Spirits of Ash and Foam

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Spirits of Ash and Foam Page 10

by Greg Weisman


  It did the trick. Rain exhaled profoundly, pulled the gooey marshmallow off the stick, and shoved the hot, sticky confection into her mouth, as if only its goopiness could stop her from revealing the crazy truth. “Meaning,” she said while chewing the hot mess, “I’m busy eating marshmallows.” She looked away, feeling strangely guilty that she had, in effect, lied to Marina. Particularly guilty since the eighteen-year-old had always been so open and honest with her. As a consolation prize, she considered inviting Marina to go with them to Miranda’s place tomorrow. But that wouldn’t do either. For one thing, it really wasn’t her invitation to extend. For another, no matter how sympathetic Marina seemed, she was still a senior. No way she’d want to hang with four eighth graders. Even with the hot tub option.

  By now, Charlie had relaxed, the crisis having passed. Swallowing his first marshmallow, he reached for the bag in front of his brother. Hank shot him a look. Dude, enough’s enough! Charlie looked from Hank to Marina, who was now resting her head on his shoulder, and got the message.

  He threw his marshmallow stick on the fire and stood up. “Well, we should be going. School night.”

  Rain looked at him confused. ’Bastian shook his head, wondering just a bit at Rain’s obliviousness. He rose to his feet and said with some volume, “Rain, I think Hank and Marina would like to be alone.”

  Rain looked over at Marina, who pretty much was “melting” into Hank, then practically jumped to her feet. “Yeah, of course. I mean. School night. We need to go!”

  “You don’t have to,” Marina said, though she was looking into Hank’s eyes when she said it.

  “Yeah, stay,” Hank said, appreciating Marina’s gaze and feeling safe enough to lie.

  “No, we’ll go,” Charlie said.

  “Yeah, we’ll go,” Rain said.

  “Then go,”’Bastian said.

  So our three heroes fled the N.T.Z., each lost in her or his own private desires.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE OTHER HALF LIVES

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 12

  Miranda Guerrero, daughter of the C.E.O. of Sycorax Inc., led Renée, Charlieand Rain onto the company-owned, company-operated Sycorax Ferry, needlessly flashing a pass to a ticket taker, who knew exactly whose daughter Miranda was. Rain asked, “Why do you even take the ferry? Don’t you have a chauffer?”

  Miranda made a face. “I don’t want Ariel taking me everywhere. It would be weird. I take the ferry to be normal.”

  Rain and Charlie rolled their eyes in sync; they couldn’t help it. Even Renée, who was—when she chose—more expert at concealing her thoughts, had to look away. There was nothing normal about taking the Sycorax Ferry home to Sycorax Island. There was nothing normal about living on Sycorax, about being the daughter of the man who also employed an easy third of the Keys’ adult population. There was nothing normal about being the richest eighth-grade girl in the Caribbean.

  That was why Renée had decided to play a long game. To find her moment and wait for it. Miranda was not going to be the victim of just another prank. No clothes stolen from her locker. No Stinky Spray substituted for her perfume. Renée had her mother to think of and couldn’t do anything that might blow back and cause Linéa Jackson to lose her job as a fruit inspector at the Sycorax cannery.

  But it was more than that. Striking Little Miss Guerrero off her Sugar-List would be the summit, the pinnacle, the apotheosis. Miranda’s humiliation would have to be perfect. It would have to be sublime. Renée could afford to be patient. Of course, maintaining that patience would be a little harder with regard to Rain and Charlie. Neither deserved any special consideration … except for this: Miranda liked them both. So for now, Renée would be on her best behavior around all three. At least, there was the small consolation of being able to torture Rain and Charlie by reminding them of the inevitable. Renée smiled at Charlie and said, “Beautiful day. Wouldn’t you agree, Sugar?”

  Charlie forced a smile. Still, he wasn’t sorry Renée and Miranda were around. Their presence removed some of the crushing pressure of being alone with his crush. (Or of being alone with his crush and ’Bastian, which honestly didn’t feel much different most of the time.) Even now, as the sea breeze played with a wisp of hair that had escaped Rain’s thick braid, Charlie had to fight the impulse to reach out and tuck it behind her ear; he had to fight the impulse to hold her hand. Or worse.

  Rain’s thoughts were somewhere else entirely. Without explanation, she took off up the stairs.

