by Eve Yohalem
True Fact: Fitz and the gang had found a seventeenth-century port-o-potty.
The strange thing was, apart from the hilarity (a seventeenth-century port-o-potty!), and apart from the anxiety (I had so far found seventeenth-century nothing), and apart from still being exhausted and really mad at Jules, the fact that the Windfall actually found something gave me that tomorrow’s-Christmas tingle in my stomach. It meant that my ancestors and my gut were right. It meant Pop Pop was right. There really was something down there.
We hurried into the house, snatched up our stuff, and headed out.
“Come on, come on, come on. Let’s go,” Jules said, pushing me down the dock.
Jules was a weird mix of hyped up and ticked off, but I was still too mad at her to care why.
“I’ll drive,” she said.
It was Jules’s first time driving, but I figured she’d been watching me long enough. Besides, I was too tired to fight about it.
Jules turned on the engine and pulled out without crashing into the dock or running aground. I leaned back against the side rail.
“Watch the buoy,” I said.
“What’s a buoy for, anyway?” Jules said.
“They show you where deep water is, and they keep boats from hitting each other. Since we’re going out, keep the red ones on your left and the green ones on your right. When we come back, you keep the red ones on your right and the green ones on your left. Remember: red right returning.”
“Red right returning. Got it.” Jules gunned the engine.
“Slow down! We have to stay under five miles an hour here.”
“Are you always this annoying when you get high blood sugar?”
“Are you always this annoying every single day? Wait, don’t answer that. I already know.”
“Hey, you were the one sleeping on the biggest day of this whole thing!” Jules yelled.
“As it so happens,” I snapped, “I almost died the other night—not that you could care less! And this treasure hunt is my whole thing, remember? Besides, what did you do all day? Shop for thousand-dollar lip gloss?”
Jules threw the engine into idle, and Otis slid across the deck. Her eyes were little slits of fire.
“You really want to know? First, I skipped breakfast because She Who Must Not Be Named was in the kitchen in her underwear. But then my dad asked me to go for a walk on the beach with him. And because I’m such a moron, I actually thought it was because he wanted to spend time with me. But then a hundred people stopped him every ten feet just like they always do, and of course he needed to bless each and every one of them with the full-on Ed Buttersby charm. I wasn’t even sure he remembered I was there until he dragged us away from the crowd and put on his old fishing hat and sunglasses disguise, and I thought, finally, we’re going to hang out and have fun. But no. Because that’s when he started going on and on about how he’d found true love and he was ‘happier than he’d ever been in his life.’” Jules put air quotes around that part. “And, no, I didn’t ask him if that included the day he married my mom and the day I was born, because I actually thought he might say yes.” She stopped for a breath. “Then I went back to the house to video-chat with my mom and her eyes were all wet and swollen because she’d been crying. At nine o’clock in the morning Pacific time. Like she’s been doing pretty much every day since my dad dumped her for Anna.”
I looked away from Jules at the water. It’s possible her day had been worse than mine. It’s possible she could look the way she looks and have a famous father and be really rich and not have a disease and her whole life could be worse than mine. But still. I ground my teeth and spun back.
“So you thought you’d just pay it forward and take your bad day out on me?”
“It wasn’t a bad day!” she shouted. “It was the worst day I could possibly have had. And besides, you didn’t almost die.” More air quotes. “Four-ninety isn’t lethal.”
My hands started to shake. “Oh, so you looked up blood sugar online and now you’re an expert? Yeah, four-ninety isn’t lethal—unless it keeps going up because I sleep through it or Otis doesn’t get to my parents in time or it’s going up so fast that nothing anybody does matters before it’s too late. So, yeah, I could’ve died last night. I could die pretty much every night!”
I glared at Jules with my hands on my hips. She glared back at me with her hands on her hips. And then her shoulders slumped and she said:
“I’m sorry you almost died and I took my bad day out on you.”
I exhaled. And then I said:
“Thanks. I’m sorry you had the worst day you possibly could have had and we couldn’t hunt because I almost died.”
