Girl at Sea

by Maureen Johnson

  “You know what I mean,” he said.

  “No,” she answered. “I really, really don’t.”

  They both stopped speaking and looked away from each other, walking until they reached the point where they had started, the gap in the cliff, the twisting steps down to the sea.

  “What about my e-mail?” she asked. “Or my phone call? Even people in prison get one phone call.” The entire time they’d been walking, she’d been looking for a sign for an Internet café but hadn’t seen one. There had to be a public phone somewhere.

  “I already sent your mom a text saying that you got here safely when your plane landed in Rome. There’s supposed to be a storm during the night. We have to get back and make sure everything is secure. We’ll figure out your phone call when we get back.”

  He pointed to a heavy cloud lingering over the bay. It was only a few miles away, from the looks of it, lurking around the volcano. It had a lightning storm contained within it and silently cracked pencil-thin bolts at itself.

  Clio had never seen such a clear omen of trouble in all her life. But her father was right—they wouldn’t have much time to get back before it hit. Ollie would have to wait. Again.

  The Champagne Suite

  When she got back to the boat and opened the door to her bedroom, she found a strange sight. Elsa was standing at one of the mirrors, carefully tucking the pictures alongside the frame. Her suitcase was open on the floor, and clothes had spilled out of it in all directions.

  “Hi,” Clio said. “This, um…this is my…”

  “I’m guessing your dad didn’t tell you,” Elsa said.

  “Tell me what?”

  “That we’re sharing this room,” she answered. “And yes, that means the one bed.”

  Clio slumped against the doorframe.

  “He neglected to mention that,” she said.

  “Apparently the bed math was difficult,” Elsa said. “It was assumed that we wouldn’t mind sharing. Which I don’t. It is a boat. Space is tight. And I’m used to sharing small quarters.”

  “I don’t care either,” Clio said automatically. “It’s fine.”

  They were frozen in their politeness for a moment. Clio looked around. Utter chaos had already developed on Elsa’s side of the room. There was a pile of thongs on the chair. The coffee-colored carpet was all but completely covered. Her clothes weren’t covered in paint. They were short, bright, simple, happy. They were the clothes of a body-comfortable dairy goddess.

  “I’m a bit messy,” Elsa said. “Useless at cleaning. I’ll try my best to keep it under control.”

  “No, no,” Clio said. “It’s all good.”

  This was just one more blow on an endless day of blows, and she had no fight left in her. She was going to have to start coping now. She took a deep breath, then popped open her suitcase and looked at her own clothes. Without even realizing it, she had packed standard artist issue. There were a half-dozen vintage T-shirts that she had cut apart and resewn herself, turning them into tank tops or lace-ups. A massive stack of pajama bottoms, her favorite summer item—all oversized and all loudly patterned with things like polka dots and skulls and crossbones. All of her jeans had paint on them. All of them. She had one skirt.

  They each unpacked for a few minutes, Elsa randomly stuffing handfuls of little lacy things in the dresser drawers, piling clothes into the wardrobe. Clio was more methodical—stacking and folding, figuring out where things should go.

  Elsa suddenly flopped in front of her on the bed.

  “All right,” she admitted with a laugh. “It’s a bit awful. Even if it is the nice room. Let’s just both say it. We’ll feel better. This is rubbish!”

  “It sucks,” Clio said, her face breaking into a smile. And at that moment, she didn’t even mean it. Elsa’ s demeanor lifted her spirits.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit tetchy today,” Elsa said “I’ve been in a mood for a while, and I wasn’t very happy about this trip. I just wanted to apologize.”

  Clio couldn’t hide the look of confusion she felt spreading over her face. Why was Elsa apologizing for being weird? She wondered if she had been acting so badly that Elsa was apologizing as a way of getting Clio to apologize.

  No. That was way too convoluted and insane. Clearly, the jet lag was settling down on her brain.

  “You haven’t been,” Clio said.

  “I have,” Elsa insisted, getting up off the bed and rummaging through her bag. “But I plan on making up for it. Here. I picked this up in the airport in Rome.”

