The Starboard Sea: A Novel (7 page)

When I think back
On all the crap I learned in high school It’s a wonder
I can think at all.
And though my lack of education hasn’t hurt me none,
I can read the writing on the wall.

Aidan didn’t join in, but as I continued singing “Kodachrome,” I saw her hand tap twice against her knee. Encouraged, I broke into a furious piano solo, before remembering that I was in a library. When I looked up from playing, Aidan stood in front of me.

“Hope these walls are soundproof,” I said.
“They’re pretty thick.”
“Do you play?” I asked.
“No. My hands are tiny.”
“Is this your private study?”
“Mr. Guy put me on key permission.” Aidan rubbed her palms

over the outside lip of the piano. Her fingers were thin and childlike for someone so tall.
“What’s Mr. Guy like? Tazewell told me he’s a closet pervert.”
“Well, Tazewell would know, wouldn’t he?”
“Sorry. That was stupid.” I looked down and continued to play. “I haven’t been speaking to many people lately. I think I’ve forgotten how.”
Aidan went over and sat on one of the chairs. Curling her legs and stretching her skirt down over her feet. She closed her eyes.
“Why did they bother you back there?” I asked.
“I can’t imagine the movies inside their heads.” She spoke with her eyes closed.
“You said your name was Aidan, but they called you Hester.”
“Race’s attempt at a literary allusion.” She picked up the key that hung like a charm on her necklace. Running it back and forth along the silver chain.
I shook my head and looked down at the piano. The keys were real ivory, but I could tell where a few had been replaced and covered with yellowing plastic. I stroked each off-colored note and began to improvise medleys of old songs my mother had taught me. “I Remember You,” “All My Tomorrows,” and “You Stepped out of a Dream,” then crescendoed with a number Riegel had insisted I learn: Mötley Crüe’s “Home Sweet Home.” Aidan listened as I tried to make up for Tazewell’s serenade.
“You’re very sweet,” she said. “And completely ridiculous.”
The politeness in her voice told me that I’d done enough and that she would be okay on her own. It was my signal to leave. I didn’t want to. “Can I ask you,” I started, “why you stand out on the rocks?”
She smiled. Sat up straight. “For the ocean. The one good thing about this place.”
“Why do you stay here if you don’t like it?”
She stared hard at me. “I grew up on the West Coast. The water makes me feel safe. It’s a constant.” She put her hand to her face, “Have you ever wondered how the oceans were formed?”
“They weren’t just always there?”
“I figure it must have rained. Incredible storms for hundreds of thousands of years. Raining all the time.”
“I guess,” I said. None of this had ever occurred to me. “I sail,” I said, and instantly regretted it.
Aidan glanced at her watch. “You should go to dinner.”
“Join me.” I stood up.
“Sorry, no.” Aidan looked out the window at the darkening sky. “You don’t eat, do you?”
“I know how to take care of myself.”
“I don’t believe you.” I closed the piano cover and stood up to leave. “You know, I’m going to make it a point whenever I see you to be like the ocean. You can look to me for relief.”
Aidan said nothing, and I left her on her own.

FOUR

We gathered on a green skirt of lawn for an all-school photo. A four- tiered section of bleachers had been arranged in a horse shoe formation to hold the three hundred or so Bellingham students who had lasted through the first weeks of school. Positioned in front of the stalls was an old-fashioned camera set up on a tripod. Tinks, the headmaster’s secretary and our impromptu photographer, marshaled orders, flashing a strobe over our faces, taking light readings, and fixing the camera’s exposure. Mr. Windsor stayed cool under the red shade of a Japanese maple.

“We want to do this fast while the sun is still with us.” Tinks, with her gin-and-tonic lockjaw, looked like a candy cane in her bright pink- and-mint-striped dress. “You know the routine. Seniors in back standing tall, then the juniors, then sophomores. All of you freshmen will have to sit down on the grass.”

