Changes in Latitudes Read online

  I should have come ashore sooner. I don’t know why I haven’t, except, I guess, stubbornness. If Mom was going to force me to be on the boat, then I was going to be on the boat, right in her face with all my miserableness.

  But now, surrounded by ferns and all the other lush green plants that grow next to the water in Oregon’s rainforest climate, I’m suddenly buying Abigail’s insistence that fairies truly do live here.

  I use a rope in the well of Minecraft to tie it to a nearby tree, pausing to inhale the pine scent. Our backyard in Pleasant Hill is full of evergreens, so to me this smell is croquet tournaments with Dad, and running through the sprinkler, and harvesting pinecones with Mom to make birdseed hangers as teacher gifts. It’s stifling giggles in the front bushes while Mom and Dad tried to scare trick-or-treaters by sitting stock still in hooded ghoul costumes on the porch before coming to life the second a kid reached into the basket for a Snickers.

  It’s the smell of home and safety and good things . . . and I need it like I need oxygen. I step eagerly into all the beautiful, beautiful flora and fauna.

  10

  Now, this. This is so me.

  The ground is every shade of brown and a million more iterations of green: avocado, moss, mint, olive, shamrock. The only blue I see is faint glimpses of sky through the treetops. We’ve been within sight of land for most of the trip, but there’s been endless sea in all other directions this entire time. Now, tucked in safely among the ferns and the branches, with dirt underneath my feet, I feel sheltered and solid.

  The stream, when I find it, is clear straight to its bottom, which is littered with river stones that make the water gurgle and gush and drown out the other forest sounds. The cove, the boat, my mother—they all feel far, far away, and I am completely loving this moment.

  Even if it happens to involve scrubbing my bras together with powdered soap flakes.

  It’s not exactly dignified, but it does lend to the feeling that I’ve traveled into a fairy tale. I mean, surely Little Red Riding Hood’s cottage didn’t have a Kenmore Elite front-loading washer, right?

  I don’t mind that I have to crisscross up and down a whole section of the stream to find enough small boulders that meet my optimal drying requirements (flat-topped and exposed to at least dappled sunlight, so Mother Nature can do her thing). I would happily spend whole days here. I would happily spend the next four months here. Maybe Mom and Drew could swing by for me on their return trip.

  As soon as everything is laid out across a patchwork of rocks, I allow myself to play. I spend who knows how long exploring the creek bed, peering at leaves and the tiny plants that curl toward the places where light breathes into small clearings. We’re not so far from home that the flora is entirely different, but this close to the ocean and the salt air, there are some variances, and I geek out over them.

  When I’ve collected my fair share of leafy samples, I retreat to the cluster of boulders currently drying my favorite bra-and-underwear combo in a single ray of sun. There’s a crevice that molds perfectly to my back, and I snuggle in and wiggle my toes into the squishy mud. Bliss.

  I reach into the laundry bag for my sketchbook and the colored pencils I tossed in. My set is labeled “earthen,” and that’s just perfect for this location. Perfect for me. Earthen is maybe my new favorite word.

  I’m not all that great at drawing, but I love creating my own botany reference materials. Soon enough, I’m lost in the task of capturing tiny vein formations and patterns.

  “So there is such a thing as wood sprites! I thought Shakespeare was taking license with his fiction.”

  My arm spasms with shock, jerking a hard line of Verdant Green across my page, and I yank my head up.

  A tall guy, close to my age, wearing hiking boots and one of those serious backpacks with the metal frames on the outside, covers his mouth.

  “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you. Did I make you mess up your drawing?”

  His eyes trail to the sketchbook dangling in my hands and I follow them, staring at it stupidly.

  “I—what?” I’m still reeling from the sudden return to reality, and now my brain starts wrestling with its fight-or-flight response and stranger-danger thoughts: alone in the woods, miles from people, no cell signal.

  The guy shifts his backpack on his hips and half cringes, half smiles. “I guess I should have made more noise when I approached.”

