by Trish Doller
“Yeah.”
“We stopped for one of Finley’s clues,” she said. “But now my brother and Willa are on a date.”
“Wait. What? Is that why they ditched you at the party?”
“Basically.”
“So cold,” Vanessa said. “I hope they crash and burn.”
Last night Taylor laughed because she was still mad, but she knows what a broken heart feels like. She wouldn’t wish that on anyone—not even Willa.
“Hey, did you see that Sister Kismet is playing in the city on the eighteenth at the Donut Hole?” Vanessa asked.
“Are you going?” Taylor asked in reply.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Do, um—do you want to meet at the show?”
“Are you sure?”
“Honestly? I’m not sure of anything right now,” Taylor said. “But maybe?”
Vanessa laughed. “Then maybe I’ll see you there.”
Taylor had been looking forward to a more leisurely pace of the canal system. The Captain Norm book described quaint little towns with restaurants and shops, and Taylor liked the idea of town-hopping, going for bike rides around the countryside, and taking nature photos. But now she doesn’t want to linger too long in any one place. She wants to figure out Finley’s next clue—‘don’t lose your head’—but she also wants to reach New York City in time to see her favorite band.
And Vanessa. Maybe.
They cast off from Minetto and spend a long day motoring the river. They pass through three locks, but now they’re seasoned sailors when it comes to lock navigation. They don’t need to discuss what to do anymore; they just do it.
Which is for the best since they’re not really talking.
Each time they leave a lock in their wake, Taylor feels a little thrill of victory, and the last time she called home, her dad said he was proud of her—and that Granddad joined Instagram just to see her pictures.
They pass small towns and farmlands. Ducks paddle on the river with lines of downy babies behind them. Flocks of swallows wheel in the sky, swooping low over the boat. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot skims under fixed bridges so low it seems certain they’ll bump their heads, and Taylor radios ahead for the lift bridges to open. Every now and then they’re overtaken by a faster boat or they’ll pass another heading in the opposite direction and they wave. Captain Norm said they might find themselves traveling with other boats heading in the same direction, but so far that hasn’t happened.
“This would be a beautiful trip in the fall when the leaves are changing color,” Taylor says, zooming in to snap a photo of a great blue heron standing on a half-submerged log, watching for fish.
Willa nods. “The cooler weather would be kind of nice too.”
As hard as they’ve tried to keep the boat neat, neither of them have really made their beds since Cleveland. Dirty clothes are starting to spill out of the laundry basket. And the toilet smells bad. Taylor can’t imagine having more gear on this small boat. Her heart feels tight when she thinks about how there’s no room for Finley. “That means more clothes to pack, though.”
Willa grimaces. “True.”
They’ve passed each other water bottles and sunscreen and handed off information as they changed shifts at the helm, but this is their first casual conversation of the day. Really, their first since the fight. As always, they both seem to be pretending like nothing happened. Like everything is fine. Taylor knows friendships don’t normally work this way, but she and Willa have never been normal friends.
On Willa’s watch, Taylor goes below to update the website. She uploads a shot of Willa laughing as she plays beer pong. A group of frat boys doing Jell-O shots. Vanessa sitting on the railing at the park, singing along to Shiri Gray. It strikes Taylor that from the outside it appears they’re having an amazing adventure. No one can tell they’re struggling to keep the peace. No one sees the tears.
The engine goes silent, and Willa calls softly, “Taylor, bring your camera.”
She climbs out on deck, and Willa points to the near shore, where a young deer stands motionless, except for the twitch of its tail as it watches at the boat. Taylor snaps several shots, including a profile portrait of Willa looking back at the deer. The tension in her face has relaxed and her smile is soft. They slowly, silently drift until something spooks the animal and it bounds off into the woods.
“That was cool,” Taylor says. “Thanks.”
Willa smiles as she starts the engine. “You’re welcome.”
