The Starboard Sea: A Novel (9 page)

Every weeknight, after dinner, we had two hours of study and then a free hour before curfew. During that time, couples convened in the firstfloor parlor of Astor, flopped on couches, bounced on chairs, sprawled across itchy wool rugs, then got down to the business of making out. Table lamps were turned off, but the two main chandeliers ran on a timer and wouldn’t go black until quarter of eleven. That gave fifteen minutes for the real nasty stuff. Sucking off. Humping. Tazewell called this ritual “milk and cookies.” The dining hall staff actually set out vanilla wafers and glass pitchers of chocolate milk. According to Brizzey, who’d previously invited me to snack with her, the whole thing had been Tinks’s idea. Once girls were admitted, she’d determined that there’d be less temptation to sneak off campus or into each other’s rooms if there were a time scheduled for intimate exchanges. “They don’t mind us screwing around,” Brizzey claimed. “They just don’t want us doing it in our own beds.” The faculty took turns monitoring the make-out sessions, usually departing moments before the great blackout occurred, then returning at eleven o’clock to detangle bodies and send boys home.
My plan was to sneak up to Aidan’s room while the lights on the first floor of Astor were out. The main staircase ran right off the parlor and up to the third floor. I’d seen Ms. Alvarez, the Astor dorm parent, in Whitehall hanging out with Coach Tripp, so I knew I’d have time to sprint up the stairs, find Aidan’s room, and apologize. I didn’t want Aidan going to sleep still mad at me. There was also the possibility that I wanted to try kissing her again.

I timed my parlor entrance with the setting chandeliers. For a moment, I stood and watched puffy male lips smack little girl faces. Arms and legs like a muscle of boa constrictors twisting and tightening around an opossum. A haze of sweat and steam hung over the air. I can’t say that there was sex in that room. Sex to me meant privacy, not a thrashing scrum of bodies fighting it out in the dark. But I liked this public display. The liberty one had to roll and writhe. To make strange liquid sounds with spit and tongues. Unashamed, unabashed. I admired the athleticism. Kriffo sat in an upholstered armchair with a miniature girl on his lap. He ran a hand along a white flash of her thigh. I saw his fingers disappear under the shade of her skirt. With my own dirty mind, I conjured up a department store Santa. Being naughty or nice. I grabbed a pocketful of cookies prior to mounting the stairs.

