Wanderlove Page 8

  “Rowan reminded me that those muggers were just two bad people out of millions of good ones. Great ones, like my host family. And that it had happened to me—well, it was just luck of the draw.”

  “Having hot-pink streaks in your hair didn’t help, though,” Rowan says.

  “Victim-blamer! You should be ashamed of yourself.” Starling nods at me. “Your turn, Bria.”

  I take a deep breath. I listened to her story, but at the same time I was deciding what I wanted to tell. “When I was fourteen, I almost drowned,” I begin.

  Starling looks disappointed.

  I tell them how I woke up underwater with no idea how I got there. I could see the place where the wall met the bottom of the pool. But it didn’t occur to me to kick. I just hung there, unmoving, suspended in silence. Then a pair of hands grabbed my arms, and with a sucking splash, someone lifted me into the world of noises again. I’d learn later that I’d hit my head on the diving board. Blacked out for just an instant. Drank half the pool into my lungs. I’d slipped, Olivia said.

  “Luckily, I didn’t need help breathing,” I add. “I coughed up all the water as soon as they pulled me out. We decided not to tell our parents. My friend Olivia took me home.”

  Starling wrinkles her nose. “The girl with the spangles.”

  “I have a scar, but it’s hidden under my hair.”

  “Like that little Antichrist boy in that old movie The Omen? With the 666 tattoo?”

  I stick out my tongue at her. “Exactly.”

  “So that’s why you don’t swim,” Rowan says quietly.

  Wrong. Sure, almost drowning was scary and all, but I’ve swum dozens and dozens of times since, maybe even hundreds of times. But if I told Rowan the truth—that swimming has made me sad ever since I stupidly gave my virginity to my jackass ex-boyfriend at my favorite beach, the beach where I used to draw and swim, and he totally didn’t get the importance of it, of any of it—he would think I was pathetic. And probably also a little insane. At least the swimming pool story makes a good excuse. “Your turn,” I say in lieu of agreement.

  “Pass.”

  “Pass?” I repeat. “You can’t pass.” I glance at Starling, waiting for her to object, but she doesn’t. I turn back to Rowan. “Rowan, you must have been scared before.”

  “Sure. But I choose not to share it.”

  “Then … I don’t know, tell about a time you were mildly apprehensive.”

  Rowan just shakes his head.

  “Rowan …,” Starling begins. “Never mind. Forget it. There’s no arguing when he gets like this. I’m taking a nap.” She slips her hands into her sandals and curls up on her side, her bare feet sticking into the aisle. “Wake me when we’re moving. Better yet, when we arrive in Río Dulce.”

  “This is crap,” I say, louder than I meant to.

  “Just go to sleep, Bria. It was a stupid game.”

  Fine. I avoid looking at Rowan as I take out Bel Canto and pretend to read, like I don’t mind in the slightest. I know mine wasn’t too outrageous of a memory. I’ve got worse ones, and better ones. And Starling’s story probably beats them all. It’s Rowan’s refusal to participate I find frustrating. Like his memories are too precious to share with the likes of me.

  I’ve scanned the same paragraph sixty times when Rowan touches my shoulder. “It’s too dark to read,” he says. “Want to go stretch our legs?”

  I glance at Starling, who’s sleeping. Since I have nothing better to do, I follow Rowan outside.

  We jog across the highway to the pasture. In the midst of the long grass and roadside junk, there’s a solitary cement pillar tipped over on its side. Vines grow up all around it like alien tentacles. I tap it with my sandal. “What do you think it held up?”

  “Probably an ancient Mayan coliseum,” Rowan replies.

  “The Mayans had coliseums? Wasn’t that the Romans, or the Greeks or whoever?”

  “Sure, but the Mayans built them too. Or tried to, at least. See, they made them too big—they thought they could hold up the sky. It’s in all the history books.” He says this with a straight face. I don’t know him well enough to know whether he’s joking. But then one corner of his mouth twitches.

  “You are one hundred percent full of shit,” I say.

  Smiling, Rowan sits on the pillar, facing the dark expanse of farmland. I sit beside him, facing the highway. I think I can make out my backpack on the roof of the bus.

