by J. Minter
“Rhett,” the Savage said. I looked at him closer and realized that, under the body paint, he had the blue eyes of a WASPy American boy. He reached out his hand to shake mine, and he looked at my wrist. “Nice watch.”
And you won’t believe it, but I fell for this one. My dad gave me the watch as a sixteenth birthday present, and it’s one of my top ten favorite things. It’s Tiffany, manly, but still subtle. It says I have places to be, and even if I’m not going to arrive on time, I need to know how long I’ve kept the son of a bitch waiting. Also, my initials are carved in the back. I immediately warmed to the Savage. Suki was going on, behind me, about her opinion of guys who called her “little” twice in one sentence, so I calmly asked her to wait for me outside and then I showed the Savage a picture of Adrien Brody wearing the same watch at Lotus on a blog that tracks celebrity fashion.
“That,” the Savage said, “is a classy watch.”
I shrugged and thanked him.
“I bet you could get two thousand euros for that watch.”
I gave him a look that said, Under no circumstances will I sell my watch.
He smiled genially and spread his hands out reassuringly. “No pressure—Jonathan, is it? I only ask because”—here he cleared his throat and lowered his voice—“I overheard you and your girlfriend talking, and I understand you’re in a bit of a tough spot. I think I might be able to help.”
I thought about correcting him on the girlfriend part, but then decided it was wiser to just listen. The Savage continued:
“I know of a dogfight that is going to happen in thirty minutes. If I put your watch on El Luchador, we could double its worth.”
Everything I know about dogfights comes from that movie Amores Perros, which is to say, I don’t know a whole lot. But it’s seemed pretty brutal in the movie, so I said, meekly, “I think I may be ethically opposed to that kind of cruelty to animals.”
The Savage nodded and scratched his chin. “I understand. I also know of a turtle race, at about the same time.”
“A turtle race?”
“You know, sea turtles. On the beach. It’s an old tradition in Mallorca, lots of money changes hands. There’s a turtle, El Viejo, even better odds than Luchador. What do you say?”
“This El Viejo … he’s a sure thing?”
“Absolutely.”
“You think we could get four thousand for it?”
“Yes. I’d want to keep a half of the profits, of course.”
I nodded, and fingered my wrist.
“We’ll have your watch back in one hour, tops.”
“How can I know you’re not ripping me off?” I asked plaintively.
“Here, you hold this until I come back. Without it, I can’t leave the country.” The Savage handed me his passport. I looked at the picture inside, of a blond, blue-eyed guy, and then back at the Savage. Despite the face paint, I recognized the long, whittled features. His full name was Rhett Anthony Turner, and he was twenty-four.
I looked at the crumbling walls and the full ashtrays, and considered the possibility that I might seriously have an asthma attack if we stayed here another night. I thought of that awful room, and I slipped the watch off my wrist and handed it to the Savage.
The Savage smiled at me as he took it.
“You and I will dine richly this evening, my friend,” he said, and then he was gone.
Arno prefers to be in the lead
At eleven o’clock, Barker gave a good-luck speech and the Ocean Term survival test officially began. He blew a whistle, and all the boats started across the water. Arno worked his oars in unison with Mickey, moving their dinghy out into the open ocean. Greta was sitting on the prow of the little boat, studying the map of Barker Island that Stephanie had given them. The sky was grayer than it had been for days, and the island where they were heading rose, rocky and unwelcoming, before them. Still, in contrast to all that stormy blue, Greta’s wind-tossed, hennaed hair looked warm and gorgeous. As though she sensed Arno watching her, she looked up from the map and smiled shyly. Then she looked over his shoulder at the Ariadne, where they could still see Patch and Barker watching from deck.
When they’d signed in that morning, Greta had explained to Stephanie that Suki wasn’t feeling well enough to take the test, adding that Suki and Jonathan had shared a paella on Mallorca that may not have been so fresh, and that it was possible that they both had food poisoning. Stephanie seemed to buy this. She gave the group’s map to Greta and repeated the areas in which they could earn points: the race to the island, setting up camp, teamwork, and the swimming race back. They could confer with other teams, but could only score points for their own team, individually.
