Spill Over

by Jolene Perry

  A steep wall of rocks leads to the ocean on the other side of the chain-link fence we’re following, and up the hill is a smattering of homes and the restaurants we passed on the drive down.

  This whole adventure—sailboat, small town, Seattle grayness...this isn’t me. When Mom and I travel, it’s for a purpose. She’s always there on assignment. To tell the story of a group of people who are generally a lot less fortunate than us. This is almost living one of those crazy situations by choice. Almost.

  Dad flashes an electronic card to unlock a metal security door, and we walk down a long ramp onto dock B. The boats here all look the same. Small, mostly white, and unimpressive. I know I sound like a snob, but I don’t mean to. I’m sure for whoever owns them, they’re great.

  “Here we are,” he says again.

  I’m standing behind a sailboat with the name Writer Waves. Dad’s an author. Kind of. He writes three-dollar Amazon detective books. Not at all the kind of writing I want to do. He seems to crank them out pretty fast, but he can’t make much money. He lives on a boat.

  I step on behind him, and climb the few steps onto the back deck. The small ovals up the sides I thought were decoration are actually the windows. This will be like living in an underground hut. Only we’re on the water, or well, in the water since we have to go down into the boat.

  The rain is dripping from my hair to my face as I follow Dad through a folding wooden door and down four steep steps into the main living area.

  So, there’s more room in here than I would have guessed after standing outside. The walls and floor are wood. The kitchen is a corner of the living area, and there’s a separate mini living room and kitchen table. A large metal post breaks up the space.

  “What’s with this?” I nudge it with my hand.

  “The mast,” Dad says, “for the sails.”

  “Right.” Now I feel stupid. Even I should have been able to figure that out.

  “My room’s in the stern and you can take the stateroom in the bow.” He points ahead and I follow. Dad has this relaxed swinging walk, even in the confines of the narrow hallway.

  “Stateroom?” I ask. The thought is hysterical. This whole boat isn’t big enough to qualify for my version of a stateroom.

  “It’s what you call a bedroom on a boat,” he explains.

  “Oh.” Whatever. Like I’ll be here long enough to care.

  Three months.

  My stomach sinks further. And I’m sounding like a complete asshole, even to myself, but I am stuck here.

  “A kitchen is a galley, and the bathroom is the head.”

  “The head.” I hold in my smile because that brings a whole different picture to mind than a bathroom. Maybe I’ll find some time to give Hélèna a call. She and her mom travel a lot. I never know where they’ll end up. Coming to Seattle is a long shot, but a definite possibility.

  “I’ll leave you to get settled.” Dad stuffs his hands into his pockets as I step into a room that definitely does not qualify for a stateroom. There’s a very narrow walkway on two sides of the bed, a few small doors I’m hoping that are for storage, and my very own tiny “head.”

  I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. This isn’t living. This is camping. Mom and I have slept in tents and huts, but it’s always been for like a week. In a third-world country. Again, where they don’t have a choice.

  Dad stands in my doorway as I lean against the bed, cause that’s all there’s room for. I’m sure one of us should say something, but I have no idea what that would be. His eyes dart around before giving me a final small smile and backing out of the room. I don’t have to step away from the bed to push the door closed.

  Mom can’t have any idea of what this is actually like. Can’t. He wasn’t on a sailboat last time I saw him when we both came. It was a motor yacht. A small one, but still. At least we could see out. I have two tiny oval windows on either side of the small space and a square skylight that looks like it opens. Suddenly it’s hard to breathe. I toss my bags on the bed, stifling the urge to throw them against the walls. What if it’s an old boat and I break it or something?

  I’ve never been claustrophobic before. I’ve flown in tiny planes, and gone spelunking, but this… living in this…

  I need air.

  I spin around, open my door and head the fifteen steps it takes to go from one side of the boat to the other.

  “Where you off to?” Dad asks.

