The Lies They Tell(23)
Akil crept up behind Hadley, tickling the exposed skin between her tank top and shorts, making her shriek. Pearl took the opportunity to remove herself, going back to pick at the food and watch Bridges, who was watching Akil, his brows drawn. The memory card held a new weight in her pocket, and she squirmed a little, thinking of what Quinn had said about freaky videos.
Time spun out in the sunbaked quiet. The water was jewel green, endless. Akil led Hadley down below, his hand on the small of her back. Bridges stood stiffly, then walked away from the sails, taking up a solitary position on the pulpit.
The boat lost some speed, no longer angled properly into the wind, but Tristan didn’t seem to notice, sitting in the captain’s chair with one knee drawn up, his right forearm draped across, lost in thought. Bear Island lay ahead, the lighthouse crowning the rocky heights. Maybe this was the direction the boys had gone after they left the party on Little Nicatou; there were any number of small islands out here, not to mention harbor access to all the little towns dotting the coast of MDI. Not much else to do after ten p.m. on the open water.
Some sound or intuition made Pearl glance back. The Starchaser was closing in off the port bow, crew members in bright Windbreakers scrambling around on deck, adjusting sails. Pearl raised her voice: “Should they be passing us like that?” No one answered. She went to Tristan, stopping a couple of feet away from him. “They’re passing us.”
He turned, saw the Starchaser, and got to his feet, his expression freezing when he saw both Akil and Bridges gone.
She hesitated, thinking how long it had been since she’d sailed, how little she knew about handling a boat this size. “I’ve got it.” Pearl ran for the sails, loosening the line with a few tugs. She looked back to find Tristan staring. “Trust me. Grab the wheel.”
Nine
PEARL CHECKED THE telltales and pulled the mainsail about fifty degrees from aft; the jib sheets were next, and she tried not to show her relief when she felt the boat heeling beneath her. Maybe sailing was one of those riding-a-bike things, all the afternoons with Dad on the Cat indelibly imprinted—either that or they’d end up in irons out here, and none of these people would ever speak to her again.
Once she’d finished trimming the mainsail, they were moving swiftly, neck and neck with the Starchaser. The other yacht was running with the wind now, maneuvering in front of them, mirroring what Tristan had done back at the starting area. He called “Bear off” over the steady rush of waves against the hull. After Pearl trimmed the sails again, he relaxed slightly, watching the Starchaser move past them.
She looked back at him, blocking the sunshine with her hand. “What’re we doing?”
“Letting them get ahead of us.”
Pearl waited for him to expand upon that. His silence was complete, as if, for him, she’d dropped out of existence again. She released a breath and sat back on her heels, chewing a nail she’d barely been aware of ripping on one of the lines.
They continued around Bear Island, watching the Starchaser pull ahead, leading the way past the opening to Somes Sound, around Sutton Island.
Tristan glanced at her. “Do you know how to jibe?”
“Uh, I’ve seen it done before, but—”
“Then tighten the mainsail and the jib sheets.” She did it, loosening the preventer line, biting back her doubts and questions, her memories of what Dad had told her about jibing, especially at speeds like this. Tristan pointed off starboard, where another navigational buoy could be seen. “There’s some bad water over there. They’ll do the smart thing and avoid it.”
He turned the wheel, aiming them into the rough current on the far side of the buoy. The boat pitched and rocked; there was a faint thump from below, like something or someone being thrown to the floor. “I’ll tell you what to do from here,” he called.
He turned the boat across the wind, the mast shaking with resistance. The jib blew backward, and he shouted, “Watch the boom,” not even giving her enough time to gasp.
The boom and the mainsail hurtled at her. Pearl threw herself to her knees, air whooshing over her head and back as the thick pole passed close enough to part her hair.
She pressed herself to the deck, sick with reaction, afraid to sit up and see the boom flying back at her. She heard Dad clearly now, telling her how risky jibing could be, how sailors had been struck in the head and knocked overboard, unconscious, to drown.
Tristan called something, but the blood was roaring in her ears, her pulse pounding with adrenaline. She finally understood: “Haul in the jib sheet and trim it.” She looked up and saw the sails flapping wild.
Scrambling, she ran for the jib, unaware of Bridges by her side until he grabbed the line and helped her pull in the sheet.
“I’ve got the mainsail,” Bridges said, waving her back, and she stepped away, hands on hips, breathless. She glanced at Tristan, but he was steering, totally focused, banishing her to wherever it was he sent people when they stopped being of use.
Bridges finished trimming and turned to her. “Jesus, that was close. You okay?”
“Fine.”
He let out a breath and laughed, shaking his head. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew how to sail?”
“Why didn’t you ask?” She ran an unsteady hand over the top of her head, ensuring it was still there, then set her shoulders.