“What’s that, sir?”
“When we decide to do something, we do it big.”
Shy snuck another glance at Carmen and Katrina, then looked back at the ring. He tried to think up something else to add as the man kept talking, something flattering—’cause maybe that was where he’d gone wrong with the passenger who’d jumped—but he was drawing a blank.
The oilman stopped himself, mid-sentence, and followed Shy’s eyes to Carmen. “Young lady,” he called to her suddenly.
Carmen pointed at herself, mouthed: Me?
He nodded. “Come on over here a second, will you?”
Shy kept his smile going, but inside he was in a bit of a panic. Last thing he needed was for his and Carmen’s first interaction since the hookup to be chaperoned by Roy Rogers.
Carmen said something to Katrina, then wheeled her amp toward them wearing a Paradise smile of her own.
“You gotta check out this ring,” Shy told her, trying to play like everything was normal between them. But the fact that she didn’t even look at him seemed problematic.
“Oh, this isn’t just any ol’ ring,” the man said, tapping the Tiffany’s box closed. “But first things first, sugar. What’s your name?”
“Carmen.”
“Gorgeous name for a gorgeous gal. And where you from, Ms. Carmen?”
She glanced at Shy for a fraction of a second, then told the man: “I’m from San Diego, sir.”
“Originally, I mean,” the man said. “What race are you?”
Carmen was as good as anyone at laying down the fake cheerful vibe. But Shy could tell by her eyes, she wanted to boot dude in the huevos.
“Guess,” Carmen said.
“All right.” He got a big grin and looked her up and down, spending a few extra beats on her cleavage. “I gotta warn you, though. I’ve been all over the map on business. And I know my women.”
When the guy took Carmen by the arm, and actually spun her around so he could peep her backside, Shy started getting pissed, too. If they were anywhere besides a cruise ship he’d have already swiped the ring and Carmen’s hand and been halfway to Ensenada.
“Brazilian?” the man guessed.
“Close,” Carmen said, rolling her eyes at Shy.
“Portuguese?”
“I’m Mexican American.”
“Mexican? Really? What kind of Mexican?”
Carmen actually laughed out loud. “Just plain old Mexican, sir. Same as this guy.” She pointed at Shy. “We’re both half.”
Shy was staring the oilman down now, waiting for the next bit of racist shit to come flying out of his mouth.
“Wow,” the man said. “You all look different from the Mexicans we got in Texas.”
“Believe it or not,” Shy told him through a fake-ass grin, “not all Mexicans look the same, sir.”
Carmen stepped on Shy’s foot and shot him a dirty look. But it wasn’t like the guy heard a word anyway. He was too busy pulling another woman into the mix, a slender twenty-something brunette in a black one-piece.
Shy took Carmen’s elbow, asked her in a quiet voice: “Could I talk to you for a minute?”
She brushed away his hand without even looking at him. “Nah, I wanna see this culo’s ring.”
Shy stared at the side of her face.
So he was definitely the one taking the rap for last night. Like he’d executed some premeditated master plan, and Carmen was just an innocent bystander.
Okay.
“Where are you dining tonight?” Shy heard the oilman ask the woman in the one-piece.
She looked at him, confused. “Destiny?”
“And what time’s your seating?”
“Eight-thirty.”
“Well, how about that?” the oilman said, turning back to Carmen and Shy. “She’ll be there for the big show.”
“What show?” the woman said, curious now.
“I’m asking my lady friend to marry me tonight at dinner. In front of everyone. They’re even giving me a microphone.” He held out the Tiffany’s box again, popped it open.
“Jesus!” Carmen said, staring at the massive ring.
The other woman held a hand against her chest.
Shy studied the two of them. Eyes all bugged. Mouths hanging open. He wondered if pretty girls looked at expensive rings the way guys looked at pretty girls. And where’d that leave a no-money-having high school kid like him?
