Wanderlove

by Kirsten Hubbard

  “Are you an artist?” Emily asks, pointing to my sketchbook. “I am too. Can I see?”

  I shove it into my daypack and zip it up.

  “Yikes,” she says.

  I feel like a jerk. “Sorry.… It’s just kind of personal.”

  “Just wait until you have a juried exhibition. Then it gets personal.”

  “There wasn’t a jury!” Ariel objects. “Just teachers. And it wasn’t an exhibition—it was a show in the school cafeteria.”

  “That still counts.”

  As they bicker, Rowan sits beside me. I pull my daypack onto my lap in an effort to cover a fraction of my nakedness. Why am I acting so strange? I am baffling myself. I have to remember these girls know Rowan even less than I do, and they have no problem with their respective lack of shorts and shirt.

  “So how’s your day been?” he asks, unaware.

  “Hot. Yours?”

  “Refreshing. The water felt great.”

  “You went in the water? I thought today was for, like, bookwork in the classroom.”

  “We took the boat out to the reef for a bit. Brought some snorkels, splashed around.”

  No wonder he seems so relaxed. I picture Ariel and Emily, entirely shirtless and shortsless, splashing around beside him. I clear my throat. “So what did you see underwater? Anything vicious?”

  “One stingray.”

  “There aren’t really stingrays. Really?”

  “He was just a small one.”

  “It looked pretty big to me.” Emily squats between us. “Bria, are you certified?”

  Ugh. “No, I’m not.”

  “So why aren’t you learning to dive with us?”

  I sigh, because it’s getting old. Last night I suffered through the interrogation of various drunk divers. Apparently, when you’re a die-hard scuba aficionado, the nether regions of the sea equal nirvana.

  It strikes me as strange Rowan hasn’t spoken about diving much. Then I recall the way he guiltily slipped me the dive book. He probably doesn’t want me to think he’s pressuring me by talking about his greatest love. It makes me feel like an evil person.

  “I’m sure it’s amazing and all,” I say diplomatically, “but it’s just not my thing.”

  “Mine neither,” Ariel says. “But I’m still doing it.”

  Emily smirks. “She’s right. She was utterly chickenshit, but I convinced her.”

  “It didn’t help that my parents wanted me to, and they paid for this trip.”

  “For your trip. I had to pay for mine.”

  “With money your parents gave you!”

  “My parents don’t even know I’m here,” I say.

  All three of them stare at me. Too late, I realize how it sounds—like I’m trying to make Emily and Ariel look bad. It’s not like my money didn’t come from my parents, technically, though I earned it doing paperwork and data entry for my father.

  “What are you—like, a runaway?” Ariel asks.

  Quickly, I shake my head. “What I mean is … my parents know I’m in Central America. But they don’t know I’m on this island. They think I’m with a tour group. Rowan and his sister helped me escape.” I grin, like it’s just so incredibly funny.

  “So you’re kind of a runaway.”

  “That’s pretty intense,” Emily says, looking at me with obvious respect.

  “Your parents still think you’re with that tour group?” Rowan asks. He leans back on his hands so he can see me better.

  “It doesn’t matter. They wouldn’t care.”

  “But have you talked to them at all?”

  I don’t like the tone of his voice. It makes me feel anxious, even though I’m not exactly sure what I’ve done wrong. “Rowan, you know I haven’t. You’ve been around me the whole time. What’s the big deal, anyway? I’m eighteen.”

  “Eighteen is only a few months away from seventeen.”

  “And nineteen’s only a few months from eighteen,” I argue, even though I know he’s almost twenty, so that isn’t exactly true. But he ran off a couple of weeks after he turned eighteen. He told me at the lake; I’ll never forget it. So why’s he acting all self-righteous?

  “How do you know that Marcy lady didn’t call them?” he says. “According to what you said, she seemed pretty irate. I can picture it now: ‘We last saw your daughter with some hippie druggie girl, and we’re terrified she’s gone and joined one of those jungle cults you hear about down here, one of those Jim Jones things—’ ”

  “Rowan, would you stop? It’s my business whether I call my parents or not.”