The Oswego intersects the Erie Canal at Three River Junction, and they push their way across Oneida Lake, slipping into a dock at Sylvan Beach just before sunset. There is a rickety-looking amusement park at the edge of the lake, but they’re sweaty and too tired to do more than sip bowls of soup before crashing out in their bunks. Taylor stretches out and looks across the narrow space at Willa, who is facing the wall. Closed off. No longer the girl who’d had such a great time in Niagara Falls. Taylor wonders if this trip will ever be that fun again.
41.0857° N, 73.8585° W
Don’t lose your head.
Willa
WHAT DID I DO WRONG?
The question spins around in Willa’s brain whenever she replays her time with Cam. He was sweet and romantic, and he kissed her like he meant it, but she wonders if “Thanks for a fun night” was Campbell Nicholson–speak for “See you later, loser.” She worries she was too slutty. Or maybe not slutty enough. Maybe she was such dull company that stealing away in the night was the equivalent of gnawing off his own leg to escape a trap. Willa wants to believe Cam will come back. Even though there’s no history to reinforce the claim, she refuses to be just another bug in his zapper.
Willa wishes she could analyze this with someone, but Taylor has zero objectivity when it comes to her brother and Willa would never have been able to talk to Finley about Cam. Willa’s mom has had a series of dead-end relationships, so she’s more cautionary tale than role model. The only person left is Campbell himself and he’s in the wind.
“Can I borrow your laptop?” she asks Taylor, who shrugs rather than actually answering. “Thanks.”
Willa logs into her e-mail account and finds an in-box full of messages from her mom. At least one a day, which is pretty impressive for someone who hates using the computer. E-mail is the deepest Willa’s mom has ever delved into the Internet. She’ll ask Willa to look things up for her and she refuses to use social media, calling it a “time suck” even though she wastes hours of her life watching decorating shows and cooking competitions on television. Willa has to admire her tenacity with these e-mails, though. There are only so many ways you can ask your daughter what the hell is wrong with her.
To: Mom
From: Willa
Subject: Re: I’m worried about you.
I called from Cleveland, the night you blew off work to hang out with Steve. Maybe I’m not the one you should be worried about.
Willa hits send before she loses her nerve. She’s not the kind of girl who acts out. She’d rather choke on her own tongue than sass her mother. But right now everything sucks. Finley is dead, Taylor is mad, and Campbell is gone. Somehow they have to recapture the magic they had in Niagara Falls, otherwise this trip will be a complete bust. Willa closes the laptop and goes out into the cockpit.
“I’m really sorry I abandoned you at the party,” she says. “It was a selfish, shitty thing to do and it won’t happen again.”
“Apology accepted,” Taylor says, but she doesn’t quite commit herself to a smile.
“I figured out the next clue. It’s Sleepy Hollow.”
“Cool.”
“Actually, peak cool would be at Halloween, when they have midnight graveyard tours and haunted hayrides,” Willa says. “But in June? I mean, there are a lot of historical sites we could visit, but nothing to lose your head over.”
Taylor’s brow furrows as the joke sails right past her. “Are you saying we should skip it?
”
“Are you having fun?”
“I mean, this is better than working the farm stand all summer and we’re traveling, but . . . I guess I thought it would be more exciting.”
“Me too,” Willa agrees. “Which is why I think we should skip Sleepy Hollow and focus on the next clue, which is obviously New York City. I mean, ‘Take a bite out of life’? Finley really isn’t bringing it with these clues.”
Taylor snorts a laugh. “Okay.”
“Really?” Willa had steeled herself for resistance, but this conversation has been unexpectedly smooth. “Okay, then.”
Following a tip from Captain Norm, their next stop is Little Falls, where the free marina has a clubhouse equipped with showers and laundry. They spend the evening cleaning all the crumbly and sticky bits from the cabin and washing a mountain of dirty clothes. It’s not the excitement they’ve been craving, but it’s necessary and a clean boat feels like a fresh start.
“I’ve never been so happy to shave my legs.” Willa sighs as she twists her damp hair into little buns on each side of her head.
