Authors: Melissa Walker
“Where’s James’s mom, anyway?” asks Olive. “It’s just him and his dad on the boat, right?”
“Do I look like James’s biographer?”
Olive frowns like she’s thinking hard.
“And don’t bring it up tonight, Livy,” I continue. “That’s not something you can ask about. Maybe they’re divorced or something. We have no idea.”
“I am not a social moron,” says Olive in a matter-of-fact way that makes her sound twenty years older than she is.
Then she becomes ten again. “I think James likes you,” she singsongs.
I sit up and face her. “Just because he was talking to me doesn’t mean he likes me,” I say. “He’s the kind of guy who talks to everyone. He’s maniacally happy.”
I think about his big smile then. It’s true—he’s always so upbeat.
“What are you smiling at?” asks Olive.
I straighten my mouth. “Nothing. Now get out of here so I can get dressed.”
“Wear something pretty!” says Olive as she shuts the door behind her.
Hmph
.
I look at the clock and realize we’re supposed to be over there in ten minutes. No time for even a navy shower. I take off my clean-the-boat sweatshirt and jeans and put on a short-sleeved cotton sweater and slightly better dark-wash jeans. It’s not like I have actual
nice
clothes on the boat with me. I don’t even have any accessories; how did Olive think to pack things like headbands? I run a brush through my hair and twist it up into a loose bun, hoping that will do. I even swipe on some lip gloss—my first makeup in weeks. Then I pinch my cheeks for color and smile. I’m surprised at how easily my mouth turns up; I’ve been having to work at smiling lately. But tonight it feels almost natural.
Our family of four steps out onto the dock in the fading sunlight. Dad’s in khakis and Top-Siders. Mom’s wearing a white V-neck T-shirt and blue linen pants, Olive’s got her bow, and I’m in lip gloss. We must look like the cover of
Boating Life
magazine.
Earlier, I was dreading tonight, but now I feel kind of … I don’t know, hopeful? I’m determined to be normal. To stop thinking about Ethan. To see if I can get some of my old self back.
“Welcome aboard!” says Bill when we arrive at their slip. I notice that he’s changed into a button-down and practically the same khakis as my dad, and I’m glad I fixed myself up a little. Then James ducks out from under the mainsail. He’s got on a royal blue polo shirt that makes his eyes look like the ocean.
“Hey,” he says, holding out a hand to help me step aboard. I take it, but not because I need it.
“That shirt really makes your hair stand out,” I say. I don’t know why I said that. I think I want to avoid telling him his eyes are, like, the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.
“Uh, thanks.” He runs a hand over his head. “Oh, I got us something.”
He goes down below and comes up again a few seconds later carrying three root beers with straws. They’re those old-fashioned glass-bottled root beers.
Olive claps her hands together. “Those are Clem’s favorite thing!” she says.
James leans over so Olive can take her drink, then he hands one to me.
“Cheers,” he says, and the three of us clink root beers.
I stare down at the thick glass lip as I finger the striped bendy straw (also a favorite). I can see the sunset colors in the glass—pink, orange, yellow—and for a moment, I feel fizzy and content, with nothing else on my mind.
I take a long sip and look over at my parents. They’re lifting mugs of foamy beer in a toast while they smile at James’s dad. Maybe this’ll be a good night.
At dinner, Bill tells stories about his at-sea adventures, and he and Dad laugh loudly together as they try to outdo each other with nautical talk. I mostly have no idea what they’re saying, but it doesn’t matter, because their energy is contagious. Mom intervenes to correct Dad on details sometimes, but Bill just tells her that he would never want the truth to get in the way of a good boating story.
That makes Olive giggle.
The inside of the Townsends’ boat is warm and cozy—all dark wood with lots of brass accents. I notice a red net hanging from the galley ceiling that’s full of bananas—James wasn’t kidding. None of them are browning, though. They must be today’s supply. And I don’t smell a hint of old-banana in here, which is incredible if you think about it.
There’s a shelf full of navigation books above the portholes, and next to the ladder stairs up to the cockpit, I see a family portrait like the ones you get taken in a department-store photo studio. There are definitely three people in it, and the kid in the picture, who looks about five or six, has flaming red hair. I can’t make out much more from my seat on the other side of the cabin, but I resolve to get a closer peek at it later.