Their little boat, which Mickey had nicknamed the Greta, advanced through the water. All around them, the other survival teams rowed their boats toward the island. Arno thought to himself how well Mickey and he worked together when they wanted to; they were strong and they were taking the lead. Arno flexed his muscles and pushed.
Greta arched an eyebrow and spread the map across her knees. “So I think the best landing place is going to be on the southeast corner of the island. It looks like there’s a beach there …”
Mickey was sitting with his back to Greta, and he had barely heard her. He was staring furiously at Arno, who only the day before had been dogging him whenever possible to come out ahead with Greta’s best friend. Mickey got mad all over again about Arno telling Suki about Philippa, and then he realized what he probably should have realized yesterday: They were all together for just two weeks on a cruise ship, anyway, and none of them were doing anything but casually hooking up. What the hell did it matter if he was on a rebound? And now Arno was apparently interested in Greta, who—Mickey realized suddenly—he was completely into, too. Arno gave him a very innocent look and said, to both of his teammates, “The southeast corner is perfect.”
Mickey began to row intensely, almost like he was trying to throw Arno off. Arno matched him, though, and for a while this worked. They rowed furiously, in silence, through the mile of water that lay between the Ariadne and Barker Island. They soon took the lead and maintained it for a good long stretch. They were still in the lead as they approached the island. Greta called out to them that they would have to veer east if they were going to land on the beach, but by that time Arno and Mickey were engaged in a war of wills that prevented them from paying much attention to anyone else. Mickey abruptly stopped rowing, and one of the oars shot up while the other plunged into the water.
At first, Arno overcompensated, rowing even harder to try and keep the suddenly much heavier boat moving forward. Then he got pissed, and stood up.
“What are you doing?”
“What are you doing?”
“Guys …,” Greta said softly from behind them. At the sound of her voice they both sat down. Mickey fished his oar out of the water, and they began rowing again. But Arno was irritated by Mickey’s childishness, and he wasn’t really paying attention to anything but lifting and pushing the oars. When he heard Greta’s voice again, he looked up and realized that they were really close to the island, but they had veered away from the beach and had entered a rocky cove. Greta stood up for a better view, and Mickey gave one last big row. The dinghy glided forward and smacked into a rock, a few feet below the water’s surface. Arno looked up to see Greta lose her balance and go flying into the water ahead of them. Then the boat capsized, and he and Mickey were under water, as well.
They treaded water for a few seconds, dealing, again, with the surprising roughness of the ocean. Mickey grabbed the boat and righted it, and held it steady as Arno dived, got a hold of their pack of survival stuff, and resurfaced. They swam toward shore, Arno with the pack and Mickey dragging the boat. Mickey, a few lengths behind, stopped suddenly and called out:
“Where’s Greta?”
Arno treaded and looked around. For a minute he didn’t see her, and then he did, floating facedown in the water a few lengths behind him. He pushed thr
ough the water, pulled her head out of the water, and gently slapped her face. She appeared to be unconscious.
Arno wrapped her arm around his shoulder and, using his right arm to hold her head above water and his left arm to propel them forward, moved toward shore.
He straggled up on the beach behind Mickey, who had pulled the dinghy out of the water. He laid Greta’s limp body on the sand.
“Is she okay?” Mickey asked.
“I dunno. She seems to be breathing, but she looks like maybe she hit her head or something?”
“We need to get her warm.”
“How?” Arno interjected. “The matches are all soaked and useless now.”
“Oh, right.”
“I guess I should give her CPR just, you know, in case.”
“What? She’s breathing, you moron. Now try and think of another reason to slobber all over her.”
Arno pushed Mickey on the shoulder, and Mickey looked like he was about to take a swing, when Greta’s eyes fluttered open and she started giggling.