  “Saw a coffee place. I’ll be right back.” Mostly I need out of here and away from the awkwardness of you. This probably makes me a bad son, and at some point I might be able to relax into this bizarre world, but not now. Not yet.

  “You need money or anything?” he looks up the hole I stepped out of to leave the boat.

  “I got it.” I push on the wooden door, but there are hinges in the middle, and I have no idea how to close the thing. I jerk on it twice before he pulls it shut from the inside.

  It’s raining even harder now. Perfect. I probably should have gotten my raincoat instead of my wool one. It takes me five minutes to get to the coffee shop, which is halfway across this dumpy little town, and the wetness is already seeping in.

  I order a cappuccino in a place with warm wooden walls, a real fireplace, and huge wingback chairs. Then I head back out into the rain. Making nice with locals isn’t high on my list right now.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket.

  MOM: DON’T POUT. I FLEW COMMERCIAL, TOO. AND WILL BE SLEEPING IN A TENT. LOVE YOU, SON.

  I smile. Mom doesn’t shorten anything, even while texting. I write her back.

  LV U 2. TLK SOON.

  It feels a little better—just those few words. With what she’s doing, I can’t complain the way I want to. Also, it’ll go back to her whole spoiled argument. I wonder how well we’ll be able to communicate when she gets there, though it’ll probably take her days to get set up where she’s going. The thought makes me nauseous. I’ve been to Africa just enough to know that it’s not somewhere I ever want to spend any real amount of time.

  I stand at the gated door to get down to the boats, and I don’t have one of those card thingies like Dad does. I really should have thought of that before leaving. At least this time I’ll be more prepared for the room and small spaces in his boat. As much as I don’t want to be here, I also don’t want to come off as a jerk.

  “Need in?” A woman’s voice from behind me.

  I turn. “Yeah. That’d be great. Sorry, I just got here.”

  “Oh, I’m Lynn. You must be Harris’s boy.” She’s probably Dad’s age. Some grey mixes with her blond and her large pale blue eyes peer out from underneath an impressively yellow raincoat.

  “I’m Antony.” I reach my hand out and shake hers. She has strong hands for a woman, and I’m kind of impressed.

  “Well, Antony. It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m in the boat five slots down.”

  Her smile is warm, but the words are so weird, rolling off her tongue like everyone lives on boats.

  “Okay.”

  She pulls open the door, and I hold it for her to walk through.

  “Thanks.” She smiles over her shoulder as she jogs down the long metal ramp to the docks.

  I swear the thing is steeper now than it was when I got here. Oh. Stupid. Tides. The ramp moves with the tides. I take a long sip of my cappuccino. It’s the first thing I’ve been grateful for since I got here. The place makes good coffee.

  I’m not ready to make nice with Dad yet. I’ll need the rest of this cup first. Instead of going inside the boat, I step out onto the long bow. This part is covered with the metal roof, still banging with the sound of the rain. The bow of Dad’s boat sticks out quite a bit further than the rest. I wonder how many people live on boats smaller than his? It’s nearly inconceivable. Though most of the people who have boats here probably don’t liv
e on them. The dread that was creeping when Mom first told me a week ago is now in full force, spreading through me in something that feels half horrible, and half like disbelief.

  I sit and pull my knees up, clutching my coffee with both hands. Damp cold is the worst kind of cold, and it’s quickly making its way through to my skin. The metal ramp clanks with the sound of someone else out in this crap weather. I glance over. Wow. Legs. A girl in tiny running shorts with lean, tan, legs, is walking down. She pushes the hood back on her coat as she steps under the roof covering the boats.

  Our eyes catch, and holy shit does she have perfect blue eyes. They’re blue like Hawaii ocean blue. Like blue shards of scattered glass—there’s unreal depth. I can tell even from here. One, two, three, four, five boats down.

  I look down take another drink. Right. Of course. She’ll be the daughter of Lynn, the nice lady who lives five boats down. Wonder if she likes it, or if she’s stuck like me?

  This will be the longest three months of my life.

