by J. Minter
“Sweet.”
I took a sip of my Coke and looked at Patch. I tried to look nonchalant. “Oh, by the way … you haven’t heard from Flan, have you?”
He opened his mouth to say something, but just then that girl Greta appeared over his shoulder, looking a little lost and confused.
“Hey, guys, you haven’t seen Suki, have you?” We all shook our heads. She bit her lip and looked around at all the other tables of kids who were having very involved conversations, like they had all been in the same cliques forever, just like us. “Well … do you think I could sit with you guys, then?”
“Sure,” Patch said, apparently forgetting entirely about my question. I looked purposefully at Patch, hoping he would remember what we were just talking about. But he just gave me this little smile like “Isn’t this fun?” and bit into a chicken leg.
“You, like, hang with Suki all the time at home?” Arno asked.
Greta took a bite of potatoes and shook her head. “Mostly on the weekends. But we go to different schools, in different towns, so during the week I spend time with my boyfriend.”
“Oh. Do you hang out with Suki and her boyfriend, then?”
“Suki and Kyle broke up months ago,” Greta said.
This was getting old, and Patch was obviously not going to talk about Flan anytime soon. I looked distractedly around the room and saw something weird.
“Hey, isn’t that Sara-Beth Benny?” I asked. Coming toward us was a very petite-looking girl wearing a Missoni poncho over black knee-length shorts. They were cuffed and a little baggy, and accentuated her gorgeous, if slightly too skinny, calves. Her messy hair was a muddle of dye jobs, and her mascara was smudged a little bit. She had that deer-in-the-headlights quality about her.
“From Mike’s Princesses?” Greta asked. Sara-Beth Benny had been the child star of this sitcom that was popular when we were kids in which Mike, a single dad and Los Angeles stand-up comic, struggles to raise three daughters. Sara-Beth had been the youngest. She was famously wild now; we saw her around New York at parties sometimes.
The jocks next to us all began to sing the Mike’s Princesses theme song and laugh. Sara-Beth looked like she was about to cry.
The blond girl who was not as pretty as Flan said, “Jesus, eat something,” really loud.
Patch shook his head at us. “Those dudes are assholes,” he said. He picked up a roll and lobbed it at them. “Hey, chill out. It’s like you’ve never seen a famous person before or something.”
The guys all looked sort of pissed, but it’s hard to argue with Patch. Especially when the trip’s director so obviously adored him. Arno motioned for Sara-Beth to come over.
She set down her tray—which had three pieces of corn on the cob and a Diet Coke on it—and kissed Arno on both cheeks. I had forgotten until then that they had modeled together a few times.
“They know each other?” Greta whispered to me. I shrugged.
“God, doesn’t this place suck?” Sara-Beth said as she began furiously blotting the butter off of her corn with napkins. “I’m so glad there are some other civilized people on this lame-ass trip.”
“Yeah. I’m surprised you’re here, actually,” Arno said.
“Totally. My parents made me come because they think I have a problem, and they thought this would be a wholesome way for me to spend two weeks. Which it so obviously is not!”
Everybody started talking then, and it looked like we might actually be having a good time. It started feeling like New York a little bit, with lots of shit-talking. I tried not to think about Flan all that much, and fought the urge to run off to the computer lab and check my e-mail again. I mean, SB’s cool. At least, she’s always a guaranteed good time. And the things she was saying about our Ocean Term classmates were brilliantly cruel to the point where even I thought they were funny. She said something that made everyone laugh pretty hard, and then she tossed a corncob over her shoulder.
“Oh, I almost forgot. I just saw your friend Mickey Pardo on my way here. He was walking in the opposite direction with some Asian chick.”
Mickey digs a girl who loves to laugh
Mickey Pardo barreled through the lower levels of the Ariadne. He had been pent up in this ship for five days, and he had enough unused adrenaline coursing through his squat body to give a small elephant a heart attack. Right before leaving New York, he had shaved his head in protest of his mother’s duplicity (his mother loved his hair), so he currently had the aerodynamic advantage of a cannonball. It made him look tough-hot, if not exactly handsome. He was wearing a wife-beater, Dickies cut off at the knee, and nothing else. Mickey had been labeled as basically crazy, which he basically was. He was picking up speed to take a turn, when all of a sudden he saw Suki Davison and stopped dead in his tracks.