  She pulled two bottles out of a plastic airport shopping bag.

  “It’s just a cheap sparkling wine,” she said. “But we’ll say it’s champagne. Close enough. And it’s warm. Let’s chill it and drink it.”

  Clio’s drinking experience consisted mostly of one very angry period after her parents’ separation when she systematically downed everything in the house over a matter of weeks. No one noticed until one night she went a little too far and drank almost an entire bottle of pre-mixed margarita, warm, right out of the bottle, over the course of one afternoon. The vomiting that ensued had lasted for a day. Everyone had overreacted about it, but it had pretty much cured her of the drinking bug. It had never been an issue since.

  But now seemed a good time to reconsider the option. It was such a beautiful opportunity to flout her father’s new command. And she was in Italy, after all.

  “I’ll go get the glasses and ice,” she said.

  Clio’s dad was floating around in the living room. She dipped into the galley. There were heavy wineglasses in the cabinet, but Clio grabbed two chunky mugs instead. She found a plug-in teakettle shoved into the corner of the counter. That would work for the ice. She banged around, switching on the faucet in the dark, making it sound like she was actually using the kettle. Her father swung his head around the doorway.

  “We could use a hand bringing in the food,” he said.

  “Elsa needs a cup of tea,” Clio answered, making as serious a face as she could, pointing at the kettle. “She has cramps.”

  “Oh,” he said quickly. “Okay. You do that. I’ll get Aidan to give us a hand.”

  The one good thing about getting your period: it was dad conversation kryptonite. Clio smiled, though she wondered if she hadn’t used that one too soon. She stuffed the kettle full of ice cubes and took it upstairs with the mugs.

  They plugged the drain in one of the magnificent bathroom sinks and poured in the ice.

  “Well done,” Elsa said, nestling the bottles into the cold bath. “We’ll leave that for a few minutes.”

  Clio sat down on the wide edge of the tub.

  “Why did you think you were acting strange?” she asked.

  “Oh,” Elsa said, “there’s no question. I’ve been a bit mental recently. And I wasn’t too happy about this trip either. I didn’t get much notice.”

  “Neither did I,” Clio said.

  “I imagine not. Did you even know about…”

  Elsa waved her hand toward the floor.

  “My dad?” Clio asked. “And your mom?”

  “Right.”

  “No,” Clio said. “That was something else he forgot to mention.”

  “Were your parents married?” Elsa asked sympathetically.

  Clio nodded.

  “How long ago did they split up?”

  “A little over two years ago.”

  “The dating,” Elsa said. “You’ll get used to it. I promise. My mum’s never been married, but she was with my dad for a while when I was little. He was on the board of the bank that gave her the grant to do most of the work for her doctorate. She was researching a crazy guy from hundreds of years ago who thought Atlantis was in Sweden. And got the grant, the degree, and me. Then she left. I really missed him for a while, but you do get used to it.”

  Elsa smiled and swished the bottle around. Clio didn’t want to tell her that having your married parents, your family, blow apart wasn’t quite the same thin
g as what Elsa was describing. But then, what did she know? Maybe losing your dad when you were little was even worse.

  “The reason I bought this champagne,” Elsa went on, still rotating the bottle slowly, “was because I was angry, and I wanted to celebrate.”

  “Celebrate what?”

  “I’ll show you,” she said. “Come here.”

  She waved Clio out of the bathroom and over to the mirror, where the photos were. She plucked out two of them. One was of a girl, the other was of the rabbit.

  “This rabbit? Alex? Named after my ex-boyfriend? He—the boyfriend, not the rabbit—dumped me three weeks ago to go out with…”

  She switched photos and pulled out a different one, one that she hadn’t shown before. Same backdrop, three girls. Elsa was on the right. She had her arm around another girl.

  “…this girl. Claire.”

  She said the name precisely, her Britishness deepening the a in the middle. Her eyes grew heavy-lidded as she spoke it. Never before had Clio heard a single name sound so ominous.