I have another root beer when James offers, and I practically inhale the spaghetti marinara that Bill made. Olive does too. I think we’re a little tired of Mom’s canned wonder-meals, and the marinara is totally delicious—thick and oniony. I can see crushed tomato bits in the sink, so I know Bill from-scratched the sauce.
“I made the garlic bread!” says James when Bill gets compliments from all of us on the meal.
“You
buttered
the garlic bread,” says his dad, knocking his elbow with affection.
The two of them are so at ease together, such a team. I look over at Olive watching them, and I know she’s still wondering about James’s mom, just like I am.
I have to pee, but I hate using other people’s heads. You can hear the pee hitting the sides of the toilet—always—and half the time the flusher is too weak and toilet paper bubbles back up. Don’t even get me started on the issues of having to go number two. So I hold it.
When James collects the dishes at the end of the meal, there’s not a single noodle left on my plate.
“I had no idea I was so hungry,” I say. “I’m stuffed!”
James laughs. “Don’t worry. We can stretch out and do a dock walk while Dad keeps your parents captive here with more authentic tales from the sea.”
“Hey,” says Bill, “the Williamses are holding their own in the sailing stories department.”
“Did I ever tell you about the time my father took us up to the Cape and we ran into some Kennedy cousins in a rowboat?” asks Mom.
I can feel Olive roll her eyes. This one we’ve heard over a hundred times.
“Is that our exit cue?” asks James.
“Yes!” huffs Olive.
The three of us finish clearing the table. Bill doesn’t get up, and I wonder if James does this every night, if one of his jobs as first mate is to clean. I’m guessing yes. I’ll have to mention that to Olive.
“Going for a walk,” says James as we head above deck. He grabs a tote bag from the cockpit and slings it over his arm.
Bill nods and my parents don’t even look our way—they’re caught up in the stories of the night.
Outside it’s dark and the air is mercifully cooler than earlier in the day—it feels like it’s in the low seventies. We gently step off the boat and start to walk down the dock.
“Man, my dad can just talk and talk,” says James.
“Maybe you should be thankful for his banana habit,” I say. “It probably keeps his mouth occupied sometimes.”
I hope that didn’t sound rude or weird, but when I glance up at James I see that he’s smiling. I like people who aren’t too sensitive.
Then a tortoiseshell cat darts out in front of us.
“Mrs. Ficklewhiskers!” I shout.
“Mrs.
what
now?” asks Olive.
“She belongs to Ruth and George,” I say. “I met them in Peoria on the dock. They’re—”
“They’re trouble,” says James, jumping in.
“Who’s trouble?” asks a raspy voice from behind us. I see Ruth coming up the dock with an open can of tuna in her hand.
“You are, little lady,” says James, pointing at her. And I realize he must know them already.
Ruth giggles and takes James’s arm. She looks at Olive and hands her the tuna.
“Here, take this to Mrs. Ficklewhiskers over there, will you?” she asks.
Olive runs over to the end of the dock and puts the can down for the cat, who sniffs it haughtily and then starts to take tiny bites.
I turn back to Ruth.
“Jimmy and I have been on this same route every summer since …” She stops. “Well, for four years or so, anyway. Right, Jimmy?”
“That’s right,” James says, giving her arm a squeeze.
It’s sweet when guys are nice to older people. I take out my phone and snap a photo of them.
“Hey, I wasn’t ready, was I?” says Ruth.
“I’m into candids,” I say.
“She
loooves
candids,” says my sister, running back from cat duty. She stares up at Ruth. “I’m Olive.”
“Olive and Clementine and Jimmy, enjoying a night stroll,” says Ruth, taking a deep breath. “Isn’t that lovely?”
I hear George coming up the dock, and then he shouts, “Good for you, boy! That Clementine’s a pretty one!”
“Oh, George, stop!” says Ruth. “The boy’ll turn as red as his hair.”
I hope they don’t notice that my laugh sounds nervous and that I’m blushing too.
“Come on, my love,” says George. “Our dreams await us.”
He takes Ruth’s hand and leads her away from James. They walk by Mrs. Ficklewhiskers and pick up the tuna can. She follows them back to their boat.
“You’re good with older women,
Jimmy
,” I say, teasing.
