Changes in Latitudes

  DEDICATION

  To mothers and daughters everywhere,

  but most especially to mine

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ads

  About the Author

  Books by Jen Malone

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  There are things I fully expect to encounter in my driveway.

  A car. Okay, so that’s a giant gimme. The Sunday newspaper. The oil stain from the time my dad decided he was tired of getting ripped off at Lube Like Lightning and demonstrated to all of us why he’s far better suited for academia than auto mechanics. The garbage cans waiting for my brother, Drew, to pull them to the curb on trash day (or, more like, waiting for my mom to do it after Drew forgets . . . again).

  But never—not ever—a ginormous sailboat on blocks.

  Not a behemoth thing with a mast stretching so high that Mr. Kellerman next door could shimmy up it and finally reach above the midway point of the pine tree he wraps with lights every Christmas. (If he were about fifty years younger, sixty pounds lighter, and without the arthritic knees, that is.)

  “You’re seeing this, right?” I ask my two best friends, slowing my car to a stop in the middle of the road. At three o’clock in the morning on our tiny side street, I can do this without any death or dismemberment worries.

  “All I can see down here is that you severely need to vacuum under the driver’s seat . . . and be glad you didn’t ask what I smell, because I could get very graphic. Were you driving Drew around recently?” Tara asks.

  Jess murmurs something that sounds like, “No talk. Gonna be sick.”

  They’re scrunched into the backseat floor wells of my hand-me-down Camry, hiding out from overzealous cops looking to bust kids like me for questionable infractions such as “driving nonfamilial minors during the first six months of holding an Oregon driver’s license.”

  “You can get up now,” I tell them, then point at the driveway. “Behold!”

  Tara’s mouth falls open. “Babe, your mom’s lost the plot. I think the divorce has finally done her in.”

  She . . . might be right.

  In the last six months since Mom imploded our boringly happy family, she’s taken up quilting (and subsequently outfitted practically everyone in her address book with new bedding), gotten certified as a Zumba instructor (even when on good terms with each other—which we most certainly are not anymore—no child should be subjected to their mother in spandex), and run for a spot on the town council (which she lost by twelve votes, three of which I influenced).

  Last year I would have helped her pick out fabrics, practiced salsa moves beside her, and canvased door-to-door collecting signatures to get her on the ballot.

  This year everything’s changed.

  Even so . . . I thought I was at least past the point of surprise where her obsessive hobbies were concerned. But a sailboat? We live in central Oregon. The ocean is at least an hour and a half away on a good traffic day!

  I’m forced to park on the curb, which is a new maneuver for me, and it’s possible I sacrifice the rims of the tires on the left-hand side of the car. Tara and Jess spill out onto the grass and I pull them up.

  We march to the boat, tripping and shushing one another as we go. I’m not physically drunk, but I am totally punch-drunk from the late hour, and sneaking into my house well past curfew somehow seems less urgent than an immediate investigation of Sunny-Side Up (as cheery italic script proclaims it to be). This close, the thing is even more imposing.

  Jess lifts her foot. “Boost me!”

  She scrambles onto a platform at the back and holds out a hand.

  “Shhhh!” I whisper-yell as Tara attempts to follow us and instead collapses in giggles on the concrete. Tara might be drunk-drunk. Scratch that—she most definitely is.

  Attempt number two goes better, and the three of us throw our legs over the top and climb into the . . . hull? That’s a nautical term, right? Is that what people call the part of the boat where the steering wheel lives?

  At least I know the area underneath, down a few steps, is called a cabin, and that’s where we head next. I’m letting my curiosity lead, pushing all other thoughts about what it means that we have a boat in our driveway to the dark recesses of my mind. It’s a place I’ve gotten very intimate with this year.

  Speaking of dark. We each grab for our phones and use their flashlights to peek around, aided by a little ambient light from the street that spills in through small windowed hatches.

  “This is cozy,” Tara says. She’s being polite. Cramped would be a much better description.

  Jess’s eyebrows are up. “Okay, if this thing is legit yours, I’m proposing right now we roll up to senior prom in it next year!”

  “Are you proposing this or are you prom-posing it?” Tara asks, clutching at her sides as she laughs at her own bad joke. Yup, totally drunk.

  “That would actually be hilarious,” I say. “Or what about a joint graduation party aboard? Maybe we could push it out onto Emmet’s Pond!”

  “Pretty sure Emmet’s Pond is all of six inches deep and covered in algae.” Jess wrinkles her nose, but I put my hands on my hips.

  “Hey, don’t knock algae. It’s very important to the ecosystem.”

  Tara groans. “Cass, I stand by the friendship oaths we signed in blood in third grade, but for the love of god, can we get through a night without any of your plant talk?”

  I’m a little interested in (okay, maybe slightly consumed with) botany. I might have a few more of my mom’s obsessive tendencies than I’d like to admit. But something about having your whole life turned upside down by the detonation of your previously content family unit makes the idea of a little green sprout completely rooted in the ground—thoroughly unable to up and leave—even more appealing than ever.