  “One of my best friends,” Elsa said. “Former best friends. And when I say ‘dumped me to go out with her,’ I mean that they had actually been seeing each other for a month when I caught them. It’s hard to hide at school, when you all live together.”

  She carefully replaced the picture of the rabbit but hesitated with the one of Claire. This she eventually tossed under the table.

  “British guys are rubbish,” she said. “Really rubbish. At least at my school they are. British guys are obsessed with beer, sport, and cars. In that order. Some of the ones at my school expand this just a little to include money. If you find a smart one or a funny one, he’s usually also depressed. Now, Swedish guys, much better. But I don’t see as many of those. No. I spend my nights at the school pub with the wankers.”

  “You have a pub?” Clio asked. “At your school?”

  “It’s not that exciting,” Elsa said. “They do it so that they can keep some control over the drinking. It’s a sad little room with an air hockey table and a two-pint limit. I am sick of things being rubbish.”

  Even the worst of Elsa’s experiences sounded a lot more colorful than Clio’s general life at school. Living there, having a bar…it was like something out of a movie.

  “An-y-way,” Elsa said. “That’s the anger. Here’s the celebration. This summer? Things will be good. I’ve decided. In fact, it should start now. Let’s have a party. Here. Tonight.”

  “A party? With who?”

  “We’ll invite Aidan. I’ve decided he’s going to be my fling.”

  Clio let out a long sigh.

  “He’s all right, trust me,” Elsa said. “I’ve only just met him myself this last week, but if he has to deal with my mum, his life is hard. He’ll need a drink. It will be fun, I promise. And he’s tasty, isn’t he?”

  “Right…” Clio looked away. “Think that bottle is cold?”

  “It will be in a moment,” Elsa said. “What do you think? Can we invite him?”

  The words “this is not a party cruise” still jangled in Clio’s head. The frustration they caused her overrode any that Aidan could possibly produce. And there was no way she could say no to Elsa.

  “Sure,” she said. “I’ve got it.”

  Clio pulled the tiny orange com from her pocket and looked on the back for Aidan’s number.

  “Number Four,” she said. “You’re needed upstairs.”

  Silence. Then a crackle and Clio’s father’s voice.

  “Number Five? Did you need Number Four?”

  “Uh, yeah. Copy that,” Clio said, looking at Elsa and shrugging. “We need Number Four. He has something of Number Six’s. We have Three approval. Over?”

  Elsa tumbled to her side and laughed into her pile of clothes. Clio held up a hand to quiet her.

  “Okay, Five,” her father said. “Four’s on his way.”

  “Roger, One. Over and out.”

  Clio clicked off the com and threw it triumphantly over her shoulder and onto the bed.

  “What was that?” Elsa said.

  “That was me telling my dad to send Aidan up here and saying that your mom said it was okay,” Clio answered. “Your mom probably hasn’t read the back of her com either, has she?”

  “I seriously doubt it. That was brilliant. He’s coming?”

  “On his way.”

  Elsa went into the bathroom and produced one of the bottles. She ripped the foil from the top and unscrewed the wire casing that held the cork in place. The bottle popped triumphantly, with foamy liquid spilling out of the top. She quickly directed it at the mugs.

  “Let’s start,” she said, passing one to Clio and holding it up to clink. “To our new room. The Champagne Suite! Chin chin!”

  By the time Aidan showed up, five minutes later, she was already feeling the effects of the champagne. They were very mild—she just felt better. Talking was easier. She threw open the door.

  “I was told I was needed,” Aidan said flatly. He looked a little spent, half-moons of perspiration creeping out from under his arms, probably from dragging in the food that her father had just mentioned. Still, she noticed, guys frequently got a bit cuter when they’d been roughed up a little. A little sweaty…it worked. She could see why Elsa thought he was “tasty.”

  “You bet, Number Three!” Clio guided him inside, throwing Elsa a smile. He resisted just slightly, as if trying to figure out what was going on in this room before coming one step closer.

