Changes in Latitudes Read online

  My mother’s brow furrows. “I don’t understand. They drove here? Why would they do that?”

  I shrug. “I guess to see me again before I disappear from their lives for four months? You know how devastated we are about being apart for the rest of summer and the start of school and all.”

  The others at the table become very preoccupied with rearranging forks and knives around their empty plates, until Mom, in an obvious attempt to deflect attention, begins gathering the dirty dishes to her. Too bad she’s trapped on the opposite side of the table from the kitchen sink.

  Her voice is we-have-company fake as she asks, “What exactly did you think you were going to do in Florence with them?”

  “Tara said there’s a cute downtown. We’ll probably walk around and grab some coffee or dessert at one of the restaurants. We just want a chance to hang out together.”

  “I’m sorry they came all this way, Cassie, but you’re not leaving this boat. For one thing, you don’t know how to start the outboard engine on the dinghy, which you’ve never even sat in. And how would you propose maneuvering it back up an unfamiliar river in the dark?”

  “But they drove all the way here already! What am I supposed to tell them?”

  Miranda slides off the bench and settles next to Grace on the floor, prodding her to finish her salad. Christian pulls out his own phone and buries his face in it. For her part, Amy leans back and throws an arm across Miranda’s empty seat, clearly enjoying the show.

  Mom is obviously embarrassed. “I can’t believe you would pull this, Cass. I really can’t.”

  I glare back. “I can’t believe you won’t let me see my friends when they’re driving three hours round trip just to hang out with me. It’s bad enough you’re forcing me to spend the next four months away from them.”

  She isn’t backing down. “It’s nice that they wanted to surprise you, but they should have asked you first so you could have discussed it with me. Then we would have avoided all of this.”

  Yeah, well. Let’s just say it wasn’t totally a surprise to me. It might have even been my idea to begin with.

  “They knew it would make me happy. That’s what people who care about each other do—consider the happiness of their loved ones.”

  Mom sucks in a breath just as Christian clears his throat. “I don’t wish to intrude here, but if it would be helpful, I would be pleased to offer Cassandra a ride to the dock, and then either I or my deckhand could return her when she’s through in town. We both keep late hours, so it would be no trouble at all.”

  I grin triumphantly. “See, Mom? Perfect solution.”

  Mom flutters her hands helplessly before pasting on a smile and turning to Christian.

  “That’s a really lovely offer. I know it would mean a lot to Cassie to have one more night with her friends. She’s a little less, er, enthusiastic about this trip than the rest of us, as you might have guessed by now. If you’re sure you wouldn’t mind?”

  “My pleasure,” he responds, closing his eyes briefly as he inclines his head.

  Mom’s smile grows in return. “Thank you,” she answers, blushing slightly.

  I’m going to have to keep tabs on that situation, but for now . . . freedom! Before she can reconsider, I rush into my berth to change for my stolen night out.

  7

  “This is not real life!” My laughter is breathless as I watch a second dolphin join the first in leaping through the wake our boat is creating. We’re free of the sandbar and back in the ocean . . . and the universe is not playing fair.

  I’m trying really hard to hold my ground—and last night’s argument with Mom helped tremendously, as did having to say good-bye to my best friends all over again. But how am I supposed to harden my black, shriveled heart against all things boat-trip-related when there are adorable sea creatures, with their playful jumping and their smiley faces and their silky-looking skin. It’s impossible—impossible—to be cranky when freaking dolphins are cavorting alongside your boat.

  “There’s another one!” Drew points to his left and I see it too. And a fourth! Four dolphins are crisscrossing behind our boat. I lean as far over the side as I dare, so I can watch.

  “Can you believe this?” I ask, inhaling deeply. Thanks to the motion sickness bands Amy dropped off this morning when we met up with them at the river’s mouth, my breaths are full from wonder and not from trying to keep my stomach contents in their proper compartments.

  “Most sailors encounter pods at some point in their travels,” Mom replies. “But it is pretty amazing we’re experiencing it on day two of our trip.”

