Navigating Early (5 page)

“We’re part of the same constellation, your father and I,” Mom said that day. “It’s just not one you find in any textbook.”

“That’s a nice story, Mom, but it’s not exactly going to help me find my way out of the woods,” I told her.

“Sometimes it’s best not to see your whole path laid out before you. Let life surprise you, Jackie. There are more stars out there than just the ones with names. And they’re all beautiful.” Listening to my mother was a lot like reading poetry. I had to stretch my mind to make sense of what she was trying to get across. And even when I did understand, sometimes I tried not to let on.

Gradually, I realized that the
click-clack
of chalk had stopped and been filled with the white noise of the record player. Sitting on the floor with my back against a file cabinet, I must have nodded off. Looking up, I saw the chalkboard full of numbers streaming out from the original 3.14. The
numbers, Early had said, were a mother, a father, and their son, Pi.

Had I really heard this story or just dreamed it? Either way, it was a silly notion that these numbers told a story. And Early, that strangest of boys, was now sitting on his cot beside the record player, but instead of watching it spin, he was busy tying a rope in an elaborate knot, so engrossed in his work, it was as if that rope and its knots also had a mesmerizing story to tell.

“Um, sorry,” I said, clearing my throat. “I must have dozed off.”

“That’s okay,” said Early without looking up. “The next numbers aren’t as good as the beginning. Pi just sails on the open seas awhile before anything happens again. I don’t think you’d like that part.”

“Okay,” I said. “Well, thanks for the clothes. I’d better get back to the dorm.”

Early was too engrossed in his rope and knot making to notice me leave.

I didn’t see Early for a week, not that I went looking for him. My mother would not be happy about that. She had a knack for pairing me up with every misfit and newcomer.
Jack would love to have you come over to play
, she’d say without having heard any such thing from me. For my tenth birthday party, she said I could invite six boys to the bowling alley. But there ended up being seven, because Melvin Trumboldt had just moved to town and supposedly didn’t know a soul. I fought her on that point, as Melvin got in trouble the first day of school for flushing all the toilets in
the boys’ bathroom one after another, and I knew he was well acquainted with the principal.

But she made me invite him anyway, and he turned out not to be so bad. Especially when he gave up the name Melvin and started going by Flush. I got sucked into his antics a couple of times, but Mom could never get too mad, as she was the one who’d forced us into being friends.

The point is, she wouldn’t be too happy with me not inviting Early to join a table at lunch or play ball after school. But my mom wasn’t here to watch over me. Besides,
I
was the new kid this time, and people weren’t exactly banging on my door. Until about five o’clock one morning when someone was doing just that. Banging loud and insistent.

I was still coming out of a hard sleep when the pounding continued on the next door over, and the next one.

“Let’s go, gentlemen. Crew call,” an adult voice boomed.

I poked my head out the door. It was Mr. Blane, the math teacher. It was a school day, but no one had said anything about five-a.m. math class. He was dressed in gray sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt with the Morton Hill crest on the front and the word
Crew
underneath. Was he getting us all out of bed to be the kitchen crew? Or the latrine crew?

Just then, Sam Feeney poked his bleary-eyed face out of his room. “Hey, what’s all the racket about, Mr. Blane?”

“It’s about rising to the challenge, Mr. Feeney. It’s about discipline and strength. It’s about working as a team.”

“Really?” Sam muttered. “ ’Cause by my clock it’s
about
five a.m., which is
about
an hour and a half before my
alarm’s set to go off.” He stretched and, yawning, said, “Which means I’m
about
to go back to bed.”

“Time waits for no man, Feeney. Suit up.”

Emerging from my dorm room in my own Morton Hill–issued sweats, I finally clomped down the stairs. I made it out of the building and was the last one to catch up with the other eighth-grade boys on their walk down to the calm inlet called Wabenaki Bay. By the time we reached the water, the boats were all full, with groups of two and four boys to a boat. Those sleek vessels had names, painted on the sides, like
Torpedo
and
Jerry Runner
and
Spoiler
.

By the time I set foot on the swaying dock, the only boat left was a weather-beaten vessel named the
Sweetie Pie
.

“All aboard, Mr. Baker.” Mr. Blane extended his hand with a flourish, as if the
Sweetie Pie
were the flagship of a magnificent fleet of rowing vessels and not the sorry, saggy swamp bucket it appeared to be.

“This is my boat?” I asked.

“Yes. I know she looks a bit rough around the edges, but she’s yar,” he said, before moving on down the dock.

“Yar?”
I repeated. I stared at the boat, with its two seats. My face must have screamed confusion.

“Don’t you know anything?” Robbie Dean asked. “Your boat’s a double, which means it’s for two people. But you’re the last one here, so you’ll have to row it as a single.” He took up the rowing position in his boat, which was sleeker and obviously designed for just one person.

“But what does
yar
mean?” I asked.

“Quick to maneuver. Easy to handle.”

“Quick to maneuver. Easy to handle,” I repeated. “Got it.”

“Now, remember, this isn’t a race,” said Mr. Blane. “We’re just trying to get our legs pumping. So let’s get you out and see what we have to work with.”

One by one, the boats were pushed away from the dock. Most were two-man boats. Robbie Dean and Sam shoved away from the dock in the
Jerry Runner
, while Preston Townsend occupied the only other single, the
Spoiler
. I watched as they glided through the water, straight as arrows, their bodies moving forward and backward, legs pushing, arms pulling, in one fluid motion.

“Mr. Baker. Let’s see how you fare. You know how to row, don’t you?”