Taylor laughs. “I was starting to worry someone would mistake me for Bigfoot.”
Willa rummages through the storage box for something to eat, but her stomach revolts at the thought of rice, ramen, or soup. She sighs. “I would give my future firstborn child for a taco right now.”
One of their favorite rituals when Finley was still alive was Taco Tuesday. Once in a while they’d meet up in a restaurant in town where the tacos were fifty cents on Tuesday nights, but mostly they did it themselves using kits from the grocery store. Either way, the three of them would get together, play Cards Against Humanity, and stuff themselves to bursting. Sometimes it feels to Willa that the only thing she and Taylor have in common—aside from Finley—is Taco Tuesday. Which might be a shaky foundation on which to rebuild a friendship. After all, everyone loves tacos.
Taylor groans. “Oh God. Yes. Let’s go find some.”
Most of the restaurants are buttoned up for the night as they walk down the main street of Little Falls, but they find an open grocery store and gather everything they need to make their own tacos. Willa grabs a bunch of cilantro in the produce department, and when Taylor laughs softly, Willa understands.
On their very first Taco Tuesday, Willa sprinkled a liberal amount of cilantro on her tacos. Finley, having never tried cilantro, did the same. But when she took her first bite, her mouth contorted and she spat the mouthful onto her plate. “Oh my God,” she gasped, before taking a big swallow of Coke. “Why would you eat something that tastes like soap?”
“Most people taste deliciousness, not soap,” Willa explained. “You’re just a genetic misfit.”
“I used to think leukemia was the worst thing that ever happened to me, but now . . .” She shuddered, and the three of them cracked up laughing.
Now Finley feels close and distant at the same time, and Willa wonders how that can be. She doesn’t know how to be Taylor’s friend without Finley. Or even if she wants to be. But here they are, buying taco fixings at Price Chopper.
They head back to the boat, where Taylor cues up Shiri Gray on her phone. Willa browns the meat as Taylor chops the veggies, and soon the scent of taco seasoning hangs in the air. Making small talk feels like scaling a cliff face without climbing gear, but they maintain an amiable silence as they work together to prepare a meal.
“How many days do you think it will take to get to New York City?” Taylor asks as she sits in the cockpit, balancing a plate on her knees.
Willa hangs an inflatable solar light from the boom. “A week, maybe six days.”
“Sister Kismet is doing a show next Saturday. Do you want to go?”
The last time Willa and Taylor spent time alone together was in seventh grade, when Finley was away for the weekend, visiting her grandparents in Columbus. They met at the mall, where they shared a giant cookie from Mrs. Fields, spritzed perfume on themselves at the cosmetics counter at the department store, and tried on sneakers at the sporting goods store just because the guy who worked there was cute. Nothing earth-shattering, but fun is fun. And going to see Sister Kismet might be that kind of fun.
“Yeah, okay,” Willa says. “Thanks for inviting me.”
Instead of responding, Taylor crunches into her first taco and moans with happiness. “This was the best idea.”
Willa laughs. “It’s going to be so hard to go back to ramen after this.”
“So maybe we should make it a regular thing.”
“Taco Sunday?”
Taylor smiles, shrugging a little. “Maybe not a specific day. Just whenever we need them.”
40.7128° N, 74.0059° W
Take a bite out of life.
Taylor
TAYLOR FEELS AS THOUGH SHE might burst from excitement as the subway car sways, carrying them across lower Manhattan to the Donut Shop. Her insides are practically vibrating, and she wishes she were a fly, because two eyes aren’t enough to see everything all at once. She drinks in the people riding the subway, staring at the woman who’s been holding a wooden crucifix above her head since she boarded the train and the man clipping his fingernails onto the floor. Taylor glances around the subway car to see if she’s the only one noticing these things and makes eye contact with a cute brown-skinned boy beside her. His short dreadlocks bobble as he shakes his head and grins. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Is it that obvious?” Taylor asks.