  They all watched her go. To Miranda, Rain was still an enigma, difficult to read and so essentially self-sufficient that even Charlie often appeared to be little more than an accessory. It made Miranda feel bad for him, as he stared after Rain like a puppy. Miranda tried to offer a distraction. “So, did you bring your suit?”

  Charlie nodded. “Yeah, I’m ready for the Jacuzzi.” Then he swallowed hard. Hot-tubbing it with Rain, Miranda and Renée was something like a wish fulfilled. Assuming my head doesn’t explode.

  On the upper deck, Rain ran up to the pilot’s cabin and—ignoring the DO NOT DISTURB THE PILOT sign—knocked on the door. Old Joe Charone, the ferryman, opened it for her, and she slipped inside.

  “How you doin’, Sweetie?” he asked. Old Joe had been ’Bastian Bohique’s best friend. They had flown together during World War II, and Joe had that same photograph of the Island Belle hanging on the bulkhead behind him. But Joe had been injured during their last mission over Germany and had missed their final, fatal flight, which had killed the Belle’s eight other crewmen. He had also missed last Sunday’s ghost flight, which had finally laid the Eight to rest. So unlike ’Bastian and the others, Joe had no closure. For Old Joe, he was the lone survivor with all the accompanying guilt. He didn’t even have the benefit of a ghostly ’Bastian’s company, and Rain could tell from those four short words of greeting that he was still grieving, still hurting, still deeply soul-sick.

  So she did what she could. “I’m feeling a little better,” she said and touched her left hand to his right. She watched the Healer snake on the zemi flare with a golden light that raced down her arm and leapt from her hand to his before vanishing under his sleeve. Then she watched as he took a breath, straightened his back, and smiled at her warmly. Same as with her mom and dad. The Healer might not always remove the wound, but it sure helped with the symptoms.

  “You know, I’m feeling a little better too,” he said and meant it. “Must be seeing your shining face, Sweetie.”

  Isaac Naborías, who was a few yards away on the upper deck, was also feeling better. Not better enough to change his mind or ask for his job back. But Jimmy Kwan had called to tell Isaac his last paycheck was waiting for him, so Isaac was heading back to Sycorax to pick the check up in person and say a proper good-bye to everyone.

  His cheek twitched. He checked his watch. It was three thirty in the afternoon, and sunset wasn’t until seven twenty-nine. (He knew. He had checked.) I just have to be off that island before dark. Nervously, he scratched and scratched and scratched at his many, many, many mosquito bites.

  As they approached the Sycorax dock, Joe shooed Rain out of his cabin, and she descended to rejoin her little tribe. Once the ferry stopped moving, the air became quite still. The dock smelled of diesel fuel, saltwater and fish.

  They disembarked. Miranda took the lead again with Renée by her side and Charlie following. Rain hesitated. A brush-played snare drum and a bass guitar provided her current mental soundtrack, sneaky and slinky. She slipped past Charlie to tap Miranda on the shoulder, saying, “Hey, could you show us where the guy died?”

  Miranda looked uncomfortable. “Wouldn’t you rather go swimming?”

  “I just want a look,” Rain said. She glanced at Charlie for support.

  He got the message. “Yeah, it’d be cool.”

  Miranda looked at Renée, who shrugged. She was a little curious too.

  Five minutes later, they were standing beside the excavation, looking across to the cave entrance
opposite. Rain scanned the area, mostly checking for landmarks, not really hoping to find anything zemi-ish out in plain sight—and not really wanting to find something with Miranda and Renée in tow. She pointed toward the cave. “That’s where the body was?”

  Miranda nodded. “That’s what my dad said.”

  “Okay, we can go,” Rain said.

  Charlie gaped at her. “Don’t you want to look around?”

  Rain scrunched her face impatiently. “Now? No.”

  Ah. Charlie understood. Now, no. After sunset, definitely.

  Rain shifted gears with genuine enthusiasm. “Let’s hit that hot tub!”

  A relieved Miranda led them rapidly toward her home. She was pretty sure her father wouldn’t approve of their little detour and was glad to be back on track. Minutes later, she and Renée were walking up the front steps. Charlie and Rain paused to stare.

  Renée smirked inwardly. She knew exactly how they felt, how she had felt on Monday when first laying eyes on the place. She had just been better able to hide it.

