like. Sorry, Rachel, the answer is no. I’m not comfortable with you hanging around there, especial y when there’s drinking.”

  I snap. “You don’t seem to have a problem with me being around people who are drinking, as long as they’re old and white.”

  There is a terrible silence. I have said something unforgivable. I have forgotten the rule: If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at al .

  Tim stares at me, eyes wide.

  Mom’s cheeks are pink, and she pushes a plate across the table. “More potatoes, anyone?” she says.

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  Dad just stands up and walks away. Out into the cockpit, down the ladder. Gone.

  And I realize that I’m stil on Mom’s side. I shouldn’t be. But I am.

  A rush of anger floods through me, and I have to look away. I can’t stand to be around her right now. To hell with Family Time and Family Mission Statements and al the rest of it. Maybe I should just do whatever I want. Maybe I should just tell lies like everyone else.

  So before I get into bed, I put on some makeup and find my flashlight. Then I lie under the covers and wait for my parents to go to sleep.

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  Eight

  Eddie’s is dark and noisy and crowded. It smells like booze and cigarettes and sweaty bodies crowded together, and the beat of the music thumps inside my chest.

  I can’t see Becca anywhere.

  I need something to do, so I make my way through the crowd, over to the bar, and order two Kaliks. Dad was right to be worried about me coming here. It feels like something inside me is going to explode. I lean against the wal , chug the first beer quickly and start on the second.

  The band consists of four guys with a weird assort-ment of instruments. A big man with a green hat is scraping a metal file along the edge of a saw, and another is playing what looks like a washtub. But one guy, a chubby kid with the worst buck teeth I’ve ever seen, is wailing away on an electric guitar, and another has what I think is a saxophone.

  I listen to a few songs, feeling restless and awkward being there on my own. Still no sign of Becca. Ten more 57

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  minutes, I tell myself, and then I’ll go back home. Back to Shared Dreams.

  Then I see Will and Sheila, out there on the dance floor. Sheila’s blond hair is unbraided and it fal s halfway down her back. Even though it’s a fast song, her arms are wrapped around Wil ’s neck.

  And that day comes flooding back. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget a single detail of it.

  It was only a week ago. Tim was in the cabin, kneeling on the V-berth and poking his binoculars up through the open hatch. I can even remember what he was wearing: his Albert Einstein T-shirt and blue swim shorts.

  “Cut that out,” I said. “You want to grow up to be some kind of pervert?”

  I jumped lightly down the companionway steps and poured myself a glass of water. It was lukewarm and tasted gross. Free water from the town pump, because Dad refuses to pay sixty cents a gallon for the reverse osmosis water the other cruisers buy. I made a face and stirred in a spoonful of iced tea powder.

  “Where’s Sheila?” he complained. “It’s noon. Peak time for nude sunbathing.”

  “You’re sick,” I told him, although I was actual y kind of relieved when Tim did any semi-normal adolescent boy stuff. Maybe he wouldn’t always be a complete freak after all.

  “Sure you don’t want a look?” he asked, just to be annoying. He waggled the binoculars at me. “Sure you don’t want to take a peek at Wil ’s wil y?”

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  “Gross.” I didn’t leave though.

  Tim lifted the binoculars back up to his eyes. “He’s not there anyway. Neither of them are.”

  I poked my head up through the hatch beside him.

  Across the anchorage, Freebird sat squat and awkward among the slim and sleek sailboats. Freebird doesn’t move like the rest of the boats: while we all swing with the tides, she h
as three anchors down and barely budges all winter.

  Will says that swinging on a single anchor messes up the TV reception he gets from his satellite dish.

  “The dinghy’s there,” I said. “So someone’s home.”

  Tim shrugged, losing interest. “Well, they’re not outside.”

  “Too bad. You’ll have to go a few hours without seeing our neighbors naked.” I flopped down on the bed and closed my eyes. I felt like having a nap, but it was too freaking hot. Sweat trickled down my neck and stuck my T-shirt to my back.

  “Ugh. I’m going for a swim,” I said, not moving. “Are you coming?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “What?” I opened my eyes and looked up at him.

