Chapter 43
BENJAMIN
This time, he tells me, I should know what to do. No photos, and it doesn’t matter if she wants a selfie with the sailboat. Sometimes it’s best for cameras and phones to simply disappear. She is not, under any circumstances, to send a photo from her phone.
Like he told me before, no “Dr.,” no “Curtis” or “Matt” either. I’m not “Benjamin.”
At this point, I’m just wishing we could get on the boat, him and me.
I don’t feel like we need company, even if the girl we saw looking at the help wanted board in the marina is cute.
I don’t have a choice. He forces me to go up and talk to her while he busies himself filling two water jugs at a spigot forty feet away.
The girl and I are standing about a foot apart, which seems too close, but then again, we’re both trying to read the same three-by-five note cards tacked above eye level, and some of them are handwritten.
One person is looking for someone to clean their sailboat, one time only.
Another person wants a cook and deckhand to come along for a weeklong trip.
“It’s hard to read some of these,” she says, taking a half step closer to me. I look down and smile, stepping back a little. “You can tell which ones are the old men. They have really messy handwriting.”
I look where she’s pointing and laugh. The note card is covered with shaky blue scrawl.
“On the positive side, if that person’s a pervert you can probably get away from them.”
“I don’t know,” she says. “Old guys can get around fast with those walkers.”
“And anyone can beat you with a cane.”
She’s still smiling, a deep dimple showing.
Glossy lips, pink, not that drawn-on dark red lipstick look.
She might not be wearing any makeup at all.
Jaw-length light brown hair, wavy and messy, with a stripe of blue that’s started to fade.
She has a daypack slung over her shoulder.
Full, but not huge. A patch on her army jacket says MACMURDO ANTARCTICA RESEARCH STATION.
“Don’t tell me you’ve sailed all the way there.”
She sees where I’m pointing. “No. I got this jacket from a thrift shop.”
Without looking up, I can still hear the sound of water gushing into a plastic container.
He’s watching. Probably overfilling the container or emptying it when no one’s looking, so he has an excuse to stay within eavesdropping range.
He’s probably surprised I’m doing this well.
I’m surprised. Small talk is hard, and we’re not even at school where I’d have obvious things to say.
“I actually think the badge is a fake,” she says, still staring straight ahead at the board. “McMurdo is spelled wrong. There’s no A in it, really. I’ve thought of ripping it off, but it would leave a hole.”
I keep thinking she’ll reshoulder her bag and walk away, but she doesn’t.
“So, you’re looking for a job?”
For the first time, she turns and gives me a less-thanfriendly squint. Something went wrong. I asked a question. Before, we were just taking turns. Making observations, making jokes. Keeping to our own turf.
I’m about to give up and walk away when she touches my arm. She points to Dr. C.
“Your dad keeps looking at us. I think he’s wondering why you’re talking to a strange girl for so long.”
I resist the urge to tug at the neck of my T-shirt, even though it’s feeling suddenly, uncomfortably tight. “Yeah. He tells me not to talk to strangers. Especially strangers with backpacks and suspicious badges from places they’ve never traveled.”
She laughs. “Because I’m gonna what, rip you off?”
“Maybe. You might pretend you’re a boat cleaner or a dog walker or something, and then just . . . murder me. Take our boat and sail all the way from here to the Atlantic.”
I got that part from Dr. C. We are way inland but I guess it’s possible, lake to river to more lakes and finally salt water.
She laughs again. “So he is your dad.”
“Uncle,” I say, taking a risk. “Not my favorite one.”
She pulls a face. “I hope he doesn’t know that.”
“Well . . .” I’m getting a rush. It’s working.
But I also feel like someone in a movie, playing blackjack at a Las Vegas casino, and I don’t know when to ask for a new card and when to fold.
“He’s probably figured out I’m not that eager to sail with him today or I wouldn’t be here, hanging out at the bulletin boards for this long.
Obviously, he knows I don’t need a job.”
“So, what did you tell him when you walked over here?”
“That I was checking the lost and found notices.” I point to a small corner of the board with cards about found items: White tennis visor. One sandal. A cat. “I lost my phone yesterday.”
“Aw.” She turns to face me and she touches my arm again. The same spot she touched before. “That’s the worst!”
I feel warm inside. Hot even. But I also feel shaky.
“That must be making your day extra long,” she says, nose squished and eyes half closed. A cute face I’d find annoying if we weren’t alone and she wasn’t making it just for me. “I mean, at least you could half ignore an uncle if you had a phone.”
Why isn’t she getting it? It’s easy. Just leave.
“I bet he knows it, too,” she says. Dimple still there. Cutesorry expression still there. “I’m Lenora,” she says, reaching out to shake.
I can’t refuse her hand. It’s soft. A little damp.
“And you are?”
“Dennen.”
“Like the singer?”
“His last name. My first name.”
“Your mom must have been a fan when you were born.”
I’m hoping Brett Dennen had a debut album before I was born. No idea. Dr. C told me I should say my name was Chase. I was about to say it and I couldn’t. I may not look like a Dennen but I definitely don’t look like a Chase.
Lenora loops her arm in mine. In a faux-fancy voice she says, “I wouldn’t mind a day sail, Dennen. If your uncle would let you have some company.”
When I look shocked, she pulls her arm away. Her face falls. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Of course I’m not scared,” I say, so wishing I could put her arm back through mine that I have to shove my hands in my pockets just to stop myself from doing something weird. “You were being nice. But I’m sure you have something to do.”
“I don’t. I’m staying on my dad’s sailboat, but he never leaves his slip.
His plan for the next two days is to tinker with some electronics he’s switching out.
” She lowers her voice to a flirtatious, accented stage whisper.
“Winches. Windlasses. Yes, please.” She resumes her normal voice.
“Do you even know the difference between a winch and a—”
I look up to see Dr. C standing only ten feet away from us. I didn’t hear the spigot turn off. “Weather’s not getting better than this! We gotta be back by two o’clock.”
I risk a sideways glance at Lenora. The blue piece of hair. The shiny lips. The dimple.
Walk away.
But she doesn’t. She steps behind and around me and then walks right over to Matt. She introduces herself. She tells him that I just invited her on the boat for a few hours of sailing. Then she looks back at me and winks.