  “I suppose.” With one finger, he taps his sunglasses so they fall over his eyes. “But I still think it’s immature.”

  I feel like I’ve been punched. “Well, do your parents know where you are?”

  “My parents are off-limits,” he says, unfazed. “Remember our list?”

  My jaw drops. I can’t believe Rowan brought up our list in front of these strangers. Even though it’s been only a few days since we wrote it, the thought of it humiliates me. Especially after our conversation yesterday in Belize City. I thought we’d moved past that.

  “What list?” asks Ariel.

  “Never mind.” I stand up. “Look, I’ll catch you all later. This heat is making me sleepy.” I dig through my daypack until I locate my shirt. I feel three pairs of eyes watching as I tug it over my head, get stuck for a disconcerting second, and then yank it into place.

  I don’t notice Rowan following me until my first foot hits the sand. “What?” I demand.

  He holds up his hands. “Wow—you’re prickly today.”

  “I refuse to validate that with an answer.”

  “It wasn’t a question.”

  I try to stalk away, but Rowan catches my daypack and swings me back around. It might be cute if I didn’t feel like slapping him with a stingray.

  “Look,” he says. “I really do think it’s important you give your parents a call. Or an email, or whatever. Just so we don’t have to think about it for the rest of the trip. I don’t want to see your face on CNN …” He trails off. “Okay, sorry. No more jokes. But—you’ll talk to them. Right?”

  I wonder why it bothers him so much. I hate to back down, but I don’t want to fight. On this island, he’s all I’ve got. “Sure, Rowan,” I say with a sigh. “Of course I will.”

  I just don’t say when.

  *I was not involved.

  18

  Day 11

  Friends or Siblings or Whatever

  “But Rowan’s so hot,” Ariel says, too close to my ear. “You sure you’re not sleeping together?”

  “I’m pretty sure,” I reply.

  We’re sitting on rope swings at an outdoor bar called Coco Plum. There’s no floor, only sand. As soon as we arrived, Emily ditched Ariel to go flirt with the other two dive students: a pair of dreadlocked guys who’d look like twins if they didn’t have different-colored skin. Ariel, however, seems to have one particular guy in mind. A guy who was supposed to show up an hour ago.

  “If I was traveling alone with Rowan for a week, you’d better believe I’d have jumped him by now,” she tells me. “Have you seen his back?”

  “His back?”

  “He’s so cut. Emily says he’s like some kind of rock star, all drug-damaged and wild under this balladsy surface. After you left the channel, Jack came and told us all these stories about him. Rowan got kind of agitated. It was cute.”

  I find myself wishing I had been there to defend him, or at least to deflect Jack’s attention. Although I admit I’m curious about the stories.

  “Like did you know he used to twirl fire batons?” Ariel asks.

  “He what?”

  “You’d think he’d have caught fire, with all the stuff he was on. He swears he isn’t like that anymore, but you know the crazy is just waiting to come out again.…” She winds one of her long blond braids around her arm. “So you sure you’re not sleeping together? Because if not, I’ve got to get him
before Emily does. Don’t you think he’s hot?”

  “If you like the unwashed bohemian type,” I say, feeling mean.

  “His eyes are the color of dark blue jeans, did you notice?”

  I try not to scowl, despising the way I feel. I know I don’t have any right to Rowan. But even though I suspect Ariel isn’t his type any more than I am, her comments make my skin itch. And since it appears he isn’t going to show up anytime soon, I decide I’ve had enough.

  “I’ve had enough … to drink. I think I’m going to bed.”

  Ariel perks up. “Do you think Rowan’s back at the hostel? Want me to walk you?”

  “It’s okay. Really. He’s in bed, I’m sure. He goes to bed early. Or sometimes he reads, but he doesn’t like to be disturbed.…” I shut myself up.

  “See you tomorrow, then.”

  I nod. “Tomorrow.”

  I leave my drink on the bar and shuffle through the sand toward the exit, where I almost bump into Jack. “Bria! You’re not leaving already?” He stands so close I have to crane my neck to meet his crinkling eyes. “Or are you off to see Rowan?”