“Yeah, well, spend summers on a boat and you’re pretty much rolling like the AARP set,” he says. “Old people rule, but you guys are a very welcome surprise this year.”
He grins at Olive, who beams back at him, and we continue our walk.
I fall silent, thinking about Ruth and George, how silly they seem, but also kind of wise or something. And how he called her “my love,” which sounded so tender and sweet.
James and Olive banter back and forth about which boats are the nicest, and they argue about whether pontoon boats are a blast (Olive) or majorly cheesy (James). I listen to the chatter of their voices without really hearing their words. I’m still in my own world a little bit, finding it hard to stay in present moments.
But then James puts his hand on my shoulder.
“I have an idea,” he says. “Let’s go there.” He points off toward the end of Pier 3, where neither of our boats are docked.
“We just walked Pier 3,” says Olive. “Don’t you remember? You said you love that giant yacht at the end, and I said my dad would say that’s not a real boater’s vessel, that’s a ship for fools!”
I laugh. I didn’t hear Olive say that the first time, but that totally is what Dad would say. It’s a motorboat that must be almost sixty feet long. It’s got tinted windows and a double-level cockpit with a spiral staircase leading up to a flybridge that’s the perfect suntanning deck. I can’t even imagine what’s inside, but there are probably, like, five bedrooms.
“You want to see that boat
again
?” asks Olive.
“I want to go
on
that boat,” says James. “I’ve been watching it all day—the owner is definitely not around. They probably left it for the week and just use it on the weekends.”
He’s looking at me with those blue eyes that match his blue shirt. His face is just a few inches from mine. And suddenly I don’t have a problem being in the present moment.
“I don’t know … ,” says Olive.
“Stop being a baby,” I say, holding James’s stare. It’s not like I’m a badass or like I’ve ever gone onto someone else’s boat before, but why not? “Let’s go.”
We climb onto the side deck easily. There’s gorgeous teak that my dad would definitely appreciate if he let himself get close enough to this boat, but he wouldn’t, because it’s not a sailboat and Dad doesn’t do motorboats.
“Let’s go up to the flybridge,” says James. We climb the spiral stairs to the top level and I sit down, putting my legs up on one of the long seats, while Olive perches nervously at the helm next to the captain’s wheel. James sits across from me and stretches out on the other seat. We’re looking up at the dark sky, but it’s a cloudy night and I can only see a handful of stars.
“I have never wanted to be an astronaut,” says James.
I laugh.
“The sky is completely overwhelming,” I say.
“Exactly,” he says. “I mean, who in their right mind would want to
leave our planet
? For what? A closer look at the moon?”
“No thanks,” I say.
“I think it’d be fun,” says Olive.
“You’re crazy, Olive,” says James. “Would you hate it if I called you that all summer, ‘Crazy Olive’?”
Did he say
all summer
?
I hear my little sister giggle. I sit up and look over at her; she’s relaxing a little, leaning back in the captain’s chair and staring up with us. I settle back down.
“I like being Crazy Olive,” says my sister. “Better than being Boring Olive.”
“Good point,” says James. “Boring is the
worst
. It’s better to be almost anything than bored.”
“Even depressed, like Clem?” Olive says.
My head snaps up. I know she was joking, going on with the crazy thing, but that’s not funny.
“Shut it, Olive,” I say sharply.
She looks over at me with wide eyes, realizing she hit a nerve that she didn’t mean to touch.
“What in the world could Clem have to be depressed about?” asks James, still staring at the sky, still using a light and teasing tone. “She’s out here on a beautiful summer night, aboard this luxury vessel with Crazy Olive and Handsome James, whose blue shirt makes his red hair stand out.”
I smile in spite of myself. He’s paying attention to every word I say.
“And besides, I want you guys smiling for this next part,” he continues.
“Next part?” I ask.
He sits up and whips a sketchbook and a dark gray pencil out of the tote he’s been carrying.
He glances over at Olive, who looks enchanted, and then at me.
“Perfect,” he says. And he starts to draw.
While he’s drawing, he asks us to stay quiet so he can capture our “still selves.” But he keeps talking, making us laugh. “Have you guys ever noticed that when you need ChapStick it’s like you’d pay any amount of money to have it
right now
? Like your lips are about to flake off your face and you need the sweet relief that only that tube of petroleum-based product can bring?”