  And then … silence.

  And more silence, until his unvoiced thoughts start making me nervous. Which is annoying, because he was the one who ruined Starling’s game, not me. I wait for him to speak. Thirty seconds. Forty. One minute. I’m actually counting.

  “Have you ever seen Easy Rider?” he asks.

  “Huh?”

  “The 1969 movie by Dennis Hopper? You know, the road movie? It’s about a couple of bikers thundering all over the U.S. They end up in some kind of hippie commune. No?”

  I shake my head.

  “I saw it as a kid.” He pauses. “Probably wasn’t the most age-appropriate film—I was seven or so—but my dad hardly monitored that kind of thing. It was just me and him most of the time. I remember watching it on my stomach, in the living room of our shitty apartment, and promising myself I’d never be like that. My dad moved us around all the time: chasing work projects, running away from one-night stands. I hated it. And wouldn’t you know it …”

  “Your life became a road movie?”

  “Kind of. But this time around, it’s me calling the shots. It makes all the difference—being the one in control.”

  I think about how liberating it felt choosing La Ruta Maya from the Global Vagabonds pamphlet. But it was a momentary thing. I could have chosen differently. I could be sitting in Thailand right now. Maybe that’s where my caravan of beautiful people from the pamphlet went.

  “Isn’t that what your memory was about, Bria? Losing control?”

  I pause. “I never knew memories were about anything. Besides the obvious. You make them sound like dreams—subject to interpretation.”

  “I think the two are more related than we realize. It’s all in how our minds frame them. How we decide what—and how—we remember.”

  A phantom insect pricks my shoulder. I slap, but I’m too late. On the other side of the highway, a man climbs off our bus. As I watch, he unzips his pants and begins to pee against the cliffside. “I don’t know if I can handle this,” I say.

  “What?” Rowan turns to look. “We can find you a bush if you’ve got to go.”

  “No! That’s not what I meant,” I say, laughing. “I meant I can’t handle …” My smile fades. I’m afraid to say it, but I’ve already begun. “I feel like you guys see all the layers in everything I say. Even when I don’t know they’re there myself. It’s too intense.”

  “Really? Because I think you’re the intense one.”

  I’m not sure what to say to that. At first, I feel kind of flattered. But as I think about it, I realize intense can mean a limitless number of things, many of them opposites. Like thoughtful, or reckless. Calculating, or overeager. I guess I can be any of those things, depending on the situation. I wonder how many more sides of me I’ll encounter on this trip.

  “I think I kind of get it,” I say. “Your Wanderlove thing.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “It’s about always looking toward the future. You can appreciate the good things all around you, but the best part is imminent, just out of reach. Like … perpetual anticipation.”

  “Perpetual anticipation,” Rowan repeats. “Nice. That’s about right.”

  I shrug. Because really, I’m only starting to understand. The appeal of leaving and never looking back. No end point to your journey.

  How gloriously terrifying.

  From a great distance, I hear a dog barking. It almost sounds like it’s coming from the sky. And at that moment, the bus engine starts. Rowan and I jump to our feet at the same time.

  “I gue
ss they didn’t need a mechanic after all,” he says.

  “You know,” I say as we cross the highway, “your hair’s still french-braided.” Rowan touches the back of his head, and we grin at each other, and for a moment, I allow myself to hope he’s thinking the same thing as me—that the three of us traveling together might not be so bad after all.

  7

  Day 6, Morning

  Río Dulce

  The next morning, Starling shakes me awake. “Bria, come with me.”

  Groggily, I sit up. Judging by the weak light shining through the curtains, we’ve only slept six hours, tops. We didn’t arrive in Río Dulce until midnight. The first budget hotel we found had only one room left. Fortunately, it had three twin beds; any shuffle of mattress-sharing between the three of us would have been awkward.

  I glance at Rowan, who’s sleeping on his stomach. The sheet has come away from his back. I recognize the muscles from my art anatomy book, the one I used to study nightly, tracing every part, mouthing every name.

  The trapezius. The deltoid. The latissimus dorsi.

