I’ve been Margaret’s friend for two years. She’s perfect
in every way except she reads your mail. Oops! Meggie’s
trying to take the laptop out of my hands… .
“I don’t believe this!” I said aloud.
“What?” asked Liz.
I scanned down to the third paragraph.
Okay, we’re serious now. Meggie is one of the nicest girls I
know. We went to camp together once and she gave every
girl in our cabin a pedicure. We had a lot of fun together.
She was into hypnotism at one point and claims she can
hypnotize a chicken. Really. She can! She’ll talk about
almost anything, but she hates potatoes. Especially potato
salad made with vinegar.
“Oh … my … God!” I said.
“Who’s e-mailing you?” asked Lauren.
“You guys have got to help me!” I said in answer. “How am I going to get out of rooming with the niece of one of my dad’s best customers? This girl would drive me crazy.”
“Just tell her you found somebody else to room with,” said Emily. “Simple.”
“Just ten minutes ago I e-mailed her that I was interested!” I said.
Rachel stretched out on her bunk and examined the blister on one heel. “Well, then, in the last ten minutes you’ve found someone else,” she said.
“But I’m still looking on Facebook! She’ll know that. And I’ve got to find someone soon or the university will decide for me!”
“Let me see that,” said Pamela, reaching for my laptop and reading the messages. Her face broke into a smile.
“O-kaay!” she cried. “Meggie wants the recommendations of three of your friends!”
“Now, wait, Pamela, it’s got to sound real. I don’t want to offend one of my dad’s customers.”
“Oh, we’ll make it real, all right,” said Pamela. She placed my laptop squarely in front of her, hit reply, and started typing.:
I’ve known Alice since sixth grade. I guess I’d call her a friend,
but she humiliated me once onstage in a school play… .
“Pamela!” I laughed.
She’s nice, but she’s got this streak of jealousy. If you can
put up with that, however, she’s great.
Pamela J.
“Tell her Alice is a compulsive eater,” said Rachel. “That she hides snacks all over the room.”
“Let me have that,” said Liz, and Pamela slid the laptop across the table. Liz began typing:
Alice will be your friend forever, but you need to know
that she has to have a light on when she sleeps, with music
playing. And she won’t wear earbuds at night because she
says they hurt her ears.
Liz
We clapped. Then Gwen took over.
I’ve been Alice’s friend since eighth grade. She’ll give you
the shirt off her back, literally, but she’ll also take yours
without asking. She has the feeling that once you room
together, all possessions are mutually owned. We were
camp counselors together, and I can’t tell you how many
shirts of mine she ruined with grease stains and tomato
sauce. If you can put up with this, Alice is your friend
for life.
Not-Quite-a-Friend
I didn’t hear from Margaret for almost a week. Then I got a short e-mail saying that she thought she had someone else lined up and hoped to see me around campus.
So I was still minus a roomie come September.
We were all changing for our evening jobs the following afternoon—some in dress shirts and bow ties, some in their rattiest clothes for galley duty—when Pamela rushed in, all excited.
“Guess what!” she said. “Dad and Meredith signed up for this cruise next week!”
“Whaaaat?” I said. “Here? With us?”
“Dad just said that Meredith had gone online to see what the Seascape looked like, and she saw an ad for this huge discount—five hundred dollars off per passenger for immediate booking the second week of July.”
“Wow!” I said. “That should be interesting!” I glanced over at her as I pulled on my shoes. “Will you like having them here, watching your every move?”
“I think so,” she said. “They’re not like that, and I get along with Meredith okay. It will be fun to show them around—let them see what we do.”
And would you believe, I really did feel a tinge of jealousy, thinking how much fun it would be if Dad and Sylvia came on one of our cruises. Or Les! But I rose to the challenge: “It’s only a week off. I’ll trade shifts with you if you ever want to go on an excursion with them or something,” I said.
“Me too, Pam,” said Gwen. “Perfect chance to get in good with your new stepmom if they ever get hitched.”
