Wanderlove (18 page)

“Sorry,” I say, trying not to giggle. “It’s just . . . it’s part of the stereotype, isn’t it? A dragon’s such a tough-guy tattoo. It could be worse—like a lopsided tribal armband. Or something written in Chinese with an entirely different meaning than what you thought.”

“Like ‘helicopter’? Or ‘mock duck’?”

“Or worse. Example: my friend Olivia wanted the word
free
in Chinese tattooed right here.” I touch my hip above the hem of my shorts. “So she went to this glammy Chinese restaurant in North Hollywood and asked the host to write it down for her. Unfortunately, she didn’t tell him why. Turns out there are two different Chinese characters for ‘free,’ with different definitions: One means, like, liberated. The other one—the one she got—means
free of charge.”
I pause. “Kind of fitting, though, if you know Olivia.”

“Ouch,” Rowan says. “My tattoo’s not like that. I promise.” He extends his arm, holding it aloft until I catch it in my hands.

“Look close.”

With my eyes, I trace the dragon as if I’m drawing it: the scallops of its scales, its slanted eyes and trailing whiskers, it claws, splayed out like talons. Rowan’s skin shows through a gleam of light left inkless along the dragon’s torso. Under-neath its belly scampers a row of tiny human feet.

“I don’t get it,” I say.

“It’s not just any dragon. It’s the one they use to celebrate the Chinese New Year. Specifically, in San Francisco’s Chinatown.”

“Is that where you’re from?”

“I lived there at one point. The city, not Chinatown. But my dad took me to the New Year’s parade when I was six. I thought we were having father-son time. . . . Really, it was just an excuse for my dad to meet with some woman. So naturally, he lost track of me.”

I’m still cradling Rowan’s arm. I try not to move or do anything that might suppress his story.

“You can’t imagine how terrified I was,” he says. “Everything was commotion. Clanging bells and firecrackers bursting in my face. I didn’t recognize anything. I wasn’t much of a reader then, but it wouldn’t have mattered—all the signs were in these wicked-looking Chinese letters. At first I pan-icked, sobbing and pushing through the knees, but no one noticed me. There were just too many people. I even searched the shops. I remember this one place, some sort of Oriental pharmacy, with one wall covered in ugly withered things like shrunken heads.”

I discover I’m squeezing Rowan’s arm, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Then, all of a sudden, it was like the smoke dissipated. I can’t really explain it . . . but somehow, I realized my father wasn’t going to find me, and it was up to me to get
un-
lost. It was up to me to take care of myself. And so I swallowed my tears, and quietly, calmly, I made my way through the crowd until I came to an intersection. And when I turned the corner, I recognized the street. I knew where I was.

“My dad didn’t find me—I found myself. So that’s when I figured out that the only person who could take care of me was
me
.”

I wait to make sure he’s finished. Then I release his arm and wrap myself in my towel again. “But you were just a little boy,” I say, sitting back against the wall.

Rowan nods. “I was. But I’m glad I learned it so young.

To depend on myself, and no one else.”

“What about Starling?”

“Starling?” He shrugs. “Like I said, Starling means well.

But she doesn’t always know what’s best for me, even though she thinks she does.”

I think of my conversation with her at the Río Dulce café.

How protective she is. How much she obviously cares about her brother. And despite myself, I feel an unwanted surge of loyalty for her. “Still, it must be nice to have someone in your corner.”

“Believe me, I’m not ungrateful. I know what it’s like not to have anyone.”

I’m not sure if I believe him. Rowan’s always had Starling; when was he ever on his own? Even if they lived in different places, they must have exchanged phone calls or emails or something. I hug myself under my towel cape. “I need to take lessons from you, Rowan.”

“You don’t trust yourself?”

“Not really. I haven’t been very . . . trustworthy in the past.” I fold up our off-limits list and stick it in the pocket of my shorts, where I plan to forget about it. “Anyway. I’m sorry I called your tattoo Nessie. And thank you for your memory.”

“
The Giver,”
Rowan says.

“The what?”

“It’s another kids’ book. Dystopias, memory sharing—it’s epic. You should read it.” He reaches out and gently taps my shoulder with his flashlight. “It’s your turn. Though I’d rather see the book you keep hiding from me.”

“My sketchbook? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“It’s a
sketchbook
?”

I make a face. “Well, I write things in it too. But it’s for Bria’s eyes only.”

“Okay, okay. Just your hand.” He reaches for me.

I turn my face as he examines the butterfly I drew on the back of my hand, in the crook between my index finger and thumb. By now, it’s almost entirely faded. Nothing much left but a ghost of wings. I wait for him to call me out, since I gave him such a hard time about the dragon tattoo. Aren’t butterflies even more cliché than dragons?

But all he says is “It’s beautiful.” For a second, he laces his fingers through mine.

Day 9, Morning

Go Slow

We can actually
see
the storm moving toward our boat: a wall of water agitating the sea in a perfect line, surging in our direction. As the first fat drops strike our faces, Rowan kicks a tarp out from under the seat.

“Grab that side!” he shouts to the man sitting in front of us.
“Tome ese lado
.
”

We’re swallowed in blue plastic, huddling so close we’re practically on each other’s laps. The wind yanks at the tarp, and I seize a flailing edge before it flips into the storm. There must be a gap somewhere, because the rain’s streaming down my neck and into my shirt. At least I’m not wearing white.

For someone who shuns water, I do an awfully good job attracting it. In just one week, I’ve voyaged through a lake, down a river, and now across the stormy sea.

It’s just past eight in the morning. We barely made our boat, which is heading to Punta Gorda in Belize. If we’d missed it, Rowan said, we’d have had to proposition a fisherman.

