by Sam Cameron
They passed Big Pine, crossed Bahia Honda, and started across the Seven Mile Bridge. Robin hated bridges, and she hated bridges over water, so it was perfectly ironic that she lived on an island and had to drive over bridges all the time. Sometimes she wished her parents had settled somewhere landlocked, like Iowa.
“Ignore that huge drop into the bottomless ocean,” Sean said unhelpfully.
“One day I’m going to pull over and shove you in it,” Robin said. “Besides, it’s not bottomless.”
She tightened her grip, stared at the middle of the road, and reminded herself to breathe steadily. It helped, slightly, to remember that thousands of people drove over the bridge every month, and so far it hadn’t collapsed or broken into pieces. Every spring there was a marathon; no one ever fell into gaping potholes or missing spans. But occasionally trucks jackknifed or smashed into each other in fiery crashes—
Sean said, “You’re not breathing.”
“Yes, I am,” Robin said tightly.
Much of the bridge was close to the water, but at Moser Channel it arched seventy feet into the sky. Robin carefully did not look at how high they were. She didn’t think about what it would be like to sail off the side, plunge into the ocean, and drown in fearful agony—
“No, really,” Sean said worriedly. “Breathe.”
They reached the end of the bridge and passed through Marathon. Robin relaxed. Soon the large neon light of the Dreamette appeared on Sean’s side of the car. Several cars were parked at Fisher Key’s famous ice cream landmark. People on their way to Miami or coming back down from the mainland often stopped for scoops of double chocolate pecan or a giant Cherry Coke shake. As Robin stopped for a red light, she recognized some of her friends’ cars, too. Under other circumstances, she would have loved to stop for a hot fudge sundae. She’d enjoy gloating about crashing the Truman White House movie set and never mention Aaron Lipstein’s key assistance.
Right now, however, she wanted to get home, fire up her laptop, and see if any satellite images or webcam pictures might help find Juliet.
And maybe do a search or two on Officer Michelle Boyle. Maybe snag a picture from Google Images.
“There’s Steven’s truck,” Sean said. “Sure you don’t want to ask for advice?”
Steven was probably at the Dreamette with one of his many girlfriends. Sure, he was handsome and brave and had that almost-a-Navy-SEAL thing going for him. But did that really justify the ridiculous ease with which he got girls? Robin’s chief solace was that she’d beaten him in grade point average at Fisher Key High. And that he’d probably get a sexually transmitted disease before he was thirty.
“No,” she said. “We don’t need Steven’s help.”
As they approached the center of town, they saw signs for Pirate Days, which Robin had almost but not quite managed to forget about. Properly speaking, Fisher Key had absolutely no history of piracy. Ever. But that hadn’t stopped the Chamber of Commerce from inventing a festival for the tourists that conveniently tagged onto the end of Pride Week in Key West. Every summer, Robin cringed as the town was invaded by people wearing eye patches and saying, “Aye, matey,” in very bad accents.
“Three days until Pirate Hell,” Sean said. He shared her scorn for it. “Though I would like to see Liam Norcott in a waistcoat.”
“I’d like to see him walk the plank.”
Sean said, “He’s a perfectly nice guy.”
“He didn’t seem particularly worried about Juliet.”
“Because he’s known her for a zillion years. He probably figures she’s faking.”
When she dropped Sean off at his house he asked, “Are we going back to Key West tomorrow?” and she hesitated. This summer, they were both trying to earn as much money for college as possible. They worked at the Fisher Key Bookmine. Mrs. Anderson was counting on them to open the store while she was up dropping her sister off in Miami.
“No, we can’t,” she admitted. “Remember, it’s your turn to bring the donuts.”
Sean hesitated at the window. Behind him, palm trees swayed in the fragrant night breeze. Fisher Key was always a romantic place to share with a lover, if you had one. Robin had not had that pleasure yet. She told herself it didn’t matter. Sean was mostly inexperienced, too, except for that one time with the boy from the RV park.
Sean wasn’t moving. Impatiently, Robin asked, “What?”
