The bull snorts forcefully through his nose and sweeps his head to the side as if he might make a shish kebab out of Madox with his horn. My Pandora jumps back in time, but the near attack does nothing to lessen the fascination he has with the bull.
The Contender stops at the top of the platform. He’s older than Guy: maybe midtwenties, whereas Guy looks more like nineteen. “May I come aboard?” He speaks slowly, as if he’s weighing his words carefully, and his eyes don’t leave mine for a second. “It seems your Pandora likes my Pandora.”
“Not sure the feeling is mutual,” I say.
The guy smiles, and my discomfort toward him melts.
“Leave the fox alone, Y-21,” he says, without looking away.
“You’re welcome to join us.” I wonder when I became the person to ask. Do I look like the captain?
I’m totally the captain.
The ocean air nips at my skin as New Guy steps aboard, directing his bull, Y-21, toward the other side of the boat. “My name’s Cotton,” he says as he strides away. I didn’t really ask, but I’m glad to know. Before I turn back, I check his wrist — orange band.
Jaxon makes a big production of counting the Contenders before exclaiming, “Seven.”
It’s only taken about ten minutes to nearly fill our boat, but already two of the eight boats are sputtering, their engines turning. One begins to navigate away — the yacht — already the leader in this race.
I turn my face away to hide my disappointment, and my heart plummets. I’m not sure what I was thinking. That he’d follow me instead of the other way around? Despite the desire to stand on my own two feet, I don’t want to be without him.
As it is, I’m having trouble breathing as I imagine him leagues ahead of me. My face already forgotten in his mind.
Then I hear our last Contender marching up the platform. I’d know that confident stride anywhere. My head whips in his direction, and cold, hard blue eyes meet my soft brown ones. He’s dripping wet, and his black hair is matted against his head. The wet suit clings to his chest, his abs, his thick thighs. He looks like a king. He looks like a savior.
He looks like he’s waiting for me to explain myself.
“You’re here. Good.” I try to disguise the relief in my voice and act confident in my decision. I’m not sure it works.
Guy opens his hands as if awaiting my excuse.
“There wasn’t enough room on the yacht for the team,” I say.
He stares at me for a long time, as if I’m playing a joke and he’s trying to figure out the punch line. Then Jaxon shakes Guy by the shoulders and Braun flings water on him. Guy breaks eye contact with me and heads to the sails, the long, lean muscles in his back straining as he works them.
I inspect the area and recall every pirate movie I’ve ever watched that featured an archaic boat. If memory serves, there should be an anchor around here. I find it, and Braun helps me drag it from the sea. When we’re done, we grin at each other, proud that we accomplished a task. No sooner than the anchor is freed from the sand does the ship start moving.
Guy heads straight to the back, takes the wheel in his hands, and cranks it to the left. The boat lurches, and when he straightens the wheel, I notice that the other remaining seven boats have already begun to pull away. I suppose that doesn’t surprise me, since our boat probably took the longest to fill and is much harder to operate.
The race has officially started. As the boat groans to the left, I think to myself, Here we go. I can’t help the joy flooding my system. Everyone is here, and Guy chose us over the faster boat. Now I have to pray my decision was a good one.
“Woo, boy!” Jaxon cries out, his arm around Olivia.
But before Guy can straighten the wheel, a strange sound reaches my ears. “What is that?”
“I heard it, too,” the young girl Willow says.
The sound comes again. It’s a thrashing, a yelling, and it’s coming from behind our boat.
Guy meets my gaze, and I wait for him to tell me what to do. Because, you know, that’s what he does. Guy instructs. When the noise comes again, I grow frustrated. It sounds like someone is struggling, and if it’s a Contender in the water, I won’t leave them behind. “Stop this thing.”
“No way,” Mr. Larson says, waving a chubby finger in my direction. “Keep going.”
Braun comes to stand beside me. It’s a bit like standing next to a soda machine. “We can’t leave someone out there.”
“Like hell we can’t.”