“The grass is wet,” one of the freshman girls said. I recognized

Nadia’s accent.
“Do as you’re told,” Tinks said. “Your clothes will dry. And, please:
no fidgeting.”
We rushed onto the steps like a frenzy of fire ants. Below me, I saw
Nadia lifting the hem of her floral-print dress, arranging herself awkwardly on the wet ground.
“Freshmen, please keep your feet flat on the grass.” Tinks tapped
the tips of her shoes. “We have no wish to photograph the scuffed-up
soles of your clogs and loafers. Sophomores, fill in the gaps, but don’t block the person behind you. Remember, this is not just any snapshot. One day, this photograph will be the only proof you’ll have of having been here. The pose you strike today will be the pose your grandchildren, as they walk through these halls, will know you by.” Though Tinks was a much older woman, there was something strangely sexual about her. Like a favorite nursemaid who might spank you and call you naughty. “You”—she pointed to Aidan, who stood beside Mr. Guy— “go join your class up top. Chop-chop.” Tinks flashed the light meter
near Aidan’s face.
Momentarily blinded, Aidan hesitated before climbing up onto the
stall. She saw me, began to move in my direction. Someone started the
wave, raising wild arms and pushing Aidan forward. She braced herself against my leg. I helped her up beside me.
“Tip-top,” Tinks announced. “It’s posterity time. Now, the camera
will start on the left, sweeping slowly across your pretty faces, until it
glides over to the right side. Stand still. Scratch your nose, and you’ll
show up as a big blur.”
“Wouldn’t be so bad,” Aidan said, “to be faceless.”
Shouts broke out as Tazewell and Race cut across the quad in a swift
gait. They looked identical in their black Wayfarers and garish redand-yellow sport coats. As they came closer, the yellow splotches on
their jackets turned into sunfish, while dancing hula girls shimmied
across the bellies of their comically enormous neckties.
“Tastes great,” Tazewell and Race yelled.
“Less filling,” the bleachers volleyed their response.
“Tastes great.”
Less filling. Tastes great
. Thus, the banter continued. Bellingham
Academy: everything you always wanted in a prep school and less. Aidan gazed down behind her. We were a good ten feet from the
ground.
“Don’t jump,” I said.
Tazewell pushed through the bleachers.
“You weren’t going to start without us.” He and Race joined Aidan
and me on the far end, forcing us inward.
“Hey, Hester,” Race said, “move over.”
“You’re going to like this, Prosper.” Tazewell slapped my back. Tinks stood behind the camera and shouted, “Don’t forget to
smile.” She pulled a crank device and started the camera. I held still as the lens slowly captured me. Smiling straight ahead,
I heard a sound to my right. Tazewell and Race jumped from the
bleachers, catching Aidan off balance. She twisted around, her arms
swimming above her head. I reached out to her but Aidan fell back
clumsily onto the grass below. As the film rolled, Tazewell scrambled
and ran out across the lawn in a wide arc around Tinks and the camera.
Race trotted unseen behind the bleachers. They both wanted to appear
in the picture twice. Twinning themselves. I wished I’d thought of it.
While the camera glided over posed faces, cheers of encouragement
broke out for Tazewell. I cheered too. Aidan held her knee and looked