  “Cosigned,” Jess says. “We love you, but waxing nostalgic about pond scum is just wrong on so many levels.”

  Tara grabs my arm and does her cross-eyed zombie face, and this time we both bend over laughing. It’s not even that funny, and I’m not sharing her buzz, but somehow everything becomes hilarious at three o’clock in the morning.

  God, it feels so good to laugh. My utterly crappy junior year is only a couple of short weeks from ending. Next up is what already promises to be a less crappy summer and a way, way less crappy senior year.

  “You guys, we should totally get some snacks and hang out here tonight, instead of having to keep it at a whisper in your room,” Jess says.

  “Ooh, grab your laptop too, so we can figure out more of our trip,” Tara adds.

  I flush with exhilaration at the reminder of the vacation we’re planning together for the end of the summer. Technically speaking, it’s supposed
to be a week of touring college campuses with Jess’s parents, but they said the three of us could set the itinerary. We’re determined to hit as many cheesy roadside attractions along the way as humanly possible.

  Good things are on the horizon; I can feel it in my bones. I grab Tara’s arms and we both squeeze tight.

  “Ugh. Stop being dorks and go find us food!” Jess orders. She’s already on her knees, peering underneath the built-in table, trying to figure out how to get the folding wings to stay up.

  I salute her and trip up the cabin stairs. Swinging a leg over the back edge of the boat, I prepare to lower myself onto the platform when something grabs my ankle.

  I scream.

  2

  “Good lord, Cassandra McClure! Do you want to wake the whole neighborhood?” My mother’s head appears and I snatch my leg free and drop back into the boat.

  “Mom!”

  Her lips purse as she pulls herself over the ledge. Tara’s head sticks up from the cabin opening and Mom sighs. “Girls, it’s nearly three thirty in the morning. Tara, do your parents know where you are?”

  My best friend ducks her head and attempts to look ashamed. Or maybe she’s just trying to hide the fact that she’s stealthily slipping a breath mint into her mouth. “Sure do.”

  “What about you, Jess?” Even though Jess is completely hidden inside the cabin, everyone knows we travel as a pack.

  “I told her I’m sleeping over here,” comes the disembodied voice.

  “Must be nice for their parents to be in the loop,” my mother says, addressing me this time. “I wish I had the same courtesy extended to me. Curfew, Cass? Again?”

  I plop onto a bench. As far as I’m concerned, she lost the right to weigh in on my choices six months ago, when she cheated on my dad and set their divorce in motion. Of course, she doesn’t know that I know that juicy tidbit; she thinks I bought the “your father and I just grew apart” line my brother did. But she must be carrying hidden guilt around, or else she’d be grounding me right now instead of sighing in defeat.

  I tuck my hair behind my ears and offer a mild “Sorry.”

  I try to stand, but the bench is slick from the dew in the air and I crash back onto my butt.

  “Which is what you said last time,” she says.

  “Mom, why are we having this conversation on a sailboat?”

  She bites her lip, then glances at the cabin opening and calls, “Tara, Jess, could you please wait for Cassie in her room?”

  Mom’s voice is tired. Not three thirty in the morning tired, but world-weary tired. She’s usually not even a glass-half-full person but a glass-overflowing person, so it catches me by surprise, and for about half a second I feel a twinge of guilt for my role in that. But then I remind myself to put my armor back on. Old Cassie would be affected by seeing the mother she was once so close to in pain. New Cassie knows her mother brought it all on herself.

  My friends climb the steps from the cabin, smile politely at my mother, and give me sympathetic looks as they wordlessly slip by and hop down from the boat. So much for cabin snacks and trip planning.

  When the door to my house closes behind them, I say, “Go ahead,” making a show of settling in for her explanation by leaning back and crossing my legs. Mom’s smile is strained.

  “Okay, then,” she says. “Well, as you’ve probably noticed, we now own a boat. Or rather, we quasi-own a boat, for the next six months or so.”

  I stare at her. “But why?”

  “Well . . . This is a good-news, bad-news scenario. Which do you want first?”

  Is there ever a right answer to that question? In no universe does getting the good news second make the bad news you heard before it just melt away. And you can’t enjoy the good news if it comes first because you know the other shoe’s about to drop. I ignore the question and blink a few times.

  My mother is quiet too, and looks nervous. This can’t be good. Once she realizes I’m not answering her, she takes a deep breath and begins talking very fast. “We—you, me, and Drew—are going on a little adventure. Well, not that little, actually. The three of us are going to sail from Oregon to Land’s End, at the southern tip of Baja, Mexico. For four months.”

  She steals a peek at me and, even though I’m not reacting one bit (processing . . . so much processing happening), her shoulders relax. This time her grin is genuine as she adds, “I really think it could be amazing.”

  Amazing? Amazing? Marooned at sea with my mother? For four months?

  This is not real life. This is not my life.