There was enough excitement even without that announcement, because it was the Fourth of July, and Chef Carlo was hosting a happy hour on the observation deck. Crew members who stayed aboard that afternoon to decorate got to mingle with passengers and chase down the red, white, and blue napkins that the breeze blew off the tables. But since I was on galley duty that night, I only got to emerge long enough to whisk away another tray of dirty dishes and pick up the strains of some band playing “God Bless America.” My mouth watered when I glimpsed the appetizers Barry had just delivered. Every shrimp had a red, white, or blue toothpick in it; every hors d’oeuvre was topped with either a cherry tomato, a pearl onion, or a blueberry. I wished I’d eaten something before I went on duty.
Mitch had it worse, though—he was rinsing plates and filling the dishwasher by himself.
Since it was a Wednesday, we were docked at Crisfield as usual, and a waterman from Tangier had been invited onboard. After giving a short talk about the generations of Pruitts who had lived on the island before him and how the crab industry supported the local economy, he demonstrated how you crack open a steamed crab—what you eat and what you throw away. I heard only bits and pieces, desperately hoping each time I went on deck that there would be nothing more to carry below, but there always was.
It would have to be a night I had galley duty, because Captain Haggerty appeared at dinner and invited all passengers back up to the observation deck at dusk. He would be piloting the ship around the islands—Tangier and Smith and Tilghman—and along the coast, so they could enjoy the small local fireworks going off here and there while we cruised.
Mitch and I heard the announcement as we dealt with the reeking piles of crab carcasses waiting for the garbage bins.
“See what we’re missing?” I told him.
He only grinned. “I liked our tour better,” he said.
We finished up around ten thirty and went to the top deck to eat with the rest of the crew. Quinton had set up a long table and folding chairs at one end, and we devoured the biggest, fattest burgers Carlo could make, plus some of the leftover hors d’oeuvres from the cocktail party.
There was still an occasional rocket going off now and then, and we could see the sparklers along shore where there were campers. Sometimes we caught a whiff of gunpowder on the breeze from a short-lived fireworks display.
The Seascape was turning again and heading south when suddenly there was a muffled whump, and the whole ship jarred and shook.
I slid sideways on my chair for a moment, and someone’s drink tipped over the edge of the table.
“What the … ?” Curtis said.
For a moment it seemed as though the ship’s engine had stalled. Silence. Then the sound of running feet on the deck below. We heard profanity from the pilothouse that mistakenly came over the loudspeaker, and Curtis headed for the stairs.
We went to the rail.
“Look!” Mitch pointed.
The ship’s searchlight was swooping back and forth on the port side of the ship—back and forth, straight ahead, then to the side again. Then the gr
inding noise of the bow thruster—a shudder—and finally the ship moved sideways and on up the bay. We looked at Josh.
“Sandbar,” he said, and smiled a little. “Captain grazed a sandbar. That’s mud on his face.”
“Doesn’t he know where they are?” Liz asked.
“Supposed to, but this first-time cowboy thought he could cruise around at night.”
“Really? First time?” I said. “This is his first ship or what?”
“No. First time piloting on the Chesapeake Bay. Not that it means anything in particular. Until now, anyway.”
What the captain should do, Rachel told us, was get on the PA system and reassure the passengers—some of them, in their nightclothes, had come up to ask us what was happening.
“Not to worry,” Josh told them. “Just scraped a sandbar. No big deal.”
Finally Ken McCoy’s voice came out of the speakers on both sides of the deck: “Ladies and gentlemen, we hope you have enjoyed Fourth of July on the bay, the very first for the Seascape …”
“Yeah, in its present form,” Barry murmured.
“… and we hope you had a most pleasant evening. The noise you heard a little while ago was simply the bow thruster, pushing us away from a sandbar. From all the officers and crew on the Seascape, we wish you pleasant dreams.”
“Talk about smooth!” Rachel said.
“‘The noise you heard was the bow thruster,’ ha!” said Barry. “Notice how the big man passed the buck?”
