“Yeah, why is he so pissy?”
“Oh, he doesn’t know how to deal with Assy being sick. He holds everything in, and then he walks around with a stick up his ass.”
“So I guess he’s not your great love,” I say.
“Billy? Oh, he’s my love. I don’t know about great love. I had some ‘great’ loves in my day. They were great, but they weren’t love.”
“Wow. That’s depressing.”
“You’re such a teenager. Hey, can I trust you to keep a secret?” Wes has that devilish look in his eye.
“Actually, despite the fact that I’m a teenager, I can keep secrets. I’m keeping one for Janie as we speak.”
“You mean about the pickle? She already texted us. I say dump him. It’s not worth another notch in her notched-up bedpost.” He has a point. “Anyway, you know how Billy has always wanted a baby and I’ve always said no because I’m terrified of parenthood?”
“Yes. Didn’t he dump you once because of it?”
“Who told you that?”
“Gram.”
“Of course she did. Anyway, after we got married, I agreed to put our names on an adoption wait list, figuring it would take years and by then Billy would be too old to care.”
“So it worked. You’re both way too old now, right?”
“We’re not that old, Maddie. Actually we got a call right before Assy gave us her news. A pregnant woman chose us to love her baby.”
“What are you going to do?”
“At first I went bonkers. I panicked. But then all this happened, and everything feels different. I get it now. I want it to be more than two of us. I want to be a family.”
“You’re going to do it? I’m going to have a baby cousin?” I jump up and study Wes’s face, trying to assess if he’s serious or bullshitting.
“Yep. We’re taking the plunge. But don’t say anything to anyone. We want to make sure it’s official before we tell people.”
“I’m going to have a baby cousin!” I jump on top of Wes. “We’re going to have a baby with tiny fingers and toes and drool and poopy diapers.”
“Get off,” he says. “Your breath stinks like the nation of Thailand died in your mouth.”
“Thanks for the complex.”
“Trust me, I’m doing you a favor.”
Wes won’t let me leave until I pinkie swear I won’t tell anyone about the baby. I do it, but I don’t know how I’m going to keep a secret this juicy for long.
I text Enzo on my way to meet Mom and Aunt Rose for lunch. The drunk guy from the lounge chair died. (The Wishwell way.)
He texts back right away. He’s at peace now.
It’s even hot in the shade. Mom and Aunt Rose are wearing matching sun hats to combat the tropical rays. The deck is pretty empty because the patients are all at group. Nobody really knows what group is. Not even Paige or my blurting grandmother will talk. I doubt Gram is sitting in a circle talking about how to cope with death. But they all go down, even Holly with the nurses, and have their secret dying-people club with their special food for the chemo palate and cannabis oil.
“Karl loved kielbasa. I couldn’t stomach it,” Aunt Rose says.
“We know,” Mom and I say at the same time.
“Gave you gas,” Mom says.
“It sure did. Or maybe it was the—”
“Sauerkraut,” Mom and I finish.
I leave them after Aunt Rose’s second helping of peach pie and before Mom can suggest a more appropriate outfit for my date, and wander around killing time until I’m supposed to meet Enzo in the arcade. I’m getting that feeling again, the sinking-stomach feeling. I spent all those years dating boys I could barely have a conversation with because they were the best I could muster up. I hope that’s not how Enzo sees me. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I’ve never wanted anyone to like me this much.
The nauseating smell of cigar smoke drifts down the hall from the rowdy card room. The Rat Pack is playing poker again. Nobody even bothers looking for Dad, Uncle Billy, Bob Johns, Vito, or Paige’s dad anymore. If we need them, we slap at the thick smoke seeping though the cracks in the door and choke our way into their little man cave. Isn’t there enough cancer on this ship?
Enzo is in the arcade playing Whac-A-Mole.
“Want to play pool?” he says.
“Sure, I’ll play some billiards, old chap.”
If it weren’t for his distracting kisses every time I get a ball into a pocket, I’m pretty sure I could have beaten his ass in pool. There’s nothing more cliché than the guy-presses-against-girl-and-makes-out-on-pool-table-as-cues-drop-to-ground routine.
This is so different.