  “What’s the good news?” I manage, subtly squeezing my eyes shut, then open, shut, then open, to see if that tilts the world back on its axis.

  “That was the good news, sweetie.”

  Yeah, I was kind of afraid of that.

  3

  I have at least a million questions. How will we sail this thing? When do we leave? Even if it’s tomorrow—which it better not be—four months would still take us into next school year, so what about classes? What about my trip with Tara and Jess? What about sharks? I’m a Shark Week addict and no way, no how, am I willingly putting myself in the middle of their feeding grounds on this piece of fiberglass that may look monster-sized in our driveway, but probably not so much bobbing in an enormous ocean.

  Still I keep quiet, my mind whirring.

  “Why?” is all I manage when I finally connect my brain to my speaking parts.

  Mom’s like a windup toy set loose, pacing the tiny open space, her words spilling out like she’s been sitting on a scoop she’s just gotten permission to broadcast. “Okay, so here are some basics: the sailboat’s owners retired to Mexico and are looking for someone to sail it to them. There are a few others headed down the coast—three boats, including ours—so we’ll have company the entire time. And then we’ll hop a flight back home once we make our delivery. Honestly, the whole thing sort of dropped in my lap, and at first I thought it was ridiculous, but—”

  She jerks to a stop and peers at me, trying to gauge my reaction, but I genuinely don’t have one. I think I might be in shock. Is this what shock feels like? Like everything is happening on the other end of a paper-towel tube you’re peering through?

  She continues on with something about an online high school for the two months we’ll miss in the fall, but I can’t follow anymore. I used to complain that nothing interesting ever happened to me. I really did—ignorant, privileged idiot that I was. But ever since Mom cheated and Dad jetted off to another continent in retaliation, all I’ve wanted is to get my normal, boring life back. I crave BD (Before Divorce) like a sugar fiend craves cake pops with rainbow sprinkles.

  And if I can’t have that—I do know I can’t have that—then I want BD, Version 2.0: a new kind of normal I can control myself. My friends, my job scooping ice cream at Heavenly Licks (which sounds so porny, and I don’t understand why the owner won’t hear me out about it), a crazy-fun vacation with Tara and Jess, and a killer senior year to remember. And then to graduate and really do things on my own terms. Is that too much to hope for? It seemed a thousand percent reasonable until about three minutes ago.

  There is no version of BD that takes place at sea.

  Now my mother is staring at me again. “Cass? Honey, are you paying attention to any of this?”

  I look up at her, and all I can manage—again—is “Why?”

  Then she says, so quietly I have to strain to hear her, “Well, partly because we need to put what’s left of our family back together, before you go off to college and it’s too late.”

  I fight the prickle of tears that spring up behind my eyelids. She’s not going to disarm me with a few soft words. She’s not. We’re no longer the unstoppable mother-daughter duo of Cassie-and-Elise.

  I hit the “anger” preset button on my brain. All I have to do is rewind to the argument between her and Dad, the one that she still doesn’t know I overheard. The one where I learned the real reason behind my parents’ split.

&n
bsp; “What about finding a new job?” I ask. My mother was a bank manager until she got laid off a couple of months ago, after her company was sold to a new one.

  She picks at her cuticles. “That’s the other reason. The severance they gave me will eventually end, and there just isn’t a whole lot out there right now. I’ll be able to continue sending résumés from the boat, but in the meantime, this sailing gig is a bird-in-the-hand scenario. Any little bit would help at the moment, and this can offer more than that.”

  “But you don’t sail.”

  “Of course I do!”

  She sounds offended, and okay, yes, she’s mentioned being on the sailing team when she was in high school in San Diego, and she’s told us stories about the summers in college and grad school when she crewed on catamarans for rich people chartering in the Caribbean. But that was a whole lifetime ago. My whole lifetime. How do I know those experiences make her capable of taking our lives in her hands now?

  “Right, but you haven’t done it in forever,” I say.

  “Pretty sure the ocean hasn’t changed. Or the principles of maneuvering sails through wind,” Mom answers calmly.

  Okay, but I don’t know how to sail. Before tonight, I’d never even set foot on a sailboat.

  This is crazy. Normal people just don’t do this kind of thing!

  “What did Drew have to say?” I mumble, though I can already guess. If I inherited my mom’s obsessive-hobby gene, my fourteen-year-old brother got her optimism. Drew’s a roll-with-the-punches kind of kid who’s always the first one packed for any vacation. As long as he has access to junk food and/or his laptop for Star Wars movies and video games, a tsunami could hit Oregon and he’d shrug it off.

  Oh my god, what if we’re out in this thing when a tsunami hits? When was the last time a tsunami hit the West Coast? Is that a possibility?

  My mother snorts, oblivious to the cliff my thoughts have fallen over. “Drew’s first question was whether we could rename the boat Minecraft. Since it’s a small craft and it’s ours, at least for now . . .”

  Of course he’s on board, no pun intended.

  Mom sobers. “It would be great to have your support here too. Meet me halfway?”