“Sure,” I said.
It can’t be that hard
, I thought. My arms and legs were strong from swimming and bike riding, even though I hadn’t done much of either after everything with my mom. I eased myself aboard and tried to position myself in the seat, hoping to catch up with the other boats.

“Quit messing around, Baker,” hollered Mr. Blane. “Turn around and get moving.”

Turn around?
I looked up, expecting Mr. Blane to yank me out of the water and put me in a beginners’ rowing class with the sixth graders. But he was studying his clipboard and seemed to mistake my bumbling for messing around. I guess I
had
told him I knew how to row, but I didn’t think he’d believe me.

Another boy rolled his eyes. “You don’t face forward. See how they’re rowing? You face backward.”

Backward?

I turned around. This time, my feet found their place, and I started rowing—backward. In a direction I couldn’t see. Still, it was a big bay. Nothing really to run into. I hunched forward as far as my body would reach and gave the oars a mighty heave. Mom always said I was as strong as an ox. And an ox had to be stronger than anything they had around here—like lobster and shrimp.
I’ll be fine
, I told myself.

My heart began pounding, and for the first few strokes, I felt the thrill of gliding through the water. Until I realized I was veering off course. I tried pulling a little harder with the left oar and veered off course even more.
Must be the right oar
. I tugged and pulled.
Yar
. Quick to maneuver.
This boat isn’t quick to do anything except go off in the wrong direction
.

Slowly, I veered back toward the center of the bay.
Uh-oh
. Too far the other way. And so it went. Too far this way, too far that way. I zigzagged back and forth across the bay. As I made a wide turn to head back, I saw that most of the boats had already arrived at the dock. Well, I could still make a strong finish.
There’s no shame in coming in last as long as your head’s up and your tail’s not between your legs
. Three guesses who said that.

I had the dock in sight, as much as it could be as I strained to look over my left shoulder. The other boats were already out of the water. What was maybe a twenty-minute row for the other boys was taking me twice as long. The rowers stood on the deck, watching me make my approach. My shoulders and back ached, and my legs shook violently each time they crunched forward and pushed back. Even
my hands were clenched, so tight on the oars that I didn’t think I’d be able to pry them off. But I would finish, and it would be over.

I was already rehearsing my finishing line.
It took me a while to figure her out, but she sure is yar
.

Finally, I pulled the
Sweetie Pie
along the dock with a scraping noise that sounded like a cat on a midnight prowl. Preston, Sam, Robbie Dean, and the others all watched with pained grimaces on their faces, waiting for the boat and the noise to come to a stop. I stood up and felt the evil
Sweetie Pie
pitch left, then right, and before I could say Jack Tar, I was upended in Wabenaki Bay.

There were a few chuckles and shaking of heads as the boys lifted the remaining boats onto their shoulders and headed to the boathouse. I took my time getting out of the water, as I was not eager to catch up. Mr. Blane extended his hand and gave me a lift. “It’s all right, Baker. I guess you’re not as experienced at rowing as you let on. We’ll work on it for next time.”

Next time
. That’s just what Coach Baynard had said after the incident in the pool. That’s what Mom had said about my next survival outing. How many
next time
s would there have to be?

“Here, help me get her out of the water,” said Mr. Blane. I lifted the boat but wasn’t sure how much I helped. “I’m sure one of the boys will help you carry her to the boathouse. I’ve got a faculty meeting in a few minutes.” He patted me on the back. “You’ll get the hang of it next time. See you in math class, Baker.” Mr. Blane walked briskly up the dock.

“Yes, sir,” I said, glad to be left alone. I stood dripping and shaking like one of our old barn cats, glaring at the source of my contempt. The
Sweetie Pie
. I gave her a swift kick and toppled her onto her craggy side.

Yup, she sure is yar, if by
yar
you mean wobbly, easily tipped, and likely to throw you in the drink
.

6
 

I
read somewhere, probably in a
National Geographic
magazine, that you can tell a lot about people by what they enshrine. I suppose every place has its temples. In my hometown, the church is at the center of everything: pot-lucks, baptisms, weddings, auctions, bingo. At my old school the baseball diamond was our shrine. The folks from town would fill the bleachers and pray for victory. As players, we were well versed in the scripture of baseball lore and knew all the patron saints: Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Ty Cobb, and Joe DiMaggio.

The moment I set foot in the stone boathouse, I knew this was Morton Hill Academy’s shrine. According to Headmaster Conrady, the Nook, as it was called, was the oldest building on campus. Inside were sturdy wooden beams, lobster traps, coiled ropes, and a colorful array of oars. The scents of lemon wax, polish, and apple cider vinegar were as powerful as any incense I’d smelled. But it was
the boats themselves, gleaming and elevated like altars, that were the focal point.

I held my breath, waiting for the heavens to open and angels to begin singing as I walked almost in procession to a single boat called the
Maine
. It was in the center and seemed to hold the place of highest honor. I reached out my hand, thinking if I could just rub it like a genie’s lamp, I could have my wish granted. My fingers touched the rich grain, and I considered my wish. That should have been easy, right? Everybody’s got a special wish. I thought harder. Of course, I could have wished that Mom wasn’t dead. I could have wished that my dad wasn’t in the navy. I could have clicked my heels together three times and wished myself back to Kansas. But I knew none of those wishes would come true.

Letting out a sigh of defeat, I realized I didn’t even know what to wish for. I looked down at the
Sweetie Pie
with scorn. Her tired frame and half-split oars seemed to reflect my own shabby state. I was too stubborn to ask the other boys for help, so I’d had to hoist and tug and even drag her back to the boathouse myself.

I pressed my hand to the rich wood of the
Maine
and let out a breath. It was a little wish, and I knew it didn’t count for much in the great scheme of things. But it was all I could muster.