Girl at Sea (7 page)

Mental Scarring and Jokes

That Aren’t Funny

As they walked out into the blinding Naples sun, Clio found herself clasping her own left ear. She couldn’t stop. It was as if by covering it, she could stop the horrific ear-penetration image from getting into her head.

Things would never be the same now that she’d seen her father tonguing some strange woman’s ear. Never. That was the kind of thing that wormed its way into your brain, nestled itself between the warm, gray folds, and
bred
.

“What’s the matter, kiddo?” her father asked, coming up alongside her and removing the comforting hand shield. “Ears won’t pop? Try swallowing.”

Somehow
swallowing
wasn’t the word she wanted to hear right now.

“I’m fine,” she replied, walking ahead.

Their transport was a small, unmarked white van. The driver looked hot and bored and pulled at his damp shirt. He loaded 50

their bags into the back while they all got in. The bench seats had cigarette burn holes. Clio found herself wedged between Elsa and Aidan in the backseat. Her father, Julia, and Martin sat in the front. Like most guys she knew, Aidan took up a bit more room, sitting with his legs farther apart, his computer between his ankles, pressing his left thigh up against her right in the process.

The van let out a belch of diesel exhaust and rattled as it was turned on. This was
not
followed by a burst of refreshing air-conditioning, as she had hoped it would be. The driver cranked up the radio, which was tuned to a call-in show that she couldn’t understand. The noise and the heat canceled out any conversation before it even started. Aidan put in his earphones, and Elsa laid her head lightly against the back of the seat and closed her eyes.

The first stretch of highway passed by some dusty and run-down housing developments, lots of uninspired billboards for local restaurants, and the occasional overheated car. There was a lot of concrete and scrubby brush, interrupted occasionally by a perfectly square plot of green, vined plants or a small grove of trees. Then it was more concrete buildings covered in laundry, trucks, highways, exits, signs. She had never been to Italy, and she had been expecting a bit more than this. This couldn’t be the place that people always raved about.

Stuck in her little hot box with two silent companions and a front-row seat to her father’s date with Julia, Clio had little else to think about. She kept her eyes trained on the back of her father’s cap, as if holding him in place with the intensity of her stare. There had
better
be no more ear canoodling. She decided 51

that if they tried anything at all, she would start screaming and flailing and claim there was a bee in the van.

One thing was clear: this was going to be the worst summer of her life. No one would be able to fault her for that when she went home and handed out the explanations. Trip to Italy? No sympathy. Going along on her dad’s date? People would get on board with that. Maybe she could even call her mother and tell her the second they stopped, and her mother would be outraged and rescue her. Better yet, she’d call Ollie. He would understand everything.

Meanwhile, Aidan was moving his head ever so slightly to the music. A heavy beat pulsed out of his earphones, just audible over the wind and traffic noise coming through the half-open windows. Elsa was fast asleep and had slumped farther down; now she was leaning against Clio.

She hadn’t felt like she was going far away on the plane because planes didn’t give her that feeling. You can’t really tell where you’re going on a plane because you usually just see sky or clouds, and that never changes. If you can see the view, there’s something about the height and perspective that makes it all seem like a joke. Just a ride. But being in a hot van with strangers on a long ride on actual Italian highway—that felt far. Ollie, her mother, Suki, Jackson . . . everyone faded from view.

She replayed the final moments with Ollie in her mind. She needed to hold the name tag. Clio pulled her bag up on her lap carefully, reaching into the pocket to where the pin was stashed.

There was no way she was letting Aidan see her do this, because it was unquestionably odd. Elsa would get it. Aidan would mock her. This much was already obvious.

52

Ollie had given her the tag to keep, and he’d said he would remember. And she had said . . .

Wait a minute—she had fallen over herself to say that she
wasn’t
coming back. It occurred to Clio in one horrible flash that in her attempt to be smooth, she’d actually told Ollie that she wouldn’t be back. Why had she said that? Why hadn’t she realized it up until now, in a
van
in
Italy
?