  I realize I’m staring.

  “Okay, I’m coming.” I attempt to pat down my wild hair. I probably look like a member of the Cure. I slip on my shoes and join Starling outside, shutting the door gently behind me. The first thing I notice is her backpack, leaning against the stairs.

  My stomach plummets. “Wait—you’re leaving?”

  “I got called in early.” Starling heaves her backpack onto one shoulder and slaps down the stairs in her leather sandals. “I thought you could walk me to the bus.”

  “Starling, you can’t just leave!” I hurry after her, feeling sicker with every step.

  “I don’t have a choice, Bria. You’ve still got Rowan. You’ll be fine.”

  “But …” I don’t know how to object without sounding helpless. “I’m not … Aren’t you going to say goodbye to Rowan?”

  “Rowan and I don’t do goodbyes.” She pulls out her phone and checks the time. “I’ve still got twenty minutes. How ’bout I buy you a licuado?”

  I don’t want Starling’s licuado, whatever that is, but I follow her anyway.

  Under the overcast sky, Río Dulce is just waking up. Vendors fasten beach umbrellas to the fronts of their shops, angling them over their wares. Like the back alleys of the Chichicastenango marketplace, most of it seems geared toward locals, not tourists. Starling leads us to a café by the water and chooses a table. Just a few yards away, the river labors along, reflecting the gray clouds.

  I can’t believe she’s leaving. It’s not like we’re the best of friends or anything, but there’s something reassuring about her presence. Maybe because the alternative—my traveling alone with Rowan—frightens me into convulsions. I barely know the guy. Our conversation from last night seems like a dream, his forthrightness an exception to his real feelings—that he doesn’t want me along.

  And Starling knows that. Even if she doesn’t know I do.

  My distress is starting to feel more like anger. “So where the hell are you going, exactly?”

  “Flores. It’s still Guatemala—in the Petén region, up north.” Starling turns to the server, a young, skinny girl in a Mickey Mouse shirt. “Dos licuados de piña, por favor.”

  “Actually, I’ll have mango. Mango, por favor.”

  “Pineapple’s better.”

  I shake my head. Really I want pineapple, but I’m feeling contrary. Eyeing me, Starling props her knee against the table and wraps her arms around it. The morning light catches the hair on her arms, making it glow golden against her tan.

  “Why can’t I go with you?” I ask.

  “Technically, you could.… But for two weeks? You’d be bored out of your skull after two days. Flores is about the size of my thumbnail. It’s a tiny island in the middle of a lake—and I don’t mean the boisterous Laughingbird Caye sort of island. There’s stuff to see around the lake, but … honestly? It’d be kind of sketchy, a girl like you tramping around on her own.”

  My werewolf hackles rise. “A girl like me?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m not sure I do.” Okay, I have an idea, but I want to make her say it. The roar of a blender masks her next statement. “What did you say?” I shout.

  She waits for the blender to shut off. “I said, you’re a good girl.”

  Coming from Starling, it sounds like an insult. “I’m not that—”

  The blender turns on for the second time. We sit there in silence until it feels like the whirling blades have licuado-fied my insides.

  “What I mean is, you haven’t traveled much,” Starling explains, looking more and more uncomfortable. “You’re not a party girl, as far as I can tell. You’re … a hanger-back. An observer.”

  “You don’t know me.” Ugh. I sound like one of those Jerry Springer teens.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that, Bria! There are two types of people, I’ve found. People who jump in with their eyes closed, and people who watch others flail—then swim as soon as they hit the water. I’m fairly certain you’re the second kind. Your near drowning notwithstanding. But that quality is why Rowan needs you around.”

  “What? Rowan doesn’t need me.”

  “He does.”

  “Starling, what are you talking about? Of course he doesn’t.” I take a deep breath. “Look. I overheard what he said back at the lake, okay? The first night, after you invited me.”

  Starling pauses, as if trawling through her mind for what was said. Too late, I realize I’ve only perpetuated her opinion of me as creepy observer. “What exactly did you hear?”

  “That Rowan doesn’t want me along.”