I didn’t knock. I heard muffled crying and entered, bracing myself. Aidan wasn’t crying and she wasn’t alone. She sat on her bed wear
ing only an oversized T-shirt. She clutched her arms around another
girl. Both of them turned to me, surprised and jolted. Here was Diana, bleary-eyed and dressed in silk pajamas.
“What are you doing here?” Diana asked.
This was a good question. I pointed to Aidan.
“No.” Aidan stood, pulling her T-shirt down over pale legs. “Him?” Di squinted. She blew her nose with a balled-up tissue,
then rose and whispered something to her friend.
I’d stumbled onto a secret. Aidan touched Di’s cheek, held her
hand, and nodded. Words were exchanged in low, cooing voices. And
me, I merely stood there, waiting. I didn’t understand any of it. Diana’s face was red. Not blotchy or swollen but warm and sad.
She looked so old to me then, the way a tired mother must look to her
child. I watched her peck kisses over Aidan’s eyes. On her way out, Di
said good night to me. Aidan sat on the middle of her bed with her
legs folded. She glared at me.
“I thought you’d be alone,” I said.
“What difference does it make?” Aidan spoke in a controlled voice.
“You don’t belong in my room.” She sounded like Mr. Guy did when
humiliating Race.
“I wanted to apologize for being a jerk earlier.”
“I’d rather not talk about that.” Aidan reached back for a pillow
and held it in her lap.
“We don’t have to.” I took a few steps toward her bed. “I’m sorry.” I shuffled my feet and looked for a place to sit. There was one
straight-backed chair, but the seat was covered with books. The only
other place was beside Aidan on her bed. The more I hesitated, the
smaller her bed seemed. Alice in Wonderland small, and I felt every
inch of my six-foot frame.
“I was surprised,” I said, “to find someone here with you. I’d rather
you existed only when I was around.” I made a decision and sat at the
foot of her bed.
“We used to be roommates,” Aidan said quietly. “Sometimes she
likes to talk.”
“She confesses her secrets?” I asked.
“I’m a good listener.”
“Sounds pretty one-sided.” I relaxed and moved farther back onto
the bed.
“What about our friendship?” Aidan tossed me a pillow. “I listen to
you talk about Cal. How beautiful he was.”
“That ‘beautiful’ comment,” I said. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
I folded the pillow, placed it behind my neck, and propped my back
against the wall.
I closed my eyes and let a few moments pass by.
“Jason,” Aidan said, “you’re drifting.”
“I should probably go.” I stood up and shook out my legs. “If you’re caught leaving my room, I’ll be in trouble. It’s the one
thing they still punish us for.”
“Are you offering me sanctuary?”
Aidan glided from her bed and turned off the lights.
“I’ll leave early.” I took off my jacket and tie and stepped out of my
shoes. I began to unbuckle my belt but decided to keep on the rest of
my clothes.
Aidan raised the sheets and slid over against the wall. There was
room for me in her bed, but I picked up the extra pillow and stretched
out onto the wood floor.
“Are you comfortable?” she asked.
“My punishment for this afternoon.” I used my jacket as a blanket. Aidan whispered, “You surprise me, Jason.”
“Just trying to distinguish myself.”
“Jason,” she said softly, “I’m sorry my teeth are sharp.” I didn’t want to hear this. Unlike Aidan, I wasn’t a good listener. “I think I’m going to fall asleep,” I said.
I rolled over onto my side and studied the dance shoes on the wall.
Black-and-white patent leather. Imagining Fred Astaire in top hat
and tails. Spinning and tapping a straight black cane. Smiling with a
face full of sharp teeth and charm. My dreams turned to home movies.
Scratchy film of Aidan balanced on Fred Astaire’s shoes. Fox-trotting
on his feet. I slept.
Aidan woke me during the night. She sat up in bed, beating the air
with her arms. Kicking the sheets and pillows aside. I went to her.
Wrapping myself around her chest and bringing her back down to the
mattress, whispering quiet into her ear. We slept in that tight hold.
Aidan always hid her body in loose and unflattering clothes. I was
surprised to feel the thin arches of her ribcage and the slender curve of
her waist. I didn’t run my hands over her body. Instead, I held her close.
My face buried in her hair. Just enough room for the two of us. I left early in the morning, before Aidan had a chance to rise. She
slept with her lips pouted and her mouth opened slightly. I put on my
jacket, touching the breast pocket to feel the dried apricot seed, then
made my escape through the window.
I jetted down the metal stairs, dismounted, and crossed through a
small parking lot on my way to Whitehall.
“Late night?”
Turning to my left, I saw Plague. Sitting on the hood of a blue Chevy
Malibu, a triangular sign advertising Lighthouse Pizza crowning its
roof. He bit into a chocolate doughnut, chasing it down with a swig
from a bottle of cola.
“Jump-start your morning,” I said.
“You giving it to one of those muffs?” Plague asked.
I pointed to a white bag perched beside him on the car. He stared at
me, then offered me the bag. I took a powdered doughnut. “Thanks.”
“You have a lady up there?”
“Not really.”
“They act all uptight, but I bet they put out just the same.” Plague
stuck his finger in his mouth and ran it down along his gums, licking
and uncaulking the chocolate cake.
“No comment,” I said.
“Like you’d tell me, anyway.”
“Does it bother you”—I chewed—“the way you’re treated?” “How do you mean?” he asked.
“The name-calling, the put-downs.”
“It takes a whole lot more to get to me.” He jumped down from the
hood of his car.
“I guess it would.”
“You and your friends,” Plague said, “are a joke. Like right now. I
could turn you all in. Have the lot of you thrown the hell out.” I brushed powder off my fingertips and spoke calmly. “You think
they’d believe you? Over me?”
“I have no reason to lie.”
“What’s your real name?” I asked.
He seemed taken aback. “What do you mean?’
“Your real name can’t be Plague,” I said.
He frowned, as if needing a minute or two to remember. “Leonardo. Leo for short.” He pulled out a gold chain with a medallion. “You
know. Like the lion.”
I looked at the golden animal’s head and smiled. “That’s a good
name for you.”
“My girlfriend,” he said. “She gave me the necklace.”
Without any prompting, he took out his wallet and showed me a
picture of himself seated on a picnic bench with a small dark-haired
girl on his lap.
“That’s Cheryl.” Plague stared at the photo. I felt as though I was
intruding on an intimate moment.
“Time to go to work.” He picked up the white bag and rolled down
the top.
“A bit early for pizzas,” I said.
“No, that’s my other job. Now it’s time to make pancakes for you
fools.”
“Don’t spit in the batter.”
“That would be the least of it.” Plague walked away with his shoulders hunched, swinging the satchel of doughnuts.
“Leo,” I called out. “We’re cool. Right?”
He looked back at me and saluted.

