“Of course.” There’s no point in explaining.
“Everything okay?” my mom asks when she sees me talking to Bonny.
“Yup!” I say. “Everything’s great!”
We moo our way through another busy marketplace. Women holding laminated pictures of braided hairstyles ask us if we want our hair done. When we don’t, they ask us again and again; one woman even shoves aside a competitor. They’re most interested in Charlotte, whose hair is loose and curly today, a way she never wears it at home. Two stylists start bickering about who saw her first, and Charlotte backs away and says, “Maybe later, sorry!”
Local men are shouting about scooter rentals and haggling with some guys from the ship who say they only want Yamahas. I feel foolish for having pictured little-kid scooters and not the motorcycle kind.
Thoughts pop up in my crowded head like protest signs:
We board a small bus, and it lurches through a congested downtown area. Slick high-end stores like Fendi and Cartier look out of place on the ground floors of chipping pastel buildings. Overstuffed gift shops spit T-shirts and key chains onto the sidewalks. We pick up speed outside town, past a blur of small houses, then go over a bridge toward shining crystal resorts, like giant Magic Rocks.
We check in as day visitors in the resort’s main lobby—where a massive tank of coral and fish rises up from the ground. With bracelets now on our wrists, we head through a set of doors with nose-to-nose dolphins etched into glass. The pool area is flowering bushes and winding pathways and pools you could use to teach a preschooler shapes—round, square, diamond, oval, rectangle.
We grab towels and find chairs, apply sunscreen and kick off shoes.
We splay ourselves over squeaky tubes and take a few trips around a lazy river, which is totally my speed but would be more my speed without the bridge where you potentially have a bucket of water dumped on you. Each time I pass under it, I tense but get lucky.
We swim half-hearted laps in a pool with a waterfall that makes it almost too loud to talk. We don’t bother trying.
We take a long walk through a cool, wet tunnel of aquarium tanks. A sea turtle sails into view and seems to study me. I’m in that human aquarium Paul and I joked about; the plaque reads: Female American Teenager. Often moody and discontented. DO NOT FEED.
Lexi and Nora brave some of the more terrifying slides—one of them a sixty-foot drop at a near ninety-degree angle. I have to close my eyes, even as I am trying to take a video of Lexi’s first plummet. My stomach leaves my body for a second, in sympathy.
I’m still a secret service agent, scanning the crowd for him—no, them—but with slightly less focus and urgency; like I’m off duty.
After lunch at a restaurant inside a cave by the pools, my parents spring their big trap of a birthday present: a dolphin encounter.
They tell my friends I’ve been asking to do it since I was little, but I think they have me confused with someone else. Also, how do they not know that dolphin encounters aren’t even supposed to be a thing anymore? That most resorts are shutting them down.
The dolphin is named Delphine; her skin looks and feels too tight, too fleshy, and her calls sound strained, painful. No one else seems bothered; maybe I have an earache.
I smile through it and my parents snap photos. If they had any idea how much and how often I fake things for their benefit, their hearts would break.
I think about pithy things I’ll say to Ray; maybe I’ll lie and say I never turned up for hot tubbing anyway.
I catch myself in a daydream about Michael and try to shut it down, but then I just go with it.
I wouldn’t dare share my confused emotions with my friends; no one’s interested. And maybe even I have begun to sense that no, this is not something I should be involved in.
We bump into Nate and Leo and Ben, and all move to the beach area. Lexi and Nate head for the water with some boogie boards, and it’s like the rest of us aren’t even there. I watch them in the water together, and the chemistry seems to light the water around them like phosphorescent fish would.
Leo settles into a lounge chair beside me and starts asking me things about home and school. He’s really sweet and just normal and upfront. He’s easy to talk to and he keeps trying to loop Nora into the conversation but she seems determined not to participate. He tells a joke that genuinely cracks me up—“What do you call a nose with no body?” “No-body knows!”—then we talk a bit about the weirdness of the cruise.
“So after all that, it turns out the head count was right, but there are still rumors,” I say.
“How do you know all this?”
“Oh,” I say. “My parents have been really staying on track of it, I guess?”
“I heard it was a woman,” he says. “Blond and naked.”
“That’s so weird,” I say. “I think I actually heard that, too, but didn’t know that’s what they were talking about.”
If I’d known it was a woman who supposedly went over, maybe I wouldn’t have gotten so worked up.
When Leo gets up to go in the water, he asks me if I want to go, but I decline.
“Nora? What about you?” he says.
“Not right now, thanks.”
He shrugs his disappointment at me, and I shrug back.
“Hey,” I say to her when he’s far enough away. “Why don’t you go in the water with him?”
“Why didn’t you?”
“He likes you,” I say.
“Hadn’t noticed,” she says.
Then she’s quiet, with her eyes closed in the sun. I catch eyes with Charlotte, and we also share a shrug. I have no idea why I’m trying to match-make. I guess if she liked someone new, it would make it feel less weird that she liked my boyfriend?
Lexi comes back and dries off and puts a hat on. “Come on, birthday girl. I’ve got a surprise for you, too.”
