Chapter 33
Rylan Cameron
Call sign: Minnow
Rylan sharpened his HB pencil with one of the knives from Alejandro’s galley. Wood shavings curled away and left the graphite
as sharp as a blade. He was sitting on a counter in the chart house, surrounded by nautical maps and ship’s logs for inspiration,
even though he was careful not to let his gaze fall upon the tiny dotted island that made his spine tingle.
He had something thick at the base of his throat that he hadn’t been able to swallow away since his conversation with his
father last night. But until he could dislodge it, he couldn’t quite breathe right. He couldn’t find it in him to be either
upset by being trapped or excited by the possibility of leaving. He just felt stuck.
Rylan was used to being caught up in the tide of Tia’s willpower. She was infectious. Suffocating, even. Once she had an idea,
it was gospel, and anyone not prepared to acknowledge it as such became obsolete. But Francis seemed to place so much faith
in Rylan. He’d been tender with him last night. He’d explained himself, at least somewhat. Rylan knew it was impossible to
please them both, but here he was, petrified to cross either, so the lump in his throat stubbornly remained.
Rylan flipped backward in his sketchbook, back to August of last year where he had scribbled a comic-style picture of an alarm clock in a nun habit alongside Tia’s dorm room. He had drawn it from a photograph, but the drawing was half finished.
Rylan remembered exactly where he had been when that drawing had been interrupted.
The watertight door to the chart house swung wide.
“Oh hey, Rylan,” Nico said. He cranked the door shut and crossed to the counter where Rylan was perched. “Mind if I . . . ?”
“Oh, yeah, sorry.” Rylan scooted to the edge of the counter so Nico could grab the ship’s log.
Nico wrote his name in the upper left-hand corner along with the date and time. Then he checked the ship’s coordinates on
a small screen above the counter and jotted those down as well.
Rylan realized he was staring. “So you do that every hour?”
“You’re supposed to, but it’s been more like every four hours for us since we have one-man watch teams. My uncle asked me
to do it for him since he’s already on the helm.”
Memories of playing with the ship’s log when he and Tia were little came to Rylan’s mind. It had been so important at the
time, like they were filing information that would be analyzed by historians to come, even though they were only on day-sails
and hadn’t needed to fill them out in the first place. It was the imagination of it that counted. They used to pretend to
be pirates or international explorers charting their course around the globe. That’s when Tia had come up with the idea for
them to have secret sailor names. Call signs.
MJ’s had been easy to come up with. Sherlock. She always seemed to know every little thing the twins had done, even if they were certain no evidence had been left behind.
Their mother’s and father’s call signs only came about later. Cassiopeia and Midas. Grand names of mythic and scientific proportions. And Rylan had, of course, insisted on being some kind of fish.
Tia was by far the hardest to encapsulate with one word. She jumped from name to name as they grew older, which used to drive
Rylan nuts. Just pick one, he’d beg.
I’m waiting for you to pick mine, she always infuriatingly replied.
“Whatcha working on all alone in here?” Nico asked.
“Trying to . . . I don’t know. Distract myself.”
Nico put his elbows on the counter. “Art’s a good way to do that, so I’ve been told.”
Rylan glanced at him. “You an artist?”
“Nohoho.” Nico put his chin in his palm. “Definitely not. My uncle is, though, with his food. When his grandmother died, he
left the rest of the family behind and went anywhere he could to distract himself. To sea. Culinary school.”
Rylan didn’t know what it was like to have a grandparent. “Her death upset him that much?”
Nico picked up one of Rylan’s pencils and twirled it between his thumb and middle finger. “She raised him and my mom. It was
like losing a parent. My mom told me she was the only person he was ever emotional with. She was the only one who didn’t need
him to be strong.”
Rylan realized he didn’t know a thing about Alejandro’s childhood, other than he was raised in the same apartment building
as Francis. He certainly hadn’t given thought to the people in Alejandro’s life who he might or might not have lost.
“Why did everyone need him to be strong?”
Nico balanced the pencil on his knuckles. “Machismo. People think that rich families care more about image than poor ones.
I think it’s the opposite. When you’re poor, all you got is pride.”
Rylan wasn’t sure what to say to that.
Nico leaned forward to peek at Rylan’s sketchbook, which he hid to his chest.
“What?” Nico asked playfully. “Don’t tell me you’re terrible.”
“I’m not. I just . . .” There it was. That sickening feeling he’d gotten when MJ had forced an explanation out of him. Rylan
wouldn’t let that happen again.
“I’m not terrible. I just have to work alone.”
Nico looked pensive, and Rylan was certain he would press him like MJ had, but instead he shrugged his shoulders and scooped
up his clipboard.
“Fair ’nough. I’ll leave you to it.”