“Nothing,” he said. “But remember when we were going to that Greenpeace protest in Key Largo, and it was the same weekend we had the SATs, and you had a sinus infection but wouldn’t go to the doctor?”
Robin shook her head. “What’s your point?”
“Sometimes you get pretty single-minded,” Sean said. “You don’t ask for help when you should.”
Robin scoffed. “This isn’t about me.”
“I know,” Sean said. “But if Juliet doesn’t have the flu, then she might truly be in danger. So don’t screw it up, okay?”
Chapter Four
Robin’s house was on the Gulf side of the island. It didn’t have a direct view of the water like the rich houses did, but she could hear the soothing rush and break of waves as she pulled beside the long gravel driveway. Several cars were already parked there. The house, a low ranch-style building with solar panels on the roof, was alive with light and people and the muffled sound of cheerful music.
She considered herself an extrovert, but her parents took that to an extreme; they were always inviting people over, or letting relatives crash on the sofa, or putting up foreign exchange students from Thailand and Cambodia and Vietnam. Sometimes that was fun and often it was educational, but sometimes a girl needed some peace and quiet.
She tried not to think about Sean’s words as she grabbed her backpack from the backseat. It was true, she supposed, that sometimes she didn’t reach out for assistance when she should. But that was just being practical. If there was one thing her parents’ activism had taught her, it was that people always had their own consuming problems to deal with. They meant well, but couldn’t always keep their promises. On the other hand, she could utterly count on herself.
As soon as Robin pushed open the front door, she saw Pirates of the Caribbean playing on the TV. Orlando Bloom’s dialogue was drowned out by pirate music blasting out of the stereo. A dozen Girl Scouts, some of them wearing pink eye patches, were working around the big table in the dining room, painting posters for Pirate Days. The floor was covered with ribbons and glitter and cardboard for making sea monsters.
“Sissy!” Robin’s little sister Ginny barreled at her from the living room and wrapped her in a hug. “Did you meet your movie star girlfriend?”
“Hiya, squirt.” Robin pulled on Ginny’s braided hair. “Almost. How’s it going here?”
“Come see my poster.”
Ginny dragged her to the coffee table and proudly showed off her work. Compared to the other posters, it was childish. The silver starfish looked more like blobs than anything else, and the mermaid didn’t have any hands. But that didn’t matter. What always mattered, Mom and Dad said, was doing your best.
“Best one you’ve ever made,” Robin proclaimed. “I give it a gold star.”
Ginny beamed. “Extra shiny for my extra chromosome?”
“You bet,” Robin said.
No one in the McGee house was ever afraid to say Down syndrome. In fact, they had a whole shelf on the bookcase about that very topic. But ever since Robin could remember, they simply talked about extra chromosomes instead. It meant that Ginny looked different from other kids, had to wear thick glasses all the time, and had trouble with schoolwork, but that only made her unique. Extra shiny.
“Come on, Ginny,” said one of the other twelve-year-old girls. “Help me with this banner.”
Robin followed the smell of cookies into the kitchen and grabbed a wrap from a plate of tofu tuna sandwiches. The Girl Scout moms were clustered at the table, going over a schedule of events that included the 5K run, a parade, a sailboat
race, and a swap meet. Robin’s mother was at the center of it all, a smidge of flour on her nose. She pulled herself free and cornered Robin by the oven.
“How did it go?” Mom asked, her eyes alight. She was totally supportive of crushes on Hollywood stars because she’d once been in love with Harrison Ford.
Robin had rehearsed her answer. “You wouldn’t believe the whole story, but we talked to Liam Norcott.”
The oven bell went off. Mom reached for her mitts. “Excellent!” Then she frowned. “Isn’t he the one with the big trailer?”
“And we met Juliet’s sister,” Robin said, refusing to be distracted. She stood aside as Mom pulled out a batch of vegan chocolate chip cookies. “But Juliet wasn’t there.”
“I’m sorry, honey. That was the most important part.”
“It’s okay. They’re not done shooting until Friday. I’ll tell you more later, okay? Where’s Dad?”
“In the den. Hiding with the other men. Here, take him these sandwiches.”