  Miranda lived in the old manor house, originally built by the slaveholding plantation owners of the isla. The clean white structure had been thoroughly renovated and modernized by men working for Miranda’s father, but it still possessed a certain antebellum charm and grandeur, if you liked that sort of thing. In its day, it had been constructed to impress and intimidate. Tthe latter effect was certainly still in force for Rain and Charlie. They instantly felt out of place and uncomfortable, even unworthy. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation. Charlie started to feel hostile toward Miranda, though he knew that was unfair. Rain fought the impulse to check the soles of her shoes to make sure she didn’t track anything inside. Spotting a mat at the front door she could make use of, she grabbed Charlie by the T-shirt to pull him up the stairs. Strength in numbers, right?

  Eyes focused down on the doormat, Rain saw a pair of men’s brown loafers step out of the manor. She looked up.

  Miranda said, “Oh, Dad. These are my friends. Renée, Charlie and Rain. Guys, this is my father, Pablo Guerrero.”

  Charlie and Rain muttered greetings. Renée said hello clearly. Pablo Guerrero’s response confused all three of them. “Twenty minutes.”

  He paused, turning his head enough to reveal a small earpiece in his right ear. He continued, “Ariel’s warming up the chopper … No, don’t do anything … I’ll be at the hotel helipad in twenty minutes. Or less.”

  He paused again to listen. Pablo Guerrero was about 5'9" and in good shape. His light-skinned face was unwrinkled, and only a bit of salt in his otherwise jet black hair hinted at his fifty years on this earth. He was dressed in tan slacks, a pink oxford shirt and designer sunglasses. The one out-of-place note in the man’s otherwise elegant and expensive design was a thick leather band around his left wrist with the word DADDY burned into the leather by a pyrographic stylus. Rain had done something similar for her own father when she was nine, but he never wore it.

  “Right. See you soon. Twenty minutes. Twenty. Bye.” His manicured finger tapped the earbud, and then, finally, he seemed to take notice of his daughter and her companions. “Hello,” he said, with much more reserve than he had used on the phone.

  Miranda wasn’t sure if she should introduce her friends again—then decided there wasn’t much point. “We’re going to use the hot tub.”

  Her father stared at her with an odd expression. Almost as if he didn’t speak the language, or perhaps wasn’t clear what a “hot tub” was. Finally, he seemed to give up. He shook his head a bit and said, “Ariel’s flying me over to La Géante. I won’t be home for dinner.”

  “We’ll manage,” Miranda said.

  He nodded in response and departed without another word, descending the stairs and walking briskly around the corner and out of sight. Rain and Charlie exchanged another look. Renée camouflaged any reaction. Miranda took it all in stride and entered the house through the open front door.

  It was noticeably cooler inside. During the renovation, walls had been removed from the interior of the house to create a single, immense great room out of most of the first floor. French doors along the far wall were open to a large patio, creating a cross-breeze to make the atmosphere notably more pleasant inside than out. It was elegant, airy, and light. There was a large chandelier hanging down from the rafters, a grand piano off to the side and almost nowhere to sit.

  Rain and Charlie paused to drink it all in—but Miranda didn’t, and they had to play catchup as she and Renée ascended the grand staircase to the second floor. They walked along a balcony, which passed over the full length of the great room before becoming a hallway that disappeared into the manor’s South Wing.

  Miranda paused in front of another open door to listen to the helicopter flying low overhead. It vibrated the crystal fixtures, which tinkled briefly like wind chimes. Once the noise subsided, she said, “This is my room. Charlie, that’s a guest room across the hall. You can change in there. You can leave your stuff there too. It’ll all be safe. Oh, and don’t worry about towels; we’ve got plenty of them in the cabaña.”

  Charlie swallowed and nodded and watched Miranda lead Renée and Rain into her room. Miranda waved good-bye and shut the door. He shook his head and opened the door to the guest room.

  It was enormous. You could stuff his and Phil’s bedroom, Lew and Hank’s bedroom and probably his mom’s bedroom into this one and still have a bedroom left over. There was a large and fancy four-poster bed, dressing tables with marble tops, porcelain lamps and crystal vases with cut flowers. The sum total effect: Charlie was afraid to touch anything, practically afraid to lower his backpack to the floor. He stood in the middle of the room to change. Changing, of course, consisted only of taking off his cargo shorts. He was already wearing trunks underneath. At home, he’d have left the shorts on the floor. Here that seemed like sacrilege, so he picked them up, folded them carefully in half and looked around for a place to put them. Ultimately, he stuffed them into his backpack and hid that behind the door—to minimize its presence in the room.

