Take It Off (7 page)

“Jonathan, what happened?” Stephanie asked, her face making an affected concerned-frowning expression.

“The Internet is
broken
,” Jonathan said, a little winded. “So, I'm sorry I'm late. But I've been talking with the tech people all morning trying to get it up and running. Everyone should stay calm, but it looks really bad.”

Stephanie's face broke out in a relieved smile. “Oh, Jonathan, you're cute. But it really doesn't matter because today we're going to Palma, Mallorca's capital, and tomorrow we go on our survival test. So there won't
be
any Internet.”

“Survival
test
…?” Jonathan said, his eyes widening to milky saucers. Patch grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him down into a seat.

“You can take a written test, instead, don't worry, man,” Patch said.

“What does
that
mean? I'm not afraid to do survival!” Jonathan said, grabbing the clipboard as it came around and writing himself into a group with Patch and two Brit girls from his orientation group.

Everyone continued to buzz with excited little
whispers. When Stephanie wrapped up the morning's announcements, she told everyone to go back to their rooms and get ready for a free day in Palma de Mallorca.

“Just don't forget your passports,” she said. “And remember to be back on the boat by seven thirty. We set sail for Barker Island at eight o'clock.”

Arno went to Jonathan's cabin and let himself in.

“
Dude
, what are you doing?” Arno leaned against the door and crossed his left ankle over his right jauntily. He was pretty sure he'd won Suki the night before—so sure, in fact, that he was feeling a little sorry for Mickey—and he was eager to get her off the boat and have her to himself for a while. “It's our last free day before survival hell, and we're going to miss it because you're doing your hair.”

“I was just hoping the tech people would give me a call and let me know that the Internet is up and running before we went ashore,” Jonathan said weakly, meeting Arno's eyes in the mirror.

“J, don't be a douche. There're Internet cafés on shore. You can wait a few hours. And besides, remember the New Year's Eve we spent on Ibiza, what was it, three years ago? You loved it. So let's mother-fucking-go.”

Jonathan sighed and grabbed his Jack Spade suede
tool bag. “What are
you
bringing?” he asked.

“Um, wallet, passport, sunglasses? I mean, you don't need an
overnight
bag here, J. Oh, and Stephanie left us a memo this morning reminding us to take out whatever plane tickets, travelers checks, etcetera, we might have in our wallets, 'cuz if we lose that stuff, we're fucked.”

“Right,” Jonathan said as he removed a hefty manila envelope from his bag and set it on the bed. He was wearing a white V-neck, Helmut Lang white cords, and his Gucci loafers; he wasn't exactly going to look like your average American backpacker. He threw his argyle sweater in the bag for good measure.

“Can we go now?” Arno prodded.

They walked up to the deck. Most of the students were already on shore, although there were still a few, dressed for a day of beach and sun, debarking with them. Arno and Jonathan met Mickey and Patch on the dock. Greta and Suki stood with them, wearing big sunglasses and American Apparel cotton short shorts, red for Suki and blue for Greta. Suki's long dark hair hung over her shoulders in two braids.

“So what's the plan?” Jonathan asked glumly.

“Stephanie was saying that the old town is really cool, with castles and cathedrals and things,” Patch offered. Pretty much everyone groaned.

Mickey flipped a tropical-design beach towel over his head. “I am all about the beach.”

Arno tried to think quickly. If he could come up with another activity that left Mickey at the beach by himself, or better yet, with Greta, then Arno could have Suki all to himself. What came out of his mouth sounded pompous even to him. “That's so
frivolous
,” he said. “We should really go into town and try and get some gifts and things. You know, for our moms.”

“For your mom?” Suki giggled and winked. “Arno, you're too much.”

“Come with me.”

Suki bit her lip. “I'd love to, but Greta and I are actually going to the beach,” she said, gesturing at their beach bags.

Mickey did a little jig. “You could come with us, I guess, but that would probably feel a little, um, I dunno, frivolous.”

