The Paper Palace(57)

“Hey.” He pats a space on the towel next to him, but I ignore it.

Conrad dives under a wave and gets tumbled. His fat legs poke out of the water like a giant’s fingers giving us the peace sign before the sea finally rights him.

“Did you two have some big fight?”

“No. Just the usual: he’s a jerk and I hate him.”

“So why are you acting so mad at me?”

“I’m not acting like anything. You ruined a nice day. It’s no big deal.”

“I didn’t ruin the day, Elle. It’s beautiful, perfect. Look at that water. Even Conrad’s glad to be here.”

“Well, thank God for that.” I stand up. “I’m going to take a walk down the beach. You two have a nice time. There aren’t enough sandwiches for three of us.”

“You can have mine if you promise to stop acting like an insane person.”

“Don’t talk so loud,” I snap, and storm down to the water’s edge, hating myself. Conrad has ruined the pond, ruined the Paper Palace, ruined me. But I will not let him come between me and Jonas, stain the one thing that is still mine with his black squid ink.

Conrad is jumping waves, his back to me. I reach down to the tide line, pick up a chipped-flint stone—my heart, I think as I hurl it at him with all my strength, aiming for his head. The stone misses, disappears into the sea a yard short of him. I have always thrown like a girl, and I hate it. It’s a weakness that others can see. I look down, searching for a better rock. Each time the tide recedes, a hundred little holes appear in the smooth wet sand where clams have hurriedly dug themselves down, hiding from the sharp-eyed gulls above. I find the perfect stone: gray, tangerine-sized, with a raised white streak running across its middle. When I stand up, Conrad is looking at me. I put the stone in my pocket for later, and walk away, follow the edge of the sea until I am so far from him that when I look back, he is nothing but a meaningless speck.



* * *



—

When I get home from the beach, Jonas is waiting on the steps of my cabin, something cupped in his hands. “Look.” He’s holding a tree frog the size of a button.

“Sweet,” I say. “I’m fairly certain you are touching frog piss. They pee in your hand whenever you pick them up.” I push past him and shove open my cabin door.

“Yes,” Jonas says. “It’s an instinctive reaction to fear.”

“So, see you Monday, I guess.”

“Elle, wait. I’m sorry.” He puts the frog on the ground, watches it hop away.

“For what?”

“I don’t know. You’re so mad at me. Please don’t be mad. Haven’t I already been punished enough? All that guy talks about is wrestling and Van Halen, my two least favorite subjects.”

He looks like a little boy. I feel terrible. None of this is Jonas’s fault, but there’s nothing I can say that will make him understand, because there is nothing that can be said. “It could have been Best of Bread.” I sit down beside him. “I’m sorry I was mean.”



* * *



—

Three weeks into sailing camp, Jonas and I are upgraded from a Sunfish to a Rhodes. We each receive a small iron-on badge. Jonas is the natural sailor, but I’m a decent second mate, and I feel peaceful when I’m out on the water with him. The boat typically holds six of us, but our instructor wants us to be “self-sufficient,” able to navigate with a two-man crew. So, today, Jonas and I get to team up on our own. It’s been drizzling all morning, and we are far out on the bay in our bright yellow slickers. The wind is fickle, changing direction every ten seconds. I’ve been hit by the boom so many times that even Jonas stops laughing at me.

“This is ridiculous,” I shout.

“I agree. Let’s head back.” He trims the sheet and tries to come about, but the wind refuses to cooperate. Our boat bobs around in the surf, its sail flapping slack.

“We should call out for a tow,” I say. Our instructor will come get us if we need him.

“No way. It’s our first two-man. It’ll pick up.”

Instead, the rain begins to bucket down on us so hard that my ears fill with the water dripping off my hair. I can no longer see the dock. Nearby, in the mist, our teacher is towing in another boat.

“I’m calling him over.”

“Give it five more minutes.”

“I’m freezing to death.”

He stands up, fiddles with the jib.

“Fine. Five.” I pull my collar up and scrunch down in the cockpit.

Jonas leans against the mast, gazing out at the rain as if he is looking for answers.

“Penny for your thoughts?” I say.

A sea gull flies out of the fog and lands on the bow. It cocks its head and looks at Jonas, unblinking. Jonas looks away first.

“I don’t want you to get mad,” he says.

“I won’t.”

He sits beside me, with a resigned breath. “Have you and Conrad ever, you know, done anything together?”

“Done anything?” I spit-take the words. “Done anything how? What does that even mean? Why would you ask me that?”

“It’s just, he said something that day after you left the beach.”