Rylan waited until the watertight door had been closed before he lowered the sketchbook and stared at the half-finished drawing
in his lap.
He touched the shaded beginnings of his sister’s dormitory window as he let himself remember.
Rylan had been drawing for days since Tia left. He would call her nightly, and they’d stay on the phone while he drew, asking
her to describe every inch of her new school. Her new life. Sketching her dorm had been tricky—it was hardly Rylan’s specialty—and
Tia must have fallen asleep on the other end of the phone. His sister’s deep breathing became the ambience to his art.
Then the knock at his door. Two sharp taps, which meant it was Francis. Rylan had dropped his pencil, hung up the phone.
The sketchbook was still open when his father strode inside, and he glimpsed it before Rylan could get it closed.
“You really miss her, huh?”
Francis sat on Rylan’s bed. Gestured for him to join him. So he had.
“I miss her too,” Francis went on. “Despite it all. House is going to be quiet this year.”
Year. It was insurmountable. How was Rylan supposed to live a year without his best friend? The floor tilted, and Rylan’s hands
gathered to fists.
“You sent her away,” he said, and in that second he really thought he could hit his own dad. “You think this will fix anything?
You think it’ll make her love you again? You’re ruining everything!”
Francis crossed his ankles. “Are you done?”
“Not really.” Rylan shot to his feet. He was scared. He always felt scared. But then he’d felt anger too, and it was rich
and cataclysmic with a current strong enough to burst a dam. “Do you even realize how much damage you’ve done? She’s my twin.
We’re supposed to do life together. You’re so careless and . . . and cruel! The least you could have done is disowned me too.”
Francis glanced at his Rolex, then back at his son. “I have no intention of disowning my daughter.”
“But you—”
He raised a hand. “It is no longer your turn to speak. I do realize what I’ve done, and I know it is hurting you. I’m sorry
for that.”
Rylan faltered. Francis Cameron was sorry?
“I’m hoping that this is what it takes for you to step up.”
Rylan’s head swam. His anger was suddenly misplaced and misshapen. He shifted his balance and released the tension in his
fingers.
“I don’t understand.”
Francis spread his hands. “Well, you want your sister to come home, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Rylan said through his teeth.
“I could make the call tomorrow for our jet to pick her up and bring her back.”
Rylan teared up. It was too good to be true.
Painfully so. But he couldn’t help imagining his hurricane of a sister bursting through his bedroom door, ready to take on their senior year together.
He’d help her with her homework. She’d convince him to go to school events.
They’d go skiing in Aspen over winter break and find out they had a crush on the same boy in psych class and talk through the vent in their closet whenever the rest of the house felt too big.
Francis patted the bed again, and Rylan sank beside him.
“How?” he whispered.
“Like I said. You’ll need to step up. Put your mind to maximalizing your talents. You could be the smartest kid at that school
if you wanted to be. You’re interested in the ocean? Great. So become a diving instructor, get your MBA. Ocean tourism is
an untapped market, and you’re a goddamn Cameron.”
Rylan searched his father’s face. His teeth matched the whites of his eyes.
“How does this get you to bring Tia home?”
“All I want is you to be worthy of the name we share.” Francis leaned closer. His aftershave smarted Rylan’s eyes. “So you’re
going to prove yourself. I have an empire ready for you to inherit, my boy. I believe you inherit what you earn. I don’t even
care what you do in life as long as it is exceptional. Now. There are nine months in the school year. You’ll have nine tests.
When you pass one . . .” Francis snapped his fingers. “I’ll bring your sister home.”
“It’s up to me?” Rylan croaked.
“It’s up to you,” Francis replied, extending a hand to seal the deal.
In his lap, Rylan’s hands had begun to tremble. It’d be up to him to save Tia from her banishment. From a place she despised.
It’d be up to him to get her home.
“Will Mom know?” he asked. The tests would be different if Lila was involved.
“This is between us men,” Francis told him. “If you go to her crying, you’ve already failed.”
Rylan didn’t keep secrets from his mother. He didn’t keep secrets from Tia. But he knew then this was a trial he’d have to
endure without either of them. He could do it alone. He had to.
I’m going to get you out of there, Thimble.
“I’ll do it,” Rylan said, and the two clasped hands.
But he didn’t do it. He couldn’t. He failed nine times over, and Tia didn’t even know. She hadn’t even been allowed to come
home for Thanksgiving or winter break. Now she wanted to get him out. And he had agreed to let her. Could he follow through if it came down to it?
Rylan bent his head and buried his face inside his hands.
He owed Tia his bravery. He owed Francis his legacy. But all he could think about as he curled in on himself on the chart
house counter were his inabilities.
It’s all my fault, it’s all my fault, it’s all my fault . . .