“Fine, whatever,” Jonathan said. “I'll go with you, Arno. I didn't bring a bathing suit anyway. And we can buy stuff and check our e-mail at the same time.”

“Guys, I think I'd rather, um, explore the town,” Patch said. “Let's all do our own thing and whatever and then tonight we can meet up for dinner. Cool?”

“Oh,” Greta said.

“Fine, great,” Jonathan said.

“See ya!” Mickey cackled. Arno watched as he walked off down the bay side promenade, holding hands with Greta and Suki. He cursed himself for making such an amateur's mistake.

Stephanie came up behind them then, wearing her usual jean cutoffs, tight Ocean Term T-shirt, and tossing her head of curls.

“Are we going to go see some gorgeous Catalan architecture or what?” she asked, her big toothy smile spreading all the way across her face. Patch nodded to the guys, and he and Stephanie headed into the warren of streets above the docks.

“Listen,” Jonathan said, unfolding a map he'd gotten from somewhere, “if we go up Maritimo, which I
think
is what we're on, like seven blocks or something, then take a right on Calle de San Cristobal, and then if we go, like, two blocks we'll be at the Ciber Tango Café …”

But Arno was so furious he wasn't even listening.

“Oh …
yeah
…”

Mickey leaned into his chaise lounge and took a sip of his mojito. He wiggled his toes and brushed the sand off his chest. Next to him, Suki and Greta had arranged themselves on their lounge chairs so as to catch the best sun rays. They had taken the bus to Playa de Palma, just outside the city, where the water was warm and gentle and the beach was wide and sandy. After a few hours of running in and out of the waves, they rented chairs and ordered drinks. All around them, lithe, tanned Spaniards and fat, pink English tourists were drinking and lounging and reading
Hello!
magazine. Mickey had been feeling good. Now he was feeling even better.

“If we had more of
this
over
there
,” Suki said, pointing first at the beach below her and then at the
Ariadne
, which they could see docked on the other side of the bay, “this trip would be a whole lot more fun.”

“Ew, look at
that
,” Greta giggled. She pointed at the large, pale, dimpled rear of a touristy-looking woman
walking by them who was wearing a (thankfully) one-piece green bathing suit decorated with mauve flowers.

“American or Brit?” Mickey asked.

“Definitely American,” Suki said. “If she's not, next round of drinks is on me.”

“Aye, luv!” Mickey called in faux-Cockney. The woman turned to them, looking first confused and then pleased when she saw Mickey Pardo, the Latin fireball, waving at her.

“
Ayyyee, luv,”
she replied, putting a hand on her hip and cracking a thin-lipped smile at him.

“Ohhhh … hi,” Mickey said, his smile fading and his accent switching back to American. “I thought you were someone else. Sorry!”

They all suppressed giggles until the wide British lady was safely gone, and then they broke out in hooting laughter. When the hilarity subsided, Suki stood up and put her floppy straw hat on.

“Well, I guess it's drinks time. Three mojitos?”

“Yes, please!”

“Thanks, sister.” Mickey gently slapped Suki's thigh as she turned to walk up the beach.

When she had disappeared into the palm-fronded shack near the beach's entrance, Greta sighed and relaxed back into the chair.

“The water's so
turquoise
,” she said.

“We don't have beaches like these in New Yawk City.”

“Yeah, or in my town, either. I mean, we go to the beach all the time because my boyfriend is, like, a surfer. But it's never calm and tranquil like this.”

Mickey, who hated calm and tranquil, fought the urge to run down the beach and pants all the European dudes in their idiot Speedos. He took in the air and the sun and the salt air for a few good minutes until that urge passed, and then he turned to Greta with his signature wild-eyed smile.

“So give it to me straight: Is your girl into me, or what the fuck?”

Greta opened her mouth to say something, but quieted when she saw Suki coming up behind him with a tray of drinks. Once she had handed them around and resettled into her chair, an awkward silence descended. Greta took a few obligatory sips of her mojito and then excused herself, saying she wanted to take one last dip before it got too late.

