Wanderlove

by Kirsten Hubbard

  “It must drive you crazy,” he remarks. “To have your entire trip planned out for you. No choices of your own. As soon as you begin to get acclimated somewhere, it’s time to move on.”

  “At least I’m here.”

  “True. Most people don’t get this far in their whole lives.”

  I hide my smile by pretending to search for more stones. “So what are you really doing here, Rowan? Straight answer.”

  “I teach scuba diving.”

  No wonder my aversion to water made him all itchy. “In the lake?”

  “Sure. But all over the place.”

  “Like where?”

  “Besides here?” He stretches. “Well, I’ve been in Guatemala almost three months—the longest I’ve been anywhere for ages. Before that, the Bay Islands in Honduras. Little Corn Island in Nicaragua. All over Costa Rica. I spent some time backpacking Thailand, Laos, and Malaysia. Not many other places, but I’m still young.”

  “How young, exactly?”

  “Nineteen. Twenty in September. You?”

  “I’m eighteen. But wait—you’re saying you traveled that much in how long? How long have you been traveling?”

  “I left home a couple weeks after I turned eighteen.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. He’s been traveling for almost two years. I try to wrap my brain around it, but my mental arms won’t reach. “What about college?”

  “College is overrated. I’m already doing what I want to do: travel and dive. I don’t need a degree to do it.” He shrugs. “Although I’ve taken a few online courses for fun. Like Cognitive Psychology. And Oceanography. And Intro to Portuguese—I thought I’d visit Brazil someday.”

  He tries to skip a stone in the water. It sinks.

  “Pathetic. You’ve got to find a flatter one.” I find a perfect stone and hand it to him. He tries again. It sinks too, and I laugh. “So … where are you headed next?”

  “Northeastward.”

  “What’s northeastward?”

  “More money, for starters. And more beauty, of course.”

  “More beauty than this?” I hold my hands at arm’s length and form a rectangle with my thumbs and forefingers, a viewfinder. I miss my camera—it was the perfect excuse not to draw. Now my sketchbook’s the only record I’ll have of this trip. If I can ever bring myself to draw in it.

  “It’s different. There’s rain forest. And the Caribbean. I have a dive gig off the coast of Belize, on an island called Laughingbird Caye. They’re having a festival soon, and that’s when the money comes in.”

  Laughingbird Caye. I like the sound of it. “And after that?”

  “No clue. I’ll head south, I guess.”

  Over Rowan’s shoulder, I see Starling approaching. “Brazil?” I ask.

  “Who knows?”

  Starling heaves herself beside him. Her clothes stick to her damp body. “Forgot towels! The least sexy part of skinny-dipping is getting dressed.” She leans back on her elbows and winks at me. “So how’s it going, Bria Sandoval? Let me guess—you’re thoroughly enchanted by la vie bohème, and you’re ready to exchange that clunky suitcase for a backpack and join us on our journey.”

  She can’t be serious. I hurl another rock at the water and it skips four times.

  “You don’t think I’m serious,” she continues. “But I am. Listen: you’ve made it to Central America—hooray! But now that you’re here, why don’t you use this opportunity to travel? Like, to really travel? With people who know the right places to go?”

  I glance at Rowan, who is busy examining his stack of string ankle bracelets. I’m starting to feel nervous. “Ha,” I say. “You guys are crazy.”

  Starling chuckles. “It’s not like we’re inviting you to an orgy! Although I hope you haven’t taken a vow of chastity or anything—that might be a problem for my brother here.”

  Rowan shoves Starling’s shoulder. “Hey! Who said I was even interested?”

  “You’re always interested.”

  “You know that’s not true—”

  “I have a boyfriend, anyway,” I blurt out.

  Where the hell did that come from? My face catches fire. Silently, I thank the darkness for hiding my burning cheeks. It’s like something out of a bad romantic comedy. I hate that kind of movie; the liar always gets caught. But it’s too late. I can’t take it back. Oh no, really, I was kidding. I’m single and ready to mingle! Kill me now.