  Three

  “Your mom’s really off to Darfur then?” Dad asks.

  Wow, this is a great way to start my morning. I’m sick to my stomach over the whole thing. I did a bunch of research after she told me where she was headed. She’s traveling with two bodyguards and a film crew of three guys. When she’s reporting like this, she pretties herself down, but I’m still nervous about it.

  “Yep,” I answer. “They want to do a long series. Guess you knew before I did.” A fact that still doesn’t feel right.

  Dad stands over the stovetop, scrambling eggs for breakfast. “She called and said it was a possibility. I’ve been…” his eyes are fixed on the eggs in front of him. “I’ve been wanting to see you, you know. It’s just… I know our lives are pretty different.”

  “Uh…” I try not to laugh. “Yeah.” Different is the nice way of saying it.

  He nods once, and I’m suddenly kind of afraid I’ve hurt his feelings. He’s weird, not bad, despite my argument to Mom.

  “I guess. I mean, I guess I’m trying to say that I’m glad you’re here.” He spoons out two small plates of eggs, and hands one to me.

  Our eyes don’t meet. Dad looks down as he sits across the small table from me—more like a booth since the table is egg-shaped and half surrounded by a curved bench seat. The thing probably turns into a bed like a motor home or something.

  “Uh, thanks.” I don’t know what else to say. I don’t want to be here. Not at all. I want my apartment and my friends in New York. I thought about tailing it back home, and being on my own, but Mom doesn’t need the stress, not with what she’s doing. I owe it to her to at least give this a chance. Well, and I really don’t want to add anything to her—Antony’s spoiled file.

  “Lynn and I are headed south to Gig Harbor for some boat parts later on today. I’m sure her daughter Amber will tag along. She’s a home-school kid like you. Smart. Driven.”

  “How do you know I’m smart and driven, Dad?” I push the eggs around my plate. I’m sure I sound like a jerk, and I don’t really mean to. I must still be in shock over this whole un-real situation.

  Now our eyes meet. “I guess. I guess I don’t. I hear from your mom more than from you, and I know you two are a lot alike. I know you speak a few languages, that you take advanced math, and she says your writing is fabulous.”

  Right. I may be in advanced math, but I suck at it. Writing, that’s the one thing Dad and I have in common. “You’re still writing, right?” I ask, even though I know he does.

  “Oh, yeah. Couldn’t stop if I wanted to.” He stands up and does a quick wash of his plate. No dishwasher here. Probably no takeout either. Different world.

  I couldn’t stop writing if I wanted to either, but I don’t say that. “I’ve got some school stuff to do. I’m going to hang back today.”

  “’Kay.” Dad runs a hand over his head and walks back to his room.

  I take a bite of my eggs, and damn they’re good. A little green onion and garlic. I down my plate in seconds and then take Dad’s lead and do a quick wash in the miniature sink.

  The first part of day one down, and what feels like a million to go.

  - - -

  The sun’s out, and only the front half of Dad’s boat is under cover. The mast wouldn’t fit under the blue roof of the marina. I stretch out to lounge with my phone and send a text to my friend David back in New York. I tell him that it’s rainy, but that the boat’s nicer than I thought.

  I don’t want him to know what it’s actually like—not that it’s bad or anything. I’m sure it’s nice for a sailboat, but it’s embarrassing that half of my family lives like this. My friends freak out if someone has to move too far south in the same city. But here? I’m a long way from Manhattan.

  “Hello again.” Lynn waves from the dock.

  I jump to sitting when her daughter smiles from behind her.

  “Uh, hi. Dad went in to get something before you guys took off.” I stuff my phone in my pocket.

  “This is my daughter, Amber.”

  Amber isn’t in shorts today, but her jeans are snug, and her legs are still amazing. Her thick blond hair is pulled into a ponytail.