Mickey watched her until she had splashed in and taken a few strokes out to sea, and then he leaned over and began to kiss Suki. She tasted cold, like sugar and rum and ice, and Mickey was feeling good until he realized that he was kissing her way more than she was kissing him. Then she pulled back and bit her lip.

“Listen, Mickey. I like you, and we had a really lovely night the other night, but I think I—”

“Like Arno,” Mickey said with a tone of weary disgust.

“Well, yeah, I guess … Yeah, I do. But that's not really the point. He told me about Philippa.”

“What?!”
That
pissed him off. “She's my
ex-
girlfriend.”

“Yeah, I know. And it was hella shady for Arno to tell me. But still, doesn't it seem like you might, just
maybe,
be rebounding?”

Mickey had to sort of acknowledge this to be true. Pretty much all his rambunctious, self-destructive energy right now could be chocked up to his split from Philippa Frady. Making it all even worse was the fact that it had been an amicable, reasonable, tentative breakup—which really wasn't the Pardo style. He was so taken in by Suki's calm logic that he almost ceased being angry at Arno. Then he thought of Philippa and how in love with her he was.

Suki reached out and touched his hand. “I think I'm going to go find Arno, okay?” she said softly, picking up her beach bag. “Could you tell Greta that I'll meet her on board at eight?” She bit her lip again and gave him a pained, apologetic look. “Maybe I'll see you at that party in Patch's cabin tonight. And, Mickey? Sorry.”

Mickey watched Suki walk off the beach. She went the wrong direction, and then had to turn around and walk all the way back to the entrance they had come in through. She was adorable, and she was going to find Arno: Arno, who had double-crossed him by bringing up Philippa, the girlfriend Mickey had just begun to not obsess over. Mickey was pretty near boiling point, and he began to the thrash around in his chair. He started sort of wrestling with it, and then all of a sudden, the whole thing collapsed.

As he pushed himself up, a little stunned, from the wreckage of the lounger, he saw Greta O'Grady rising out of the water and coming toward him. And suddenly, it was like she was someone he had never met before.

“Lovely day for a
corrida
, isn't it?” Barker called out, raising his wineglass in Patch's direction. Barker had caught Patch and Stephanie wandering happily around the town and roped them into going to a bullfight with him and the Spanish minister of tourism. The minister of tourism had already told them, at length, how he spent every winter on Mallorca, and also how he and Barker had been backpacking buddies in the sixties. He looked like Barker, too: They both wore gigantic sun hats and rubbed their considerable bellies. The deputy minister of tourism was with him, and he was much younger and more handsome than his boss. They were all lined up on the stone coliseumlike seats of the bullfighting stadium, and Patch was pleased that at least he was sitting all the way on the end.

Patch nodded in Barker's direction. He didn't really get why any day would be a beautiful day for slaughtering animals, and he didn't really get why they were there. Patch and Stephanie had planned to spend the
day exploring backward corners of the city, maybe going for a little surf in the afternoon, and now, somehow they'd ended up with Barker again.

“I'm
so
sorry,” she whispered in his ear. She sort of nuzzled at it, too. Patch was feeling restless and kind of irritable. He tried to push her away gently.

“It's cool,” he said.

Patch liked spending time with Stephanie—she had been a lot of places, she was down for anything, she was pretty physical, and those were all things people said about Patch. Plus, he usually went out with stunning, haughty women who were always complicated, and Stephanie was just fun and not like that.

She made a little pouting face and went back to chatting with the minister of tourism and his deputy.

The sixth and final fight was about to take place, and Patch was ready for it to be over. He'd already watched five bulls get killed in roughly the same way, and the whole thing seemed pretty Medieval to him. The fighters themselves teased the bulls and then hid behind these big protective fences, and they never really got close to them until after a guy on a horse, with a lot of armor on, came out and stabbed the bull in the back twice. This was about to happen again.

Down the row, the minister of tourism was describing the beautiful dance of death that they were watching,
and Stephanie kept going “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” and “Wow.” Patch couldn't listen anymore, so he let his eyes drift across the crowd. Then he heard some familiar voices.