She was wearing a white sack dress with spaghetti straps. It was frayed at the edges and hung mid-thigh. Suki had this kind of hippie-chic thing going for her: long yoga limbs, a smattering of brown freckles across her nose, and a small, bee-stung mouth à la Kate Moss. She always looked relaxed, and nothing ever seemed to rile her.
“Why, ’ello,” he said in an over-the-top British accent. Mickey was thoroughly entertained by the Ocean Term Brit kids and the way they talked. Their accents made the American girls swoon, so Mickey took extra pleasure in mimicking them to their faces.
“Hey vato …,” Suki said joshingly as she took in Mickey’s style.
“Where ya going?”
“To the cafeteria. It’s dinnertime, didn’t you know?”
Mickey looked at his watchless wrist. “That food sucks.”
“Yeah, no shit. Imagine if you were a vegetarian. I haven’t been full since we left port.”
“Veggie, huh?” Mickey scratched his chin and gave her his scheming look.
“Uh-huh, well … I guess I’ll see you in there …?”
“Why don’t you let me cook you dinner in my cabin?”
“How are you gonna cook?”
“Don’t you trust me?” Mickey winked and extended his hand.
“They take attendance, you know.”
“What are they going to do, kick us off the ship?”
“Maybe. I heard about your friend David.”
“That was David. I’m Mickey.”
“And besides, Greta’s waiting for me.”
They stood and stared at each other for a minute, and then both their faces broke out in grins. Mickey grabbed her hand and they went running through the halls.
Mickey’s cabin was a mess. He shut the door behind them, then he dashed around picking up pieces of clothing and stuffing them into the closet. When he was done he turned to her and gave a deep bow.
“Ta-da.”
“Very nice,” Suki said, clapping her hands twice in approval.
Mickey spread his blanket on the floor so it became a picnic blanket, and gestured for her to sit. She crossed her legs yoga style and leaned back on her palms. Mickey took a bottle of champagne that he had spirited from Jonathan’s stepmom’s yacht out from the minirefrigerator. He held it from the neck and showed it to Suki for her approval.
“I’ve been saving this,” he said, popping the cork.
He poured some into plastic hotel cups and handed her one.
“Cheers,” he said, and raised his cup.
“Cheers.”
They each took a sip, and then Mickey turned back to the minifridge. He took out a container of crème fraîche, a box of crackers, a small jar of caviar, a little silver knife, and a plate (all, naturally, borrowed from PISS). He began to assemble crackers, each with a dab of caviar and a dab of cream, and arrange them around the plate.
“What’s that?”
“It’s caviar. Haven’t you ever had caviar?”
Suki stuck her tongue out. “I told you, I don’t eat meat.”
“Not even fish?”
“Not even fish.”
“You eat eggs, though, right?”
“Well, yeah, okay.”
“Well, this is like eggs from fishes. Except that it’s like a hundred bucks an ounce, which isn’t really like eggs at all.”
She gave him a look.
“Here, I’ll try one first,” he said. He threw his head back and dropped a cracker into his mouth as though it were a sardine. He chewed quickly, then threw himself back on the floor. “So … good …”
He sat up. Suki was laughing and shaking her head.
“I’m not going to sacrifice my principles for you, Mickey Pardo.”
“C’mon,” Mickey said. He picked up one of the crackers and lifted it toward her mouth. She pulled her head back, but she had this enigmatic smile on her face, so he put it closer to her mouth until she opened and took a bite. After chewing thoughtfully, she said, “Okay, that’s pretty good. I’ll take another.”
So he fed her another. She had one, he had one, and they took a sip of champagne until the plate was empty. Then she took out a pack of cloves.
“Do you mind?”