“I did buy a really amazing pair of shoes online,” she said.
“Just one?” I said.
“Okay, three.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a piece of paper. “But that’s not all I did.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She handed me the paper, her face like a TV game show host about to announce the big winner. “Turns out staying home all day wasn’t the worst thing in the world, because if I hadn’t had all that time to kill, I never would have found this.”
This was a web page printout with a list of names. Strange names like Jeronimo Lobo and Albert Joachim and Happy Jan. Next to the names were titles: Gunner, Surgeon’s Mate, Head Cook. And where the people were born.
“It’s a ship’s log,” Jules said. “I found it online on this Dutch website that lists every ship the Dutch East India Company ever owned and everyone who worked on them. They just translated it into English a few months ago.”
“Every ship?” I asked.
“Look!” She grabbed the paper out of my hands, flipped it, then shoved it back. “Look there. Halfway down. Look.”
Abraham Broen, Carpenter’s Mate, Birthplace: Java, East Indies
My very own last name, right there in a Dutch ship’s log from 1663. The same name in the old family bible that I’d combed through a thousand times: Abraham Broen, Carpenter’s Mate, Birthplace: Java, East Indies. Teeny tiny Fourth of July sparklers ignited under my skin.
“Is this the ship I think it is?” I asked. Even though I already knew what she was going to say. I knew knew knew it in my bones, because it could be only one ship in the whole history of ships.
“Uh-huh.” Jules bopped up and down, practically dancing in the well of the Mako.
“Wahoo!” I yelled.
Otis woofed with joy. And then all three of us actually were dancing in the well of the Mako.
The Golden Lion. Jules found proof that my great-times-twelve-grandfather had traveled on it!
I grabbed the wheel. “We’ve gotta get back to the hound.”
“Floor it!” Jules said.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
True Fact: Pop Pop was right.
We made it to Gardiner’s Island in record time. Usually, scanning the bottom of the bay for hours put me into a kind of zen state where I’d zone out going from seaweed clump to seaweed clump. Today, though, every clump was possibly the clump. Every lump was maybe the lump. It was best-birthday-ever exciting.
Even with the distraction of having just made the most important discovery of my life (or, rather, Jules having made the most important discovery of my life), I tested every hour and sent the numbers to Mom. They were all in normal range. When we got hungry for a midafternoon snack, Jules brought out homemade nut clusters.
“I told my chef you had diabetes, so she made them with carob and fake sugar to keep the carbs low.” She took a bite. “Oh wow, these are really disgusting.”
“I like them.” I tossed one to Otis.
Otis liked them too.
Jules and I were about to get back on the tube when a Windfall dinghy motored in our direction.
“They’re not coming over here, are they?” Jules said.
“I hope not,” I said.
But they were. And by “they” Jules meant the crew person driving the boat… a
nd Fitz.
We watched them get closer and closer, and I gripped the wheel tighter and tighter, until the rubber side of Fitz’s boat not-quite-so-gently bumped the Mako.
“Hi, girls.” Fitz smiled like a shark: lots of teeth, dead eyes. He had on a polo shirt with an open neck that exposed a gold chain with a big medallion on it.
It was my first encounter with a famous media person without at least one of my parents present. Which may have been why my mind went blank and I lost the ability to speak. Jules, on the other hand, had met lots of famous, powerful people and knew exactly what to say in this situation:
“Hi.” She peered at him over the top of her sunglasses, like a true movie star’s daughter.
“What are you two up to?” Teeth, teeth, and more teeth.
“Nothing.” Jules flicked her ponytail over her shoulder.
“It doesn’t look like nothing,” Fitz said. “What are you doing with those buckets?”
Once again, Jules was ready. “Just a school project. We need the buckets to take water samples.”
“I see.” Fitz shark-smiled again. “That’s interesting, because my crew says those look like underwater-view buckets.”
In an act of epic bravery, Jules tossed her hair and said, “So?”