  Still processing: apologetic, referenced Shakespeare, not wearing a hockey mask or carting a chain saw. All hopeful signs he’s not a mass murderer. Plus he’s way too attractive to be a serial killer.

  “Laundry day, huh?” he asks, his cheerful smile turning up at one corner and his eyes flashing amusement.

  My brain finishes assessing the situation, then blares: HOLY CRAP, THIS HOT GUY IS SEEING A TRAIL OF YOUR UNDERWEAR UP AND DOWN THE STREAM!

  Additional urgent incoming message from brain: React in some manner, Cassie. Say something, Cassie. Do something, Cassie.

  “I—uh—” I yank my toes out of the mud and stand, flailing my arm behind me to grab the bra-and-thong set off the rock closest to me. I crumple them in my hand. Then I sigh when I spot my bag on the ground, just out of reach, before forcing my eyes back to his, which are still dancing all along the creek.

  “R-right. Laundry d-day,” I stammer. I’m not usually one of those girls who can’t hold her own around members of the opposite sex, but come on. . . .

  He puts his arms up in a “surrender” gesture and takes two tentative steps in my direction, smiling all the while. “Permission to approach?”

  When he reaches me, he sticks out his hand. “Jonah Abrahmson, apologetic hiker.”

  I blink at him once and then reach to shake, but I yank my arm back when I realize my fingers are still curled around my balled-up underwear. Why is this my life? Earlier today I wanted nothing more than the ground under my feet, but at the moment I’d actually rather be on a boat with a full poop tank and dwindling provisions. Maybe.

  My complexion is surely going all luck-o’-the-Irish on me. I have skin that, at the smallest embarrassment, doesn’t delicately blush so much as . . . splotch red like I’ve been hit with a dozen paintballs. I awkwardly transfer both items to my other fist, breathe deeply, and offer a glance to the heavens.

  “Cassie McClure, humiliated wood sprite,” I say, shaking his hand firmly.

  Okay, not so bad, Cass. I’m recovering my senses. He startled me, that’s all.

  Jonah’s grin grows wider and, seriously, his teeth should be in a toothpaste commercial or something. “No, no. I like that even wood sprites have to wash their underwear every now and again. Makes the whole spritely profession read much less mystical and really more, I don’t know . . . salt of the earth. It’s too bad Shakespeare cut the Wash Day scene from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Just think if he hadn’t. Maybe the guy could have been famous for centuries after his death or something.”

  I try to fight the giggle, but here it comes. At least Jonah laughs too.

  “So, can I see them?” He gestures with his chin to my hand, and my mouth falls open. His brow comes together in confusion, and after a beat, his eyes widen. Even though he has a deep tan that would hide any sign of a blush, his horrified expression says it’s definitely there.

  Embarrassment is in his voice too. “Um, I swear I meant your sketches.”

  Ooooh. My curled fingers are also holding my sketchbook, and now the cardboard cover is starting to soften where I’ve pressed my still-wet, balled-up bra and underwear against it. My arms go splotchy again, and I can only imagine my face is doing the same. Wordlessly extracting the more humiliating items, I step to where my bag lies on the ground. I shove them inside before straightening with another deep breath.

  Showing my drawings to a total stranger is only minimally preferable to showing my underwear to one, but it’s not as if I’m ever going to see this random hiker guy again, and he seems like he’s trying really hard to be nice, so . . . what
the hell. I pass the sketchbook into his outstretched palm.

  “I’m not, like, an artist or anything. These are just for, um, reference.”

  He takes a long time flipping through the pages, and I’m alternately puzzled and flattered as I watch his face examine each picture. I mean, they’re poorly rendered drawings of leaves and trees. I totally get that botany’s not the most exciting of subject matters to the average person. My friends’ eyes glaze over after two seconds, and even my professor dad, who’s forever buried in boring academic papers, only lasts a few minutes longer.

  But Jonah is thoughtful and thorough, not looking up until he reaches the final sketch, which has the jagged pencil mark from where I startled. He grimaces slightly and passes the book back to me.

  “They’re great. Sorry again about that last one. I hope you can still use it to study from.”

