The Islanders (6 page)

“Don't you ever think about the future, Zo?” he asked in a low voice. “I mean, you know, after high school and all. You ever think about what it would be like to get married and have kids and a house? Maybe a dog.”

“Sometimes,” Zoey said, feeling uncomfortable.

“I do,” Jake said solemnly. “I know we're young, but I think about having a family of my own. Some kids. Maybe a boy.”

“Don't you think we should enjoy being wild, irresponsible teenagers?” Zoey asked, hoping to jog Jake out of his serious mood.

Jake smiled crookedly. “I'm not very good at being a wild
and irresponsible teenager, am I?”

There was something in his tone that was deeply melancholy. He was right, Zoey knew. Jake was seventeen and already acting like he was thirty.

“You're good at being a horny teenager,” Zoey said, leaning her forehead against his.

Jake laughed softly, then grew silent again. “You know what today is?”

“Saturday?” Zoey said.

“Yeah, that too.” He nodded his head slowly. Then he turned to look over the placid waters toward the far shore, where house lights shone bright amid the trees. “Wade's birthday.”

Zoey felt her heart sink. How could she have forgotten? What perfect timing on her part. This day of all days, she'd stood around chatting with Lucas. She hugged Jake from behind. He took her hands in his and sighed heavily.

“Two years,” he said. “I figured I'd be over it after two years. He'd be twenty now, did you know that? Probably a sophomore in college.”

“Of course you still miss him,” Zoey said.

“Yeah,” Jake said. “Someday I'm going to have a son and name him Wade.”

Zoey looked away. Benjamin was resting his head in Claire's lap now, sunglasses in place, eyes staring sightlessly up at the
gray-black blanket of clouds. Claire stroked his hair in a distracted way and watched Zoey.

No, Zoey realized as Claire's eyes were lit by a spurt of flame from a falling log. It was Jake she was watching.

 

I used to live in Boston, which is a great city, although school there was a drag. I was one of the black kids who got bussed into south Boston so that the previously all-white junior high schools there could be integrated. What fun. One day some of the white kids, cheered on by their parents and with the assistance of their older brothers and sisters, decided to turn our bus over. With us still inside.

My folks freaked and decided that was enough of Boston, which was too bad, because really, setting aside that one incident, Boston was a very cool city. Great shopping.

Naturally my parents, being the people they are, managed to come to the conclusion that the perfect place for us was Chatham Island, a place where people aren't even tan, let alone black. They've never been able to explain their logic. Mostly I think my mom just lost it when she saw this inn for sale and started hallucinating about quilts and valences and canopied beds.

At first I thought people here were even worse than in south Boston. They treated me like I was invisible. They treated my parents and my brother the same way. Always polite, but sort of like we weren't entirely real.

I finally got pissed off and yelled at Zoey. I knew her from school by this point. I said, What is the deal here? You seem too nice and normal to be racist. She was shocked. Racist? I don't care that you're black!

Then what's the damn problem? I said. I'm not invisible.

Of course not, she said. You're just from away.

Away. That's Maine-speak for the entire rest of the planet.

Eventually I stopped being from away. Now I'm not so sure I trust people from away. I mean, I'm polite and all, but still, you don't want to pay too much attention to them for the first year or so.

AISHA HAD TO RUN THE
last several blocks down from Climbing Way, fighting to keep gravity from drawing her too quickly. She made her way down the even steeper drop that was a shortcut over to Dock Street and bypassed Lucas's house, then shifted gears into an all-out sprint along the waterfront as the ferry blew its piercing final warning whistle. She yelled frantically as they raised the gangway, blowing through the gate as she waved her ferry pass in the air. She leapt over the few feet of water that now separated her from the ferry and landed, thankfully, on the slowly moving boat.

Gasping for breath, she bent forward at the waist, hands on her knees, as the eleven-ten ferry pulled away from the dock. Too close. She'd promised her mom she'd go into town, buy potpourri, of all things, at the mall, and pick up the drapes from the dry cleaner. The drapes went in the inn's most expensive room, and the guest who'd reserved the room was arriving on the four twenty-five—which, incidentally, would be the same
ferry Aisha returned on unless she managed to get everything done in less than an hour.

Once she caught her breath, she made her way to the bow, squeezing through the cars that jammed the open deck. The car ferry didn't usually make this run, but this time of year the last of the elderly summer residents—the Living Dead, as Nina called them—were starting to bail out, avoiding the Labor Day tourist crush and heading back to their condos in Florida.

She leaned against the railing and looked idly down at the water below, split into two plumes of white by the knife edge of the hull.

“Hi,” a voice said behind her.

She turned. Christopher. “Oh, hi,” she said coolly.

“Nice run,” he said.

“Excuse me,” she said, and walked away, squeezing back through the cars toward the stern. She leaned against the rail, watching the wake.

“Hi,” he said again.

Aisha sighed. She turned to face him squarely, folding her arms over her chest. “Where are you from?”

He looked surprised. “I was born in Baltimore.”