“Just kidding!” She laughed. “I’m fine. Good to know you two are paying attention.”
Arno and Mickey stood there, dripping and wondering what to do, when Stephanie came buzzing around the cove. She was with another of the faculty advisors, who was driving the motorboat, and Patch. As they approached, Arno realized that Stephanie was clapping. Patch gave him a “sorry, nothing I can do for you, dude” look from behind her.
Their boat idled for a second off shore, as Stephanie finished clapping. It was only then that Arno realized she wasn’t making fun of them. She took out a bullhorn, and called:
“Great teamwork, sailors! I can’t give you guys points for winning the race, but I’m going to give you five merit points for Arno’s daring rescue. Congratulations! Good luck.”
The motorboat made a roaring-motor noise, and they were gone, leaving Mickey and Arno alone with their feelings. And Greta.
I get through to New York, in the worst possible way
I came out of the Internet room feeling strangely buzzed. Yes, I had missed the boat and was stuck on a strange island in a foreign country. Yes, I was without credit cards or money. But I was betting on a turtle fight—a sea turtle fight—which would ensure me a comfortable night in one of the island’s premier establishments and a safe trip home. How cool was I?
Suki was sitting in the lobby with her arms across her chest and staring at the ceiling.
“I’m glad you’ve rid yourself of that bigot,” she said as I came out.
“Uh-huh. Anyway, I’m going to try the phone one more time. Wait here, okay?”
“Yeah, but it’s almost seven o’clock. I don’t think we’re making that ferry. Should I get us a room for another night?”
“Nah, I have a plan. We’re going to stay someplace nice tonight, and tomorrow we’ll get the early boat for Barcelona and we’ll get into the city well before Ocean Term does.”
“But how …?”
“Trust me.”
She made a face and sat down.
I went out to the pay phone down the street from the hostel. All the shutters on the little winding street were open, and for once I took a minute to look up at all the wrought-iron work on the old buildings. It smelled like a lot of people’s dinners were being prepared. I felt good, and I thought, no way could a guy like Rob take Flan away from a guy like me. I resolved to call her, and set the situation straight.
I dialed the familiar number of the house on Perry Street and listened to the normal, comforting American dial tone. It rang five times, and then a guy’s voice picked up and said:
“Talk to me.” It was Rob. My heart lurched. He was still there?
I fought the impulse to slam the phone down, and told myself that the only way I could figure out what was going on was to play nice. It was also the only way I was going to find out where the hell my mom was.
“Rob, I’m glad I finally got ahold of you.”
“Jon-a-tin! I’ve been missing you. Did you get my e-mail?”
“Uh, yeah, yeah, it was good to hear from you. Sorry I’ve been so out of touch, this program is, like, really hectic.”
“Su-pair! Cute girls?”
“Um, sort of. Listen. Have you seen my mom?”
“Yes, I’m staying with her! I love your apartment. Très chic.”
“But recently. Like have you seen her yesterday or today.”
“No. Because, she went to a ranch.”
“A ranch?!”
“Yes. Cómo se llama. Canyon, pienso que sí, Canyon Ranch.”
“Oh, dammit.” I should have guessed this. My mom always goes on some weight-loss or detox retreat in January. “When did she leave?”
“Yesterday. Jon-a-tin, what is the matter?”
I drew in a deep breath. I was really, really hating this guy, and it wasn’t easy to hide it. “Listen, this bad thing happened and I got separated from the trip. Which would be fine, except that I forgot my wallet on the boat.”
“No! Where are you?”
“Mallorca.”
“Oh, I love Mallorca. Ibiza is far better, but Mallorca, very good.”
“I’m sure it’s lovely. But I need to get some money or I’m screwed. Did my mom leave you a number where she can be reached?”
“Hmmmm … I think so. At home maybe. But I don’t have it with me.”
I slapped my forehead.