  His face had gone completely white except for a bright pink patch high on each cheek. “It’s Mom,” he whispered.

  “On Freebird?” I ask, surprised. I thought she’d gone for a run.

  He nodded, blinking hard.

  “So?”

  Wordlessly, he handed me the binoculars.

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  I pulled myself up to my knees, balanced the binoculars on the fibreglass lip of the hatch to steady them. Then I looked over at Freebird.

  In the cockpit, Will was standing—naked as usual—

  with a beer in his hand. Behind him, tall and tanned in her bikini top and orange sarong, was our mother. But here is the part that didn’t make sense, that still doesn’t make sense: Her arms were wrapped around him. As I stared at them, he turned toward her, still in her arms. And then they were, without a doubt, kissing. And his hand was on her ass.

  I dropped the binoculars on the bed as if they had burned my hands. I stared at them for a second. I tried to think, but my thoughts were slippery—hot and liquid and dangerous. I picked up the binoculars, slipped them back in their black case and snapped it closed. “We didn’t see that, you hear me? We didn’t see anything.”

  Tim stared at me, his green eyes wide and shocked and shiny wet. “But I saw Mom. I saw…”

  “Stop it,” I said. “Just shut up. We didn’t see anything, you understand me?”

  I pushed myself away from him, through the cabin and back up the companionway ladder on legs that I couldn’t feel. Outside, the breeze cooled my hot cheeks. Without bothering to change out of my shorts and T-shirt, I stepped over the stern rail.

  The water was still and clear beneath the boat. I balanced on the bottom rung of the swim ladder and stared into the blue. On the bottom, a small manta ray slowly flapped across the sand.

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  A Thousand Shades of Blue

  I leaned forward, suspended in time. As long as I didn’t move, I told myself, nothing would change. As long as I could keep this one thing secret. A school of tiny fish appeared from under the boat, and I let myself fall forward, scattering them in a thousand different directions. The water was cold and clean, and I dove deep, swimming down until the pressure in my ears started to hurt.

  I kicked hard, shot upward and broke the surface, gasping for breath. Across the anchorage, I could see Freebird sitting squat and smug, its satellite dishes flashing in the sun.

  Z

  A hand touches my shoulder and I jump.

  “Are you okay?” Becca shouts over the music. “You don’t look so good.”

  I shake my head and put my half-empty bottle down on a ledge. “I need some fresh air.”

  Outside, it is cool and dark. I can see the anchor lights of the sailboats twinkling in the harbor. It’s quieter, but the music is spilling out the open door, thrumming in my ears.

  “You didn’t like the band?” Becca asks.

  I shrug. “They were all right.” It’s funny. In there it all seemed too loud and too close, but now I can feel the rhythm of the music, and I can see why everyone was dancing.

  Sheila doesn’t know, I think, picturing her wrapped tightly around her husband on the dance floor. I wonder if 61

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  Will and my mother have already picked up where they left off. I blink back hot tears and take another swig of my beer.

  “It’s called goombay music,” Becca tel s me. “It’s been around since slavery times. That’s why there’re homemade instruments. The slaves used whatever they had.” She shrugs. “Course, now the bands have electric guitars and everything.”

  “It was all right,” I say again. “I just didn’t feel like being there.”

  “Come with me then,” Becca says. “I was going to visit Col. You know Col? Colton?”

  I shake my head.

  “On Flyer? Thirty-foot ketch? Black hull?”

  I shake my head again. “Nope.”

  “He’s from Palm Beach. Not much older than me—twenty-five, I think he said.” She lowers her voice.

  “He’s loaded—family money, you know? But he’s a fun guy.

  Been here for a couple of weeks, I guess, anchored over in Kidd Cove. Anyway, he’s having some people round tonight. A little party.” She laughs. “Everyone here who’s under forty. All six of us.”

  I’m about to say no when I imagine sneaking back onto Shared Dreams alone. Lying in bed and listening to Mom’s soft snores from the V-berth and thinking about what Tim and I saw.

  What the hell. “Sure,” I say. I take another swig of my beer, which is starting to go down awfully easily; then I follow Becca down the road to the dock where 62

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  her dinghy is bobbing on the gentle waves. Anxiety is crackling through me. I just want to be distracted from my thoughts.