Mickey shook his head. They lay down on the blanket and watched the ceiling fan as she exhaled perfumey smoke rings.
“That’s a cool trick,” Mickey said, rolling onto his side so he could look at her. Her hair was spread all around her head like a dark puddle, and her knees were up so that he could see most of her long, pale thighs.
“So, like, what do your parents do?”
“My dad teaches physics at Cal, and my mom owns a yoga studio. Yours?”
“My dad’s Ricardo Pardo, the sculptor.”
“Yeah, right,” she said, and they both half laughed. “I think my friend Greta likes your friend Patch.”
“Yeah? I think my friend Arno likes you.”
“Yeah, I think so, too.” Suki rolled over so she was facing him, took his head between both her hands, and kissed Mickey longer and hotter than he had ever been kissed before.
Arno doesn’t care if the ocean is amazing
“Isn’t the ocean amazing,” Suki said the next morning. She was leaning against the ledge of their sailboat and tossing her head back like she was inhaling all the beauty of the day. The gesture made her long hair swish back and forth against her high, flat butt. She put her chin on her shoulder and flashed her bright eyes at Arno, who hadn’t been looking at the ocean.
“Totally,” he said, looking briefly at the water and then turning back to her. “But not as amazing as you. Natch.”
“Not as amazing as yooouuu,” Mickey parroted from behind them in a mocking tone.
To practice sailing, the students had broken up into small groups and were maneuvering Ideal 18s through the Bay of Fornells. It was an inlet in the north shore of Menorca, one of the Balearic Islands, where the Ariadne had docked early that morning. Patch was captaining their boat, along with Stephanie, who was their group’s faculty advisor. (Arno wondered briefly if Patch was into her—she was only twenty-three, and hot in a sort of athletic way—and if so, what he, Arno, was missing out on.) Greta, Suki’s best friend who didn’t talk very much, was sitting next to Jonathan on the other side of the boat. Mickey had been standing at the center of the boat until a few minutes ago, holding on to the mast and doing his best Jack Sparrow impression. He had been talking crazy Mickey talk like that all day. Arno could see where this was going.
Mickey jumped down between them and put an arm around Suki and an arm around Arno. Suki gave him the bright, inviting look she had just been giving Arno.
“Ahoy, m’pretties!” Mickey said in his rogue’s accent.
They all stood awkwardly for a minute and stared out at the water. It was deep blue and huge under the cloudless late-afternoon sky. The island rose on either side of them, like two great gray-brown sea monsters. The wind was gently rearranging their hair; it had been a lazy, salty day. Even Arno had to admit to himself that it was actually amazing. He pushed away from Mickey and took a look over the side of the boat.
“I bet I could beat you to that beach,” Arno said, pulling his T-shirt over his head and revealing his perfect abs. He turned and looked at Mickey, who still had his arm around Suki. In fact, he had lowered it to her hip.
“Which beach? That one …,” Mickey said, smiling devilishly and pointing at the beach directly in front of them. It was the side of the bay they had come from, and the one they would soon dock at. Then he turned and pointed somewhere over Arno’s shoulder. “… Or that one?”
Arno turned to look. He shielded his eyes from the sun, but he couldn’t see anything remotely near them in that direction. “There’s no bee …” But before he could get the word out, Mickey was over the side and plowing through the waves toward shore. Suki leaned against the edge and clapped her hands. So Arno had no choice but to kick off his flip-flops and dive over the edge.
The water had looked calm from above, and it was a shock to Arno’s system when he realized how choppy the waves actually were. He was a good swimmer, though—or at least, he had been a good swimmer during gym class in Gissing’s rooftop pool—and he propelled himself forward with several perfect freestyle strokes. He was getting closer to Mickey, when he made the mistake of thinking about how deep the water was and how far from shore they were. Oh, shit.
Mickey was not a great swimmer, but he had a lot of competitive energy. As Arno pushed through the water, trying not to focus on his actual situation, he could see Mickey thrashing about ahead of him. Before long, they were right next to each other, slapping their way through the water. The shore, inexplicably, kept growing farther and farther away. After several minutes of panicky swimming Arno realized he could overtake Mickey, but he was so freaked out by being alone in an apparently bottomless ocean that he kept steady just a few strokes ahead of him, instead.