But Guy is already dropping the anchor. I try hard not to celebrate knowing I’ll get to watch him pull it up, with his sexiness and such.
The boat more or less stops, and the thrashing grows closer. Guy searches until he locates what he’s looking for. He throws an aged yellow ladder made of dense rope over the side. All the Contenders aboard move to see who’s climbing up, but Guy holds an arm out, stopping us.
Finally, a hand whips over the side.
Harper’s head appears.
“Harper!” I yell, rushing over to help her climb inside.
She’s dripping water, and there are dark circles under her eyes, and she’s visibly thinner than she was before. But she’s here! She said she would return, and she did.
I try to embrace her when she’s on her feet, but she pushes me back gently. Then she places her two pointer fingers in her mouth and lets out an ear-piercing whistle. RX-13, her bald eagle Pandora, bursts out of the water and lands on the boat’s railing, shaking herself dry like it’s only natural for an eagle to swim beneath the surface of the ocean.
Harper wears a green wristband like Jaxon and Braun, and there’s a navy blue strap hooked over her chest. Behind her is a bag that must weigh as much as she does. “Harper,” I begin.
She walks past me to Guy and unloads the bag onto the ground. “Took this from one of the other ships. It was all I could carry.”
“How?” Guy asks, all business.
“Slipped into the water while the rest of you slept. They transported me from home straight to the boat.” She holds her wrist up. “Gave me this band. What does it mean?”
“We don’t know,” I answer, trying to cut Guy out of this conversation and remind Harper I’m here. That I care about her and hate that her daughter died, and how is she even standing through the grief? It seems that if Harper’s goal is to return to help me win, she thinks Guy is the key to that goal. Can’t say that doesn’t cut deep.
“See now?” Mr. Larson says. “I like this girl.”
Harper starts to respond but stops when Jaxon slams into her. “Don’t try and fight it, darling,” he says. “This is right.”
Harper doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t push him away as she did me. Jaxon lets go of her, and Harper’s gaze darts across the boat, taking in the other Contenders. She stops cold. Her right hand twitches by her side. Her nails are chewed to bits. It must drive Braun nuts. Everyone turns to see what captured Harper’s attention.
Willow.
The small girl who looks so much like Harper must have as a child. My stomach revolts as I realize what Harper must be thinking. Harper takes a step in her direction. Pauses. “Let’s get going,” she orders no one in particular. “We have a race to win.”
Her eyes stay on Willow.
Her eyes stay on Willow as Olivia tries in vain to garner Harper’s attention.
Her eyes stay on Willow as Guy works his magic and the boat races forward like a racehorse tearing down the track.
Cotton is the one who finds our supplies. He descends below the main deck and into what Guy says is the hold. There he finds supplies that could easily last us a month at sea. Olivia locates a notepad and pen in the crew’s quarters and makes a list:
(10) Pallets of plastic water jugs
(8) Pallets of canned food
(8) Eating-utensil setups
(3) Large yellow duffel bags
(2) Small red duffel bags
(1) Pair of binoculars
(1) Can opener
(1) Flashlight w/ batteries
(1) Flare gun
(1) Compass
(1) First-aid kit
Toiletries
I feel indomitable with all these supplies. But then my brain starts ticking. This leg of the race will likely be harder than the two that preceded it, so why give us this advantage? “Why do we have all this?”
Guy leaves the hold and goes above deck, back to where our Pandoras remain. The rest of us stand and stare at our loot buried at the bottom of the ship. Willow holds the flashlight on the stuff, and I remind myself that I’m not claustrophobic. I’m not. And I enjoy the mildew smell that climbs the wooden plank walls and seeps into my wet suit.
“There must be challenges worse than finding basic survival requirements,” Cotton ventures.
“Genius, that one,” Harper mutters.
Cotton glares at her.
“Don’t worry, bro,” Jaxon tells Cotton. “She’s spicy. That’s why we make a great couple. I like my women with a little …” He shivers to emphasize his point.