  I flip the cover closed. “Oh, I’m—I’m not studying from them. I mean, not for a class or anything. Um, not yet anyway. It’s kind of more of a hobby.”

  “Ah. I assumed they were for a course. But, hey, what better hobby for a wood sprite? It fits you perfectly.”

  Huh. That’s what I think too, but no one has ever come right out and agreed with me; they tolerate it or tease me about it. His easy acceptance feels really nice.

  A cloud passes over the sun, casting deep shadows, and we both glance up at the sky. Jonah checks his watch.

  “Well, Sprite, much as I’d love to stay and offer my washing services to aid your own—purely out of the goodness of my heart and not to get my hands on a girl’s unmentionables, mind you”—he places a hand on his chest and opens his eyes wide in pretend innocence—“I’m afraid I’m on a schedule.”

  Of course he is. It must be late afternoon by now, and I’ll bet he needs to make camp somewhere before nightfall. He has Serious Outdoorsman written all over him.

  “Right, sure.” So much for my one good line of banter earlier. All my attempts at acting like a normal human since deserve a label less Bewitching Wood Sprite and more Village Idiot.

  To further prove my point, I’m also at a loss for how to react as Jonah steps ridiculously close. He gestures, raising his eyebrows in a question. At my flustered nod, he drops a palm onto my shoulder, using me for balance to stretch one foot onto a rock protruding from the creek’s center. His hand lingers lightly on me as he presses down a few times on the stone with his hiking boot, testing how well it’s lodged into the mud below. After a beat, he places his weight and gently pushes off me.

  From the center of the stream, he glances back. “Thanks. Nice meeting you, Sprite! And sorry again for disturbing your sketching.”

  “Er, you too.” I wave limply, still a little dazed at how surreal it is to happen upon a stranger in the forest and then share sketches with him that no one else in the world has seen. But Jonah must be used to odd woodland encounters, because he continues to pick his way merrily downstream, balancing nimbly on the tops of rocks. I force myself to turn away and begin gathering the pencils that scattered when he startled me.

  The secluded setting, which was so perfect for its solitude twenty minutes ago, feels oddly empty now, and I almost wish my clothes were drier so I could scoop them all up and return to the boat.

  I peek over my shoulder. Jonah is at least half a football field away, his red shirt a shock of color against the green-and-brown backdrop. As if he senses my eyes on him, he turns and points to a flat rock beside him.

  “Purple polka-dotted thong! Not bad, Sprite. Not bad at all!”

  At least he’s not close enough to witness my jaw drop, nor will he be ever again. Thank god for small miracles.

  When I get back to the shoreline an hour or so later with a bag of clean delicates and an armful of moss for the girls, the first thing that hits me is the bright sunlight. I step from the leafy protection of the woods and onto the scrap of muddied sand that passes for beach around these parts.

  The second thing that hits me is a definitive absence of a dinghy.

  What kind of an asshat would steal Minecraft? I have to believe it can barely be worth the parts it’s made up of, unlike Christian’s fancy Zodiac. I cup a hand over my eyes and squint at the three sailboats in the center of the cove. The wind is such that Sunny-Side Up faces the ocean, and the space behind it, where Minecraft usually bobs merrily, contains nothing but gently rippling water. So much for my glimmer of hope that Drew and Christian beat me back with the groceries and happened upon the dinghy.

  I move my gaze to Tide Drifter and spot Liki Tiki tied up behind it, all alone. I know Reality Bytes will be dinghy-less, since Christian can’t replace his hijacked Zodiac until we get to some marina near San Francisco where he’s having another custom-outfitted one delivered.

  But instead of the empty space I expect to see, there is something behind the yacht. I can’t tell if it’s my something because of the sun’s glare, but what else would be tied up there? They must be unloading food after all.

  I make a megaphone out of my hands and yell “Drew!” sending my voice echoing across the water.

  There’s no movement, and I’m about to yell again when I spy a flash by the back platform. Then a motor roars to life and I exhale. Not that I’m in a particular hurry to leave solid land behind, but it was kind of disconcerting to be stranded all alone over here, even for a few minutes.