“Oh, jeez. What now?”
“There’s a guy doing caricature and portrait art over there.”
“Not really my thing,” I say.
“Not up to you,” she says. “It’s a birthday present.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.” She slides her flip-flops on. I do the same.
“You coming?” Lexi says to Nora.
“I’m good,” Nora says.
Charlotte, meanwhile, has run down to the water. She and Leo both jump over a wave. Cruise Charlotte has eaten Home Charlotte whole; not a single crumb on the plate.
Lexi gets thirsty and bored watching the artist draw my portrait—I said no way to a caricature—so I tell her to go get a bottle of water. I end up staring at a wall of goofy exaggerated faces, playing What’s Amelia’s Deal? in my head.
She’s beyond loaded. Her dad is some kind of visual artist who grew up in the military, and now he owns a plane he flies just for fun. Her mother came from money and has never worked a day in her life and mostly manages her husband’s image and career and manages Amelia, too—like takes her to get birth control and mani/pedis. They own multiple houses that they’ve named things like Hill House or The Lookout. Amelia met Ray at a cousin’s lavish wedding. It was love at first sight—they danced to “Shout!” together—and now they’re talking about going to the same small college somewhere in the Northeast. She designed the tattoo.
No, scratch that.
She’s in a roller derby league. She’s … Amelia Tearheart.
She has a ton of brothers so grew up on skateboards and talking smack. She’s tougher than Ray is, and he likes it.
She’s hot. Like off the charts. A daredevil, too. And probably damaged. Or dead.
Definitely dead. You don’t get a girl’s name tattooed on you when you’re a teenager unless the girl is dead.
Car accident?
Rare cancer?
Some kind of freak infection from soil that soaked into an open wound, barely a scratch?
Lexi is back with water; she hands me a bottle and I shut down the game.
“He got escorted
away by some security officer yesterday,” I say. “Michael, I mean. What do you think that’s about?”
“I think that’s just one more sign that these guys are bad news.”
“You’ve liked people that I thought were bad news before.”
“Name one.”
“Luke Jacoby.”
“Oh yeah.” She drains the rest of her water in one long go, licks her lips, puts the cap on the bottle, and tosses it into a nearby recycling bin. “And you know what? You were right!”
“To be honest,” I say, “I don’t always like the way Jason talks to you.”
“Yeah, well,” she says. “Join the club.”
“But why do you put up with it?”
“We all put up with stuff,” she says, and I’m about to ask her what she means, exactly, when she says, “Nate has a girlfriend, in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Anyway, we’re not going to, like, cheat. In case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Anyway, he’s cool. I like him. As a friend, I mean.”
“Good,” I say. “I’m glad.”
Charlotte joins us just as we get a first glimpse of my portrait.
“It’s perfect,” Lexi says.
“Yeah, it’s pretty good,” Charlotte says.
But I don’t think it looks much like me; maybe more like my twin if I had one.
We walk back toward the beach and pass a hair-braiding stand. Charlotte approaches the woman and talks to her, then takes the chair. The woman goes to work on her, giving her row upon row of tiny braids, and I sit with her and watch the transformation. I think about telling her about the note Ray tricked me into leaving for the bartender—how I’m angry about being some pawn in his game—but Charlotte looks so relaxed there in the chair and I don’t want to spoil it. Her eyes drop closed while the stylist’s fingers do quick, machinelike work.
“You look amazing,” I say when Charlotte’s hair is done.
“Thanks.” She studies herself in a hand mirror. “I could never do this at home.”
“Why not?” I ask, but I feel like I know, too, that kids at school would give her a hard time and I’m not sure why but it’s true. I know exactly who it would be—Tanya Benson—and what she’d say: “Where’d that cruise go? Africa?”
Charlotte just gives me a look, like, Do I really need to explain?
“Well, you look great,” I say. “You always do.”
Back down on our hall, Bonny is still making up rooms. “Your friend, he came by. He left a message for you. A stateroom number.” He hands me a piece of paper.
“Did he say anything else?” I ask.
Bonny says, “He said he just wanted to explain.”
I turn and start off in the direction of 10502. It’s clear on the opposite side of the ship to where I am. Couldn’t be any farther if it was intentional.
I’ve somehow figured the ship out without even realizing it. I know exactly which elevator gets me closest, which hall to turn down, which decks to avoid to get there most efficiently.
Maps are for losers.
INT. CRUISE SHIP HALLWAY -- DAY
A girl--this is NATALIE--races down the hall, clearly on a mission. She hits an elevator button again and again. Then decides instead to take the stairs. She pushes past a young boy doing some kind of waving of a card in front of a moving digital painting.
INT. CRUISE SHIP HALLWAY -- DAY
Another hallway. She consults a slip of paper in her hand. Looks at signs about which cabins are which way. Heads off to the right with new commitment.
Finally, she knocks on a door. A boy opens it. Natalie reaches for his arm, sees a bracelet there.
NATALIE
Michael.
MICHAEL
Were you hoping it would be my brother?