  I don’t want to look away for even a second, but I really want my phone right now, so I can get this on video. No one will believe me otherwise.

  “Grab the binoculars too,” Drew says when I tell him where I’m headed. I slide across the sea-sprayed deck as quickly as possible to retrieve both and race back.

  “I think I see more over there.” Drew points a few hundred yards off our stern, where Tide Drifter, Amy’s and Miranda’s boat, has its bright red sails pulled tight.

  “Here, check this out.” Drew passes me the binoculars. “Does it look like there are people in their dinghy?”

  I squint hard at the tiny boat being pulled behind the bigger one. “Yeah . . . yes! Definitely!” I shift the lenses. “Okay, someone’s on the platform at the back, and there’s another person up by the mast. Both look tallish. Do you think the girls are in the dinghy?”

  “I’d guess they wanted to get closer to the dolphins,” Mom says.

  I lower the binoculars in time to catch Drew’s smile. We stare at each other for a beat before we both exclaim, “I want to be closer to the dolphins!”

  “Jinx, you owe me a Coke,” Drew says.

  I punch his arm and he fake falls against the railing like he’s in a boxing ring.

  “Hey!” Mom yelps. “I don’t need one of you going overboard.”

  “Unless it’s in a dinghy, right? We can do that, can’t we?” I ask, even though I hate to have her thinking she has the power to grant me any favors.

  Mom looks between us and bites her lip before casting another glance down at the dolphins. “I—”

  “Pleeeeeaassse.” Apparently I have no shame where dolphins are concerned. “Who knows how long they’ll hang out, and what if this chance never comes again? Grace and Abigail are doing it and they’re, like, one-fourth our ages.”

  My mother glances at Tide Drifter. “I guess. But you do know you’re going to freeze out there, right?”

  Coastal Oregon summers are more like New England winters. We’re currently bundled in about ten layers each and I’m still fantasizing about hot soup for dinner.

  “Who cares!” Drew says. He’s right. What’s a little frostbite when weighed against dolphin encounters?

  We lock eyes again before grabbing each other’s arms and squealing. Then we scramble down to the platform.

  It takes all three of us to haul in Minecraft, so christened by Drew when Mom refused to let him temporarily paint over Sunny-Side Up’s italic lettering. She insists on triple-checking our life jackets and makes us repeat back the procedure for starting the outboard engine, in case we’re not able to pull ourselves along the attached rope to get back to the platform when we’ve had enough.

  When it’s my turn to climb in, I hesitate for a moment. We’re going fairly fast right now, and I’m about to step off a relatively stable platform into something tiny, wobbly, and more or less inflatable, no matter how sturdy the rubber sides feel.

  Am I crazy?

  But . . . dolphins.

  Right next to us.

  One surfaces so close I can hear the puff of air through its blowhole and I’m sold. I grab Drew’s hand and let him pull me aboard.

  When we both make “okay” signs with our fingers, Mom nods and pushes us off. We jerk backward across the wake until all the slack is out of the rope. It’s like tubing, but better because . . . dolphins!

&nb
sp; I push up the sleeves on my many layers and dip my hand just beneath the surface of the frigid water, fantasizing that one will come nose it with its snout. That doesn’t happen, but two appear just to our right, er, starboard side, and crest the surface mere feet from us. I clasp Drew’s arm. “Holy crap!”

  “Damn straight,” he agrees, in a tone every bit as awed as mine. We both giggle like hyenas.

  Even after our new friends abandon us for a different watery playground, we stay out for another forty-five minutes, straining to see any last glimpses of them and then just relaxing and enjoying the different perspective. As expected, it is ridiculously cold—I’d put the temperature in the fifties, and factoring in the wind and the frequent spray from the freezing water, well, let’s just say I won’t be breaking out my bikini any time soon. Eventually, and with some help from Mom, we pull our dinghy back in.

  “I got some great shots of you with the dolphins,” Mom says. “I’m thinking we have this year’s Christmas card all sewn up.”

  As I brush past her, she settles her hand on my shoulder and I freeze.

