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“Are you ready?”

No way.

11. Lessons

Like many young adults my age and occupation, I suffered from the occasional recurring nightmare of walking into class and finding the other students occupied with taking an exam that I had not only not studied for, but that I had no idea was even on the syllabus. Occasionally, it would be for a class I had no recollection of enrolling in. Such dreams always elicited a peculiar feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach, one quite distinct from the queasiness inspired by heights, deep water, scary movies, or bad eggs. There was dread, and then there was the specific dread of being unprepared.

I had that feeling now.

Poe, on the other hand, looked as if he’d spent the past week working up flash cards and doing timed practice tests with a study group.

I stood up, narrowly avoiding spilling Longinus onto the porch. Do not say you were worried he was going to stand you up. Being “stood up” sounds very date-like. Or not, as the case may be. But certainly not not-date-like. “I didn’t see you at breakfast,” I said, and hoped he’d get my point.

“Indeed. Did you like it?”

“Breakfast? Yeah. Why?”

And now he smiled, just a little.

“You made breakfast,” I realized.

“Just the pancakes.”

“Why?”

“I was feeling pretty guilty last year, about the free trip to Florida and all. So I kept offering to do things, as if I could balance the debt through some sort of bizarre work-study program. Salt wouldn’t let me do yardwork, which you know is my specialty, but Cook let me in the kitchen at breakfast. Just breakfast, mind you, because she had some strange idea that I was a tad on the antisocial side and would hide out in the kitchen for as long as she’d let me.”

“Imagine that.”

“But since my pancake recipe was better than hers, she made me promise to give her a refresher when I came back.” He shrugged. “No one knows that, by the way. Malcolm just thinks I skip breakfast.”

“And if word got out, you know we’d all be roping you into tomb brunches.”

“Not your club, no. I think they’d be afraid I’d slip strychnine in the batter.” His tone was light as he said it, but I had to wonder, why would Poe keep his pancake recipe a secret, unless it was to quietly lord it over the others that the breakfast they’d so enjoyed was made by the guy they weren’t altogether too fond of?

Still, that didn’t explain why he’d keep it a secret from Malcolm, nor why he’d confess it to me. Maybe he really was embarrassed by his plebeian roots. Or maybe he was just kidding himself that his richer friend wasn’t completely aware of what made Poe tick.

And yet, I still wasn’t sure what kind of person he was. Wasn’t that the reason I was doing this? To figure it out? The funny feeling in my stomach intensified.

“So,” he said. “What are you up for this morning?”

“I was hoping you had a plan, seeing how well you know this place and all of its inhabitants.”

“Oh, Cook doesn’t live here. She only comes in for high-volume weeks.”

“And no doubt Cook isn’t her given name, either.”

“No,” he admitted. “It’s Berta.”

“I see why she goes by Cook.”

Darren wandered out of the library onto the porch. “You’re still here?” he asked. He held the copy of Dumas in his hands.

“Yeah. I’m skipping out on the snorkeling today,” I said. Poe waved at him.

“Oh?” He looked hopeful.

“Jamie and I were going to…” Do what? I looked to Poe for help.

“I’m taking her over to the sanctuary,” Poe said. “We’ll catch you this afternoon, Darren.” He started down the steps and I followed him.

Okay, so we were going to the sanctuary, whatever that was. We hiked down the path in silence for a few moments. As soon as we were out of earshot of the porch, Poe spoke again.

“Are you sorry?”

“For what?”

“Not inviting him to come along.” He cast me a sidelong glance.

POSSIBLE ANSWERS

1) “Yes. He seems awfully lonely.”

2) “No. Do we look like babysitters?”

3) “Nah, baby, three’s a crowd.”

Each was partially true. I placed a hand on my stomach, where the unease had evolved into butterflies. If anything, the fluttering scared me even more. Not having made a decision was one thing. Making it brought a whole new snarl of nerves.

“Do you think Mr. Gehry appreciates you befriending his son?” Poe asked, saving me an answer.

“I didn’t really think about it,” I admitted.

“I believe that.” But it was said without rancor. “I bet he’s thought about it.”

“Darren?”

“His father.”

“Well, that would explain a lot. Maybe if he’d spent less time thinking about a bunch of college students and more about the laws of the nation he worked for, he wouldn’t be in so much trouble.”

“That’s probably very true,” Poe said. “But do you believe he should think about it more than about the well-being of his family?” He met my eyes, and once again, I reflected on how hard it was to read this boy.

Was he talking about hiring illegal help at home or letting Darren talk to the likes of me? I shrugged and refocused on the path. “My opinions of Kurt Gehry don’t have anything to do with how I treat his son.”

“That’s a nice illusion.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean that it’s pretty tough to disassociate a person from what they stand for.”

“Darren Gehry is a teenager. He doesn’t stand for anything.”

“I disagree.”

“Yeah? What is he to you?”

“The guy who almost got you killed yesterday.”

I stopped short, but Poe kept going, and I practically had to run to catch up to him.

“Poe.”

“Two dollars.” And he kept walking.

“Jamie.”

“You still owe.”

“You don’t blame Darren, do you? It was an accident.”

He slowed down but kept his face turned toward the ground. “People are still responsible for accidents. Someone is always at fault.”

“Yes, but I’m not angry at him, so why are you?”

“I’m not.”

“You just said that you can’t disassociate him from the fact that he made me fall off the boat yesterday, which, I might add, is just as much Clarissa’s fault.” If she hadn’t been so squeamish…

“That doesn’t make me angry at them.” And with that curious statement, we reached the end of the path. Beyond us was only woods. “Watch out for snakes.”

Snakes? Some sanctuary. I started picking my way in after him. “So who are you angry at?”

“If you keep talking, you won’t see anything.” He put a finger to his lips. “Just look.”

So I looked. By this time, the sun had done its duty, bathing the island in warmth and bright light. The patches of sky I could see between the treetops were a deep, opaque blue. Presently, the trees thinned and we broke out onto a narrow, unkempt beach, marred with bleached driftwood and piles of dried seaweed.

“What are we looking for?” I whispered.

He pointed, and out of the trees shot a flash of brown and white. I watched it soar over the water, circle around a bit, then drop like a stone into the waves. A minute later, it rose, clutching something floppy in long, hooked claws.

“Watch where it goes.”

The nest was pretty easy to spot, as it was perched at the top of one of the tallest pines in the stand, dripping with needles like a beard in need of a trim. The bird circled the tree, letting out a long shriek, then landed. Its back and wings were dark brown, its underside pure white, and even from the ground, I could see its enormous golden eyes and the sharp curve of its large talons. It looked around, as if aware that it had observers, then occupied itself with the fish.

“Not an eagle,” I said. I knew next to nothing about raptor species.