up at me. I sprang off the top stair. Soon there was whistling followed by
applause.
“I think they made it.” I knelt down beside Aidan.
She reached for the metal frame of the bleachers and pulled herself up.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Same routine. Every year.” She shook her head.
Students stomped against the stairs and filed past us. Tazewell flew
by, twirling his sunglasses and shouting, “Live, and in stereo!” Mr. Guy came around the corner and touched Aidan on the arm.
“Ready?” he asked.
Aidan nodded.
Mr. Guy tilted his head and studied me. “Mr. Prosper, are you
aware that the dress code specifically regulates that all gentlemen
maintain a haircut above the collar line?”
“My mother likes it long,” I said. “Breaks her heart when I try to
tame it.”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if I introduce you to my barber.” He
turned his back to me.
Aidan bowed to Mr. Guy.
As I returned to the Barracuda, Stuyvie and Race accosted me. Greeting me with smug, shit-eating grins.
“Did you see that, Prosper?” Race slapped my shoulder. “First time
in three years someone’s beat the camera. Beauty. Total beauty.” “Sure you made it in time?” I asked.
“Of course I made it.”
Stuyvie dug his hands down into his pocket and adjusted his un
derwear.
“Looked pretty close to me,” I said. The three of us walked up the
cement stairs that led into the Barracuda. “That girl, the Hester Prynne
girl, what’s her story?”
“So
that’s
your type.” Race loosened his tie.
Stuyvie spoke up. “Guess Prosper has a little thing for bad girls.” “I don’t have little things,” I said. “I’m curious, that’s all.” We stood together by the Barracuda’s glass doors. Race kept his
Wayfarers on as he spoke. I couldn’t see his eyes, so I couldn’t tell for
sure whether or not he was lying.
“She’s not a beast or anything. Nice hair. Who knows what kind of
body’s hiding under those gypsy skirts she wears. The thing is, Hester’s damaged goods. She’s tarnished. Just like the real Hester.” Race
snapped off the hula girl tie and rolled it up.
“The whole point of
The Scarlet Letter
is that Hester hasn’t really
done anything wrong,” I said. “She’s punished for no good reason. It’s
supposed to be ironic.”
“Dude, I’m not here to argue metaphors.” Race smirked. He cleared
his throat and lowered his voice. “The girl was kicked out of school
for seducing her art teacher. She forced herself on him. Then she went
crazy. Tried to kill the guy when he stopped nailing her. It was a
megascandal. Made some papers.”
“It’s true,” said Stuyvie. “I read Hester’s files.” He gave me a long,
sideways look. “I read all of the files in my dad’s office. Even the confidential ones. Even the ones the teachers aren’t permitted to see. My
father lets me take a peek at everything.”
Stuyvie stared at me and winked.
“So what is it you know?” I asked.
“She held a shard of glass to the guy’s neck. Threatened to slit his
throat. Some art project.” Stuyvie seemed scared and excited at the
same time. One of his eyelids was twitching. “Cops arrested her, tossed
her in jail. You’ve
got
to see the mug shot in her file. She looks deranged.”
I listened with interest, more intrigued than ever. Aidan had a past.
I liked this about her. The real story of how she’d landed at this school
was probably more fascinating than anything Race or Stuyvie could
imagine or read in a manila folder. I thanked them both for warning me.