That afternoon, I ran into Aidan outside Mr. Guy’s classroom. “Good,” she said. “I found you.” She grabbed my hand and hauled her
leather bag over her shoulder. “Come with me.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“To the Salon.”
We raced through the Barracuda’s Fishbowl together and Aidan
pulled me into the girls’ bathroom. She locked the door. The room was
small with only a sink, a mirror, and a toilet. She removed a towel from
her leather bag and wrapped it around my neck.
“What’s going on?” The towel was thick and white and felt good
against my skin.
“I want to see what you look like beneath this mane.” Aidan turned
on both faucets, running her fingers through the stream and adjusting
the hot and cold taps. She opened a bottle of shampoo and placed it on the
sink. “Lean forward,” she said.
I bent over at the waist and stuck my head down into the basin of the sink. Aidan circled her fingers along my neck, drowning the warm and cold water into my hair. She rubbed shampoo between her palms, lathering a pink peppermint lotion. My scalp tingled like Christmas candy on a cold tongue. It felt good to be touched, and I wanted her to work the massage from the crown of my skull toward my neck and my shoulders, then downward, the route of my spine. As the water licked my ears and dripped down my cheeks, I thought again about kissing her. Aidan turned the water off and pressed the towel plush
around my head.
“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this,” I said.
Aidan unsheathed a long, thin pair of scissors. “Sit.” She pointed to
the toilet seat.
I sat, and she began to snip away. Hair fell in dark curls onto the
linoleum floor.
“Don’t look down.” Aidan held my chin straight.
“Shouldn’t you be preserving a lock of my hair?”
“Are you kidding? I could make a wig.” Aidan held her face within
inches of my own, her breath cool, her stare controlled.
Her eyes were a dark russet, but up close I noticed that within the
iris of her left eye a bright splinter of gold gleamed like light bouncing
off the sharp tip of a needle.
“One of your eyes,” I said, “has this crazy fleck of gold.” “It’s a piece of broken glass.” Aidan tipped back on her heels. “It’s
lodged in there. Here, feel.”
Aidan took my fingers in her hand. She closed her eye and ran my
fingertips over the soft skin of her eyelid, pressing down on the hard,
small granule of glass.
“Does it hurt?” I asked. “How did it get in there?”
She sliced the scissors open and closed a silvery sound. “I don’t
want to talk about that. Not today.”
Aidan continued to trim my hair. I was happy just to sit in silence
and let her work. We both had our secrets and I didn’t want to overreach.
“You know that song,” Aidan said. “ ‘It Had to Be You.’ I always
thought the line went, ‘With all your false I-love-you-stills.’ ” “It’s ‘With all your faults, I love you still.”
“I know that now,” Aidan said. “You sang it one afternoon.” A piece of hair landed on my nose. I blew it up and away, but the
itch remained. Aidan slid me around and trimmed the back. Finally
she snapped the towel from my neck and rubbed my hair dry. “Take a
look,” she said.
We stood together in front of the bathroom mirror. She’d managed
to keep my hair long and curly, but neater.
“Well done,” I said.
“Now I can be seen with you.” Aidan collected furry mats of hair
from the floor. “Hair is destiny,” she said. “The right look can change
your life.”
I held up the shears and began clipping them dangerously close to
her head.
“No one cuts my hair,” she whispered.
“I’m glad to know that.”
As she busied herself sweeping up the mess, the pink arch of her
ear peeked out from her long red curls. In that moment she looked like
an elf or, even more, like a boy. How strange and rare it was to see the
top of a girl’s ear. I reached out to touch her, but my hand flew back
from a spark of static electricity.

In the weeks that followed, Aidan and I spent hours together walking on the beach. We’d play this game where I would stroll several yards in front of her and sing. She loved the way the wind carried the lyrics back to her, claimed that some words arrived before others shuffled out of order. She believed that the wind composed its own music from my voice. “You’re like one of those Sirens in the Odyssey,” she claimed.

“That’s right. I’m luring you into shore only to have you crash against my rocks.”
I kept offering to take Aidan sailing and she kept insisting that boats frightened her. I tried to reassure her that despite all dangers, I would keep her safe.
“I know you mean well,” she said, “but for now, let’s stay on land.”
When the tide was out, Aidan and I would sit on the breakwater and I’d school her on the art of sailing. She was surprised to learn that despite thousands of years of history and advancements in high-tech navigational instruments, sailing still wasn’t an exact and mea surable science. “A compass may point north, but the metallic needle is swayed and influenced by the boat’s own magnetic field.”
“So north isn’t really north?” Aidan asked.
“Not when you’re sailing. True north becomes compass north, and the degree of deviation must be drawn and plotted on a curve.” No matter how precise the instruments, how frequently adjusted, I had to admit to Aidan that certain aspects of sailing had no firm guidelines.
Like deciding when to reduce sail. Knowing when fast is fast enough. An overcanvased boat will strain and broach, rolling windward out of control. Reefing the main and reducing the headsail requires athleticism. Challenging a crew’s unity and strength. Striving to keep the areas of each sail in proportion. A wardrobe of sheets to select from. Mizzen, genoa, lapper, spinnaker. The skipper commands the crew and forecasts the need for change, basing his decisions on intuition and experience. The art of interpretation.
Though I didn’t set out to conceal it, Aidan and I kept our friendship private, hidden, even. We hadn’t known each other long, but there was an intensity, an immediacy to our feelings for each other. What made me like her? Her pain. Her mystery. I was drawn to her because she reminded me of Cal. I was drawn to her because she reminded me of myself. I couldn’t tell you what she saw in me. She certainly didn’t expect that I would add to her hurt. She could not have known the harm I’d bring.