Wanderlove (22 page)

I glance at Rowan. He’s sitting at the other end of the table, nursing a mug of coffee. He hasn’t touched his fry jack: warty-looking parcels of deep-fried dough. We’re sitting around a picnic table outside the dive shop, the color of a ruby red grapefruit. A stack of yellow kayaks sits beside it. It’s built over the water, which I can hear sloshing beneath my feet. Though it’s just before nine, the dive instructors from last night’s festivities are there—even the most prolific drinkers.

“That sounds a little dangerous,” I reply.

“He doesn’t have it when he’s teaching, luckily. No, then he’s responsible. He only comes down with it when left to his own devices.”

“What does he do?”

Jack stabs a wedge of pineapple and brandishes his fork.

“Sometimes he zooms around like Superman, all drunk off his senses, rushing to take in as much as possible. And then other times he’ll find something
pretty
and hover in front of it for like fifty percent of his bottom time while his dive buddy—usually that’s me—has to wait around.”

“Sounds like our Rowan,” says Devon.

Devon’s one of the dive shop owners. She’s thirty or so, with strawberry blond hair, and skin the exact color and texture of a baseball glove. The sight of it last night frightened me into applying extra sunscreen this morning.

“I’ll drink to that,” adds Clement, the other owner and Devon’s boyfriend. He’s Belizean, with muscles that resemble ropes of onions.

They’re right. It
does
sound like Rowan. I still can’t get over how long these people have known him. And despite the shadowlands of his past, everybody seems to adore him.

The dive shop served as the headquarters for last night’s celebration. Islanders and instructors from other companies swarmed on the dock and inside the bedroom-sized space, swigging rum punch from plastic cups. I don’t know if Jack’s recipe is representative of Belizean rum punch in general, but after last night, I’d rather drink rainwater collected in a spare tire.

Jack’s Rum Punch Recipe

Orange juice

Pineapple juice

Cashew wine

The dregs of every booze bottle from the
back of the cupboard

Pour everything into big yellow keg stenciled with McDonald’s logo and stir with chunk of driftwood until beverage tastes of rotting seaweed.

Serve!

At twenty-one, Jack’s both old enough and gigantic enough to make me feel like a spooked mouse. Apparently, he’s the one who taught Rowan to dive two years ago. Since then, they’ve worked at various dive schools, most notably in Honduras, where they got into “the best sort of mischief.” Before Jack could elaborate, Rowan materialized and steered the conversation away.

Jack wasn’t the only one thrilled to see Rowan. All the divers adored him. He was their muse, their idol, their little brother. At his side, I became an instant celebrity. When I explained he and I weren’t together—not, you know, like
that
—they almost fell over.

Every single one of them. Like diver dominoes.

Rowan wasn’t exaggerating—their version of him is entirely different from mine. Which version deserves the “Good Parts” status is arguable, though.

But as the night progressed, I began to realize that no one knew Rowan
well
. The dive instructors tripped over Starling’s name: Sterling, someone called her, while others shortened it to Star. Their recollections clashed as well. Depending on who I talked to, Rowan had been in Vietnam or Ecuador last

March. He’d befriended a wounded monkey, or a coatimundi in a Latin American cloud forest, and sobbed when he had to set it free. In December or November, he drank too much rum punch, or smoked too much ganja—what everyone here calls marijuana—and swam across the island’s channel to sleep in the mangrove forest. Or he’d done the same thing totally sober, but naked. Unsurprisingly, he was always playing pranks on unsuspecting tourists. Convincing them Icy Hot worked as insect repellent. Directing them to far-flung hotels and idyllic beaches that didn’t exist.

Several times, I caught him watching me, looking sheepish.

Which means there have to be
some
truths. All night, I gathered the stories like puzzle pieces of Rowan’s history, trying to match them together. And what fit formed a much different illustration than the one I sketched in my head.

Maybe Rowan was a bad boy.

But he was a
fun
one.

I glance at him now as he sips his coffee and try to imagine him crashing through the mangroves, high as a satellite, a censored brick hovering over his lower parts. I admit: it’s tough. Especially when I realize I’ve never seen him take a single sip of alcohol. He was the only sober one at the party.

Throughout the night, I wondered whether I should confront him about what Jack said on the dock:
We can help with
that, too!
Getting people bombed, it seemed. But in the aftermath of all Rowan’s non-partying, I’m glad I didn’t get the chance. Rowan wants me to trust him. I owe it to him to try.

And anyway, people on this island seem to have no problem getting bombed on their own.

“No more,” I tell Jack, covering my cup as he attempts to top off my mimosa.

He laughs boomingly. “It’s the best way to clear my head before a dive, I’ve found. But you never heard me say that.”

“Well, I did,” Rowan says. He leans over the table and grabs Jack’s drink, dumping it over his shoulder into the sea.

“Intercepted by the ethics police,” I joke.

“The ethics police?” Jack laughs again. “Rowan? That’s rich.”

Ignoring him, Rowan checks his dive watch. “It’s nine.

The students should be arriving.”

Jack glances at his own dive watch, which looks like an entire computer strapped to his wrist. “Professor Spoilsport’s right. We should head on over to the classroom—we’re not diving, anyway. Day one’s for bookwork. Bria?” I have to tip my head back to look at him. “Yeah?”

“Don’t get into any trouble.” He reaches out and musses up my hair.

The instructors disperse, dropping cups and paper plates into a rusty trash barrel. Clement heads into the dive shop, Devon for the dive boat parked at the end of the dock. Rowan pauses beside me. “Sorry to abandon you like this.”

“Why would you be sorry? It’s your job. It’s why we’re here.”

He shrugs. “If you need something to read, there’s a book exchange in the Internet café, next to the ice cream shop on Front Street. You’ll probably be drawing the whole time, anyway.”

