Wanderlove (15 page)

“Rowan.”

He glances at me. “Right,” he says. “Sorry.” Silently, I slip my sandal back on, feeling like a jerk.

We head back toward town. Livingston curves around a C-shaped harbor, backing into a fortress wall of jungle that stands starkly against the clouds. Despite the crappy weather, the streets bustle with activity. I see Mayans and mestizos, but most of the people are Garifuna: descendants of castaway African slaves and Caribbean Amerindians, Rowan explains.

The men are tall and thin with burnt-gold skin; the women are curvy, dressed in skirts, scarves, and dusty plastic sandals.

They speak Spanish, English, and the rollicking Garifuna language, which sounds like laughter. I can’t help wondering what they think of us, strolling through their downtown as if we belong. Especially since the majority of backpackers I’ve seen are white. Or at least half white, like Rowan.

Rowan walks a couple of feet in front of me. Not because he’s hurrying, but because I’m hanging back. The more I think about it, the more annoyed I am at myself.

It’s not that I don’t want to swim in the ocean. Not that long ago, I loved to swim. But now that I’ve made swimming into this great big thing, I feel nervous. Especially alongside someone like Rowan, who’s probably got salt water flowing through his veins.

I’m drawing in my sketchbook as I wait for Rowan in our room. Our
shared
room. Our twin beds stand just a hand’s width apart. Mine has Dora the Explorer sheets—except they say
Door the Explore.
The room’s walls are painted light blue, and I can see lumps in the paint where the brush trapped insects everlastingly. Pretty revolting. But at least there are two beds.

When I hear Rowan coming down the hall, I slip my sketchbook under my pillow. He leaves the door open, which makes me wonder if he’s trying to be a gentleman. Or if he doesn’t want to be alone with me, on account of the undeniable moodiness that’s plagued me ever since we left the shore.

“Well,” he says, “we won’t spend much time here.”

“Of course.”

“I think you’ll find Livingston a really fun place.”

“As long as the rain holds back.”

“It will.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m magic like that, and I thought we could go hiking tomorrow. There’s this group of waterfalls in the forest called Seven Altars. I haven’t hiked there before, but Starling went along with this crew of peace corps kids once. . . .” He’s looking at me tentatively, like he thinks I’ll refuse.

But hiking, I can do.

“Why not today?” I ask.

“Are you crazy? It looks like rain.” He pauses. “Hey, what’s that?”

I glance over my shoulder, afraid to see the corner of my sketchbook poking out. But Rowan’s pointing at my hand.

My hand, upon which I have unconsciously drawn. I shove it into my pocket. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“But—”

“So what are we going to do today, if we’re not hiking?” I push past him into the hall.

Rowan hesitates, then follows. “I don’t know. Wander around.” He closes our door and slams the padlock shut.

This is what we do.

We drink fresh pineapple juice in a café overlooking the fishing boats in the bay.

I pay a little girl two quetzales to put a single skinny braid in my hair. Rowan does the same when she begs him, but pulls it out as soon as we leave.

In an office the size of a tollbooth, Rowan introduces me to Sandu, our Garifuna guide for tomorrow’s hike. He wears little John Lennon sunglasses. Outside, we take turns on a pair of drums, owned by a man with a gold front tooth.

We feed rolls to stray dogs. Some are purebred—mostly German shepherds—but others look like a dozen breeds pasted together. They remind me of a game Reese and I have never outgrown.

The Monster Game

1) Take a piece of paper and fold it
horizontally, into fourths.

2) The first person draws a monster
head.* Then she folds the top fourth
over to hide it.

3) The second person draws a monster
chest. You have to leave a couple of
lines overlapping into the next fourth,
to guide each other.

4) Next come the monster hips and thighs.

If you’re a pervert, you can draw

monster naughty bits.

5) Last come the monster knees and feet.

6) When you’re finished, you unfold the
paper together and crack up at the ridiculous beast you created.

*Once, after we’d had a fight, I drew
Toby’s head in the top fourth. Reese
and I laughed so hard we cried.