When Arno finally thought to look back and see what had happened to the boat, there was nothing there. Just one … big … ocean. The tide must be pulling us away, he thought.
After what seemed like an eternity, they were close enough to the beach to see the bottom. Arno waited until they could practically stand, and then he picked up speed, thrusting his torso through the water. He reached the beach first. He staggered onto it, exhausted, and then collapsed. A few moments later he heard Mickey fall down beside him.
“Dude,” Mickey said. He was gasping for air. “That was so stupid.”
If only all this beauty could make me miss Flan less
I was out of things to say to Greta. We were sitting on one of the sailboats the program had rented from the locals, watching Patch and our faculty advisor, Stephanie Rayder, steer the boat. Greta kept staring up at Patch, which is what most girls do. Unless of course they’re staring at Arno. On the other side of the boat, Mickey and Arno were trying to outdo each other getting the attention of Greta’s friend Suki.
I was realizing more and more why I didn’t like this girl Suki. She was one of these types who, like, needs the attention of two dudes—minimum—competing for her at all times. And that’s really pathetic to watch.
Everything was beautiful—very blue, very Mediterranean, with all the little white boats dotting the bay—but I was ready for the sail to be over. I had been ready for it to be over since before it started. In fact, Arno had very nearly had to carry me off of the Ariadne that morning, because what I’d really wanted to do was stay close to the computer lab. As of that morning I hadn’t gotten an e-mail from Flan in six days, and even though it shouldn’t, it was driving me crazy.
And of course, it was more than your average lovesickness that was eating me. When I said things were going good with Flan before I went on this trip, I was leaving out the last time I saw her …
New York between Thanksgiving and New Year’s is pretty much all holiday parties, which is fun even though it means talking to a lot of people our parents’ age. The hostesses all try and outdo each other with amazing holiday drinks, and it’s a good excuse to wear new clothes that might not really work for every day. Usually I meet up with my guys there, get a little boozy, eat some hors d’oeuvres, and head out. Bu
t this year Flan and I went to all of those things together, traipsing from one warm, festive event to another.
Then, at some point, I started feeling a little trapped. Like, everybody’s parents chatting about how cute we looked together got really tired, you know? And plus, all of my guys were acting single suddenly, and going to after-parties or dive bars late at night, and I didn’t feel like I could bring Flan along. I mean, she’s in eighth grade. So most nights, I ended up going over to her house, or she came over to mine, and we’d watch movies in our fancy holiday clothes. And pretty soon I started feeling a little domesticated, I guess. And the feeling kept building, and I started acting kind of mean, until finally, at the very end of a very drunken New Year’s Eve party, I went back to the Floods’ Perry Street town house and pulled Flan aside. I said a lot of things, and then I said that I thought we should “cool it, and just see what happens when I come back from the trip.” She ran to her room crying. The next morning I flew to Miami.
I had been writing her all these e-mails from PISS’s yacht that sort of avoided that event. And she had been sending me back three-sentence notes like: “Went riding this morning. New York is cold. Say hi to my brother. FF.” But now even those had stopped coming.
Sailing around in the Mediterranean, Flan in New York—with her white fur stole and earmuffs—seemed like another planet. And that only increased my remorse and anxiety about having pushed her away.
Our side of the boat went up and then down all of a sudden, and I heard a splash.
“No, they didn’t!” I heard Stephanie yell from the helm, so I stood up to have a look. Arno’s T-shirt was hanging from the other side of the boat, but Arno and Mickey were nowhere in sight. Suki winked at Greta.
Stephanie was trying to turn the boat toward shore. She looked either really pissed, or really scared. Patch, who was standing next to her, said something in her ear and she said something back, and then he jumped down and tried to get the sail up. But just when he got it open the wind changed, and we started moving pretty quickly in the opposite direction.