I smile. “Who knows?”

“Show me sometime?” He averts his eyes almost guiltily, all too aware he’s violated our list. Unfortunately for me, it’s pretty damned cute.

“We’ll see,” I reply.

“You can use any of the bikes behind the dive shop, by the way. The island’s nothing but a squat, curved strip—kind of shaped like a bird’s wing. It’ll take you like half an hour to see the whole thing. Just make sure you lock up your bike wherever you go. And look out for potholes. . . .”

“You’re protecting me again,” I tease. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will.”

“Just don’t run off with any of your students.” Oh God, I’m turning magenta. “Otherwise, Starling will feed me to the sharks.” Nice save.

“Now who’s protecting whom?” Rowan turns to go, then stops. “I almost forgot,” he says, reaching into his daypack. “I grabbed this for you. If you can carve out some time for it between your picture-makings, I think you’ll find it electrifying.” He holds up a book. Not just any book, but a worn-out old dive manual, mildewed, the photo on the cover flaking off.

I frown at it. “Rowan, you know I don’t want that.”

“It might grow on you.”

“What, like a rash?” I open the book to its first page.

“‘Chapter One,’” I read. “‘Let’s Explore the Deep!’ You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Look,” Rowan says. “The truth is . . . I thought it would be nice if you knew a little about what I do. Then I’d have someone to talk about it with. Other than the Swedish Lumberjack.”

“Oh, you poor, poor thing. I can smell a guilt trip from a mile away.” But because I know he’s being sincere, I stuff the book into my daypack. Rowan beams.

Our hostel is a massive, rambling beach house painted neon yellow, with sprawling balconies, a common kitchen, and three levels of dorms. It’s like a backpacker fun house. I get lost twice trying to find my room.

Pros & cons of staying in supersize backpacker hostels

Pros:

Low prices

Free bananas

Free make-your-own pancakes, aka 
panqueques

Fifteen minutes of free Internet daily

“Camaraderie”

Cons:

Bunk beds

Guys who start washing their socks in the
sink of the coed shared bathroom even
though you’re standing there with a
mouthful of toothpaste

Loud voices in the hallway when you’re
trying to sleep, and people who look at
you like you’re the spawn of Satan when you ask them to please quiet down a bit

Saggy mattresses

Dirty
panqueque
pans

Nocturnal naked piggyback rides down the
hallway*

*I was not involved.

Last night, I was the only one in a six-bed girls-only dorm—Rowan’s staying with Jack and Clement downstairs but it looks like my new roommates stopped by while I was at breakfast. Their backpacks must have exploded, judging by the clothes draped over the bedposts, the beds, and even the fans.

I’m pretty certain I see spangles.

Although my roommates are probably busy in the classroom, I change into my swimsuit as quickly as I can in case they come back. I’ve never been one of those naked girls. Unlike Olivia, who takes it off whenever, wherever, including in Mexican border towns that will remain nameless.

My first stop is a gift shop, where I select a blank book with a red cover. New Bria, new journal.

“Mayan ladies made it,” says the woman at the counter.

She has to be over fifty, but she’s dressed like a devout backpacker, in a shapeless tie-dyed dress and loops of beaded jewelry. When she reaches for a plastic bag, I notice a patch of gray hair in her armpit. “Some of the profits go to sustaining an indigenous community near the border.” Starling would be proud.

I consider borrowing a bike but decide to explore on foot.

At first, I feel random and awkward and aimless without a destination. I visit my dorm room two more times, for absolutely no reason at all. I spend way too long picking out a candy bar in a Taiwanese-owned liquor store.

But eventually, I get the hang of it: wandering.

The populated portion of the island is less than a mile long, and two-thirds of it is residential. Those are the parts I like best. I pass houses with open doors, children playing in the sandy yards. I follow a trail through a thicket of mango trees. I kick a soccer ball back to a huddle of shouting kids, missing them by yards. Apparently, my skills haven’t improved.

On the main street, I sift through the jewelry piled on folding tables, even though I know I don’t really have the money to buy anything. There are beaded necklaces, hemp bracelets in Rasta colors, heavy wooden bangles. I wonder what the locals think when travelers wear their jewelry. Is it flattering, or does it make them look like poseurs? And what about the Mayan skirts for sale in Guatemala? Obviously, I’ll never pass for Mayan. Although I’m about the right size.

On the next table, I find a giant basket of coconut rings, exactly like Starling’s. There must be hundreds of them.

By the early afternoon, it’s as hot as Hades. The heat inspires me to do what I meant to do all along—head to the swimming channel on the north side of the island, strip down to my eggplant bikini, and at least
look
at the ocean.

At the channel, a crooked cement pier extends over the water. A few people are sunbathing on top of it. They don’t pay me any attention as I step over them, heading for an empty spot. I toss down my daypack, spread my towel, and for the first time, stick both my feet in the water. It’s warm.

Crabs skitter sideways over the sand, and spear-shaped predator fish hover over clouds of minnows. Green ribbons of sea grass sway in the current. Farther out, it looks like someone’s swirled a turquoise-tipped finger across a canvas of deep blue.

Happiness begins at my toes and swells into my chest, until I’m beaming like a lunatic. A Belizean guy with cornrows in twin buns catches my eye and whistles. I know it looks like I’m grinning at him, but my face has frozen this way.

“Bria!”

I grin in the other direction.

Rowan’s heading toward me, flanked by two half-clothed girls. It turns out my face isn’t frozen, because I can feel my smile wilting. I look down quickly and catch an eyeful of my own nakedness. It’s too late to cover up.
Act busy
. I tug my new sketchbook from my bag and begin to scribble, hating my sudden shyness. I don’t know where it came from—this is
Rowan
. I’ve given him a mud unibrow, for crying out loud.