There’s a boom so loud I bite my tongue. Then a flash, way too close. I grip the tarp so tightly my hand cramps. As if a sheath of plastic could keep us safe from the fire gods.

“Can it hit us?” I yell over the roar.

“What?” Rowan yells back.

“I said,
can it hit us?
Can the lightning hit us?”

“No! Don’t worry.”

Another peal of thunder shudders the air. I close my eyes, thankful for the solidity of Rowan’s body pressed against mine. I know I’m trying to act all brave and independent on this trip, but lightning’s
scary.
I’m certain we’ve blown off course and are approaching Jamaica when the boat engine finally slows. The rain splatters vertically instead of sideways through the gap, which is a relief. I brave a peek, clutching the tarp around my shoulders like a poncho. Through the haze, I glimpse the dim, gray shore of Belize, along with the outline of several boxy houses. I reach under the tarp and pinch Rowan’s side.

“We’re here! Come out, come out, wherever you are.” He tickles me back. I double up, spilling more water down my shirt as Rowan emerges from the tarp. The boat chugs through the colorless water toward a gloomy pier, sort of what I’d imagine the dock at the banks of the river Styx to look like.

“So
this
is your Caribbean?” I ask.

“Wow,” he replies. “I’m starting to feel like a fraud.”

“I could be on my way to Mexico right now. Sipping mimosas on a white-sand beach. All of it prepaid, I should add.”

“If it’s raining here, it’s probably raining there, you know.” A man in a yellow slicker hoists our backpacks as we climb out onto the pier. Earlier we tied garbage bags around them to keep out the rain, and it appears to have worked for mine.

But when Rowan lifts his, water gushes from a rip in the plastic.

“There’s karma for you,” I tell him.

He stares at me for a second. Then he shakes his backpack in my direction. An arc of water slaps me in the legs. I’m already drenched, but I chase him down the dock anyway. I don’t notice the pair of uniformed soldiers until I crash into one of them.

He grabs me by the arm. “Why are you in such a hurry?” I forgot Belizeans speak English. Rowan turns and jogs back toward us, and I swallow nervously, wondering if I’ve just gotten us deported. “We’re just . . . ,” I begin.

“Happy,” Rowan shouts, “to be in Belize!” After a moment of silence, both soldiers begin to chuckle.

The first releases me, and the other wipes his eyes. “Welcome,” he says. “Customs is that way.”

“And
slow down,
” the other adds. “This is Belize. We go slow here.”

“Belize smells like Christmas,” I tell Rowan as we stroll down the wet road, trying to find an Internet café. Our bus to Belize City doesn’t leave for an hour, and Rowan has some phone calls to make.

He stares at me, mystified. “How’s that?” I shrug. I’m not sure why I said it; it’s not like this is Douglas fir country. “Maybe it’s the rain.” It continues to float down in gauzy sheets, making me feel lethargic. If it wasn’t so oppressively muggy out, I’d long for a cup of coffee and a fireplace.

“California girl,” Rowan says, grinning at me.

“You said you lived in San Francisco. Aren’t you a California boy?”

“Sure. And a Montana boy, an Oregon boy, a Mexico boy . . . Want me to go on?”

“Yes,” I say, but he doesn’t.

He steps over a puddle. “This is the right weather for a seaweed.”

“A
what
?”

“A seaweed. It’s a classic Belizean drink. I’ll make sure to find you one.”

Even though Punta Gorda is on the water, there aren’t really any beaches here. Just a strip of weedy grass lined with rocks, and then the foamy sea. Coconut palms lean into the wind. Their coconuts aren’t tan or green, but macaroni-and-cheese orange. The village itself kind of resembles Livingston, minus the jungle and hilly landscape. And the Spanish.

The same pastel paint on the concrete houses. The same muddy streets. The same muddy dogs. But there’s a definite difference in the level of prosperity; the homes are larger, the public spaces better kept. The dogs all look like they belong to
someone,
even if they’re not well bathed.

We pause in front of a woman selling coconut bread.

Toffee-colored hair frames her face in immaculate hot-curler coils. One Belize dollar—locked at fifty U.S. cents—per wedge, about twice what we’d have paid in Guatemala.

“Belize is doing a lot better than Guatemala,” Rowan says when I comment. “They don’t have the same history of violence. Guatemalans have had a rough time of it.”

Rowan’s fifth travel rule:

Prices are relative. So is poverty. So is
happiness.

Unfortunately, Belize’s good luck means my money is going to run out more quickly here. When we stop by an ATM to withdraw Belizean currency, I’m glad the machine can’t show me my balance.

In the café, I open a browser window on an ancient PC. I haven’t been online since Panajachel, which is probably the longest I’ve ever been off the grid. I log in to my mailbox and am greeted with twenty-seven new messages. Both my parents’ names, over and over. A thicket of exclamation points.

Great.
I know I should read them. I should write back. But sifting through the messages sounds excruciating. My parents are probably angry—justifiably, since I haven’t contacted them, not even to let them know I got here okay. But
I
know I’m fine. And a part of me wants to let them worry a little longer. In a messed-up way, it feels validating.

They’re not
bad
parents. When I compare them to Rowan’s dad, losing his kid at the parade, I know I should be grateful. Anyway, I’m the one who quit confiding in my mom, mostly because she hates unpleasant things. Volunteering the truth about Toby, about how I felt when I stopped drawing and she didn’t comment, about the real reason I’m not going to SCAA—it would have been like closing the blinds on a sunbathing kitten. It’s much easier to keep my mouth shut.