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  Nine

  Becca dips the oars into the water, pulling hard, rowing us away from the sprinkling of lights on shore and out into the inky darkness of the harbor. The oars stir up trails of phosphorescence. Every stroke leaves a crescent of glowing light, like a million tiny underwater stars. I reach over and dip my hand down beside the dinghy, letting it drag through the cool water and watching liquid sparks drip from my fingertips.

  “Magic, isn’t it,” Becca says softly.

  I nod. A hard painful lump swells in my throat.

  “Yeah.”

  “You okay?”

  I shake my head. “Sort of. Family stuff, you know?”

  Becca nods. “Oh yeah. Can’t imagine being stuck on a boat with mine.” She grins to soften the words. “They’re okay. But a boat’s a pretty small space.”

  I nod. Part of me is desperate to tell someone what Tim and I saw, but I feel oddly ashamed of it. I feel like I’m the one who’s done something wrong. “It’s no big deal,” I say.

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  Col’s boat is anchored in Kidd Cove. The water is rougher than in Red Shanks. The wind is blowing from across the wide harbor, and it’s a long enough fetch to build up a slight chop. The boats are al rol ing gently from side to side. Music drifts from Col’s boat. Jack Johnson singing

  “Sleep through the Static.” I can hear it before I see the boat itself. I love that song. Jen and I listened to it all the time.

  Becca rows us toward the soft glow of a kerosene anchor light swinging below the boom. I pull out my flashlight and dance its light across the boat’s dark hul and up over the deck. Two tiny green circles reflect back at me. I hold the light steady, curious. They’re cat’s eyes: A smal black kitten is keeping watch from the cabin roof.

  I reach out and grab the boat; then I hold us steady while Becca ties the dinghy to a stern cleat. We both hop aboard, just as a head pokes up through the companionway hatch.

  “Hey,” a male voice says.

  The light streams out of the cabin behind him, so all I can see is his silhouette.

  “Hey, Col. This is my friend, Rachel. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  I can feel his eyes on me, though I still can’t see his face. There is a pause and then he says, “No, that’s great, Bec,” and beckons us to come in.

  Down below, his boat is amazing. It is smal , bu
t cozy and well-organized. A little hammock filled with bananas, green peppers, onions and tomatoes hangs above the port berth, and a neat row of books lines a shelf on the 65

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  starboard side. Brightly colored fabrics—orange, green, blue—cover the upholstery, and soft lights make it all glow.

  Somehow, his boat feels like a home, whereas ours—which is much bigger—is cramped and dirty and overflowing with stuff. Though of course, there are four of us on Shared Dreams. Four people’s books, clothes, dirty laundry. Four people’s baggage.

  Col notices me looking around. “What do you think?”

  “I love it.” A perfectly round porthole is open above the galley sink, and a breeze blows through. I lift my face to it and breathe deeply. For the first time, I wonder what it would be like to be in the Bahamas on my own, like Becca is. And Col.

  “Here,” Col says. “Have a drink.” He hands me and Bec each a drink—something orange, in tall plastic cups. I sit careful y on the port berth, holding my drink in two hands and feeling like a little kid.

  “Just Tang and rum,” he says apologetical y. “Sorry, no ice.”“Not for me,” Becca says. She’s still standing, and she shifts her feet impatiently. “Where is everyone?”

  He shrugs and puts her drink down on the counter.

  “I tried to radio you, but I guess you’d already gone into town. Jon and Katie moved their boat down to Sand Dol ar Beach just before sunset, so they won’t be coming. And I thought Terry was coming but…”

  She shakes her head. “He’s hanging out with some friends tonight; they’re at Eddie’s.”

  “It’s just us then,” Col says, stating the obvious.

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  Z

  Col notices me staring at his boat and tel s me he gutted it and rebuilt the whole interior himself. It’s full of clever little hidden storage spaces—behind the cushions, under the floor boards, beneath every surface. Unexpected doors open everywhere.

  “How come you named her Flyer?” I ask. The words are barely out of my mouth when I remember what Becca told me: He’s a pilot.