  I shake my head so adamantly he grins, dimples slashing his cheeks. “I’m just tired. You people wear me out.”

  “Just you wait. Lobsterfest blows this all away. It’s like your favorite dream and your worst nightmare drowned together in an ocean of rum punch.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  I take a step toward the exit, but Jack doesn’t move. He smells like fabric softener. It reminds me I need to do my laundry. I could ask Jack where he does his, but I don’t really want to draw out the conversation—even though he’s attractive in a big, goofy, Scandinavian way. “So I guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” I say pointedly, wondering if I’ll have to shove.

  “Probably not. We’ll be in the water by seven-thirty. Then back in the classroom. Then back in the water again. You won’t see us until four, four-thirty for the next few days. Our classes are intense—it’s really too bad you’re not taking them. They pay shit, though, so it’s good we’ve got a few things in the works on the side.”

  The beach has turned to quicksand. “Who’s we?”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t get your travel brother into trouble, I promise.”

  Jack reaches out and musses up my hair, like he did this morning. When I slap his hand away, he catches mine and twirls me around before freeing me to go.

  I find Rowan on the rooftop verandah of our hostel, relaxing in a hammock with his eyes closed. As usual, a book rests on his lap: Lolita. He’s wearing clothes I haven’t seen before—a baby blue linen shirt and frayed white shorts. It’s unfair. He keeps coming up with clothes I haven’t seen, while I’m already rewearing everything. His backpack’s like a perpetually expanding magic trick.

  Should I tell him what Jack said? Or should I give him an opening to tell me? The problem with our mutual touchiness is all the uncertainty: I don’t know what will seem like distrust. I’m about to bring it up anyway when I notice the plastic cup balanced on a ledge beside him.

  “Are you drunk?” I ask in disbelief.

  Rowan opens his eyes. “Hey, you.” He stretches, sending the book tumbling to the ground. “I was wondering when you’d show up. The drink’s yours.”

  “Is it rum punch? Because—”

  “Actually, it’s an apology.”

  “The drink’s an apology?” I ask warily. “Why are you apologizing?”

  “I never gave you a seaweed.”

  “A what?”

  “A seaweed! That classic Belizean beverage I told you about in Punta Gorda.”

  “Oh, right.” I peer into the cup. “Smells like nutmeg.”

  “Taste it.”

  I try one swallow and shudder. It’s not vile or anything—mostly it tastes like milk and spices—but it slimes down my throat. “Why is it so slippery?”

  “That’s the seaweed.”

  “Actual seaweed? I thought that was just a nickname! Thanks, but …” I pour the rest of the drink over the edge of the balcony. Then I spit for good measure.

  Rowan laughs. “I’m glad you feel comfortable enough around me to spit.”

  “So where were you tonight?” I ask, wiping my mouth.

  “I just needed a break.”

  “You wimp. It’s only our first night here!”

  “Don’t remind me.” Rowan crosses his arms, the eye of his dragon peeking through his fingers. “Anyway, I have another apology—but you have to get in first.”

  “The hammock?”

  “That’s right.”

  I reach out and test the sturdiness of one of the posts. “Seems wobbly.”

  “Who’s the wimp now?”

  He’s got me. I climb in beside him, playfully pushing his feet from my face. I remember how shy I felt the last time we did this, back at the Rainforest Retreat. I can hardly believe only five days have passed since then. Or ten days, according to Olivia’s sister’s dorm-time scale. It feels like weeks and weeks.

  “So what else are you sorry for? Besides tricking me with liquefied seaweed.”

  “For not trusting you.”

  That’s not what I expected. “To do what?”

  “To do what’s best for yourself. When it comes to telling your parents.”

  I try not to squirm. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Especially after I’d asked you to trust me.”

  I’m still not sure if I do. “Well, I told you I’m untrustworthy when it comes to doing what’s best for myself. And by that, I mean what’s really best. Not other people’s ideas of what’s best.”

  “Like your parents’?”

