Wanderlove (29 page)

It’s beautiful, what he’s saying. I’ve never seen him as excited as he is right this minute, with the ocean shimmering in his eyes. But the more he talks, the more nervous I feel. I’m glad I still have his spare pair of sunglasses to hide my anxiousness.

“We’re here!” Devon announces.

I look around. “Really?” I’m not sure what I expected: a sign poking out of the water, maybe, or a fleet of other dive boats. But there’s only one other boat, anchored to a pumpkin-orange buoy. Devon directs our boat alongside it and cuts the motor.

“That’s the park ranger,” Rowan says. “I’ll pay our entrance fee. Why don’t you put on your wet suit?” Now that we’re floating in one place, I can really feel the boat rocking. Bracing myself against a bench, I wrestle with the wet suit until I’m more or less inside it. It’s like prying on another person’s skin. Rubbery, disturbingly warm skin.

“You could pass for a pro.” Rowan hands me a weight belt.

I grab it the same instant the boat tilts, and I end up sitting on the cooler. “Ow. I feel so uncoordinated.”

“Just wait until you put on the rest of your equipment,” Devon says, rolling a Belikin beer can up and down her leathery thigh. I can tell she’s antsy to get to shore. On our way to the boat, we passed scores of islanders setting up grills and blenders behind the chain-link fence.

“This is nothing like swimming, you know.” I lean forward and clip the weight belt around my waist. “There’s too much
gear.”

Rowan shrugs. “It’s all weightless underwater. Now, spit,” he orders, holding out my mask. “It prevents your mask from fogging up.”

“Don’t forget to tell her our mantra,” Devon adds. “The greener the cleaner.”

I wince. “So I’ll be gazing at fish through how many generations of other people’s snot?”

Devon laughs. “Hundreds.”

Once I am encased in the rest of my scuba paraphernalia, Rowan has me totter backward in my fins to the edge of the boat. I peer at Rowan through my mask. “How do I get in?”

“Backwards. You know that—it was in the book.”

“Everything’s backwards.”

“Including you.”

I glance over my shoulder. The water pitches and sloshes.

It might be clear near shore, but here I can’t see anything but impenetrable blue. I hope that doesn’t signify a bottomless pit.

“I’ll stay right beside you the whole time you’re underwater, I promise,” Rowan says. “I won’t leave your side for a second. The water here isn’t more than ten or twelve feet deep, by the way. It’s like a swimming pool. Now, put your regulator in your mouth.”

I wedge the regulator—the contraption you breathe through—in my mouth. Recalling my chewed-up straw in Río Dulce, I try not to gnaw on the rubber.

“Now, hold it with one hand, and hold your mask with the other.”

I try to say something, but it comes out a burble.

“What?”

I remove my regulator. “I said, push me in.” Rowan shakes his head. “Are you kidding? You’re doing this yourself.”

I try to make myself relax, but panic keeps corrupting my throat. It doesn’t help that the air from my tank tastes like laundry room. I spit out my regulator again. “I’m still scared.”

“Do you want me to go first?”

“I guess.”

He lumbers over beside me. “Devon, can you help her in?” Devon pauses in her beer can rolling to give Rowan a lazy thumbs-up.

I pull off my mask and watch Rowan tumble in. He surfaces a second later, pressing a button and inflating his dive vest—his BCD, said my dive book—with a hiss. He removes his regulator. “See? No big deal, right?”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Come on, it’s not that bad.”

“I’m serious.”

“Shit!” Devon exclaims. “Not in the boat!” She rushes over to help me out of my tank. I stagger to the other side and lean over just in time. I hope the fish enjoy my breakfast.

I unzip my wet suit and battle it from my body. In my bikini, I flop back-first onto the bench, pull up my knees, and close my eyes, listening to the clunks and splashes as Rowan climbs aboard. At least the topsy-turviness in my stomach su-persedes my bashfulness at displaying so much skin.

After a moment, something wet falls over my eyes. I touch my face. Rowan’s bandana, soaked in fresh water. He sits beside my head as Devon starts the engine.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“You need to stop apologizing to me! I’m the one who got seasick.”

“You know what I mean.” I feel his hand braced against the seat, his wrist touching my shoulder. Suddenly, I’m thankful for my blindfold. “I’m probably the worst person in the world to be giving advice on moving forward.”

“Right now I don’t feel like moving at all.”

“Fifteen minutes after you step ashore, you’ll feel good as new. That’s the great thing about seasickness. But if you don’t feel better . . .”

“Don’t worry,” I say quickly. “I’ll make it to Lobsterfest.”

“I was going to say, if you want to sit it out, I could stay with you. It wouldn’t kill me to miss it.” I try to laugh. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious.”

“You have to go, Rowan. You’ll break too many hearts if you don’t.”

“Whose heart?”

“You know,” I say vaguely.

He pushes the bandana to my forehead. The sudden sunlight makes me squint. “No, I don’t.”

“Don’t make me say it.”

He prods my side. I double up and sputter, “Quit it, ass-face! I’m sick.”

“So who?”

I shove the bandana over my eyes so I don’t have to look at him. “Emily. And Ariel. And probably every single backpacker chick on the entire island. You are one popular dive instructor.”

“Assistant instructor.”

“Whatever.” I throw my arm over the bandana, double-shielding my eyes. Like if I can’t see Rowan, he can’t see me.

“Anyway,” he says, “it’s not important.”

“Lobsterfest?”

“All of it.” I feel his leg slide against the top of my head as he gets up.

I don’t know why he’s acting so offended. It’s impossible he didn’t know how adored he is, unless he’s denser than a conch shell. Which is possible.