  “I know I’ve been upset with you over the whole thing with Tara and Jess yesterday, but I’m really happy you were enjoying yourself out there. It’s nice to get a glimpse of this side of you again.”

  I nod once, then move away.

  That may have been an incredible, once-in-a-lifetime experience and, okay, I can be big enough to admit it wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t forced this trip on us, but let’s not get carried away with the mother-daughter bonding here. It doesn’t change the fact that a whole lot of other things wouldn’t have happened—like our entire family falling apart—if not for her either.

  8

  “The problem is, Dad, a critical competent to reaching Mexico is to actually set sail in a southerly direction.”

  My father’s eyes crinkle in the corners, the way they always do when he’s amused, and I get a sharp pang in my chest over how accustomed I’m getting to only seeing his face on my computer screen.

  “Where are you now?” he asks.

  “Same place as yesterday, which is the same place as the day before. We had two days of sailing and then got totally stuck in Middle of Nowheresville, Oregon. We’re ‘weathered in,’ meaning we have to wait for the winds to pick up enough for our run down the coast to the next stop.”

  Without the proper winds, we go nowhere. Yes, technically speaking, we could motor, but gasoline is costly. Our boat’s owners are covering our expenses, but Amy and Miranda’s budget is truly bare-bones, and Christian maintains, “If I wanted to motor there, I’d have bought a speedboat.”

  “You’ve been in the same cove for four days?” Dad asks.

  I make a face. The wonder of our dolphin adventure has long since worn off, and I’m almost grateful the actual experience of this trip has gone back to mirroring my nightmares about it. It’s definitely helping me keep my defenses up.

  “Yep,” I answer. “Apparently this is the main reason it takes months to sail somewhere you could reach by car in thirty-six hours.”

  “About that. I still don’t understand why the owners couldn’t have had their boat driven down on a trailer. Wouldn’t that have cost a whole lot less?”

  “Oh, believe me, I even volunteered to play chauffeur. But it turns out it’s crazy expensive and a huge hassle. Oversized loads can only use certain roads at special times of the day, there are all kinds of permits, the mast has to be removed . . . and a bunch of other stuff.”

  “Got it.” Dad shakes his head sympathetically.

  “Being stuck in Oregon would actually be fine if Mom would let me see Tara and Jess again, but no.”

  Now Dad’s eyes crinkle in a very different way and lines appear on his forehead. “Yeah, well, she filled me in on your little rebellion the other night. Not cool, Cass.”

  “What do you mean she filled you in?” I ask.

  “She emailed me. That surprises you?”

  I roll my eyes. “Uh, yeah. Considering you’re divorced now.”

  Dad winces nearly imperceptibly, but I see it. And now I feel terrible. It’s not like he asked for my mom to cheat on him.

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  “Look, things aren’t perfect between your mom and me right now. . . .” His voice has an edge to it, and he huffs out an annoyed breath before continuing. “But we’re ex-spouses, not ex-parents. Obviously she’s going to keep me filled in on anything related to you guys, just like she’s been doing all along and just like I’m sure you know she has. Causing a scene in front of a group of people you’d just met for the first time? C’mon, Cass. That’s not my girl.”

  I swallow over the lump in my throat. “Mom’s exaggerating.”

  “Cassandra . . .” His voice holds a warning I’m all too familiar with. I’m about to get his famous “Don’t sweet talk a sweet talker” lecture, the same one I used to get when I’d try to convince him I hadn’t snuck any of my Halloween candy up to my room, despite the crumpled wrappers peeking out from under my bed.

  Maybe I could’ve handled things differently the other night. I might not care as much these days about upsetting my mom, but my father doesn’t deserve it. It’s bad enough he felt he had to move to the other side of the world to escape the situation. And when his visiting professorship ends next year, he’ll probably have to sign a lease at one of those sad single-dad apartments by the highway. When he did nothing wrong. When none of us did anything wrong, except the one person who gets to live exactly as she pleases and do exactly what she wants. How is that the least bit fair?

  “I think I’ve been unbelievably patient about your acting out these last few months,” he says, “but it’s time to man up, young lady.”