INT. CRUISE SHIP HALLWAY -- DAY
A girl--this is NATALIE--races down the hall, clearly on a mission. She hits an elevator button again and again. Then decides instead to take the stairs. She pushes past a young boy doing some kind of waving of a card in front of a moving digital painting.
INT. CRUISE SHIP HALLWAY -- DAY
Another hallway. She consults a slip of paper in her hand. Looks at signs about which cabins are which way. Heads off to the right with new commitment.
Finally, she knocks on a door. A boy opens it. Natalie reaches for his arm, lifts it. She’s looking for something. But what? She reaches up for his shirt collar, pushes it aside. There’s a tattoo there that reads: Amelia.
NATALIE
Ray?
RAY
Were you hoping it would be my brother?
When I knock, there’s movement in the stateroom, then nothing.
I knock again.
He opens the door and looks apologetic and says, “Thanks for coming. I just wanted to explain. About last night. So you didn’t have the wrong idea about me. But I didn’t want to, like, stalk you or whatever.”
“Okay,” I say.
Last night.
Bracelet on his wrist.
Michael.
For a second I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed. For a second I’m annoyed at both of them.
“Someone said I’d stolen their wallet. And I didn’t. Obviously.” He seems to realize we’re standing in the hall, and he says, “Do you want to come in for a second?”
I ignore the question. “Why would they think that?”
“It had to have been my brother. So I explained that, and they seemed to believe me. My parents vouched for me.”
“Why would he do that to you?”
“Like I said, he likes to mess with people. Most often me. And I’m really sorry he dragged you into this. But I’ll leave you alone now and hopefully he will, too.”
I know for sure now who the rose was from. And no, he’s not leaving me alone. “He had a rose delivered to my room last night.”
“Did you see him?” he asks, sounding panicked.
I shake my head.
“Good.”
“You still haven’t seen him?” I say.
“No,” he says.
“But how is that even possible?” I say. “Aren’t you, like, sharing this room?”
He shakes his head. “He only agreed to come if he had his own space. So my parents got us our own staterooms.”
“Isn’t that incredibly expensive?”
“It’s not a problem for us.”
“Well, couldn’t you stake out his stateroom, then?”
“It may come to that,” he says. “But he’s right next door”—he points—“and I haven’t heard him.”
“But he had to have been back for the head count,” I say.
“Or he figured out a way around it,” he says. “Tricked someone or paid someone. But he wasn’t next door. Anyway, Natalie, I just wanted to explain about last night. I wanted you to know I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Why do you care what I think?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I just do.”
And I swear there’s something in his eyes that’s saying more, straining to be heard even in the silence.
“What if I want to help? Find him, I mean.”
“I really don’t think—” He trails off, like maybe he’s unconvinced of it himself.
“I’m tired of people disappearing on me.” I push past him into his stateroom; it smells like candy apples.
“Your boyfriend didn’t disappear,” he says, letting the door close. “He died.”
“It feels the same.”
“My brother’s not worth your energy.”
“But he’s worth yours?”
“I’m stuck with him. You’re not.”
“Well, you’re stuck with me now, too. Because he got me involved in whatever game he’s playing.”
“Natalie,” he says.
“Don’t ‘Natalie’ me,” I say. “You don’t even know me.”
He’s quiet for a second
, studying me.
Then he says, softly, “I think I’d want to. Know you, I mean. If things were different. But they’re not.”
His honesty is disarming. I want to stay focused. And maybe I want to know him, too. Or maybe I’m confusing this with the spark I felt with Ray that first night. Maybe I don’t care.
I say, “He asked me to put his bill on the bar and I did it. But it wasn’t a bill. It was a cryptic note from some Hitchcock show about a guy who jumps off a boat.”
He sits and sighs and rubs his eyes. The knees peeking out from under his shorts are bony and boyish.
“I want to know why he’s doing this and why he got me involved.”
“Listen, Natalie. I didn’t want to have to say this, but I have seen him. And he told me he met a girl that first night but that she seemed too intense and maybe too clingy because her boyfriend was dead so he blew her off.” He looks at me with defiant eyes. “And the reason he hasn’t had to sleep in his cabin is because he’s, you know, a player. So just move on. He just wasn’t into you.”
“You’re lying,” I say, and tilt my head involuntarily. I don’t know how I know it, but I do.
“Sorry if none of this is what you want to hear,” he says, and he shrugs a sort of dopey shrug.
“You’re a terrible actor,” I say, and my hands form fists. “Anyway, they’re going to have to find him. They’re going to have to get him to explain.”
“You’re not listening.”
“I am, too—”
He sounds like he’s joined the Exasperated with Natalie Club when he says, “According to a security officer I spoke to today, my brother said he had no idea what that note was about; doesn’t know you; wasn’t there. My guess is he’s not on the surveillance footage that you’re on at all. Anything he’s up to, he’ll deny and people will believe him. And the other woman who claims she saw someone go overboard? They have no link to him on that, like making her say that or anything. She’s convinced she saw a blond woman fall off. So it clearly wasn’t Ray if that’s what you were worried about.”
“But why would he want everyone to think someone went overboard? It’s a horrible thing to do.”
The Opposite of Here Page 10