“Maybe it was Ken who was piloting,” Liz suggested.
“That’s true,” said Josh. “But I doubt you’ll see the captain’s face at breakfast.”
We were all waiting for Frank to come up from below, and a little before midnight, he slipped onto one of the deck chairs, coffee in hand. He started to say something, then rubbed his jaw instead and burrowed down a little farther in his chair.
Josh’s smile was more a smirk. “We got any damage?”
“Don’t think so. Can’t really tell unless I suit up and go down there, but the pressure’s holding steady. Wish that were my biggest problem.”
“What else?” asked Barry.
“Nothing yet. But as far as I can tell, the only ‘new’ things about this ship are the paint and the name.”
“You want to know something else?” Rachel said, and we all listened, because as a lounge attendant she was in a position to pick up a lot of gossip we’d never hear. “It wasn’t weather that delayed the start of our second cruise. The way I heard it from Stephanie, our major food supplier was about to pull the plug on our credit ’cause they still hadn’t been paid for the first week. The front office probably had to put the ship up for collateral before they’d deliver the next order.”
“Whaaaat?” said Barry.
“Okay, I’m exaggerating, but a pound of flesh, anyway.”
“Well,” said Frank, lifting the coffee mug again to his lips, “we’re moving now. That’s what counts. Let’s don’t go borrowing trouble. I mean, any more than we’ve got.”
We took down the Fourth of July decorations from the dining room on Thursday, and that evening all the girls sat around women’s quarters, winding each of the streamers into a tight little roll, to be used again next summer. Emily, who had worked in a craft store once, knew how to make rose petal wreaths out of crepe paper, and we decided to make one for our cabin door. Barefoot on our bunks, legs crossed—we folded, tucked, and stretched the little rectangles of crepe paper, turning them into roses.
“Reminds me of camp,” Gwen said.
“What kind of camp was that?” asked Natalie.
“Disadvantaged kids,” Liz explained. “It was the summer before our sophomore year. The four of us were junior counselors—Gwen and Pam and Alice and me.”
“The summer Gwen broke up with Leo …” Yolanda added.
“Legs,” I corrected.
“… and started hanging out with Joe Ortega,” Liz said.
“And you were dating Ross,” I reminded her.
Emily threaded a needle through the rose in her lap, held the needle out away from her body as she pushed the rose down the thread, and secured it in place. “How long have you guys known each other, anyway?”
“Forever,” said Pamela. “Liz and I started kindergarten together, Alice came into the picture in sixth grade, and we met up with Gwen in eighth.”
“I’m just a tagalong,” said Yolanda.
“I had a tight-knit bunch of girlfriends in high school, but then we all scattered,” said Emily. “I miss the long talks and the closeness … the drama, even.”
I passed another handful of roses to her. “What do you suppose guys talk about when they’re alone?” I wondered aloud. “Like right now, when we aren’t around?”
“S-E-X,” Natalie spelled out.
“They probably aren’t talking at all—probably watching TV,” said Gwen.
“Football … soccer … cars,” Lauren guessed.
“They tell stories, that’s what they do,” I said, thinking of Mark and Brian and even Patrick. “All the crazy stuff they’ve ever done, trying to top each other.”
“Feelings?” Natalie asked. “Do they ever discuss those?”
“Are you kidding?” Yolanda rolled her eyes. “Have you ever heard a guy talk to a buddy about feelings?”
“That’s what women are for,” said Emily. “To help men express their emotions.”
“Urges, you mean,” said Lauren.
“Feelings, too,” said Liz. “But guys aren’t the only ones who hold back.”
We worked silently for a minute or two, just enjoying the rare chance to hang out together, all at the same time. Emily strung another flower on her thread, then held it up to estimate how many more we’d need.
“What I’ve discovered about life is that feelings can change,” Liz said. “I mean, a complete turnaround. Well, sort of.” She held another petal between her fingers and curled the edges over. And then she confided what I’d thought only her few closest friends would ever know about: “I was molested when I was seven … by a supposed friend of the family.”