The den was at the end of the hallway. Robin knocked and let herself in. Her father was standing at his desk, poised over a map of the pirate parade route. With him were Sheriff Anderson, Principal Clark, and some of the members of the Chamber of Commerce. They were drinking beer and eating nachos while a baseball game played on the TV.
“We need more portable toilets,” Dad was saying. “Every year, we get complaints about the toilets.”
“Public urination is never pretty,” Sheriff Anderson added.
Dad turned to Robin. “Hi, Braveheart. How was Key West?”
There should be a law against parents using embarrassing nicknames once you graduated from high school. Just because Robin had watched that movie a million times on an old VHS tape didn’t mean she wanted to be known for it forever. For years, her dad had hoped it meant Robin liked Mel Gibson, but she’d really been watching for Sophie Marceau.
“It was great,” Robin said. “How’s Denny, Sherriff?”
Sheriff Anderson dunked a nacho into some cheese dip. “Resting and recuperating until he goes away. Thanks for taking his shifts at the Bookmine.”
Denny had been hit on the head during the military satellite case. A mild concussion, the doctors said. The worst part was that he was supposed to go to the Coast Guard Academy and they wouldn’t take him if he wasn’t physically ready for Swab Summer.
“No problem,” Robin said. “And for the record, more toilets are a good thing. I’m totally in favor of fewer people peeing in the bushes.”
Dad took the plate of sandwiches from her. “Your vote is duly noted.”
Finally, Robin was able to escape the noise and company. She threw herself on her bed and gazed at the wall where her academic and sports awards hung in frames or rested on shelves. She’d planned on taking everything down the day after graduation, but that kept getting delayed. No rush. Over her desk was a bulletin board devoted to Juliet Francine pictures. Juliet in a polka-dot miniskirt with black heels. Juliet in a blue bikini clinging to every curve. Juliet in a long white dress and poised on the Oscar red carpet.
Someday, Robin vowed, she’d make an award-winning documentary with Juliet as the narrator, and during the dubbing process they’d fall in love, and then when the film won an Academy Award, she and Juliet would stroll the red carpet together. It didn’t matter that Juliet appeared to be strictly heterosexual. After meeting and getting to know Robin, she’d unleash her repressed desires and they’d live happily ever after.
Childish daydream, Robin thought.
Unless it came true.
Someone knocked on her door. Robin wasn’t much in the mood for conversation but she said, “Come in.”
Ginny entered, looking pleased with herself. She announced, “I have a secret. I can tell you, but you have to promise not to tell anyone.”
“Can it wait?” Robin asked. “I’m kind of tired.”
Ginny’s grin grew wider. “It’s a big secret. And you’re my best friend.”
Most of Ginny’s so-called secrets were about things no one else would care about. Robin felt bad that when she went away to college, Ginny would have to find someone else to confide in. Mom and Dad were confident that when she grew up, Ginny would be fine living on her own with support. Or maybe in a group home. But Robin always secretly believed she’d have to take care of Ginny when they got old, and so it was important to build a financial fortune early.
Robin sat up and patted the striped bedspread beside her. “Okay. Spill the beans.”
Ginny sat and pulled a wrinkled handmade card from her pocket. It had a pink heart on the cover, beautifully drawn with swirls and curls. Inside was a more crudely drawn heart with Ginny’s name penciled inside in big block letters.
“I met a boy,” Ginny said, bouncing up and down in place. “And he says on Pirate Days he’s going to kiss me!”
For the second time that day, Robin’s words froze up in surprise. “What?” she forced out. “Who?”
“It’s a secret,” Ginny said.
“No, that can’t be a secret. You’re twelve years old. That’s too young to kiss boys.”
Ginny’s grin began to fade. “It’s not too young. You were twelve!”
“I was thirteen,” Robin argued. “And that was different.”
Different because the girl that Robin had kissed, a fellow eighth-grader named Ella, hadn’t had Down syndrome. They’d snuck off under the gym bleachers during lunch, because Ella said she wanted to experiment and Robin was excited to kiss anyone at all. She could still remember the smell of wax and dust, and the dark brown of Ella’s eyes, and the taste of her pink bubblegum.