There were now a few other female passengers huddled around the oilman’s ring. A cocktail waitress Shy had never met. An older gray-haired man and two pretty girls around Shy’s own age. The older man turned to look at Shy, and Shy turned away from the girls. One of them was probably his daughter.
He leaned toward Carmen and tried again. “Seriously, though, I really need to talk to you.”
She glanced at her watch. “No can do, Mr. Space Sancho. I’m already running late.” She patted him on the shoulder and added: “I did write out some new rules for us, though. If you’re lucky I’ll even tell you what they are. You’re on break during the late dinner, right?”
Shy nodded. Things were even worse than he thought.
“Meet me at the Destiny hostess stand and we’ll watch Romeo propose. Then, if I’m feeling charitable, we can talk.”
She spun around her amp and microphone without a goodbye, started wheeling her way toward the staircase.
Shy didn’t have a good feeling about these new rules.
He watched Carmen’s ponytail sway back and forth across her back like a lazy pendulum, telling himself: Don’t look at her legs, don’t look at her legs, don’t look at her legs.
He looked at her legs.
9
A Dinner Invitation
When Shy returned to his towel stand, he apologized to the small group of people that had gathered there. He ducked under the counter, handed out a few fresh towels, a dart set, a pack of cards, a Game Boy. He had everyone sign the checkout sheet on his clipboard with their cabin number.
He looked up as the last person in line stepped forward—one of the girls he’d just seen checking out the oilman’s ring. “We need stuff for Ping-Pong,” she said, pointing over her shoulder. Standing a few yards behind her was the other high-school-aged girl and the man with gray hair.
“Let’s get you guys set up,” Shy said, reaching into one of the drawers in front of him. He grabbed three paddles and a pack of Ping-Pong balls, handed them to her over his stand. “Best paddles we got right here. Just took them out of the package yesterday.”
She didn’t even look at them, just gave a bored expression and said: “Do I have to, like, sign my name or something?”
Shy pointed at the sign-in sheet, watched her pick up the pen and write her name. Addison Miller.
She was even prettier up close. Straight blond hair down past her shoulders. Light-green eyes. A few scattered sun freckles on the bridge of her nose and along her cheeks. Strange how a pretty girl’s face could instantly put Shy in a better mood.
“So, you any good?” he asked, motioning toward the paddles.
She frowned like his question was the lamest thing she’d ever heard. “We’re only playing because my dad’s making us.”
Before Shy had a chance to respond, a floppy-haired kid stormed up to the stand, saying: “Hey, asshole!”
Shy looked down at him. “Excuse me?”
“What, are you deaf?” he said in his squeaky little voice. “I called you an asshole. I just came over to get stuff and you weren’t here.”
The kid was maybe ten years old and rail thin. Hair hanging over his eyes. He looked like a damn Muppet.
Shy forced a smile even though he wanted to toss the kid into the pool. “Sorry ’bout that, little man. But I’m here now. So, what can I do for—?”
“Don’t call me ‘little man’ either,” the kid snapped. “Just because I’m young doesn’t mean you can disrespect me.”
Shy was speechless.
The gray-haired man suddenly appeare
d, saying: “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What seems to be the trouble over here?”
The kid pointed a finger at Shy and barked: “This asshole’s not doing his job.”
Shy no longer wanted to toss the kid in the pool, he wanted to pin his little Muppet head against the towel stand.
The gray-haired man smiled at Shy. “This one’s got a mouth on him, doesn’t he? What do you think”—he glanced at Shy’s name tag—“Shy. Do we push him overboard?”
The blond girl rolled her eyes at her dad.
“Maybe we do, sir,” Shy said, trying to play along.
The kid cursed under his breath again, then said: “Just give me a stupid golf club and a ball.”
The other girl was there now, too, looking entertained as she ran her fingers through her long black hair.
Shy turned to open the closet behind him, saying: “Let’s see what we can do for you, money. Ah, here we go.” He handed over a slightly bent club and the most nicked-up golf ball he could find. “This should be perfect for you.”