  Starling, however, is grinning. “Perfect! You’ll be our other sister. Entirely platonic. So there’s nothing stopping you. Come on, Bria … be impulsive for once!”

  I stare at the stone in my hands—and discover it’s not a stone; it’s an avocado pit. I roll it down the slope into the lake.

  I want to argue that they know nothing about me—I am impulsive. Didn’t I steal away to Santa Lucía? Sprint off in Chichicastenango? Journey to Central America in the first place? I even almost ate a street-cart tamale!

  I have the feeling Starling won’t be impressed.

  Toby liked to say he chose not to be impulsive. As if being impulsive were something you consciously decide. When I look at Starling, with her turquoise turban and wet knot of hair, and at Rowan, with his stack of cheap string anklets, I think: Impulsive isn’t something you choose. It’s something you are. Like gay, or freckled, or bipolar.

  Something I pretend to be but am not. Not really. Not deep down.

  I try to find an easy out. “But I’ve got no money.”

  “None at all?”

  “Very, very little.”

  “We’re not talking like twenty dollars here, right?”

  “Just a couple hundred …”

  Starling waves her hand dismissively. “That’s more than enough when you travel like us. When’s your flight home?”

  “I leave from Guatemala City in eighteen days.”

  “It’ll be hard to get her back in time,” Rowan says quietly. “I need to be in Belize for a whole week.”

  “But that leaves, like, eleven extra days,” I say. “Doesn’t it take just a couple days to get there? Why are you allowing so much time to travel?”

  “Because it’s the whole point—”

  Before he can finish, the rest of the skinny-dippers—some of whom haven’t even bothered to put on clothes—mob us, and in the resulting anarchy of wet limbs and dreadlocks, the moment’s lost.

  4

  Day 4, Morning

  My Walk of Shame

  I wake the next morning to roosters screeching. My first sensation is surprise: so I managed to fall asleep after all.

  My bed at La Casa Azul turned out to be a second-level bunk in a filthy dorm room shared with seven backpackers stinking of lake water and armpits and worse. All night the bedsprings gouged my back. A chill wind moaned faintly through the fissures in the walls: La Llorona, sensing my distress, seeping in to offer me her place. Out of pure disgust, I tried to avoid using the bed’s gray sheet. But too soon I was shivering beneath it, my eyes on the ceiling rafters, searching for moving things.

  What’s worse, I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d overheard last night on my way back from the shared bathroom—Starling and Rowan, talking about me.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Rowan said. “She’s never even traveled before.”

  “I like her.”

  “It’s a terrible idea, Starling. I don’t want to be anyone’s babysitter.”

  “Come on! It’s only for two weeks. And she’s got so much potential. You remember what it was like. If you hadn’t met Jack when you were eighteen—”

  “I’d have saved myself a whole lot of grief.”

  I hurried back to bed, cursing that stupid word. Potential. It’s exactly what Toby said about my art. Potential signifies almost-there-but-not. Potential means I’m lacking.

  And anyway … potential for what?

  The rooster screeches again. What time is it? I seem to be the only one awake, though I don’t know how my roommates can sleep with the g
laring daylight and shrieking poultry. I scrape myself out of bed and slide my dirty feet into my sandals. My skirt looks like a crumpled napkin. Holding one hand over my eyes to shield them from the light, I push open the door and slip out.

  The common room is empty. Down by the water’s edge, several villagers in bright clothes are slinging burlap bags onto the dock. I hear a buzzing sound, like a chain saw starting up. I squint across the lake. A boat is heading toward us, leaving behind a trail of white. The volcanoes complete a perfect picture.

  I glance over my shoulder at the common room. Still empty.

  If I leave now, no one will stop me.

  The buzz grows more urgent as the boat approaches. I can see the inconsistencies of rock on the distant volcanoes, iced with light. Everything looks different in the morning. When the sun rises higher, it will all fade to blue. My throat feels tight.