Unexpectedly, the novelty I feel hanging out with someone like Rowan seems to go both ways. With each new spectacle—a fishmonger selling live crabs on sticks, two old women playing some version of patty-cake on the church steps, a moth with a wingspan wider than my hand flattened against a stucco wall—he seems genuinely fascinated by my reactions. As if my companionship just might be one of the strangest countries he’s ever visited.

Our day’s not all pineapples and patty-cake. We argue. A lot. Like when Rowan has a little too much to say about Southern California. Or when I won’t try his
elotes
, because mayonnaise just doesn’t belong on corn on the cob. Worst is when I ask about Lobsterfest and the island, which Rowan isn’t very eager to talk about.

“We’re going to be spending a week there,” I complain, “and I know nothing about it.”

“Google it,” Rowan retorts. “You know how, right?” Asshole. I guess I should have known better.

Mostly, though, Rowan and I have fun. So much fun it’s easy to forget how little I know him. When I remember, I feel a sudden shyness wash over me.

Over the course of the day, I try to piece together what I do know. Rowan has a half sister named Starling. He watched
Easy Rider
as a little boy. He skipped college and traveled instead, spinning the world like a top, teaching diving wherever he landed. Sometime in the last couple of years, he screwed up, and he’s trying to get over it, trying to forget.

I can’t help wondering about the details.

I know what Starling implied, about the smorgasbord of backpacker chicks and the dive partner and the pounds of bananas that in all likelihood weren’t bananas, but Rowan doesn’t seem eager to share the details. It’s frustrating, but I can’t blame him.

We’re sitting at a restaurant, picking bones out of fish with the fins and heads still attached, when Liat ambushes us. “Bree-yah!” she crows, throwing her arms around me. She’s wearing a long purple dress with a fuchsia flower in her crazy hair, which is so big I could practically hide inside it. “Why didn’t you guys wait for us at the Rainforest Retreat? You
knew
we were going to Livingston.” She glances over her shoulder. “Tom, come!” Tom of the Jungle shuffles over obediently, glowering into a beer mug. His eyes are red. I wonder if they’ve been fighting.

I glance at Rowan, who’s already getting to his feet.

“Nice to see you guys,” he says, “but unfortunately, we were just leaving.”

“You’re
always
leaving.” Liat turns to me. “He
always
leaves. Bria, why don’t you stay a while? Have a Cuba libre.

Let the good boy go to bed.”

I glance from Liat to Rowan. I think my decision-maker’s broken. Part of me wants to go with Rowan, and the other part—let’s call it the Olivia Luster on my shoulder—is compelling me to stay out. I wish Rowan didn’t seem so averse to meeting people. Maybe he’s met too many; I don’t know. But I do know I’m never going to reinvent myself if I don’t at least pretend to be the girl I want to be: the independent party girl who seizes the day, all day, every day. And a Cuba libre seems like a painless place to start. “Maybe for a little while,” I say.

“Really?” Rowan says. “You sure?”

His eyebrows reach cruising altitude. I try not to feel insulted, but it’s hard. “Yeah, really.”

“Yaaayy!” Liat hugs me again.

“Bria . . . can I talk to you a minute?” Rowan asks.

Liat rolls her eyes.

Once Rowan and I are outside, he clears his throat a couple of times. I wait, feeling annoyed. “Don’t stay out too late,” he says finally. “This isn’t the safest place in the world.”

“I’ll be fine,” I insist, though now I’m a little spooked.

“That’s all?”

“Just knock five times when you get to our room.”

“Or I could just say, ‘It’s Bria.’ ”

He looks like he’s trying and failing to smile. “Okay . . .

See you later.”

Still feeling annoyed and spooked and now weirded out besides, I rejoin Liat and Tom at their booth. Things only get weirder. Liat doesn’t scoot over, and I’m forced to sit by Tom, whose posture resembles a fist.

“So what’s Rowan’s deal?” Liat asks.

“He’s tired, I guess.”

“Tired?” She begins a story about the time she fell asleep on a nude beach in Crete. I keep waiting for some kind of punch line, but the story just rambles on and on. Then, without any warning, she jumps up and skips off into the crowd. I’m left sitting beside Tom, who mumbles something into his cup.

“What did you say?” I ask, leaning in.

He nods out the window. “Bats.”