  I nod. “They were okay with the tour group. Well, they said, ‘Guatemala? Why would you want to go there?’ But they put a lot of faith in structure. Plus, they’re dealing with a lot of personal stuff. They fight all the time—and I mean all the time—but just can’t bring themselves to actually get a divorce.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s rough.”

  “Honestly? I wish they would split.” I try to shrug, but my shoulders are wedged in too tight. “Some people just aren’t meant to be married.”

  Rowan nudges the wooden post with his foot so the hammock starts to sway. “It’s too bad, what you said about the structure, though. That’s exactly why I hate tour groups like your Global Whatevers—they stick to the well-trod trails. They avoid anything new or different. They’re like hummingbirds scanning a landscape for red flowers: hover, swoop, then dart away.”

  Put like that, it sounds a little like Hyperactive Diver Disorder.

  “I just think it’s a shame, is all,” Rowan continues. “To miss the beauty in all the details. The side streets and smaller islands. The overlooked places. Like the way we saw Livingston—you enjoyed that, right?” He looks so hopeful it’s endearing.

  “Of course I did!” It’s true. Even during my brief few days off the beaten path, I’m amazed, even stunned, at what I’ve seen. Not just in Livingston, but along the banks of the Río Dulce. Through the windows of the chicken buses to Guatemala City and across Belize. And today, on the back roads of Laughingbird Caye. Color and frenzy and beauty and poverty that make me want to simultaneously stare and cover my eyes. Backpacking really does push aside the curtain.

  Maybe everyone should be required to sign up for a dose.

  But then … I think about my father. His lonely train trip across Canada, the one he traced for me on his maps. And that family trip to Spain he always talked about—it’ll never happen. Of course he wouldn’t understand fearless travelers like Rowan and Starling. Neither would Glenna Heron, professional beadworker. Global Vagabonds is the trip of her life. And I just can’t bring myself to look down on that.

  “The thing is,” I begin, “not everyone can travel like you do, Rowan.”

  “Sure they can—as long as they have the money. They just need to open their minds.”

  “But most people aren’t raised to think this kind of travel’s an o
ption. Like me—I just fell into it accidentally.”

  “Best bag you ever lost.”

  I smile.

  “But I’m being honest,” he continues. “I don’t see how anyone moderately educated and raised in Western civilization can’t be enchanted when they hear about places like these. Like Livingston, or Antigua Guatemala. Or the lake. Do you know what Aldous Huxley called it?”

  “ ‘The most beautiful lake in the world.’ As a matter of fact, I read about it in my Global Vagabonds itinerary.”

  “Really?” Rowan cringes as his entire belief system comes crashing down around him. “But still. What I say stands. Groups like that visit Tikal—on day trips. They visit Panajachel, which is great, but never make it to the other villages: Santa Cruz, San Marcos, Santa Lucía. They hear about the offbeat places. Why don’t they go?”

  “Because they hear about the dangers, too.”

  Rowan tries to sit up straight, almost flipping us out of the hammock.

  “Sure, traveling can be dangerous. People get robbed, and stabbed, and raped. More likely, they get the runs. They get bitten by mosquitoes, and stray dogs, and exotic arachnids, and sometimes their parts swell to enormous sizes. They itch, and they sting, and they burn in the sun. They tumble off highways in chicken buses, and crash in tourist-class minivans. They even get their purses stolen in Mayan marketplaces.”

  I wrinkle my nose.

  “But all that’s hugely unlikely—with the exception of mosquito bites and sunburn. And yet even experienced travelers are still afraid.

  “What everyone forgets—even me—is the people who actually live here. In places like Central America, I mean. Southeast Asia. India. Africa. Millions, even billions, of people, who live out their whole lives in these places—the places so many people like us fear. Think about it: they ride chicken buses to work every day. Their clothes are always damp. Their whole lives, they never escape the dust and the heat. But they deal with all these discomforts. They have to.

  “So why can’t travelers? If we’ve got the means to get here, we owe it to the country we’re visiting not to treat it like an amusement park, sanitized for our comfort. It’s insulting to the people who live here. People just trying to have the best lives they can, with the hands they’ve been dealt.”