“I see. So you're basically a southerner. That would explain it. See, here in Maine, people have a different attitude toward things than people do in Baltimore. Here, the idea is you leave
people alone, they leave you alone, everyone gets left alone.” She returned her gaze to the ferry's wake.

“I doubt that you were born here,” Christopher said, laughing. “There's no such thing as a black person born in Maine.”

“I'm from Boston originally,” Aisha said. “But I have embraced the Maine way of life.”

“Do you say
ayuh
?”

“Look, no one says ayuh except very old fishermen. And when they do say it, they don't say it like that.”

“Do you say
wicked
when you mean something's good?” he asked.

Aisha drummed her fingers on the metal rail. “Sometimes. But that's not what being a Mainer is about. Let me explain again. Whereas someone from Baltimore would go up to a stranger and say hi, a Mainer wouldn't go up to a stranger. Understand, stranger?”

“Ayuh. And it's a wicked good way to be,” Christopher said. “Only I'm not a stranger. I'm Christopher Shupe. You're Aisha Gray, a lovely name, by the way.”

“I'm also a bitch, or don't you remember that?”

“How could I forget? You're still a bitch.”

Aisha narrowed her eyes and glared at him. “Then I would think you'd want to stay away from me.”

“Can't. Tomorrow I'm starting in on your mom's garden.
That's where I'm headed right now, to the greenhouse for bulbs and fertilizer. Besides, we live on the same small island. Anyway, I kind of like the bitch act. On you it works.”

Aisha decided to treat him to silence. Sooner or later he would get tired of annoying her and get the message.

“Your mom seemed nice,” he said. “So unlike you. And, no offense, but I think she's got the edge on you in looks, too.”

“Excuse me?” Aisha said, breaking her three-second-old vow of silence.

“Maybe it was just that her hair was nicely done, her makeup was very professional, and she has a certain style in the way she dresses.” He grinned at her. “But I like you just the way you are—scruffy and bitchy.”

“Does this kind of sweet talk work with a lot of girls?”

“I tried to give you flowers.”

“I didn't ask you to bring me any damned flowers,” Aisha snapped.

“I know. It was sweet of me, don't you think?”

“Sweet,” Aisha said poisonously. “Yes, that's just the word I would apply to you.”

“Aisha. It means
life
.”

She looked at him in surprise.

“I looked it up. You know what Christopher means?”

Aisha coolly looked away.

“You know what Christopher means?” he repeated.

“I don't care what it means.”

“It means
boyfriend
.”

“No, it does not.”

“It will eventually,” he said smugly.

“I don't think so.”

For once he was quiet, staring off toward the skyline of Weymouth. She began to wonder if she had finally managed to discourage him.

“I have to tell you something,” he said.

So much for discouraging him.

“Just look at me, listen to me for one minute. Less, even, if I talk fast, and then I'll leave you alone for the rest of the trip.”

Aisha sighed dramatically, and lazily, reluctantly, met his eyes. They were flecked here and there with gold highlights amid the deep brown.

“The day will come, Aisha
Life
Gray, when you and I will stand here on this very boat, wrapped in each other's arms, our lips joined, our eyes closed to everything else around us. Not because you're the only black chick on the island, not because everyone expects us to get together, but because when I first saw you walking down Exchange Street, I froze, I stopped
moving, stopped breathing, stopped thinking. In that instant I knew that you were the reason I was on the island, in Maine, on planet Earth.”

He moved closer, and Aisha realized she herself was no longer breathing. He raised his fingers to her cheek as if to draw her close. She felt her eyelids grow heavy, her knees grow weak.

Then he stepped back. “No, I'm not going to kiss you now.”

Her eyes flew open, suddenly alarmed.

“But soon,” Christopher said. He turned his back to her and started to walk away. Then he hesitated. “And when I do kiss you, you'll stay kissed.”

Zoey paused outside Benjamin's room. From inside, she could hear Nina reading, her voice barely muffled by the door.

“I sat down on the edge of a deep, soft chair and looked at Mrs. Regan. She was worth a stare. She was trouble. She was stretched out on a modernistic chaise longue with her slippers off, so I stared at her legs in the sheerest silk stockings. They seemed to be arranged to stare at.”

Zoey knocked.

“Yeah,” Benjamin's voice called out.

Zoey opened the door. Nina was seated in the rocking chair, eyeing her a little impatiently. Benjamin was lying on the floor,
his head on a pillow, legs propped up on the edge of his bed.

“I have the feeling that is not
The Plague
you're reading,” Zoey said.

Nina held up a pastel paperback. “
The Big Sleep.
Raymond Chandler. Much cooler than Camus.”

“And that's on the suggested reading list for this year?” Zoey asked skeptically.

“No, but it ought to be,” Benjamin said. “I was reading it in Braille, but this is easier.”

“I volunteered,” Nina said, looking a little embarrassed. But then, maybe the color in her face was the result of their sunbathing yesterday.

Zoey decided against bringing up the point that her parents paid Nina to read schoolbooks, not mystery novels. It wasn't exactly her business, and the last thing Benjamin would put up with was his little sister acting like she was his mother.

“Sounds good,” Zoey said. “Look, Nina, I'm heading down to the restaurant. They asked me to wait tables for the dinner shift.”

