The Unsinkable Greta James(4)

Greta leans on the rail and pulls in a deep breath. The harbor smells of brine and fish, and far below, dozens of tiny figures are waving up at them madly, as if they’re about to set off on a dangerous voyage instead of an eight-day all-inclusive cruise with four buffets and a water slide.

A few birds circle above, and the breeze is heavy with salt. Greta closes her eyes for a minute, and when she opens them again, she can sense someone staring at her. She turns to see a girl—probably no more than twelve or thirteen—standing a few feet down the rail. She has light-brown skin and black hair, and she’s staring at Greta with a very specific kind of intensity.

“Hi,” Greta says, and the girl widens her eyes, caught somewhere between excitement and embarrassment. She’s wearing pink Converse sneakers and skinny jeans with holes in the knees.

“Are you…Greta James?” she asks, her voice full of uncertainty.

Greta raises her eyebrows, amused. “I am.”

“I knew it.” The girl lets out a surprised laugh. “Wow. This is so cool. And so weird. I can’t believe you’re on this cruise.”

“Honestly,” Greta says, “neither can I.”

“I’m obsessed with your album. And I saw your show in Berkeley last year,” she says, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Dude, you can shred. I’ve never seen a girl play like that before.”

This makes Greta smile. She hadn’t been expecting much overlap in the Venn diagram of people who go on Alaskan cruises and people who go to her shows. She fills good-sized venues and her songs are played on the radio and she has fans all over the world; she’s even been on the cover of a few music magazines. But she’s rarely recognized on the street outside of New York or L.A. And hardly ever by anyone this young.

“Do you play?” she asks the girl, who nods enthusiastically. There’s no sheepishness about it, no modesty: the answer is simply yes. She plays.

Greta remembers being that age, already full of confidence as she started to realize that a guitar was more than just a toy, more than even just an instrument. Already, she knew it was a portal, and that she was talented enough for it to take her somewhere.

Her dad was the one who’d bought that first guitar. Greta was only eight; it was supposed to be for Asher, who was twelve, but even then he had little interest in anything but football. It was acoustic and secondhand and much too big for her; it would be years before she’d grow into it. Some nights, when Conrad got home from work, he’d stand in the open mouth of the garage, the tip of his cigarette burning bright as he watched her try to work out the notes like a puzzle. When she landed on the right ones, he let the cigarette dangle from his lips while he clapped.

That was back when he loved that she played. When music was still a subject without controversy for them. Every night after dinner, he’d put on an old Billy Joel album while they did the dishes, the two of them singing over the sound of the faucet to “Piano Man” while Helen laughed and Asher rolled his eyes.

The girl picks at the peeling paint on the rail. “I’ve been trying to figure out ‘Birdsong,’ actually,” she says, referring to a not-particularly-popular track off Greta’s EP, a choice that makes her like this kid even more.

“That’s a tricky one.”

“I know,” she says. “Way trickier than ‘Told You So.’?”

Greta smiles. “Told You So” was the first single off her debut album, which came out a couple years ago, and it’s her most popular track by far, having achieved a level of success where people tend to know it even if they’ve never heard of Greta James.

“Not into the mainstream stuff, huh?” she says to the girl, who gives a solemn nod.

“I prefer the deep cuts.”

Greta laughs. “Fair enough.”

A horn blares once, then twice, and everyone on the deck startles and looks around. The engines have begun to stir, the water churning as the ship vibrates beneath their feet. Somewhere, invisible speakers crackle to life.

“Good afternoon, passengers,” comes a slightly muffled voice. “This is Captain Edward Windsor. I want to welcome you all aboard and let you know that before leaving port, we’ll be holding a safety briefing. Please collect your life jackets and proceed to your muster station.”

The girl glances around at the receding crowds. “I guess I should go find my parents. But it was really cool to meet you. Maybe I’ll see you again?”

Greta nods. “What’s your name?”

“Preeti.”

“Nice to meet you, Preeti,” she says. “I’ll look for you when I want to talk shop, okay?”

Preeti’s face brightens at this; then she gives a wave and hurries off.

By the time Greta grabs the life jacket from her cabin and arrives at her assigned spot for the muster drill, her own little crew is already assembled. Her dad frowns at the way she has the vest slung over one shoulder. He was a naval officer during Vietnam, stationed on a patrol boat in the western Pacific, and he doesn’t mess around with this sort of thing.

Around her, there’s a sea of bright orange; everyone is wearing their life jackets, even Davis Foster, who is six foot seven with shoulders so broad it looks like a child’s pool toy has gotten caught around his neck. Greta lifts hers over her head, fastening the clips and hoping there are no other unexpected fans nearby. The last thing she needs is a picture of this.