  I stand, and it feels like I should be polite and shake her hand or something, but I’m way up on the boat, and they’re on the dock. “Hey, I’m…”

  “Antony, I know. Your Dad’s been talking about you coming since he found out.” There’s nothing but relaxed normal in Amber’s eyes.

  I’m almost…offended. Is that the right word? Girls usually react to me in some way. Small smiles, biting their lower lip, something. She’s looking at me like I could be her brother, or like she’s somehow better than me. The girl who lives on a boat.

  I chuckle. Unbelievable.

  “We ready?” Dad climbs out.

  “Yeah,” I say. I’m sort of unnerved that this girl isn’t looking at me. And hanging out on Dad’s boat alone all day suddenly doesn’t sound like much fun.

  “Oh,” He turns to me with a smile. “Glad you’re tagging along.”

  I shrug.

  - - -

  After a few polite questions back and forth in the backseat of Dad’s car, Amber pulls out a Kindle. A Kindle makes you look like a dork. I read a lot, but at least I do it on my iPad—way less nerdy. And no one knows I’m reading a book. She doesn’t seem bothered. She’s in a worn old pair of jeans and shoes that look like running shoes. Like she just threw something on this morning and left.

  She pulls a knee up to rest her head against, and I’m glad she’s not wearing shorts, because there’s no way I’d be able to focus. She’s pretty damn flexible.

  The vibration of the phone in my pocket brings me back to reality. I pull it out and spend a few more minutes texting to David and my occasional on/off girl, Gem, back in New York. I want them to know how lame this is, without actually knowing the reality.

  Dad and Lynn talk non-stop in the front seat. They’re practically speaking in a foreign language of Garmin, props, and furlings.

  “Wha’cha reading?” I ask Amber as we stop.

  “The Maze Runner. James Dashner. You know it?” Her eyes catch mine, and I stare again. I really, really need to stop reacting to them. She doesn’t strike me as a girl who would be up for a little fun, so she needs to be left alone.

  “It’s a great book.” But I’m also a bit surprised. I figured her for a girly book kind of girl. The Maze Runner is sort of a kick-ass guy book.

  “Don’t ruin it for me. I hear the ending’s awesome.” Her mouth pulls into a small smile, but there’s no flirt in it at all. I must be losing my touch.

  We step out in front of a store called West Marine.

  “I’m gonna let you two play in the candy store. I’m headed out to pick up a few books.” Amber smirks at her mom.

  “Can I come?” I ask. What the h
ell’s wrong with me? “And wait. Candy store?”

  Dad laughs. “It’s a joke, because Lynn and I hang out in here like kids in a candy store.”

  Weird. “Oh.” My eyes pass back and forth between them. Dad never said anything about a girlfriend, or whatever Lynn is to him.

  Amber drops her Kindle in the car and rests her hands in her raincoat. “It’s this way if you want to tag along.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I stuff my hands in my jeans pockets and follow. We walk next to each other, but not next to each other. I guess this is okay, but I can’t remember the last time I did anything with a girl where I felt like nothing more than friends. Well, and that the possibility of more wasn’t there. Or maybe it’s that she’s not looking at me like she wants more from me, and that also feels off. I know what to do with girls who smile through thick lashes and bite their lip. I don’t know what to do with girls who wear running shoes, faded jeans, and read on Kindles.

  We’re on a small street lined with bakeries, coffee shops, and tourist traps. Everything looks as if it’s perpetually soaked in rain—moss grows in crevices on buildings, and paint peels.

  “You look out of place,” Amber says. Guess she’s one to put it out there.

  “What?” I’m in Dolce jeans, my black coat and shoes. Nothing special. I didn’t even know we were going out.

  “Too cool or slick or something for way out here.” Her smile is slight, but makes her comment less awkward.

  “Oh.” I start to say how the people we pass don’t seem to give a crap what they look like in their functional raincoats and worn jeans and hiking pants, but Amber blends in well, so I keep my mouth shut. Besides, I’m smart enough to know I’d sound spoiled and pouty or something, and I really don’t want to give off that impression.