  He went out into the hallway, but Miranda’s door was still closed. Now what? He thought about the fact that the girls were changing clothes on the other side of the door. Don’t! Down that path lies head explosion …

  Miranda’s bedroom was also quite large, but Rain had a pretty big bedroom now herself, so she was less impressed. Still it struck her as odd. It appeared to be the room of a much younger child. It was wallpapered with a pattern of strawberries. Of course, there were no faux-antique maps or World War II photographs or anything like that, but there were also no posters on the wall and no family pictures anywhere. The furniture, including Miranda’s own four-poster, was pink and white and pretty and clean—and impersonal. Well, she only just moved back from like Spain. Maybe she hasn’t had a chance to really live here yet.

  Miranda dropped her backpack on her bed, crossed to her dresser and pulled out a tankini. Rain noticed it was the same style as the one she had worn when they had gone water-skiing last Friday, but that one had been peach; this was tangerine. Immediately and without the slightest embarrassment, Miranda pulled off her top and started to take off her bra. Rain glanced at Renée, who was doing the same, having pulled a metallic gray bikini out of her backpack. Rain quietly lowered her own backpack to the floor. Like Charlie, she was already wearing her swimsuit (the same royal blue one-piece she had worn water-skiing) under her T-shirt and shorts. For no good reason, she was suddenly embarrassed about being prepared—and yet simultaneously glad, as it was immediately clear she was the least developed of the three girls, and she didn’t really want the other two to see her naked. Rain usually didn’t think much about her body, even when changing among twenty girls in P.E. After all, she had boobs, little ones anyway, and she usually wore a bra. She definitely wasn’t the flattest girl in the eighth grade. Besides, she didn’t really care all that much about what other people thought of her. Here and now, though, she felt incredibly self-conscious, and she
couldn’t help thinking, They’re both so much prettier than me. So while Miranda and Renée stripped and changed, Rain quietly slipped out of her shorts and kept her T-shirt on.

  Charlie felt like he’d been out in the hall for a long time. He had finally made up his mind to knock when he heard Renée speak and Miranda respond. He couldn’t make out the words, and he didn’t hear Rain’s voice at all. He leaned in closer, and the door opened. He jumped back and only barely managed to restrain himself from saying something stupid, if not pervy.

  Miranda and Renée joined him in the hallway. Both were wearing two-piece suits—and nothing else—and looked to Charlie like they could fit in nicely with the cast of any teen sitcom on Disney or Nick. Rain followed them out, wearing her oversized Cacique Charters T-shirt over her suit. She didn’t look like a T.V. star, but he thought she was beautiful. There was something else, too, something in her eyes. Something he didn’t see in Rain all that often. Vulnerability. It only made her more beautiful. He smiled into Rain’s almond eyes. He couldn’t help himself, though he worried his smile gave something away. Then her eyes smiled back, and it was all worth it.

  As for Rain, she was relieved Charlie was still wearing his T-shirt over his trunks. That was how they rolled. She immediately felt like less of a freak, and when he smiled at her, she guessed he felt the same. Her confidence instantly restored—Rain was nothing if not resilient—she actually led the way down the hall.

  Downstairs, Miranda pointed to a door off the great room. “The Jacuzzi’s in back. We’ll just take a shortcut through my dad’s study.”

  Unsurprisingly, it was a very large study. Lots of dark wood and open space. Facing the door was a huge glass and steel desk with a gunmetal gray laptop on it and not much else. On the wall behind the desk was a floor-to-ceiling portrait of one of the most striking women Rain had ever seen. She had café-au-lait skin and long chestnut hair, big brown eyes, and full red lips. She was wearing white and looked to be about six months pregnant. The artist had given the woman the subtlest of halo effects: a white glowing aura against the dark background. To Rain, the woman looked like a ghost. Suddenly, the thought occurred that Miranda occasionally referred to her father but never to her mother. Looking at the painting now, Rain could definitely see the resemblance to her new friend.

 

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