“That's okay,” Nina said. “I'll stay a little while.”

“No,” Benjamin said dismissively. “I've been hogging your time enough, Nina, go ahead. I'm being a jerk making you sit here and read to me all afternoon.”

“No, you're not,” Nina said quickly.

Benjamin yawned. “Truth is, I think maybe I'll catch some Z's. I'm going over to your house later anyway, to see Claire.”

Nina closed the book with an audible snap. “Okay, whatever.” She smiled frostily at Zoey. “I guess I will walk down with you.”

They walked down Camden toward Exchange, threading their way through the crowds of sunburned tourists in their Chatham Island T-shirts and Bermuda shorts. Soon, Zoey knew, these narrow streets, these brick sidewalks, would be empty. You could sled down Camden in the winter when the snow fell.

“I spoke to Lucas,” Zoey blurted suddenly.

Nina stopped dead in her tracks and grabbed Zoey's arm, stopping her, too. “You spoke to Lucas?”

“Yesterday,” Zoey said, looking away. “When we were out in the yard and you went in to use the bathroom. He came down and said hi.”

“He came down and said hi?” Nina repeated.

“Actually, he guessed we were all trying to blow him off. He said it wouldn't work.”

Nina fumbled nervously in her purse and produced a cigarette. She popped it in her mouth.

“That is a really strange habit, by the way,” Zoey said, starting down the street again.

“Sorry,” Nina said. “I started as a goof; now I can't quit. Come on, Zoey, spill.”

Zoey took a breath. “He asked if Claire knew he was back, and he said to tell her not to worry so much. Something about keeping his word.”

“Hmm.” Nina sucked on the unlit cigarette. “How come you didn't tell me earlier?”

“I was . . . embarrassed,” Zoey admitted. “I mean, we're supposed to be doing the big ostracism thing, and right away I blow it.”

“What were you supposed to do?” Nina asked. “Turn your back on him?” She grabbed Zoey's arm again. “So. How does he look? Still gorgeous? Or is he all tattooed and mean-looking from being in prison?”

“It wasn't a prison, it was a youth authority. Reform school.” Zoey called to mind the image of Lucas, first a silhouette against the sun, then a slightly sullen, somewhat gorgeous guy, standing with arms crossed in her own yard. “Sure he's cute,” Zoey admitted. “Not my type, of course.”

“No, I wouldn't think so,” Nina agreed, giggling as if at some private joke.

“Well, it's not that funny.”

“Yeah, it kind of is, Zo. I mean, Lucas is the classic bad boy. Even before he got in trouble over the accident, there had
been other stuff. The only thing you ever got in trouble over was that time in seventh grade when Ms. McQueen caught you cheating.”

“I was
not
cheating,” Zoey said hotly.

“See, that's my point. While you were
not
cheating, Lucas Cabral was probably shoplifting.”

They reached Exchange and Zoey glanced at her watch. She had already, strictly speaking, walked a block out of her way. “I better get on down to work. You could come and hang out if you want.”

“I know I have no life, Zoey, but even I can think of better things to do than sit around and watch you work. Besides, now I have to go tell Claire what Lucas said.”

“No!” Zoey said. “She'll know I talked to him.”

“Relax. I'll tell her
I
talked to him. I'm not afraid of my sister.”

“It's not Claire; I don't want Jake finding out. He'll think I'm a traitor or something. You know how he felt about Wade. He idolized him.”

“Yeah,” Nina answered thoughtfully. “You know, Benjamin said something about that. We were talking about Lucas being back. Benjamin says Jake is overdoing it. He said something . . . It sounded really cool the way he said it. It was something like
the best part of Wade's life was the end of it.
Only
it sounded cooler than that.”

“
Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it,
” Zoey said. “Shakespeare. I've seen it in my quote books. Kind of a rotten thing for Benjamin to say.”

Nina shrugged. “Maybe your big brother knows something you don't.”

 

I started working on this idea for a romance novel soon after I first kissed Jake. I guess I figured it would sort of be about Jake and me. I know, it's a dopey idea. What's really embarrassing, though, is that I'm still kind of working on it and I'm almost a senior. Every month or so I'll get this great idea and I'll start writing away at top speed, filling page after page of the big journal I bought just for this purpose.

So far I've written chapter one about twenty times. There is no chapter two.

Sometimes it's a historical romance and I'm the usual lusty yet virginal heroine, a plucky maiden who is captured in a raid on my small village by the hero, who is a lusty, fiery, yet strangely sensitive knight or Viking or prince about to reclaim his throne. The one thing you can be sure of is that he's lusty, fiery, and yet strangely sensitive.

I know it's corny, but that's the way these things are written. I didn't make up the formula. Besides, I do think Jake would look pretty good in armor.

Other times I go with a more contemporary story. Say, one about a lusty yet virginal heroine who, let's say, lives on a small
island off the coast of Maine. This requires less research.

Unfortunately, I have a basic problem with this scenario. You see, one so seldom encounters a lusty, fiery, yet strangely sensitive knight, Viking, or prince along the coast of Maine.