  The dinghy headed toward me is in silhouette against the sun, meaning I can only see shadows of a shape, but the body type of the person inside tells me it’s not Christian. Christian is toned yet compact, and this figure is clearly taller and loose-limbed. Drew? And then a cloud passes in front of the sun and I catch sight of a red T-shirt.

  Why, why, why is Jonah, Apologetic Hiker, suddenly Jonah, Driver of My Dinghy?

  Okay, that sounds way more porny than even Heavenly Licks. But still. Why is Jonah waving at me like it’s no big deal that he’s taken the boat?? Maybe borrowed is more accurate—but still. Why is he here?

  As he approaches shore, he calls, “Ahoy there, matey!”

  I give a halfhearted wave and, as soon as he cuts the motor, wade into the water to meet him.

  “So, enchanting wood sprite moonlights as a water nymph, is that how it is?” he asks with a laugh in his voice.

  Something witty, Cass. Something witty that does not involve uttering the phrase “driver of my dinghy” out loud, for the love of god.

  “And somewhere-to-be hiker has nautical secrets of his own, I see,” I manage.

  He cocks his head. “Nautical secrets? Hmm. I like it. Not as much as your Victoria’s Secrets, of course.” He glances obviously at my laundry bag, both of us knowing just what it contains, and I instantly remember that this guy has seen exactly how much padding is in my padded bras. Beyond embarrassing.

  To avoid a response, I pretend to be absorbed in the task of situating myself in the dinghy without capsizing us both or dropping the moss. Jonah casually starts up the engine again and turns us back toward open water.

  “Sorry I stranded you—I was trying to get Chris’s attention from shore when a lady on that boat with the red sails yelled over and said I should borrow this. I figured I could get a jump on unloading my gear while keeping an ear out for whoever owned this to return.” He pats the side of Minecraft before gesturing at the sailboats and asking, “So, which one are you?”

  I point to Sunny-Side Up and he nods, driving full-throttle toward it. The wind whips my hair against my cheeks.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, raising my voice against the engine noise. Who’s Chris? And what does he mean by “unloading my gear”?

  Jonah leans toward me as far as he can manage while still keeping a hand on the tiller, presumably so I can hear his reply over the wind.

  “I’m crewing for Uncle Chris.”

  “Uncle—? Wait, Christian’s your uncle?”

  He raises one shoulder and lets it drop. “Not by blood. He’s one of my dad’s oldest business partners and I grew up calling hi
m that.”

  “Oh!” I nod, trying to hold my flyaway hair back with one hand and failing. Then the other piece of information falls into place. “Crewing?”

  “Yep. Down to Mexico.” He bites his lip in concentration as he slows and approaches Sunny-Side Up at the perfect angle to leave me aligned with the platform.

  Mexico. This guy who’s seen my underwear and my sketchbook is coming with us all the way to Mexico?

  Jonah stands in the center of the dinghy on steady feet and holds a hand out, first for the moss, and then to help me onto the platform. He hops off after me, quickly ties our dinghy to Sunny, and strips off his shirt. He tosses it onto the dinghy’s bench seat and faces me, smiling. Hello, abs.

  “Hey, would you mind bringing that with you next time you swing by Uncle Chris’s yacht? I’d rather not get it wet. You of all people know how long things take to air-dry around here.”

  Keeping his mischievous grin in place, he steps backward off the platform and disappears into the ocean. When he surfaces, he cuts easy strokes across the water to Reality Bytes.

  I force myself to look away before he climbs aboard.

  Crewing.

  To Mexico.

  Huh.

  11

  Mom is waiting for me when I step down into the cabin. I’m distracted by thoughts of Jonah joining our caravan, so it takes me a second to grasp that her mood could best be described as Furious with a capital F.

  “I’m fifteen feet away and you didn’t think it would make sense to talk to me about your plans, rather than sneak out with a note that says only Off to do laundry, back soon?”

  “I don’t see what the big deal is. You let Drew go fourteen miles into town and back and he’s three years younger than me. I only went maybe one mile.”