“But you need money now, anyway, right? I’ll go home tonight and get the number at the ranch and e-mail it to you. But in the meantime, I just wire you some money so you can get a hotel room, okay?”
Moronic as this may seem, my impulse was to tell him forget it, I just bet one of my favorite possessions on a sea turtle named El Viejo, I don’t need your help. But that of course was not what I did.
“Are you sure? That would be great,” I said, although in my head I was screaming, What are you doing with Flan?!
“Yeah, easy, how you say, no sweat? The Western Union is on Calle Aragon in the center of town. Every time I lose my wallet on Mallorca, Mama wires me some money there. They’re always open until eight during holiday. I’ll call right now, and you should be able to pick it up before they close.”
I looked at my wrist, then remembered that my watch wasn’t there anymore. But then, as though someone up there might actually be looking out for me, the cathedral rung quarter past seven.
“Thanks, man. I mean, I really appreciate it,” I said, although in my head it was, Flan would never like a sleazy bastard like you!
“Jon-a-tin, it is nothing. We are brothers.”
A voice came on, telling me I was out of minutes. I must have wasted them all trying my mother four thousand times.
“Yeah, well. This is super nice of you.” You backstabbing piece of shit!
“No sweat. Ha ha!” You already said that, you imbecile.
When we hung up, I went back into the lobby. Suki was sitting exactly as before. When I walked in, she said, “Jonathan, let’s just get a room here for the night. I’m going to turn cranky real soon.”
“No way. We’ve got so much cash coming to us. We’re sleeping in style tonight.”
Suki rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“Listen, I’ve got to get to the Western Union before they close. You stay here, okay? The Savage is going to drop something for me. Give him this”—I handed her the passport—“and take whatever he has for you. And then wait for me.”
She let out one of those grunts of disgust that only girls can do effectively.
“Trust me,” I said for the second time that evening.
“Fine. I mean, what are my options?”
I nodded in agreement with her. She had no options.
“Whatever you do, don’t leave this place,” I called as I ran down the street.
It took me a while, but I found the Western Union. There was a line, of course, but I got there just in time. It was five after eight when a lovely, dark-eyed Spanish girl counted fifteen hu
ndred in crisp euros for me and placed them on the counter.
“You are Rob Santana’s brother?” she asked, obviously impressed.
I shrugged. “I guess you could say our families merged, yeah.”
“He is one of the wildest visitors,” she said in her sweet, accented English. “Whenever he comes to town, crazy stories start going around. He’s with a different girl every season. You’ll tell him to call me next time he visits, won’t you?”
Not what I wanted to hear. Why couldn’t she see Rob the way I did, as a slimy guy who was really, really short on class? Flan would, right? I smiled weakly and promised to give Rob her number, and ran down the street back to the hostel. I fought the image of Rob as a romantic party boy the whole way. But if the lovely girl in the Mallorca Westen Union fell for the act, how would little Flan Flood hold up?
I almost managed to put it out of my mind. After all, everything was about to work out. I had fifteen hundred euros in my hand, and I was about to get three thousand more. By the time I huffed into the hostel lobby, I had psyched myself up again.
My rally died when I saw Suki.
She looked up at me furiously and didn’t say a word.
“Did the Savage come?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah.”
“Did he bring me an envelope or a package or something?”
“Yup. He had an envelope. He took it out, and he showed me all this money inside, and he said, ‘Here you go, little lady. You give this to Jonathan, and now why don’t you and I go for a dance.’ Well, I told him, ‘I am not that kind of lady.’”
“What happened to the envelope?” My voice was very small.
“I threw that passport at him and told him to go shove it. Which is what I’d like to tell you to do! I can’t believe you think a fancy hotel room justifies pimping me out!”
“Where’d the Savage go …?”
“Gone to hell I hope. You go, too, for all I care!”
I put my face into my hands and tried not to cry. I took several deep breaths, and then looked up expecting to see a very confrontational Suki.