Because he’s also wrong about tonight. It
is
important—the most important night of our whole trip. And tonight, I decide, will be the night I’m all in. No more holding back.

Especially after my humiliating non-dive. Now, more than ever, I need to prove that I can participate. That I’m not going to let anything or anybody hold me back again. To Rowan, and to all the others, but especially to myself.

Day 17:

Lobsterfest

After I shower (the water as arctic as ever), I dig through my backpack until I find my flowy white skirt, crushed into a ball at the very bottom.

I shake it out, touch the silver piping at the hem. It’s the one I wore back at La Casa Azul. There’s a smudge of dirt at the hem. Lake dirt, from Santa Lucía. I remember sitting on the bank while the backpackers skinny-dipped, feeling like I’d never be brave enough to join them. Maybe a white skirt’s not the ideal thing to wear on a chicken bus, but it’s perfect for a beach party. And pretentiousness be damned: I’ll wear my silver necklace, too.

I paw at my clothes, searching for a shirt. I shudder as

I recall Olivia’s spangly contraption that Starling flung into a wastebasket. Which makes me remember the sweatshirt I stuffed on top of it. Finally, I choose a pale gray halter I’ve only worn once, in Antigua.

I don’t have long curvy legs like Emily, or acres of blond hair like Ariel. But maybe I can be that La Ruta Maya girl I imagined once upon a time. Gracious and profound, but also a little bit wild. Since real butterflies aren’t about to flutter down anytime soon, I pull out a pen and redraw the butterfly on the back of my hand.

On my way to Rowan’s room, I reach over the railing to pick a flower from a gardenia bush. I check for insects, then stick it behind my ear.

“We match,” I say when Rowan opens his door. “Sort of.” He wears a short-sleeved white shirt over gray shorts, tattered at the bottom, like everything he owns. His Mayan necklace rests in the center of the tanned triangle of his chest.

I smile at him, feeling almost floaty in my gladness that Rowan isn’t getting into anything shady after all, that calling off Starling worked (apart from her irritation), and now, minus this morning, we have nothing between us other than tonight.

“So you’re ready?” I ask him.

“Or not.” He pauses. “Here we come.”

We’re halfway down the stairs when I notice his ankle.

“Your bracelets—they’re gone!”

He grins almost guiltily. “Yeah, I know. They were getting itchy after so much time in the ocean. I didn’t want my foot to fall off.”

His band of untanned leg is at least six inches wide. It looks brand-new, like baby skin. A rite of passage, he called it.

I hoped he would invite me to take part, even if it was kind of repulsive. But he didn’t. I guess it seemed like a bigger deal to me.

We stand in a long queue of islanders and visitors, waiting to enter the celebration. On the other side of the chain-link fence, the sand swarms with tropical anarchy.

Blackboards painted with rainbow chalk advertise drinks, desserts, and—you guessed it—lobster. More lobster than I’ve ever seen. It’s practically grotesque. Grills are heaped with multitudes of the ill-fated shellfish, served whole or in any other form conceivable: rolled in burritos, mashed and smeared on corn tortillas, pureed in bisque, speared on kabobs, breaded and deep-fried in greasy, crunchy fritters. Smoke rises from the barbecues in salty billows. It soaks into our clothes until we smell like lobster, until we can’t smell anything else.

And that’s before we get inside the gate.

As soon as we pay our five dollars, I am bonked on the head with an inflatable lobster. It’s Clement. I swipe the lobster and bonk him back.

“Finally!” he exclaims, clearly plastered. “We’re all over there.”

I hook my index finger with Rowan’s as we weave through the crowd. Dancers appear and disappear in the smoke. Music pounds from speakers as large as doghouses—not the reggae I imagined, but rock. I see local girls dancing barefoot with wreaths of flowers on their heads and emerald glitter around their eyes. Children chase each other—turns out Lobsterfest is family-friendly. Sonia waves at me from a pack of women in beach chairs. A pair of hunchbacked old men sway together as a young boy thrashes a steel drum.

Next to a yellow circus tent, we spy Emily and Ariel dancing atop a picnic table. I see Jack, Devon, the dreadlock twins, and about a dozen other people with them. Some I recognize; others I don’t.

“Rowan!” Emily calls.

Then she sees me standing behind him. So far, we’ve managed to avoid each other in our waking states. To my surprise, she hops down from the tabletop and rushes straight to me.

My finger falls from Rowan’s as she pulls me aside.

“I wanted to apologize, Bria. It was really bitchy grabbing your sketchbook like that.”

I’m sort of taken aback, but I manage to say, “You’re right. It was.”

“Seriously, I’m sorry.” She tugs at her tiny shorts. “You know, you look great tonight.”

“Um, thanks.”

“Watch. Hey, everyone! Doesn’t Bria look hot?” Before I can even register my humiliation, the entire group looks over. Jack whistles. So does Clement, even though he’s already seen me. I am blushing from forehead to toenails. I feel like I’ve downed an entire flask of Garifuna giffity, and cannot look at Rowan for the life of me.

Ariel calls to me. “Come dance!”

I take a deep breath.

Forget diving, and not diving. Forget manipulative ex-boyfriends and platonic travel brothers with shady pasts.

Forget the clock spiraling toward the end of my trip, seconds rushing through an overturned hourglass so fast I can almost hear them. Forget
everything.

This is going to be the night of my life.

I feel the same way I did when I squashed Reese’s raspberry apology. But better. Because what I’ve squashed this time is much larger, and much more satisfying. Tonight, I am the bohemian beach fairy of my fantasies. Tonight, I am the art school girl.

I shove past Jack and Rowan. Then I climb up on the picnic table and reach for Ariel’s drink.