His mouth is warm and firm, and hungrier than the other boys I’ve kissed. His hands pull me toward him by the base of my back, and it’s the smell of his soap and the slight stubble on his face and the little guttural sounds coming from somewhere deep inside me. One word repeats in my head, over and over again.
More.
ELEVEN
WHEN I GET to the Mix-and-Mingle dinner, Janie is sitting in a chair facing Holly’s wheelchair and staring into Holly’s eyes.
“So should I stay with him despite the pickle, or not?”
Holly blinks twice.
“Wait—does that mean yes, I should stay, or no, I shouldn’t?”
Marshall is laughing and shaking his head. I follow him to the bar.
“I am so sorry. My cousin has no boundaries. I’m mortified right now.”
“Are you kidding? Holly loves this,” Marshall says. “I wheel her around all day getting pissed off because people look at her like she’s a freak. Or they throw a pity party with their faces and walk the other way. Nobody gets that there’s a complete mind inside that paralyzed body.” We watch Janie whisper something in Holly’s ear. “Janie doesn’t even seem to notice Holly’s disabled. Holly loves that girl.”
“Okay, as long as she’s not being too inappropriate. Holly could be a total prude. How does Janie know?”
“Trust me, Holly’s not a prude. She was the life of the party, the one leading the conga lines.” He points up at the conga line mural. “Drink?”
“No, thanks. I have to find my mingle table.”
Janie’s still grilling Holly’s eyes, so I look for my place card. I’m seated at table eleven with Janie, Mark, and Burt. I scan the other place cards. Great. Enzo’s with Gram. God only knows what embarrassments she’s going to blurt out tonight.
Janie arrives at our table just in time to hear Burt and Mark’s nicknames for everyone on the ship.
They accuse us of being entirely void of creativity when we tell them we were calling them Wheelchair Guy and Wheelchair Guy’s Brother.
Mark calls Janie Barbie, because she looks like a Barbie doll. I’m Queen Bee because they say I strut around like a snobby teenager. I guess between that and scrunch face, I should get the hint and smile more. Mark and Burt call Vito’s kids Ornaments because of the Christmas theme and how they all look alike. I’m stealing that one.
“Can I have your attention, everyone?” Francesca quiets the room right away. “I hope you’re enjoying tonight’s Mix-and-Mingle. I’m learning so much about you all. I wanted to introduce my wonderful son, Vincenzo.” Heads swivel to see where she’s pointing. Enzo shrinks in his seat. “Enzo is a university student in London and a star football player. He’s usually very shy about these events, but it seems one of Astrid’s lovely granddaughters has pulled him out of his cabin.”
The noise level in the room rises. Enzo half stands and waves, shaking his head.
“Which of Astrid’s lovely granddaughters is banging the boss’s son?” Burt says.
Gross.
“Her.” Janie points to me. “I’m seeing Ty the intern.”
“Doctor Ty? No way. We have a nickname for him, too,” Mark says.
“Oh, yeah?” Janie says.
“Ken Doll,” Burt says, laughing.
Enzo texts. Now you know why I avoi
d these things. By the way, your gram is fucking hilarious.
Janie chugs three out of Burt’s four pomegranate martinis and tells Mark and Burt about Pickle. She says she scoured the ship for other prospects. She even asked Eddie for a tour of the kitchen, pretending she was interested in culinary arts, so she could see if there was a cook or dishwasher worthy of a hookup. Nobody. It’s Pickle or celibacy. Meanwhile, Pickle thinks she’s playing hard to get, which makes him even more obsessed with her.
“I say go for it. It seems like Barbie and Ken Doll should be together,” Burt says. “Plus, it makes sense, right? Ken dolls don’t have man parts.” Mark and I laugh out loud.
Janie dips her fingers in the half-full glass and flicks martini at Burt. “I feel bad. I shouldn’t have told you guys. He’s such a nice person. Please don’t say anything.”
“How about this: I’ll confess to you that Mark had a pickle even before his erectile dysfunction,” Burt says. “There. Now we’re even. Now you have our biggest secret.”
“Nice,” Mark says. “Way to have my back in front of the chicks.”
These guys are high school kids in old bodies.
After dinner, we migrate to the ballroom. The ceiling is open, and the crowd flocks to drink cappuccinos. Enzo actually seems to be enjoying his physics conversation with Dad.
