Addison and Mr. Henry watched him pull the fishing kit out of the supply cabinet. He had no idea how they were going to get water—there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, so rain definitely wasn’t in the forecast—but he could at least try and catch a damn fish.
“That’s real smart,” Addison said sarcastically.
“What?” Shy said, turning to face her.
“Not wearing a life jacket.” Addison looked away, shaking her head at him in disgust.
Shy stood there, staring. “What are you trying to say? You care if I drown?”
“No,” Addison scoffed. “Do whatever you want. All I’m saying is it’s stupid. Which isn’t a big surprise, I guess.”
Shy had no idea how to deal with a girl like this. In the normal world he’d probably flip her off and walk away. He’d never even try to interact with some spoiled-ass blond chick. He didn’t want to get into another fight, though, so all he could think to do was shrug and turn his attention back to the fishing gear.
“What islands are you talking about?” Mr. Henry asked from under his tarp.
It was good to hear the oilman’s voice. Anytime he went quiet for a long stretch, Shy was afraid he’d find the guy dead. “Ask her,” Shy answered, motioning toward Addison. “It’s her old man who supposedly works there.”
“That’s right, my dad does,” she said. “Not me. I’ve never even been there.”
“What’s he do, anyways?” Shy said. “What kind of job is way out here in the middle of the ocean?”
“I’m his daughter, God,” Addison said, “not his business consultant.”
“Hold up,” Shy said, unable to help himself, “you don’t even know what your own dad does for work?”
“You probably don’t even have a dad,” Addison fired back. “Doesn’t everyone like you grow up with a single mom?”
Shy just stared at her, amazed at what a bitch she was.
“What?” she said.
He shook his head, told her: “Nah, that shit’s too ignorant to even comment on.” He turned away from her all pissed off now, and broke open the pack of fishing lines and bait. He couldn’t believe he was stranded out here with a damn racist.
It was quiet on the boat for a few minutes, then Addison cleared her throat and said: “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Shy ignored her.
Guys where she was from probably put up with her bitchy attitude because she looked good. But Shy wasn’t playing that game. Anyway, she wasn’t even that hot right now. She was as disheveled-looking as anyone would be who survived a sinking ship and got stuck on a broke-ass boat.
“Fine,” Addison said. “Don’t accept my apology. Like I give a shit.”
Shy just shook his head as he put his life jacket back on. The girl had some serious emotional problems.
It didn’t take him long to bait the line and cast it over the side of the boat. There was a school of colorful fish nearby. He tried to will them to his hook, but they didn’t even seem to notice. So he sat there, waiting, thinking about Carmen and how much cooler she was than other girls. Especially this girl. And then he started thinking about back home.
Occasionally, he would reel in his line and recast it. Hoping it would do something. But it never did.
Shy stared into the water for what seemed like hours, watching fish swim right past his hook, trying to figure out what he was doing wrong. Maybe it was the fake bait he’d found in the supply cabinet. Or maybe he was fishing too shallow. Or maybe the sharks in the area had scared all the fish away or the ones who stayed were too nervous to eat.
At one point he overheard Addison saying something to the oilman about a rescue boat finding them. Or a rescue plane. But Shy no longer held out hope for a rescue anything. Every emergency team that existed would be focused on the earthquake victims. Their tiny lifeboat, drifting in the middle of the Pacific, wasn’t even on the radar.
An orange and white fish swam near his hook to investigate. It was thin and no bigger than the palm of his hand, but he begged it to bite. “Come on, you little bastard,” he told it. “Swallow that hook for me. You know it looks delicious as shit.”
But the fish turned and swam away.
Shy dropped his head in disappointment.
He could sense Addison behind him, judging his failure.
32
Eight Days
By late afternoon Shy felt amazingly weak. His muscles were cramping from hunger and dehydration. He stood at the front of the boat with the fishing line anyway, waiting for something to bite.
To take his mind off his discomfort, he started picturing random things from back home. The taquerias and liquor stores that lined his street. Neddie’s Laundromat, where they took their dirty clothes on Sundays. The cracked pavement of his apartment complex parking lot, where he did all his ball-handling drills. His mom walking into the apartment from work, hanging her keys on the hook by the door and sorting through the mail.
He replayed the last time all four of them were together. Sitting at the kitchen table eating sweet bread from the corner bodega. Drinking orange juice. It was the morning before this second voyage, and they were mostly quiet because they still didn’t know how to act after the death of his grandma.
Before Shy left, he turned to everyone, duffel bag slung over his right shoulder. “Guess I’ll get back with you guys in eight days.” He hugged his mom and sis, then held a fist out to Miguel, who gave it a little-kid bump. Then Shy was out the door, rumbling down the steps, climbing into the idling cab that would take him to the bus station.
Eight days.
Shy pulled his line back into the boat and stood there looking over the massive ocean and thinking about that. The sun burning his face. Empty stomach twisted in knots.
All these things from back home.
His life.
Gone.
It was the first time he’d actually thought about what he’d lost in a conscious way.
He glanced back at Addison and the oilman. Both watching him. Then he returned to the ocean, which stretched out beyond all comprehension. In every direction. The three of them in this tiny boat with no food and barely any water, crawling slowly toward their deaths.
A while later Shy heard Addison sloshing her way over to him. “They smell really bad,” she said, pointing at the bloated bodies lying in the boat.
Shy nodded. At least they agreed on one thing. “Definitely getting a little ripe in here,” he said.
“Well?” she said, her tone changing. “Can’t you do something about it?”
Shy looked at Addison, and then he looked at the bodies. They’d always been a symbol of his hope of being rescued. If he kept them in the boat, the boat was more likely to be found. That’s what was in the back of his head. And the rescue team would commend him for hanging on to the bodies so the families could take them back home and bury them. Shy realized something about himself right then. It was one thing to decide he’d given up hope. It was another to kill the symbol of it.
He went over to the first body and held his hand over it, cringing at the smell. He didn’t want to even touch it. But he had to. He forced himself to lift the slimy, awful-smelling corpse into a sitting position and he looked at it. Bloated features stuck on a strangely crooked face.
He glanced back at Addison, who turned her head as if she couldn’t watch. The oilman, too.
Shy looked back at the woman. “Sorry about this,” he said under his breath. Then he turned his head to take a deep breath and held it as he strained to lift the heavy body up and over the side of the boat. He watched it splash into the ocean and slowly drift off in the life jacket as he stood wiping his hands on his pants.