She fumbled around inside her bag, found her cell phone, and switched it on. No signal at all. And even if she had gotten one, making a call home would probably cost a hundred dollars a minute or something horrible. It was still worth it, but it would hurt.

They turned off the highway, and it immediately became shadier and greener. Tree branches scraped the roof of the van.

They entered a town with narrow roads full of Vespa scooters and tiny-but-determined little businesses housed in what were probably once magnificent buildings. Lots of long, shuttered windows, verandas, and peeling paint. This was more like it.

Europe decayed so well.

As they turned the corner around a laundry, the van coughed and died. This jolted them all. Aidan took out his earphones.

“Hey!” her dad turned around and said. “Don’t mind pushing, do you, kiddo?”

“Can you stop it with the
kiddo
?” Clio said. “I have a name.

It’s kind of weird, but you gave it to me. Why don’t you use it?”

He smiled, though a bit more weakly than his usual, and turned around. Another look from Julia, with a half-turned head.
So this is your daughter,
it seemed to say.
What a brat
.

Clio bit her lower lip. Her dad made her snappy. He brought 53

out the worst in her. She had to try to hold this in. There were too many strangers here and not nearly enough space. Aidan had replaced his earphones, but she knew he’d heard her little outburst. Great, now
she
seemed like the annoying one.

She took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling of the van. The upholstery there was peeling away and sagging. It reminded her of a stormy sky. She tried to file the color and the undulating way the cloth draped in her mind, in one of the many files she kept for future drawings. It was a good distraction.

The driver did some fancy gear-shifting and tried the ignition a few times. The van made a low, painful noise and continued its miserable effort.

The road did nothing but snake. It snaked through towns, along cliff edges, down hills. They drove into a tunnel cut through a mountain, and when they emerged, outside, all was blue. There was nothing to the right of the van but air, followed by a sharp drop down the side of a cliff to the sparkling sea. The coast was fully visible, stretching in front of them in a great wall of jagged rock. The land itself was thick with trees. On the horizon, there were occasional umbrella pines—strange, cartoon-like trees that were all trunk until they exploded into wide awnings of green. They stood massive and alone on the edges of the cliffs, in sharp relief against the sky. Everywhere, the water was punctuated with boats. Tiny fishing boats, like periods. Great, hulking cruise ships, like exclamation points.

This view brought the occupants of the van to life. They all looked out as they made their way along the edge of the coastline cliffs, constantly scraping low-hanging trees, occasionally getting 54

stuck behind a massive tour bus that looked too big for the road.

They passed through three or four more towns, each one a little bigger and prettier than the last, but none were too huge.

Finally, they came to a large intersection that was clearly
somewhere
. The buildings didn’t peel here—they were big, in bold colors, with white detailing. There were grand cafés with crowds sitting outside. There were banks and shops and masses of tourists enjoying the late afternoon. The van turned down a road that had been cut into a split in the cliff. It folded in on itself in this crevice until it reached the bottom. They stopped at the water level, near a utilitarian ferry port. The town was a hundred feet above them now, its hotels built right to the very edge of the rock, adding to the height of the cliff. The water before them was peaceful. Big restaurants with huge signs welcoming tourists sat on pylons over the water.

“This is Sorrento,” her dad said. “We’ve arrived!”

The van died as soon as it heard those words.

“Like Pheidippides,” her father said, looking at Julia.

“Like what?” Clio asked, sliding out of the van.

“The first person to run the marathon,” he said. “He ran from the city of Marathon to Athens to report the outcome of a battle. He ran the whole stretch, gave the message, and died.

True story!”

He looked to Julia again. Obviously, now that he was dating a professor of archeology, he was going to be doing this kind of thing a lot. Wonderful. Clio looked to Martin, who smiled and shook his head.

“Actually,” Julia replied, stretching her arms above her head,

“that’s probably a myth. There’s no proof of it.”