I listen hard. Sure enough, I detect a high-pitched squeaking. At long last, Liat reappears, clutching a new cup. Instead of sitting across from us, she tosses herself onto my lap, hurling one arm around Tom’s neck and one around mine. “Tom didn’t tell you about the Czech chicks, did he?”

“Huh?” I glance at Tom.

“Because we promised,” Liat says.

“Um, he didn’t say anything. Really.”

Liat looks placated. “So where’s Rowan?” she asks as she slides into the gap between Tom and me. I use the opportunity to switch benches.

“I told you. He’s in bed.”

“You didn’t. You only said he was tired. Did he tell you I knew him in Honduras?”

I almost knock over my cup. “What?”

“On Utila island!
Everyone
knew him. Rowan’s crazy wild.

You should have seen the shit he got away with. It was like a nonstop rave when he was there.”

I hide my face by taking a sip of my drink.

I can’t believe Rowan didn’t tell me he knew Liat. He had tons of chances, last night and today. Why wouldn’t he tell me? It’s too damn weird. Is it because this so-called knowing is the nudge-wink kind? Ugh. Rowan’s not my property—I barely know him—but it bothers me more than I care to admit. And a nonstop rave?
Seriously?

“Where are you guys headed?” Liat asks, unaware of my discomfort.

“Some island,” I say vaguely. “He’s teaching a class.”

“With the giant?”

“The what?”

“The giant! That Scandinavian beast, what’s-his-name.

Rowan’s business partner.” She winks exaggeratedly. “Come on, girl! You know the diving’s just a front. You should have seen him the time he—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say quickly.

And I don’t. Not because I’m not dying of curiosity. Or because I feel particularly bad talking behind Rowan’s back, especially now that I’ve discovered he lied about knowing Liat.

No, it’s because, all of a sudden, I’m having trouble breathing, and I suspect what I hear might result in full cardiac ar-rest. I remind myself of how Rowan turned away those drug-seeking Spring Breakpacker guys on the boat. And of how Starling seems so certain he’s reformed—
mostly
certain.

Liat is referring to the past, not the present, and the past is something for Rowan to tell me about when he’s ready. I owe him that much, even if I’m pissed off.

“So what are you guys doing tomorrow?” I direct my question toward Tom, whose silence is starting to fester.

Liat interjects. “What are
you
doing?” Oh, great—she took it as an invitation. I’m not sure if she’s trying to get closer to Rowan, or if it’s entirely innocent and she just wants to be my friend. Or maybe she and Tom are swingers. And I don’t mean the hammock kind. Whatever her motive, I want to escape.

“We’re supposed to hike.” I start massaging my temples.

“But I’m getting a killer headache, so it might not happen. To be honest, I should probably head for bed. . . .”

“What hike?” Liat perks up even more.

Without waiting for my reply, she launches into a story about a time she went trekking up Mount Sinai with a group of American Birthright kids. She’s still talking as I squeeze myself out of the booth, nod uneasily at Tom of the Jungle, and back out of the bar.

Here’s the thing about SCAA’s fast-track competition: we both were certain Toby would make it.

By all conventional rules, he was the better artist. He’d always taken art more seriously, at least. If it came down to the two of us, they’d choose him, not me.

And I was
fine
with that. Really.

The day fast track admissions were announced, Toby and I were lying on my bed, He held my laptop his other hand on my stomach, which was aflutter with mutant moth-creatures.

Toby never got nervous—outwardly, at least. Casually, he ran his fingertips over my skin as he clicked
refresh, refresh, refresh,
waiting for the list of names that was already twenty minutes late.

“I’m telling you, you shouldn’t have stuck in that fairy drawing,” he said, teasing me. “They’re going to think you’re ten years old.”

Twelve students would be admitted to SCAA’s fast-track program. It was exciting, but honestly, it didn’t offer all that much over regular admission: some extra professor mentor-ship, a few general education units waived. Mostly, it signified what Toby called gloating rights. But nothing too monumental, I told myself, or too divisive. If either of us didn’t make it into fast track, we’d both still attend SCAA anyway. Nothing would change between us. I filled out the general application to California’s state schools to appease my parents, but I didn’t apply to any other art schools.

I’m still trying to figure out why.