“Hey, Enzo, come meet Mark. He used to be a professional surfer,” I say.
“Hi, Enzo. Mark Hill. I’d shake your hand, but I can’t move, so I hope you’re man enough to let me wink hello.”
“Wait a second. Mark Hill from California?” Enzo studies Mark’s face.
“Yes. That would be me.”
“You are a surfing legend. I can’t believe you’re here. I mean, shit.” Enzo can’t stop staring at Mark.
“You can’t believe it because I’m all deformed in a wheelchair or because you love surfing?”
“Both. No. That came out wrong.” Enzo pulls a chair up to Mark’s wheelchair. “My roommates have made a job out of smoking weed and watching your YouTube videos. You were unbelievable.”
I leave Enzo talking to Mark about surfing and look for Gram. Our bees buzz in unison. Thirty minutes until we cross the equator. All hands on deck. You won’t be disappointed.
The whole dining room empties toward the elevators. I make my way up to the Grotto with Gram and set up equator-viewing chairs for her and Aunt Rose. I’m picturing the line I’ve seen on maps all my life and wondering what, exactly, an equator looks like.
Dad and Jeb come up behind me.
“Look, kids.” Dad points to the horizon. “The sky’s different than in Connecticut, isn’t it? We’re about to enter a whole new hemisphere. We’ll be able to see another set of constellations, like the Southern Cross and the Centaur. We need to get on that telescope later.”
“I’ll do the telescope tonight,” Jeb says.
“Mads?” Dad looks at me with his you-never-pay-attention-to-your-dear-old-dad-and-it-hurts expression.
“Yeah, I’d love to,” I say, trying to sound like doing the telescope is as enticing as lying on top of Enzo Ivanhoe.
I don’t know if the sky is different yet, but it feels as if we’re catapulting through space on a rocket, soaring toward the next galaxy or another dimension. It’s as oddly comforting as Dad’s arms around Jeb and me. The deck lights shut off. People feel around for the railings. Then a loud noise explodes from the distance. Fireworks. Everybody cheers.
More fireworks light the sky, and I can’t tell if they’re a mile or a hundred miles away. I’m guessing a bigger ship has crossed the equator.
Enzo comes toward us. “There he is!” Dad says. He slaps Enzo on the back. I guess Dad approves. I rarely invite boyfriends to my house months into a relationship, and here I am subjecting my crush to my family before he even knows me.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Southern Hemisphere.” Eddie’s voice blasts through the sound system and cuts Dad off. “I hope you’re feeling hot, because it’s time for our favorite Wishwell tradition.”
Ole, ole, ole, ole, feeling hot, hot, hot.
The conga line begins. Eddie runs over and yanks Enzo and me toward the crowd. Wes and Uncle Billy carry Gram and Gloria on their backs. I end up behind Dad, who has no rhythm, and Vito is holding my waist for dear life while one of the Ornaments drags his oxygen tank. Paige and Lane push Mark in the front of the line.
We circle the deck five times until people drop out, one by one, and the group disperses for bingo and baby bedtime, leaving behind the “kids,” as we are now called.
“So, you want to get high?” Jeb says to Enzo.
“Sure. Come on, Maddie.”
I feel scrunch face coming on. “Uh… that’s not my thing.”
“Oh, come on, you prudish imp,” Jeb says to me. He is so weird.
“Jeb, we promised Dad we’d do the telescope.”
“We’ll go down in a while.”
Janie and I run down to change. We get back to find Ty already soaking in the Grotto. Jeb sinks into the water in his grubby boxers. I jump into the steaming cauldron of bacteria and stray Pickle germs before Enzo has a chance to compare my boobs to Janie’s massive cleavage.
Ty pops the cork off a bottle of champagne and takes a long swig before passing it to Janie. Jeb leans on the rough deck with his elbows and rolls a joint from a plastic bag full of weed. Ty takes a hit. I’m next.
“Go ahead, Mads. You need to pop your weed cherry at some point,” Jeb pressures me.
But do I? Do I really need to pop my weed cherry at some point? There are millions, maybe billions of people who make it through life without ever smoking weed. Besides, it’s my brand. I’m Maddie O’Neill Levine and I’m popular even though I don’t drink, do drugs, or sleep around.