55

She said it plainly, not cuttingly. But still, in her prim English accent, it made her father seem dim and overeager.

“I need to get in touch with home,” Clio said to her dad. “I need to tell Mom I got here safe. I need a phone or a computer.”

This was true. This could not be denied. But she also had to fix this Ollie thing,
now
.

“In a little while,” he said.

“It’s important,” Clio said. “I have to call soon.”

“Relax, kid . . . er, Clio.” He extended a hand to help Elsa get out of the van last, sleepy and slow. “Something to see first.”

“Is this it?” Elsa asked Clio. “I’ve been absolutely out. I didn’t realize how knackered I was.”

“I think so,” Clio said. “But I don’t know what
it
is.”

“Leave your bags, everyone!” her dad said. “Follow me!”

“I guess
it
is that way,” Clio said.

“Can you tell the driver that we’ll need at least an hour to unload?” he asked Elsa. “I’ll pay him for it.”

Elsa communicated this in Italian, and the offer was accepted.

Her father led them down a concrete path until it ended abruptly and four steps took them down to the dark-sanded beach. Clio looked over at the cliff face next to them, but couldn’t quite understand what she was seeing. It was like the world’s most extraordinary layer cake.

At the sand level, built entirely into the cliff, was a three-story building with a grapefruit-yellow front. The paint was worn to white in places, but the long windows were framed in bold and spotless red. If it had been up on a street, the building would have looked like an old hotel, but it actually had a large banner 56

on the front announcing in English that it was a dive shop. In the space above it, where a normal building would have air and sky, was the middle of an entirely different building, again built flat into the cliff. This one looked like an ancient fortress of gray brick, complete with tiny openings for archers to shoot from.

The structure was interrupted again near the top of the cliff, turning into a true and unmistakable grand hotel, also yellow, with pristine white archways that faced out to the sea and dripping greenery along the edge.

Clio wanted to draw it immediately, if only to understand it.

She could only admire the insanity of the people who made such a thing—or three things. But her dad had started doing a little tap dance on the sand.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, swinging his arms open.

“Welcome to your new home for the summer!”

There was some looking around at the water, the cliff, the Vespas parked along the walkway.

“You’re not talking about this, are you?” Aidan said, his voice thick with dismay.

Sitting on the sand in front of them, directly behind her father, was a fifty-foot-long decaying wooden boat. It was moored in place on a dangerous-looking diagonal with metal barrels and lumber shoved under it, just about holding it upright. About a third of it was covered with a tarp, but the remaining two-thirds consisted mainly of smashed-out windows and rot.

“I realize it needs a little work,” he father said. “But the potential!”

“This is our boat?” Julia asked. “This isn’t going to . . .”

57

Elsa’s eyes had gone wide. For once, strangers knew what Clio had been feeling all her life. That was a nice realization, but it didn’t take away from the wreck of reality in front of her.

“Ben,” Martin began. “I don’t think this is going to work.”

“That’s kind of an understatement,” Aidan said.

Her father looked at them in genuine confusion.

“Really?” he asked. “I got such a good deal on it.”

“I imagine you did,” Julia said.

Clio fixed her father with a deadly stare.

“With a little work,” he said, “it’ll be great. It’s not nearly as bad as it looks.”

Silence from the group. Martin let out a polite cough.

“Oh!” Her dad laughed, looking over his shoulder. “I’m sorry.

I was facing the wrong way. There’s our boat. Right there, on the end.”

They rotated as one toward the gently lapping water.

Before them, no more than fifteen feet out—swimming distance, maybe even walking distance—was a row of five fabulous boats. At the very end of the row was the biggest and baddest of them all, definitely a yacht. Something about this boat screamed,

“I am a very popular model in the world’s oil-bearing regions. I cost more than your soul!”

“Welcome to the
Sea Butterfly
, everyone,” he said, smiling one of the broadest, scariest smiles Clio had ever seen.

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