This is the part where Harper negates Jaxon’s point about their being together. But she doesn’t. She just exits the hold in silence. I have so many questions for her. Like how she talked the people running this race into letting her back in when they knew she had no one to fight for. And what happened to RX-13 while she was away.
“It was a good question,” Cotton says to me. My gaze finds his, and he holds it. There’s something behind his eyes I can’t quite reach. A mystery I want to unfold in my hands like an origami flower.
“Thanks,” I say.
We trail above deck, and Madox meets me with a slobbery kiss when I pick him up. With the fox in my arms, I spin in a slow circle and inspect the ship. Two tall masts jut into the sky, and connected to those are black-as-decay sails that roll up and down and can make us go faster when the wind is right. At the very top of the masts are oval perches Guy calls fighting tops, but I’d prefer to call them lookouts since I’ve had enough fighting. Netted ropes stretch from the deck to the lookouts and form a ladder.
Right now the sails are lowered. Guy says it’s a stroke of good luck that the wind is at our back. I say, How in the heck do you know so much about a pirate ship? I don’t actually say that aloud. Because I know the answer. His father trained him and his brothers in case they were the ones chosen to enter the race. He was prepared for this sea. He was prepared for anything. That’s why he says I can’t win. Because he knows the things I don’t. And that, my friend, is called cheating. Not that I worry much about that. As long as he’s on this boat, helping get us safely to the ocean finish line, then I’m cool with whatever insider information he harbors.
The boat moans softly as it plows through the water, and a slight breeze picks up, causing the red flags at the tops of the masts to snap in the wind. It’s colder than I expected it to be, but with the sea mist spraying lightly across my face and my Pandora and Contender friends alongside me, I am optimistic.
I set Madox down when Cotton hands me an opened can of preserved peaches and a fork. I thank him as heat rushes to my cheeks. I didn’t notice before, but Cotton’s eyebrows are nearly blond. It’s a striking contrast to his blue-black hair and brown eyes. Guy’s head turns in our direction. His jaw tightens before he returns his attention to the helm, which steers the boat.
“Why are we staying near the other boats?” Mr. Larson waddles toward to the front forecastle deck and points a pudgy finger at them. “Shouldn’t we pull away?”
Harper takes a step in his direction. Her eyelids are half closed, and I want to tell her to sleep. I want to thank her for returning and never stop thanking her. I want to tell her I’m sorry, but I don’t know how. “We’re sailing between a cluster of islands,” Harper says. “Some are to the right and some to the left. We’re choosing to go left. So are the boats around us.”
I put my hand out, and Harper gives me the binoculars she’s holding. Sure enough, there are two other boats in the distance. The others must have gone right. I wondered how we’d ever find flags out here, but now I realize they must be on the islands.
“Harper?” Willow says. I lower the binoculars. The little girl stands near Harper, looking up and into her face as if Harper is the mother she never had. “I’m hungry.”
Harper’s face contorts with pain.
“Leave her alone,” Olivia tells Willow. “Get your own food.”
“Olivia, watch yourself,” Harper snaps. Her Pandora flaps her eagle wings, agitated that her Contender is upset.
Olivia shrinks into her elephant’s side, hiding her face.
“Olivia didn’t mean anything,” I say quietly, trying to explain on the girl’s behalf.
Willow takes Harper’s hand and smiles like she won a game I didn’t know we were playing. Harper relaxes into Willow’s touch and guides her below deck to get something to eat.
“Harper is being weird,” Jaxon says, eyeing my iguana Pandora.
“Her daughter died,” Guy says. “She can be whatever she wants to be.”
“Damn.” Cotton’s sturdy shoulders dip. “I didn’t know.”
“We’re all going to be dead if you don’t speed this boat up,” Mr. Larson says, his alligator shuffling nearby, claws scratching the deck. “Why I got on this thing, I’ll never know. And what about dinner? We’ve been sailing for hours. If you ask me, we should be sitting down to a meal. Plenty of girls to help with that.”
“I beg your pardon?” I say.