Overthinking. Probably with scrunch face. That’s what I do. I’m on a ship in international waters where even the ninety-year-olds are getting high. It’s weed. It’s not crack. Or meth. Or heroin.
I grab the joint from Ty and almost drop it into the depths of the Grotto. I suck on it. It’s disgusting. The tip is all flat and soggy from multiple mouths. Nothing comes out.
“Suck harder, Maddie.” I hear Janie’s voice as I stare cross-eyed at the joint, waiting for the tip to light up. I suck as hard as I can and feel the harsh smoke singe my throat. My mouth fills with a nasty taste. I blow the smoke out. My lungs are charred, but I go back for more because at this point, why not? I keep going back. Each time, my lungs fill up and I choke a little. It’s all very unpleasant, and I’m not even feeling anything.
“Save some for me,” Enzo says, moving so close our legs touch. I pass him the joint and watch him suck. God, he’s hot. Janie is on top of Ty, straddling him and giggling in his ear. It’s slightly fascinating watching Barbie and Ken about to rub their parts together.
Jeb swirls the water in front of him and stares at the foam as it rises and falls. I look up at the curve of the palm tree hanging over us. It’s as if tiny tree nymphs work all day making perfectly ridged circles on palm tree trunks. I want to invite them to a party with ladybugs and dewdrop drinks. I want ice cream. And potato chips.
“What is that annoying ringing?” Janie says.
“Somebody’s getting a call on their bee,” Enzo says. His hand is fully on my leg.
“Oh, shit. Come on, Jeb. We can’t be assholes to Dad.”
I kiss Enzo just long enough to let him know I’m sorry I have to go do the telescope with my parents.
Jeb and I find Dad and Mom snuggled under a blanket on their balcony. I’m worried they’ll be able to tell I just smoked weed. I feel so strange, like I’m a hungry bug walking inside a lantern.
“You kids finally ready for some stargazing?” Dad’s obviously thrilled to have us here.
We take turns at the telescope. The sky is almost too cluttered to see the constellations. It’s like the palm tree nymph took two handfuls of glittery fairy dust and thrust them up toward the heavens, and then the fairy dust
stuck to a universe-sized piece of flypaper. Dad can barely control his excitement. What would Dad be like if he smoked weed? I’m pretty sure Dad still has his weed cherry.
“That, right there, is Ptolemy’s Argo Navis, the ship of Jason and the Argonauts.” I don’t see it, but I pretend I do, just to make Dad happy. “And see that, right there? Can you make out the shape of the Peacock? That’s Pavo.” I actually do see the outline of a peacock. It’s spectacular. “There’s Eridanus, the River. If you hold the scope just right, you can see it perfectly.”
“That’s awesome,” Jeb says. I can’t figure him out. Is he only into this because he’s high, or does he need to get high to show his feelings? I try to remember if he ever talked more when we were little. I’m pretty sure he was always the kid in the background, chewing on his pencil and hiding his deranged sketchbook from us. But he was nicer. And we were closer.
I text Jeb: Have you noticed Mom hasn’t been drinking as much since that one night?
He looks down at his bee and texts back: Not really. Don’t hold your breath. I’m sure she’ll be falling down and pathetic again real soon.
I write: Can you just be nicer to her? Her mother is dying, douchebag.
Jeb marches over to Mom and plants a kiss on her cheek. “You look pretty tonight, Mom.”
“Thanks, Jebby,” she says. “I had my hair blown out up at the salon.” She smiles like the kid who got an A on the test everybody else failed.
I text: Was that so hard?
He gives me the finger.
We order pizza and potato chip sundaes. I’m sharing a spoon with my mother, and I don’t even care because I’m ravenous. Janie sends me a whole series of texts: We did it. It was amazing. I like him a lot. We can’t call him Pickle anymore. I’m sleeping in his cabin. Time for round two.
I’m delighted for her, but I will still call him Pickle.
The cabin feels lonely without Janie, and I’m lying here with a stale weed taste in my mouth. I’m not sorry I smoked weed, but I won’t be making a habit of it. I’ve also decided I will never say “pop my cherry” again because I despise the way it sounds.
The Loose Ends List Page 10