The kid inspected the ball with a disgusted look on his face, but he didn’t say anything. Just turned and started up the stairs behind him, toward the Recreation Deck, where the miniature golf course was.
Soon as the kid was out of sight, the gray-haired man held out his hand to Shy, said: “Jim Miller.”
Shy shook hands with him. “Shy Espinoza. Thanks for stepping in with that kid.”
“Somebody had to,” he said. “You’ve already met my daughter Addison. And this is her friend Cassandra.”
“Nice to meet you guys,” Shy said, giving them a proper Paradise smile.
Cassandra flipped her hair from one shoulder to the other and popped her gum. Addison rolled her eyes again. Shy could tell neither of them wanted any part of this conversation.
“So?” Addison said, tilting her head at her dad. “Are we going?”
But her dad was still grinning and staring at Shy.
Addison grabbed her dad’s arm and started pulling him away, saying: “You’re the one who wanted to play this stupid game in the first place.”
“Wait, I have an idea,” the man said, turning to the girls. “You guys keep complaining that there’s no one your age on the ship, right? Well, Shy is.”
The girls looked at each other with exaggerated frowns. “Uh, he works here,” Cassandra said, like the thought of hanging out with anyone on the crew was absurd.
“What does that matter?” the man said. “Tell you what, I think we should invite the young man to dinner with us.”
“Ew, Dad,” Addison said. “You’re being really creepy.”
“It’s okay, sir,” Shy interjected—because he didn’t want any part of this either. “I actually don’t think we’re allowed to—”
“I insist,” the man said. “You’ll join the three of us for dinner. A couple nights from tonight, soon as I get back from the island. If you’re scheduled to work I’ll speak to the captain myself, get everything squared away.”
Shy just stood there, grinning. What island? he wondered. Hawaii? Weren’t they all going there together?
The girls were now shooting dirty looks at the man. They didn’t want to eat with Shy, and Shy didn’t want to eat with them. The math seemed simple enough. But this guy was strangely persistent.
“I’ll have someone notify you where to be,” the man said.
“God, Dad,” the blonde said, “you’re totally embarrassing yourself.” She finally managed to pull him away from Shy’s towel stand, and the three of them started toward the Ping-Pong room on the other side of the pool.
Shy watched them go, trying to figure out what had just happened. There was no way he was going to dinner with passengers. Didn’t matter how good-looking the girls were, it would be torture. Plus, it wasn’t even allowed. And where was this guy going in the middle of a cruise? Then again, Shy reminded himself, passengers could pretty much do anything they wanted if they had enough money. And the gray-haired guy made it sound like he was all buddy-buddy with the captain.
Shy glanced down at his sign-in sheet, studied the girl’s information. Addison Miller. Even her name sounded stuck-up. That’s one of the things he liked best about Carmen. Hottest female on the ship, crew or otherwise, and she acted like she didn’t have a clue.
Shy looked up at the sky where dark gray clouds were rolling in. If they eventually blocked out the sun, it would mean more people working out during his gym shift, which would mean more work for him. He scanned the pool crowd again, readying himself to do one final towel pass before he went on break. He was surprised to find Rodney lumbering down the length of the Lido Deck.
“Shy!” he called out as he rounded the Jacuzzi.
A few passengers turned to look at him.
When the guy finally made it to Shy’s towel stand he stuck a meaty forearm up on the counter and leaned over to catch his breath.
“What the hell, Rod?” Shy said.
Rodney pulled in a couple deep breaths, then stood up straight and looked Shy right in the eyes. “You need to come with me. Right now, bro.”
“Why? What happened?”
“We’ve been robbed!”
10
News from Back Home
Rodney unlocked their cabin door, held it open for Shy to go in first. Their stuff was scattered all over the floor. Empty drawers hanging open and clothes strewn everywhere. Both their cots stripped and flipped. Pillows pulled from their cases. All the family photos Shy had stashed in his backpack now scattered across the desk next to Rodney’s open laptop.
“I didn’t touch anything,” Rodney said, moving across their small cabin. “Wanted you to see exactly how they left it.”