“Dinner is a good idea,” Guy says. “But we all need to help, understand?”
“Listen, boy —”
“Don’t.” Guy’s voice rumbles like a volcano threatening to erupt. “Just … don’t.”
Mr. Larson rolls his eyes like we’re all a lost cause and disappears below deck.
I’m about to follow behind to ensure Harper doesn’t kill him when I notice Jaxon sitting next to FDR-1. He’s running his hand slowly over the spikes trailing the iguana’s back. The Pandora closes her eyes against Jaxon’s touch. I nibble my bottom lip, remembering that Jaxon no longer has a Pandora. How hard that must be.
“That Pandora needs someone to watch after her,” I announce. “I can hardly care for the two I have.”
Jaxon’s brow furrows with confusion. And then, slowly, understanding dawns. “I could do that. I mean, I’m good at watching after stuff.”
“No giving her back if she gets out of hand. You’d have to basically name her your Pandora and call her as such.”
Jaxon’s head bobs. “She is my Pandora. What are you even talking about? We’ve been partners since the dawn of time.” He’s making a joke, but I don’t miss the grave expression on his face. The one that tells me this Pandora means he’s back in the race to win.
Braun chuckles at Jaxon’s speech, and I open my hands like it’s settled. When I turn to head below, Guy meets my stare. The faintest of smiles touches his lips. Gone before it fully forms. “We should eat the canned meat for dinner,” Guy says to me. “We have a lot of it.”
“Why are you telling me? Do I look like a servant to you?”
Guy laughs. It’s a short, sharp sound that rises above the ocean’s ever-present hum. He wipes his calloused palm across his mouth to suffocate the emotion. But it’s too late. He’s revealed a secret. He’s happy here with us. He may not think I can win. He may think he’s better, more trained than the other Contenders on this boat, but everyone wants someone to call a friend. Guy Chambers is no different from the rest of us.
I beam in his direction even though I despise his disbelief in me. Though his hand still covers his mouth, I spot the crinkles beside his eyes. The ones that say his grin may very well be bigger than my own.
“Hey, Tella, if you want, you and I could make dinner together.” Cotton stands near the hatch that leads to the hold, his black hair tied back into a low ponytail, blond eyebrow raised in a question.
“Yeah, okay,” I answer too quickly.
As Cotton
holds the door open for me, and our bodies grow closer, I notice how much older he is than me. At least eight years, I’d guess. Too old, and yet young enough for me to admire the single dimple in his left cheek — a sharp contrast to his angular face.
Right before I descend, Cotton touches a hand to my lower back, and a feeling I can’t name rolls through my body. I recognize most Contenders at this point, at least somewhat, and their Pandoras, too. But I don’t remember Cotton or his bull. And Cotton has a body worth remembering. Where did he come from? Why did he choose this boat? Everyone on board has a reason. We know one another, or we were too young to fight for a better one, or too old. But when Cotton touches me like this, the way Guy hasn’t in days, I find myself not caring what his reasons are.
Overhead, though the sun is shining, thunder sounds somewhere in the distance.
It whispers a wicked promise.
Cotton and Harper reach for cans of potted roast in brown gravy, because that’s what Guy said to eat. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s food. Did Guy spend the last three summers trying to flatten his stomach before swim season? Doubt it.
With Guy watching on, I say to Cotton and Harper, “Let’s eat the chowder instead. There’s less of it, but it’ll keep the fat we have on us. Our bodies work harder to burn calories from protein than they do carbohydrates, and we’re going to need every ounce of energy we have to work this boat and gain an advantage.”
Guy waves his arm. “I already told them to eat the roast.”
“And I’m saying we should eat the chowder.”
Guy’s face contorts like I’m making a big deal over nothing, which I am. But it’s time I state my opinions. It’s time we all did. This is a race, after all, and we need everyone’s minds at work if we are to win. No more relying solely on Guy.
Harper and Cotton look back and forth between the two of us, and then Harper reaches down and grabs the can of potted roast. Traitor!
Salt & Stone Page 5