Natalie gasped, and everyone else looked up.
“My parents had known him for a long time,” Liz continued, “and he used to take me on, quote, ‘nature walks.’ He was a scientist.”
Gwen and Pamela and I watched her, admiring her courage.
“My God!” said Natalie, not moving a muscle.
“Yeah, ‘our big secret,’ you know,” said Liz.
“Was he ever arrested?” asked Lauren.
“No. He died in a car accident, and even then I didn’t tell my parents what had happened until …” Liz looked over at Pamela and me. “Until these friends of mine got on my case and made me. But for years I had nightmares about his coming to get me and take me away. About hiding in the house and hearing him coming closer.”
Not even Pamela and I had known about that.
“Oh, Liz,” Emily said sympathetically.
But Liz continued: “After that I got angry—not just at him, but at my parents for not guessing what had been going on. I’d fantasize about smashing him in the face and kicking him in the balls. Scratching his eyes out. How I’d like to hurt him.”
“Naturally!” said Rachel.
“Yeah, no guilt there,” said Liz. “But a few months ago … I can’t quite explain it … instead of that fantasy, I imagined myself sitting down across from him and saying, ‘Okay. Tell me why you did it. Tell me if you felt it was wrong. If you ever asked yourself how I was feeling.’”
The room was absolutely still.
“I discovered I was as curious as I was angry. I wanted to know the why—the makeup of that pervert. I’m not entirely sure what it means, if I’m really over it or not, or—” She stopped.
“Maybe you’ve just … moved beyond it,” I offered.
“I sort of think so too. I guess once I started applying to colleges, I felt I was … Yeah, you’re right. I felt I wasn’t just moving
away, I was moving on. Like I wasn’t going to rent him room in my head anymore; he’d been there long enough.”
Gwen and Pamela and I just sat there beaming at her, and then Gwen leaned way over and gave her a hug. “That’s my girl,” she said.
“The feel of freedom,” said Liz. “That’s what it is.”
Maybe she was feeling some of what I’d felt at Tangier Island with Mitch: being someplace I’d never been before; being friends with a guy I’d known for only a few weeks; watching the gulls soaring free overhead, going wherever they wanted. Just a sudden surge of freedom from … What, exactly? Giving myself a push, I guess. Getting on with life.
As the current passengers departed on Sunday and we worked like crazy cleaning staterooms, Pamela found out where her dad and Meredith would be staying—room 218, lounge deck—and we made sure it was perfect.
Mitch appeared at the door with Barry, holding a work order. “This the room that requests a double?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Pamela. “Quinton said there are some over-sized sheets and blankets in the linen hold.”
Mitch and Barry pushed the twin beds together and tied the adjoining legs to anchor them, then placed a foam divider between the twins to convert them into a two-sleeper. The guys were smiling as they left, and I heard Barry say, “Somebody’s gonna have a good time this week.” We didn’t tell them who was coming.
I was glad I was on dining room service that week—Pamela, too—though we rotated again the week after. Mr. Jones and Meredith would see us in our starched shirts and black bow ties, not our baggy shorts and dirty T-shirts, carrying buckets.
Liz and I had never been on more than polite terms with Pamela’s dad. He and Pamela’s mom had been an attractive couple back when Pam was in middle school—cool, I guess you’d say. But once Sherry ran off with her fitness instructor, Mr. Jones became a lonely, bitter man for a while. We didn’t much like him, especially when he told Pamela that if she ever brought African-American friends home, he wouldn’t let them in the house. He slowly eased up on that after he met Gwen, though he never said more than a few words to her. But once he started going out with a nurse named Meredith, he seemed to mellow.
Quinton made a final check of the ship around noon before we unlatched the line across the gangplank. Passengers had been getting out of cabs and wheeling their bags down to the dock, and deckhands were going up to help with the larger stuff. A few passengers, believe it or not, even came with small trunks, a different outfit for every hour of the day, it seemed.
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