Shy scooted his pics together first, staring at the one on top—his grandma manning the griddle, patting down one of her famous tortillas. Why would anyone go through his personal shit? It didn’t make sense.
“Came back from the kitchen,” Rodney said, “and I saw our door wasn’t all the way closed. Figured you were in here sleeping or something. But then I walked inside…” Rodney waved a hand toward the mess. “Who would do this to us? Nobody’s allowed down here except crew.”
Shy spotted his passport lying under his cot. Spotted his wallet on a pair of wadded-up jeans. He reached down for them, found his C-note still tucked safely inside the billfold of his wallet. Same with his bank card and ID. He turned to Rodney. “None of my stuff’s missing.”
“Mine either,” Rodney said.
If it wasn’t a robbery, maybe it was the guy in the black suit. But why break into the cabin and go through their stuff? Why not just ask about the suicide directly, like ship security already had? Like the cops who were waiting for Shy on land when they disembarked from his first voyage?
Rodney straightened out his mattress and sat down, leaned his elbows on his knees. “I feel violated, bro.”
“Tell me about it,” Shy said, shoving his wallet and passport into his safe and locking up. Maybe he was in more trouble than he realized. What if they were looking for someone to blame for the guy jumping? What if they tried to frame him?
“It’s not like a regular job,” Rodney said. “We don’t get to go home at the end of our shift. We live here.”
Shy felt bad Rodney had to suffer, too. Just because they were roommates. He wasn’t the one who let a passenger fall, who wasn’t strong enough to hold on just a few minutes longer. Shy felt like he should back up, explain everything he knew about the suit guy to Rodney. But there wasn’t time. And he wasn’t even sure the suit guy was really to blame.
“Look,” Shy said. “After my shift at the gym, I’ll go talk to Paolo. See what I can find out.”
Rodney nodded. “I’d go myself, but I have to head back to the kitchen in twenty minutes.”
Shy glanced at his alarm clock.
Two-thirty.
Damn.
“Hey, Rod?” he said. “I know this isn’t the best timing, but is it cool if I use your computer real quick? I pro
mised I’d Skype with my mom.”
“No problem,” Rodney said, standing up. “Need me to vacate?”
“Nah, it’s okay,” Shy told him. “I appreciate it.”
He sat at the desk and turned on Rodney’s computer and waited for it to boot up—Rodney already straightening up behind him. Shy was starting to feel like a prisoner on the ship. People were spying on him. Breaking into his cabin. And there was nowhere to hide. He wiped a few beads of perspiration off his forehead and swallowed. His throat felt like it was closing up.
The screen lit up and Shy logged on to Skype and dialed his mom. As it rang, he glanced around their trashed cabin again, shaking his head. Soon as his gym shift was over he was definitely tracking down Paolo. He needed some answers.
In a few seconds his mom’s face popped onto the screen. He could tell she’d been crying.
Shy sat up and leaned toward the computer. “What is it, Ma? What happened?”
She wiped a hand down her face and took a deep breath. His mom was tough. He’d only seen her cry a couple other times in his life. It had to be bad.
“You okay?” Shy asked.
She shook her head.
“What is it? What happened?”
“It’s Miguel, honey.”
The name alone knocked the wind out of Shy. He’d never even thought of that. “What, he’s sick?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Don’t tell me it’s Romero, Ma. I can’t even hear that right now.”
His mom started crying again.
Shy pounded a fist on the desk. First his grandma. Now his little nephew? “You already took him in? You talked to a doctor?”
His mom wiped her face with a wad of tissues and breathed for a few long seconds. “We went first thing this morning,” she said in a shaky voice. “They have medicine now. The doctor told us as long as the patient starts on the meds within twenty-four hours, his chances are good.”
“They keeping him overnight?” Shy asked, thinking about expenses.
His mom nodded.
“And the medicine probably costs a lot, too, right?”
“Money’s the last thing on our minds, Shy.”
The Living Page 5