  “Veinte quetzales,” says the boat driver, the same guy as last night.

  It’s easier this way, I tell myself as I fumble in my pocket for a bill. Damned if I’m not dying to fulfill my so-called potential, but I’m not going to do it with people who don’t want me around. Rowan will be delighted to know he dodged babysitting duties. And while Starling might mourn her loss of a travel project for a second, I bet she’ll be just as relieved.

  “Tienes otro?” The boat driver points to a tiny tear in the bill I gave him.

  “Sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “Necesito otro. Is no good.”

  “What, because it’s torn?” I touch the rip.

  He nods.

  “But this is all I’ve got.”

  Suddenly, a hand jams a crisp fifty in front of me. “Por dos,” Starling says. She’s wearing red-framed glasses and a souvenir Nicaragua T-shirt over drawstring pants, her hair in a messy braid hanging nearly to her waist. “You sneaky bitch,” she mutters at me, even though she doesn’t sound angry. “I haven’t even had my coffee yet.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  She climbs into the boat and sits beside me, scooting closer as a Mayan woman squeezes past her. “I’m saving you.”

  “From what?”

  The boat engine starts, and she has to shout her next words over the roar: “From regret!”

  “I don’t get why you care so much,” I shout back.

  “I can’t stand to watch an opportunity for travel transcendence wasted. It would ruin my trip too.” I narrow my eyes at her, but she just laughs. “Come on, Bria! We want you to come along. I mean it.”

  She’s lying. Or half lying, at least. But I can’t bring myself to tell her what I overheard late last night. It’s too humiliating. Instead, I point to my ear and shake my head with a grimace, like I can’t hear her over the sound of the engine. Then I turn away, rest my arms on the edge of the boat, and do my best to conjure up a kraken.

  As soon as Starling and I enter the hotel lobby in Panajachel, Marcy pounces. “You ungrateful kid!”

  All the things I planned to say scatter. I stand there, agape, while Marcy yammers on about decency and responsibility and respect. A few feet behind her, the rest of my tour group gawk with eyes the size of snow globes.

  “You know I’m responsible for your welfare, and then you take off for the night without telling anyone, leaving nothing but an incoherent message at the front desk. Eight other people paid the same amount you did, and you had every single one of us worried sick. How can you be so self-centered?”

  Self-centered? For going to a party for the first time in months? For being a normal teenager for a few hours?

  I want to be offended. But … maybe she’s right.

  That’s what this trip is about—doing what’s best for myself. Becoming independent. Obviously, Global Vagabonds isn’t helping that cause. Tagging along with Rowan and Starling isn’t a perfect alternative—really, I’d just be leaving one game of follow-the-leader for another. What’s more, Rowan doesn’t want me along. And even if he did, both he and Starling think I have a boyfriend, so I’d be dragging a stupid Toby-faced lie behind me the whole time.

  There are a thousand reasons not to go with them.

  The question is, what will I regret more—daring to go off with Starling and Rowan, or spending the remainder of my trip watching Dan violate maps?

  It’s not even a question.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I really am. I know I’m not making this easy on you. But I really do think it’s better this way. Now you don’t need to worry about me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m going off on my own. Kind of. Actually, I’m going off with her.”

  Marcy glances at Starling, who winks.

  “Are you kidding? I won’t allow it! You’re just a teenager. Your parents entrusted Global Vagabonds to take care of you—”

  “I’m eighteen. My parents had nothing to do with this trip.”

  It’s true. Mostly. When I told them I was traveling this summer, my dad muttered about losing his paperwork help. My mom bellyached about my squandering my college funds, even though she’s the one who put that title on my savings. But in the end, I think they were glad I got my mopey self out of the house. I’ll bet my mom’s going through my closet right this second, selecting shirts with a maximum boob-stretch factor to borrow.

  Now Marcy’s shouting. “But you already paid for everything! If you leave the group, your money’s wasted. You’re not getting one penny back.”