  “Dad, that’s super sexist. Why doesn’t anyone ever say ‘woman up’? We’re tougher than guys about most things anyway.”

  “Fair point. Consider your old man schooled. Only I wish you’d stop being so tough and maybe realize you’re bringing a lot of this on yourself, sweets. Look, I understand the divorce threw you for a loop, and you have a right to be upset. But maybe if you’d stop fighting your mom tooth and nail, your life would get easier, you know?”

  “I’d still be stuck on this boat though, wouldn’t I? So, no. My life wouldn’t be easier. At all.” I swipe at a few bitter tears in the corners of my eyes.

  “I appreciate that you feel that way, but what would happen if you gave this whole sailing thing a chance? It wouldn’t have been my first choice for you guys either—and you know very well that I said as much to your mother—but you’re there now, so . . .”

  I will not give it a chance. I hate chance.

  Chance is like the good news first or the bad news first question. Chance is the card in Monopoly that might be Advance to Go, Collect $200, but could just as easily be Go Directly to Jail. Chance is not steady and normal and predictable and routine and all the other things my life quite happily was BD.

  And Dad is supposed to be on my side here. We share a common enemy, after all. I’m annoyed that he’s even suggesting I go along with her whole agenda.

  I shake my head. “You’d still be over there. I’d still be missing the start of my senior year, and strangers would still be living in our house, and—”

  Dad cuts me off with his palm to the camera. “Point taken. I wish like hell you didn’t have to deal with any of this. I know it’s a lot to ask of any kid.”

  I want to bark at him that I’m not a kid, that I’ll be eighteen in a few months, that I’m graduating high school soon! Only, the truth is, I actually do feel like a child these days. Like everything is happening to me and not because of me or with me and doesn’t even require my input in the least. It sucks big-time.

  “Okay, let’s try another angle here,” he says after I’m quiet for a stretch. “How about your favorite professor gives you a little homework assignment?”

  I raise my eyes to his with an expression of doubt, to which he replies, “Humor me, oka
y? It’s my job to assign homework, and at the end of every semester, my students always agree it helped them learn. Or at least I think they do; I try not to read my evaluations because all that entitled whining throws me off my game.”

  I fight a grin, and Dad catches it and winks before continuing. “Every day you get to email me one picture of something truly terrible or annoying about the trip. Sound doable?”

  Sounds like the easiest assignment ever.

  Until he adds, “But, you also have to send me one picture per day of something pretty great. Think you can handle that?”

  I shrug with as little enthusiasm as I can muster. Odds are we won’t be escorted by dolphins the whole way to Mexico, and I haven’t seen much else these past few days to get shutter-happy over.

  “Lassie?” he prods. Damn. He pulled out the big guns. His special nickname for me.

  I sigh. “Fine. I guess. The terrible one will be a cinch. Although, lucky for you, no picture could capture the particularly rank scent of a poop tank in desperate need of emptying.”

  “Poop tank?” my dad asks, and I’m glad he’s every bit as clueless about sailing as I am. It’s just one more thing that bonds us.

  I wrinkle my nose. “Yeah, well, it turns out when you, uh, do your business on a boat, it doesn’t just flush out into the ocean, because that’s illegal. It all gets stored in a holding tank and you have to find something called a pumping station at a marina to empty it.”

  “Wait, wait, wait! So you have your own Cousin Eddie scenario going on right now?” Dad’s whole face lights up with glee, and I grin.

  He’s referring to a scene from Christmas Vacation. Since I turned ten, Mom, Dad, and I have watched that movie every December, snuggled under the sick-day blanket, this crocheted afghan my grandmother made that we all swear has secret healing powers woven into the ugly avocado-green yarn. When Drew reached double digits, he joined in the tradition.

  I try not to let my smile fade as the realization hits that we won’t be watching Randy Quaid empty the RV’s sewage into the Griswolds’ storm drain together this year. I mean, I guess I can watch it with Dad at whatever hotel he’ll be staying in when he comes home for his semester break, but that just sounds sad.