Late that afternoon, I found myself sitting alone on the seawall kicking my feet against the cement, watching the sailing team practice. The prevailing winds ran southwest, carrying canopies of white scalloped clouds over the choppy waters. Out in the harbor, Coach Tripp piloted around the Fireballs on his silver launch bullhorning orders, critiquing maneuvers. In the distance, I thought I saw Race and his new crew.

I’d always believed that I was at my best when out on the water. Now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe I wasn’t careful enough or maybe I’d been any good in the first place only because of Cal. When we’d sail off Northeast Harbor, Cal would insist on searching out storms, the coastal weather defined by danger. “We need to learn how to handle the wilds. Test ourselves.” Cal wanted a competitive edge, and at Kensington we were one of the rare teams to play the squalls, using the rough winds to make a charge for victory. As a team, we loved taking risks, but Cal had an alertness, a feel for what could go wrong. “It’s the waves we need to worry about, not the winds,” he’d always say, and he was right. Winds could knock a boat around, but a wave could seize a ship and blast her open. I knew how to read the wind, but Cal was an expert at appraising the waves.

I was thinking about the last time Cal and I sailed together, when I suddenly felt a shadow over me. I turned and saw Aidan.
“Thought that was you,” she said. “You look so calm. Didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Watch this.” I pointed to a dinghy attempting to jibe around a buoy. The winds were flukey and in one brief instant the sails went from full breasted to flat chested. “They’re going to capsize.” Sure enough, the dinghy broached to windward and the boat began to oscillate, sinking into a death roll. The mast and sails collided with the water as the skipper and crew dumped overboard, legs and arms akimbo.
Aidan gasped. I assured her that the sailors would be fine, though it took the pair several attempts before they righted the boat.
“Did you cast a spell?” Aidan asked. “How’d you know that would happen?”
“I always know about the wind.”
Even on land, I never stopped being a sailor. I clocked the wind gradient, how the speed of the wind increased the higher it rose off land or water, and constantly mea sured the air against surfaces, considering how I would angle and trim my sails.
“What’s your trick, Prospero?” Aidan brushed her hair back off her face. She had on a shapeless, oversized sweater, black tights. A long black scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. She sat down near but not directly beside me, tucking her knees inside the ugly rust-colored sweater, clasping her arms around her legs.
Aidan’s body carried a sense of caution. Like she might spring up and leave me at any moment. Her perfume drifted downwind, some mixture of large and small white flowers, the kind my mother always bought for Easter. Gardenias and lilies of the valley.
“I have no tricks, just my powers of observation.” I pointed out to the bay. “Waves are one indicator for what the wind’s about to do. See how the water looks as though it’s been scarred. Like a cat ran its claws over the waves. Now watch: The wind’s going to build first in small gusts, then larger puffs. You can see it take shape over the water until finally”—I signaled to a dinghy that was stalled in a lull—“the wind will hit that sail and send the boat bowling forward.”
When the dinghy took off as I’d predicted, Aidan clapped. “So it’s not just luck,” she said. “You don’t aim your boat in one direction and hope for the best.”
“It’s not enough to know where the wind is. You also have to anticipate where it’s going to be.”
For me, sailing was as much a language as a sport. The nomenclature key to communicating with a crew. I tried to explain the basics to Aidan. She nodded as I described the difference among a beat, a run, and a reach. “If you’re beating, you’re sailing as close to the wind as possible but not so close that you end up in irons. Too much wind can actually slow your sails. When you’re on a run, you’re sailing away or downwind.”
“Like the wind is chasing you,” Aidan said. “And you’re running away.”
“Yeah, like that. A reach is all the angles in between beating and running. From there, things get more complicated because you could be on a beam, a close, or a broad reach.”
Aidan raised her hands signaling that I was confusing her, telling her too much.
“Maybe,” I said, “it would be easier if I just showed you. I could take you out sometime.”
“Boats scare me.” Aidan pulled at the hem of her sweater, releasing the silky yarn from its weave. She loosened the scarf around her neck. “Those little numbers out there look like all they want to do is sink.”
“Actually,” I said, “what a sailboat really wants to do is fly. The wind doesn’t just push the boat forward but actually lifts the sails like an airfoil. Like the wing of a plane. If the angle of attack is just right and the camber of the sail full bellied, a boat can soar right out of the water and into the air.”
“So why aren’t you out there sailing?” Aidan asked.
It occurred to me that she hadn’t heard about my accident with Race. I liked that she didn’t know. She made me feel exempt, protected from my mistake. “Oh, I’m just taking a break from it all.”
We leaned back against the lawn staring up at the flagpole. I used the waving American flag as a telltale to teach Aidan how to see the wind and predict its movement. First I had her study the different stages of unfurling, how the flag went from being at rest to twisting and snapping and finally to a full billow. Then I showed her how the wind would travel from the flag to a stand of red cedars, rustling the needles and branches before singing against a wind chime hanging on the headmaster’s porch.
“That’s really something,” she said. “A person can actually read the wind.”
“Don’t be too impressed.”
“Who said I was impressed?” Aidan flashed a small smile. “I bet you’ve taught me everything you know.”
“Almost everything,” I said.
“I bet you’d like to be the wind,” she said. “Bet in your next life you’ll return as a typhoon.”
“Not a tycoon?”
“No. You’ll be a windstorm.”
“And what are you going to come back as?”
Aidan thought about it for a moment. “I’d like to be light meter.”
“A what?”
“A light meter. Like a photographer uses. Tinks had one this morning.” Aidan snapped an imaginary photo of me. “I’d like to be able to mea sure and know for certain whether people were giving off light or taking light away.”
“You’re strange,” I said. “But I think I like that about you.”
Out in the harbor, the sailing team began to head in to shore. I didn’t want to be there when they landed. Didn’t want Race or Coach Tripp to think I’d been watching them. That I was missing out on anything. “Sorry,” I said to Aidan. “I have to go.”
We both got up to leave. I rushed off to Whitehall and assumed Aidan would head back to Astor. But when I turned around briefly, I saw Aidan uncoiling her black scarf from around her neck. She held each end of the scarf above her head, the silk capturing the wind, arching above her like a parachute. Aidan released one end, kiting the scarf. The wind swirled around her for a moment before Aidan let go completely. She was an excellent student. The light silk caught a thermal and rose, sailing above the water. A dark black bird against the blue sky.