  “A bargain for the lesson learned,” I say.

  Okay, it wasn’t really. But it sounded good.

  When I rejoin Starling, my heart pounding, she claps me on the shoulder. “Holy cojones! Damn, girl, that’s the second time I’ve watched you rip somebody a new one. Color me impressed.”

  I can’t help grinning.

  We start for the staircase to gather my things, but suddenly I stop. “Hey, would you mind going on up without me?” I hand her my key. “There’s someone I need to talk to.”

  The Vagabonds are already in the street by the time I catch up with them. Dan sees me first and pokes Marcy in the side. She faces me and plants her hands on her hips. “Having second thoughts? After that display, I don’t know if the group’s comfortable enough with your presence—”

  Ignoring her, I head for Glenna Heron, professional beadworker. I tug her a few steps from the others and, in a low voice, thank her.

  “For what?”

  “For not telling Marcy where I went.” I pause. “Did you tell her?”

  She shakes her head. “You’d have done the same for me … that is, if I’d ever had the opportunity. I missed that part of being young.”

  “What part?”

  “The exciting part.” She smiles at me from under her floppy hat. “I’ll send you a beaded necklace. So you can refer all your friends.”

  Starling West’s unPacking List

  AKA Things you should not bring to Central America, or anywhere else you go, ever, as explained to Bria Sandoval, travel virgin

  Full-size bottles of tea-tree conditioner

  Shoes with heels higher than one inch

  Ergonomic travel pillows

  Strawberries & Champagne body spray, or any other kind

  Purple leggings

  Anything with spangles

  By the time I get back to my room, Starling has completely ransacked my suitcase. Clothes are scattered all over both beds, draped over the backs of chairs, piled on the dresser. Underwear dangles from the bedpost. Cosmetics are strewn across the floor. My sketchbook sits on the bed, the elastic strap still wound around it. I hope Starling’s not the type to snoop.

  “I called Hal to let Rowan know you’re officially a member of the family,” she says. “For two weeks, at least.”

  I smile weakly. My boldness from moments ago is dissipating by the second.

  “But this …” Starling spreads her arms. “This is disastrous. The worst case of overpacking I’ve ever seen. I’ve managed to pare it down. But you’re not going
to like it.”

  I push aside a pair of denim shorts with the tags still attached and sit on the bed, one hand on my sketchbook. “Which pile do I get to keep?”

  “The one beside you.”

  “And what am I supposed to do with all my other stuff?”

  “In theory, you could mail it home. But it might not get there. And it would be really expensive. The noble thing to do is to give it away—though I don’t think the villagers will want anything to do with this.” She twirls a glittery halter top around her index finger.

  “That’s not mine.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “No, seriously. It’s my friend Olivia’s. I’ve never even worn it.”

  “Olivia must be an interesting girl.” Starling stretches the top between her fingers and shoots it into the trash. I picture Olivia’s reaction and smirk. I’d love to see Olivia and Starling stuck in an elevator. As long as I wasn’t stuck inside with them.

  “How about we shove your extraneous shit in your suitcase and leave it on the sidewalk? With a sign: FINDERS KEEPERS, in Spanish. Then we’ll locate a backpack.”

  “Can I at least look through the stuff I’m giving away?”

  Without waiting for a reply, I shove aside my pink quick-dry capris and swipe the white sweatshirt from Glenna’s bed. “This stays.”

  “Not a chance! It would take up half your backpack. And you’ll never need it. Where you’re going, even the rainiest days are warm.”

  I unfold the sweatshirt and hold it at arm’s length. I have it memorized: the ragged cuffs, the front pocket worn coarse inside. It reaches all the way to my knees when I wear it to sleep.

  I know Starling’s right. And it’s humiliating that I kept it in the first place, let alone brought it all the way to Central America. So I screw up my face and force myself to remember. Not the good parts, the parts that made me stay with Toby long past our expiration date. But the shitty parts. The betrayals.