Fitz did a double take, like this was the first time anyone had ever given him Jules Buttersby attitude, which it probably was. The shark-smile chilled into a stare, like Fitz might open his toothy mouth and chomp us at any moment.
“If you are looking for something in this water, you’ve got a problem. Unless, of course, you have an exploration permit?”
Jules looked at me. I shook my head. I’d never even heard of an exploration permit, but I didn’t like the sound of it. And I really didn’t like the sound of “you’ve got a problem.”
“I didn’t think so,” Fitz said. “Well, I do have an exploration permit, and it lets me—and only me—search a ten-mile radius around Gardiner’s Point. So you have to find somewhere else to do your little project. Today. Now. And don’t let me see you here again.” Fitz flicked his wrist at the crew person, his way of instructing him to head back to the Windfall since his business with us was done.
Before my eyes, Gardiner’s Bay turned into a giant toilet with a giant handle that Fitz had just flushed. The water swirled around and down, disappearing into a sludgy mud hole, sucking away every dream of greatness I’d ever had. All that was left was three million florins of gold, silver, and copper, waiting for Fitz Fitzgibbons to plunge up.
My vision blurred. All I saw was mud. Mud, mud, mud, mud—
“Fine. Show us the permit,” Jules said.
Fitz whipped around. “Excuse me?”
“How do we know you’re not making the whole thing up?” Jules demanded. “Sorry. If you want us to go, you have to prove you have the right to make us leave. You do know that my friend’s family has lived here for three hundred and fifty years, right? And you just carpetbagged in, like, when? Five minutes ago? Who do you think you are? Christopher Columbus? Well, that’s just awesome. I mean totally awesome. And by ‘awesome’ I mean an awesome subject for a feature-length documentary about corporate greed and corruption. I’m Jules Buttersby, by the way.”
Fitz actually flinched from the power of Jules’s words. Or possibly because sunlight bounced from her golden hair into his eyes, temporarily blinding him. “Buttersby?” he said. “As in Ed Buttersby?”
Jules stuck out her chin. “He’s my father.”
Fitz pursed his lips, no doubt thinking evil thoughts. “Thank you, Jules Buttersby. You’ve just given me an excellent idea.” The shark-smile was back. “But you still need to get out of here.”
Another wrist-flick and Fitz sped off. Otis barked after him.
“Is that what your history papers sound like?” I asked, half-stunned.
Jules shrugged. “Pretty much, yeah.”
“You were incredible. Thanks.”
“Well, you were just sitting there like bald Rapunzel,” Jules said. “Somebody had to find us another way down from the tower.”
I touched my ponytail.
“It’s a metaphor, Blue.”
“I knew that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
True Fact: Even with the right actors and the best costumes and the perfect setting, the movie can still stink.
After we got back to the dock, I was tying up the Mako when Jules said a word that made me botch my bowline. I looked over at her. She was staring at something on her phone, half her hair hanging out of a bun.
“What are you doing tonight?” she asked. “Whatever it is, you have to cancel and come with me.”
“Come with you where?” I said.
“My dad wants to take me out to dinner.” Jules looked up from her phone, her face a mixture of amazed and uncertain. “He says he’s sorry about what happened on the beach and he wants to make it up to me. He says there’s an incredible burger place on the Bridge-Sag Turnpike.”
“Um, you mean Harbor Burger?”
“He didn’t say the name. Is it incredible?”
“I guess.” They have hot dogs and hamburgers and you can eat outside at picnic tables if you want, which Otis prefers, dirt being his favorite habitat. Still, I’m not sure I’d call Harbor Burger incredible, especially by Buttersby standards. “They have tater tots with bacon.” Jules looked unconvinced, so I added, “And they make their own ice cream.” Which Otis likes a lot. Especially the blackberry.
“Homemade ice cream? I guess that constitutes incredible. Ask your mom if you can come. She has to let you.”
“But if this is your dad’s way of saying he’s sorry, wouldn’t it be better if it was just the two of you alone?” I said.