“I mean . . . kinda,” he says. “This is pretty normal compared to some of the strange things I’ve seen. One time, this guy sitting across from me reached into his coat and pulled out a slice of pizza, ate it, then pulled out a second slice. Another time this dude got on wearing a pink lace thong over his jeans, and I didn’t want to judge his lifestyle, but it was not a look. Maybe keep ’em on the inside in public, is all I’m saying. And just the other day I saw a dead horseshoe crab lying on the floor, and I didn’t even question it because of course there was a dead horseshoe crab on the subway.”
Taylor laughs. “I feel so Midwestern right now.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
“Yeah. Ohio.”
The boy nods a little. “Welcome to the city.”
She smiles. “Thanks.”
He gives her another grin before he looks back down at his phone and Taylor checks to see if the woman is still holding the crucifix above her head. She is.
The daylight was nearly gone when they motored into the anchorage at Pier 25. For Willa, navigating a darkened river full of tug-and-barge traffic and pleasure boats had been a white-knuckle ride. But the twinkling New York City skyline, towering up to the clouds was one of the most beautiful sights Taylor had ever seen. She was supposed to watching for boats that might be on a collision course with Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, but she couldn’t stop gaping at the reflection of the skyscrapers sparkling across the Hudson in colorful streaks.
Taylor has always dreamed of coming to New York City. She wishes she’d been alive during the heyday of clubs like CBGB and Fillmore East, so she could have seen all the bands from the record collection her dad gave her. She might be decades late to the party, but she’s here now and she wants to experience it all. “I’m so excited. Do I look okay?”
By the time they’d arrived at the Pier 25 mooring field, they barely had enough time to tie up the boat, pump up the dinghy, and row ashore to get ready for the concert. They’d encountered two days of solid rain traveling from Catskill—where they’d spent an entire day turning Whiskey Tango Foxtrot back into a sailboat—so everything Taylor owns is slightly damp and slightly wrinkled. But she managed to pull together an outfit of a black denim skirt that Finley had talked her into buying—“it makes your butt look amazing!”—and one of her dad’s vintage Rolling Stones T-shirt. It’s faded and paper thin after so many years of wear, but it’s her favorite.
“Super cute,” Willa says.
“You too.”
Back wh
en they were in middle school, it became a thing to collect Converse high-tops in as many colors as you could—the more unique, the better. Taylor doesn’t remember how it even got started, but Finley had six pairs, including ones with Union Jacks on them. Taylor managed to sweet-talk her mother into buying her three pairs in fuchsia, orange, and yellow. Willa couldn’t afford new Converse, but one day she showed up at school rocking a pair of black lows she’d found at the Goodwill. She’d drawn stars all over them with a bleach pen that turned the black to a shade of orange that looked almost tie-dyed, and everyone lost their minds over how cool they looked. Taylor had been so jealous of those shoes, so jealous of the way Willa was able to turn nothing into something.
Tonight, Willa is wearing a pink sequined skirt that she bought for two dollars on half-off Wednesday at the Salvation Army. Even though their outfits are similar—T-shirts and skirts—Willa belongs on the New York City subway. Her hair is piled on her head in a way that looks like it might tumble down at any second and her lips are painted red. The guy with the dreadlocks keeps stealing glances at her legs and Taylor can’t really blame him. She doesn’t really burn with a jealous rage anymore, but Taylor still kind of wishes she was as effortlessly cool as Willa.
They exit the subway at the Delancey Street station and round the corner to the Donut Shop. A line has already formed, and as they walk to the back, Taylor scans the faces, looking for Vanessa. Taylor texted her a few days ago—when they were in a town called Amsterdam—to let Vanessa know they’d make it to New York City in time for the concert. Vanessa had replied that she’d be there, but none of the faces are hers and Taylor tries to squish her hope back into a more manageable size.
She gnaws on her thumbnail as the line moves slowly forward.
“Are you okay?” Willa asks. “You seem . . .”
“Sister Kismet is my all-time favorite,” Taylor says quickly, technically not lying. “I just want to get inside.”