Ginny stood up and took the heart from Robin’s hands. “You’re jealous because I have a boyfriend and you don’t have a girlfriend.”
“I’m not jealous,” Robin said. “Honest. I’m worried. Who is this boy? How can you trust him?”
But Ginny was in no mood to share more secrets. She warned, “If you tell Mom and Dad, I’ll hate you forever,” and slammed the door behind her.
One of Juliet Francine’s photos fell from the bulletin board and drifted to the floor. Juliet in a yellow sundress, poised coyly for the camera. Robin picked it up and stared at the closed door, wishing she’d handled that a hundred times better.
“Nobody molests my little sister,” she told the empty room.
Chapter Five
“How do you know he’s trying to molest her?” Sean asked Tuesday morning when Robin told him the story. “Maybe he’s sincere. It’s cute.”
“It’s not cute,” Robin said firmly. “He’s a pre-teen pedophile. Or maybe older! What if he’s our age? What if he’s an adult?”
Sean put a box of warm, sugary doughnuts on the Bookmine’s front counter and turned on the main lights. Robin had already disabled the alarm system and notched up the air conditioning. The building’s labyrinth of aisles was quiet around them, patiently waiting for customers to come and pluck book treasures from the shelves.
“Did you stay up all night worrying about this?” Sean asked.
Robin didn’t answer. She might have obsessed for a few hours, sure. She’d also spent the midnight hours looking for (a) webcam and satellite photos from the Lagoon Resort, and (b) information about the very pretty Officer Michelle Boyle. If, in the end, Robin had only gotten about three hours of sleep, that was easily remedied by the enormous cup of coffee she’d picked up at the Gas’n’Go on her way to work.
Sean turned on the cash register. “If you’re that worried, you should tell your parents.”
“Ginny would never forgive me,” Robin said. “Which I could live with if it means protecting her. But what if she’s not telling the truth?”
“You think she’s lying?”
“I think sometimes she lets her imagination run away,” Robin admitted. “Last summer she swore she had a mermaid friend who lived in the marina. One year it was UFOs.”
Sean peered past the Pirate Days poster on the front door. A car was alrea
dy pulling into the parking lot. Tuesdays were always busy because the store was closed on Mondays. He unlocked the deadbolt. “So what are you going to do?”
“Be here on Saturday and punch anyone who tries to kiss her,” Robin said.
Mrs. Carter was their first customer of the day. She was carrying a big box of hardcovers to trade in for cash or credit. Her books often smelled like cat pee, but Mrs. Anderson said to always take them, because Mrs. Carter was a valued customer. Robin let Sean handle that while she checked the store’s e-mail for orders or inquires. The Bookmine was the biggest and best bookstore between Miami and Key West and also filled orders from around the country. Robin would have to pull and package several orders before the delivery man made his first pickup at noon.
After Mrs. Carter’s books were put away, Sean said, “Hey, Monica Mell just updated her website.”
Robin checked on her phone and read the entry aloud. “‘Shooting’s been delayed because of Juliet’s unfortunate stomach flu. True story or cover-up for her best friend? Could Liam Norcott’s late night booze cruises be affecting production again?’”
“Hating Liam is very unattractive,” Sean sniffed. He looked pointedly at Robin’s oversized cup. “I’m going to make some liquid caffeine for myself. Someone didn’t bring me any from the Gas’n’Go.”
Robin was unapologetic. “They didn’t have any mocha.”
“I’d take caramel,” he said, and headed off for the expensive coffee maker and supplies they kept stashed in the supply closet, away from Mrs. Anderson’s sugar-addicted grabby hands.
Alone at the front desk, Robin was wrestling with a new roll of packing tape when a biker came in, big and brawny and frowning.
“I’m looking for a book about pirates,” he growled. “For my kid.”
“Aisle two,” Robin said.
Scatterbrained Mrs. Fournier from the Beauty Palace came in, her hair done up in rollers under a blue scarf. “I’m looking for that book with the pink cover, dear. Big white letters. It was on TV.”
Robin used her Swiss Army knife to flick up the edge of the tape. “All of the Oprah books are on the back wall, ma’am.”