“No way. I need moral support.” Jules looked like Otis during Fourth of July fireworks. Like she wanted to dive for cover. “Please, Blue? I’d… really appreciate it.”
Jules’s voice was quiet, and she was looking at me, not her phone. It was the first time she’d ever actually asked me for something instead of telling me or ordering me.
“Okay.” At least Otis will be there.
I texted Mom, who wrote back, Fly! Be free! And then But don’t forget to test.
Jules pulled a pink sundress out of the bottom of her bag. “Yes! I knew I had this in here.” She held the dress up against her and smoothed out the wrinkles. “It’s good enough. Oh, and in other happy news, Anna’s not coming. It’ll just be us.”
We went inside so I could give Otis his precisely measured dinner of kibble, plus a bonus leftover pork chop from last night (sorry, Dad), and we waited for Ed, who said he’d pick us up at six thirty. Mom was working late, and Dad was at poker night with some friends, so we were alone.
Upstairs in my room Jules asked, “What are you going to wear?”
I looked down at my shorts and T-shirt. “This?”
“No, really. What are you—forget it. We’ll just accessorize.” She pulled a little makeup bag out of her bigger bag and took out two bottles of nail polish. “Love ’Em and Leave ’Em or Sky’s the Limit?”
“The blue one.” At least Sky’s the Limit was a nice shade of blue. Like, well, the sky. I held out my hands.
“What’s the best thing they have on the menu?” she asked, painting a thumb.
“Most people really like the milkshakes,” I said.
“Perfect. I’ll get a chocolate one. Or do they have fun flavors like salted caramel or s’mores? Or, no, wait. I’ll go classic American, like the restaurant. Black-and-white malted. Do they have malt?” Jules dipped the nail polish brush in the little bottle and pumped it up and down like an engine piston.
“Um, I’m not sure,” I said.
I’d seen Fierce Jules and Cool Jules and Snarky Jules and even Kind-of-Normal Jules, but Nervous Jules was new.
“Doesn’t matter. Black-and-white is perfect. With or without malt.” She screwed the cap back on the bottle. “You’re done. Unless…” Jules beamed laser eyes at Otis, who wa
s lying down watching us with his chin on his front paws. She shook the glass bottle up and down so the metal mixing ball inside sounded like a kitchen timer about to go off. “What do you think? Should we do Otis?”
“NO,” I said.
Otis whined and scrunched backward away from Jules.
“You’re right. It’s six fifteen. I need to get ready.”
Jules went into my bathroom to change into her sundress, while I blew on my nails to dry them.
“It’s actually within the realm of possibility that we’re going to have a good time,” she said through the door. “When he’s not being awful, my dad can be great. You’d really like him.”
“I’ve met him, remember?” Even though I hadn’t seen Ed since Mom and I went to their house for the CJDF meeting. Somebody else always dropped Jules off at my house, and we never went over to hers.
“No, you haven’t. Not really. You met him with your mom when he was being EDWARD BUTTERSBY THE FAMOUS MOVIE STAR. He’s different when it’s just us.”
“How’s he different?”
Jules came out of the bathroom. She had on the sundress and some lip gloss and a fresh coat of Sky’s the Limit. “He looks at things in different ways from other people. Like, one time we went to a house that had belonged to a famous painter in the eighteen hundreds—you know, one of those houses that they turn into museums? We went up to the studio with all the pigment powders and brushes and easels exactly as the artist left them. But my dad didn’t take pictures of the room or the art supplies. He took a picture of the doll that the artist’s daughter had left on the window seat.”
I pictured an attic with a slanty ceiling, tourists crowded around an unfinished painting, and Jules and Ed kneeling by a window, sunlight leaking through its dusty panes onto a yarn-haired rag doll left behind for a hundred years.
“My dad sees the things everybody else misses,” Jules said softly.
So does Jules.
We went downstairs to wait. Jules only checked her phone twice because at exactly six thirty, a car horn honked in the driveway.