  “Is that all you heard?”

  “It was enough.”

  “But that’s out of context. I don’t just mean in our conversation, I mean in our entire history. Rowan’s history. It’s only natural that he’d hesitate, after what he’s gone through.… I mean, he doesn’t travel with companions anymore. Especially girls. He’s reformed. Mostly.”

  “Then why in the world is it a good idea to drag me along?”

  “Because you’re not like those other girls. You and Rowan are a perfect match. As in, you’re not a match at all. Even if you didn’t have a boyfriend, Rowan wouldn’t hook up with you—well, he probably wouldn’t—because you’re the exact opposite of his type.”

  “Whatever.” I pause. “What type is that?”

  “Like … autonomous. Nonconformist. With tons of life experience. But even if you were that type of girl, you’re solidly in the friend zone. Plus, the two of you are stuck together for more than a couple days. Rowan doesn’t mess around with anyone he can’t escape.”

  The Mickey Mouse girl brings our drinks, served in frosted milk shake glasses with reusable twirly straws. I jam mine into my mouth. I hate the sour yogurt taste, like rotten mango. But I drink it down, ignoring the brain freeze, swallowing and swallowing, as if stuffing my throat will stop my hurt feelings from filling it instead. It reminds me of all the times Olivia ditched me at parties to dance with Jessa Hanny. My fault for refusing—I can’t dance without feeling like I’m standing outside myself, watching—but I felt rejected just the same.

  It’s like I become whatever people presume me to be. Toby called me clingy, and in protest, I dug in my claws. Marcy and Rowan called me naïve, and just like that, I became gullible, silly. Starling thinks I’m helpless, and even while my adult self objects, the little girl inside me bawls. I want to demand: If it’s not personal, then what is it? But I can’t, because I know it is personal. No matter what she says, Starling invited me along because she thinks I’m unlikable.

  No wonder Rowan doesn’t want to travel with me.

  But it’s too late now. I don’t have a choice. I’m not about to track down the Global Vagabonds and catch up. I could camp right here in Río Dulce for two weeks, but that’s just too sad for words.

  “How do I know Rowan won’t just ditch me?”

&nb
sp; “He would never do that,” Starling says fiercely. “Never. Not Rowan. He’s honorable in all the important ways. You’d have to, like, do something to betray him—and even then, he’d have to be completely certain you could take care of yourself. Because as long as you need him, he’ll never, ever abandon you. Ever. I promise.”

  She seems like she’s trying awfully hard to convince me. I watch as she pulls out her journal and tears out a scrap of paper.

  “Here’s my phone number, if it makes you feel better. Now you can call me if he abandons you in the rain forest. Just kidding!” she exclaims when she sees my face. “He won’t leave you. I promise promise promise.” She slides the scrap of paper to me. “Also, call me if …”

  The Mickey Mouse girl takes our empty glasses, scowling at the teeth marks on my straw. Apparently, I’ve been gnawing. “If what?”

  “I’m trying to think of the best way to put this. I don’t want to scare you.”

  What. The. Hell.

  “Remember back in Panajachel, when we were talking about Wanderlove? About Rowan running from his past?”

  Rowan’s second travel rule:

  The best way to escape the past is to keep moving forward.

  Nervously, I nod.

  “Well, let’s just say the island you guys are heading to for Rowan’s dive job is part of that past, and if you ask me, it should remain there.”

  “This is supposed to make me feel better about traveling alone with him?”

  “Look. Rowan’s a great guy, I swear to God. One of the greatest people I’ve ever known. Not just saying that because he’s my brother. But he’s gotten into some dodgy stuff in the last couple of years—that’s all I should say. It’s over now, he swears. And I want to believe him.

  “But then again … see, Rowan thinks all his Wanderlove junk is about love. But it’s not about love—it’s about hate. Hating his past. Hating himself. Even though he’d never admit it. He might seem like a strong-willed guy, but really he’s so vulnerable. Without me around, I just don’t trust him. Not this soon. Especially on that island, with his old dive crowd. Specifically, his old dive partner. And during Lobsterfest—it’s the biggest party of the year.”