  “You’re having a drink with us,” Elsa said.

  “I can’t. I have to set up the office.”

  “You can have a quick one,” she said. “Stop being such a Muppet and sit down.”

  She came over and grabbed his arm, pulling him to the bed and plunking him down on the edge. He didn’t put up that much of a fight. He looked around with that look of smug amusement Clio had already grown to dislike.

  “So,” he said. “You guys got the nice room. What a shock. But one question—who gets the bed?”

  “Oh, right,” Elsa said, walking over and throwing her arm over Clio’s shoulders. “Just the one bed. We have to share. Remember that before you go to sleep—two floors above you, two lovely girls in one bed.”

  He narrowed his eyes a little but didn’t give. He really did look like some kind of human computer, sucking in information and analyzing it.

  Elsa walked over to the dresser and held up the bottle.

  “You guys have champagne up here too?” he said.

  This was directed at Clio.

  “Elsa brought it,” she said firmly.

  “Only two mugs, though,” Elsa said. “Two of us will have to share. Do you mind?”

  She walked over and refilled Clio’s mug, then sat down next to Aidan with hers and the bottle.

  “I don’t have germs,” she said. “Promise. Or do you want the bottle?”

  “The mug is fine,” he said.

  “You’re not British,” Clio said, almost accusingly. “Why are you at Cambridge?”

  “I’m from Yale,” he said. He was smugly matter-of-fact about it, as if it should have been obvious, like there was a big blue Y glowing on his forehead.

  “Oh,” she said. “You didn’t get into Harvard?”

  “You mean Cambridge Community College?” he said, accepting the mug and taking a sip. He tossed back the champagne like he was drinking a soda.

  “That’s very funny,” Clio said. “Was that joke in your guidebook?”

  A little more eye-narrowing. Clio had hit the nail on the head with that one. She drank triumphantly. This champagne was good for her.

  “What do you do?” she asked. “You have lots of computers down there.”

  “I’m an engineer,” he said. “But I also study archeology. I do the technical things—some weird, experimental stuff that’s only being done in a few schools around the world. That’s why Julia brought me over to Cambridge to be her assistant. I was supposed to go home for the summer, but
then we got the call that this was happening. Suddenly, I wasn’t going home.”

  “I was supposed to be working in an art store,” Clio said.

  He had no reply to this. The remark didn’t seem to register at all. It was as if working in an art store could never be as important as what he had planned on doing. There was a little too much haughtiness in him. Yale. Cambridge. Sure, they were impressive, but he was way too aware of the fact. He didn’t know how to be smooth about it.

  “At dinner,” Elsa said, swallowing a large swig of the champagne, “your dad started saying something about your tattoo. He said it was an interesting story. Was he about to say that you were in an accident? That’s what it sounded like.”

  “Oh, right.” Clio swirled the liquid in her mug and took a little drink. “I was. It was a long time ago.”

  “How do you get a tattoo in an accident?” Aidan said.

  “I didn’t get the tattoo in the accident.” Clio heard her voice thickening just a tiny bit. “I got the tattoo afterward because I had a scar.”

  “Obviously,” Elsa said, laughing a little too loudly and nudging him.

  “What kind of accident?” he asked.

  Clio took another drink. This story required a lot of explanation. But the two people sitting on the edge of the bed stared down at her, waiting to hear what she had to say for herself. And things were a little easier with the champagne.

  “I got hit by a speedboat,” she said.

  Elsa let out a little yelp.

  “How did you get hit by a speedboat?” Aidan asked.

  “It’s a long story,” Clio said.

  “We have time,” Elsa said. “We definitely have the time for that.”

  Clio shrugged and drained her mug, holding it out for more. Elsa refilled it.

  “Okay,” she said. “When we first made the game, my dad had this idea that normal school wasn’t enough for me. So he took us to Kos—the Greek island—to this colony where you had to live as ancient Greeks, circa 300 BC.”

  “This is not what I was expecting you to say,” Aidan said. For once, he actually looked surprised.