Girl at Sea (19 page)

stones or the wine . . . but she was definitely leaning on Aidan’s side. This threw Clio off balance. But that might have been the wine too.

“Now,” Elsa said, “here’s what happens. We find a place where Clio can make her call. And then you and I . . .”

This was to Aidan.

“. . . find a place to dance. You have a promise to keep.”

Clio chose not to lean over and look at Aidan’s reaction. She was suddenly a little less anxious to make the call. This made no sense—this was all she had wanted for more than a week. Yet the moment was here, and she found herself wanting to say that she would just go on with them, that they would look for a place to dance together.

Between a newspaper stand and a store full of shapeless clothes and table linens was a grubby little shop advertising phone and Internet access.

“Here we are,” Elsa said, releasing Clio. “We’ll be back for you in half an hour or so. Is that okay?”

“It’s fine,” Clio said. She didn’t want them to go and leave her in this store. But obviously, this was where she was supposed to be.

There were two dusty coin-operated computers in the window and, in the corner, one much-used tan phone with a flat handset. Clio purchased a ten-euro phone card from the man behind the counter, who was watching a soccer game on a small television and smoking a cigarette.

The first thing she did was dial her mother’s cell phone, but there was no answer. She quickly did the math—six hours’

difference to home, one more to Kansas. It was around lunchtime 158

in Kansas, and her mother was probably stuck in some corner of the studio. Clio left a message, trying her best to express that it hadn’t been her idea not to call for more than a week. When she hung up, she still had plenty of credit on the card.

And now, Ollie. She had two options: she could buy some credit and sit down at one of the busted-up computers, or she could use the card in her hand and simply call him.

She pushed the card into the space between her two front teeth and bit down in thought. Now that she finally had her chance, she was flooded with doubt. Would it be too weird to call Ollie from Italy? How did she explain that and not make it look like she was obsessed with him? “Hi, I was just walking around Italy and thought I should call . . . because I’m completely insane.”

Then again, he might really like that. She would need an excuse, though. She could ask if India Blue #7 had come in.

They were always out of that ink. It was a stretch, but she felt like she could pull it off. She would make it sound like she had been working on a picture and really needed that ink and would ask him to set it aside. Then she’d work up the nerve to say she’d been thinking about him.

It wasn’t bad, actually. Kooky, yet it made her look dedicated to her work.

Before she could think about it anymore, she reentered the code on the card and started dialing. One ring. Two rings.

Three . . .

Three normally meant that the call wasn’t going to be answered. She was preparing herself to leave a message when the call was answered by a strange voice.

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“Hi!” Clio said. “Ollie? It’s me!”

“Who’s this?” a girl said.

Clio stopped speaking and dug her finger into a thick layer of dust next to the phone.

“Is this Ollie Myers’s number?” she asked.

“Yes,” said the female voice. “Who’s this?”

“This is Clio.”

“He’s not here right now, Clio,” said the girl. She didn’t sound mad or curious. Very matter-of-fact. The voice was vaguely familiar. Clio had definitely heard it before, but she couldn’t place it. It had to be someone from the store.

Her mind immediately leapt to the new girl in the silver mesh shirt. Janine.

“Oh,” Clio said. “The thing is, I’m in Italy, and—”

“Did you just say you’re in Italy?” the girl said. Now the voice was taking on a strange tone.

“Just . . . can you tell him I called?” she said. “I’ll try . . . I’ll try some other time. Thanks. I have to go.”

She clapped the phone down. The gray-and-black display showed how much time had elapsed. Four minutes. She had been here for
four minutes
. The big moment had been squashed like a little bug.

Clio stood there and considered calling someone else. She could call Jackson. But if
Jackson
wasn’t home either, then she would feel truly doomed. So she went and waited outside, in the hopes that Elsa and Aidan would come back for her early.

They were late. Five minutes late. And the one thing Clio learned in that time is that if you are a girl sitting by yourself for a full half hour in Italy, people will look at you. The dark was 160

descending, making all the pastel-colored buildings on the street simply look gray.

It was either the wine or that phone call, but her head was whirling. She went through every female voice she had stored in her mind and tried to make a match but couldn’t come up with anything. She tried to imagine why someone might just have Ollie’s phone. Maybe he’d left it lying around in the store. And it wasn’t like if you were seeing someone you would
give them your phone
. No.

Clearly, it was just a fluke.

She tried to convince herself of this fact as she sat there, but it didn’t really take. Her stomach started to hurt—maybe it was the ziti. Maybe none of this had been such a good idea.

“I thought you’d still be on the phone!” Elsa said, hurrying over, dragging Aidan by the hand. “Come on! We found the
best
place. You won’t believe it.”

Clio found herself staring at their locked hands. This was definitely something Elsa just
did,
but it also seemed like they might be . . . together. Elsa wanted that, clearly. But Aidan still had that slightly aloof expression, like he was above whatever might be going on with them.

“It’s very classy,” he said dryly.

She wasn’t in the mood for his snarkiness right now, so she ignored this and took the other hand that Elsa offered her. She let Elsa drag her down the street in a daze. Nothing made sense.

In her head she kept hearing the voice on the phone, saying,

“Who’s this?”

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Eurotrash Springs Eternal

The club was called Fez. They had to walk down a narrow stairwell lit by brass lamps with multicolored plastic panes to get to it. It smelled lightly of day-old beer, cigarettes, and plastic—

like the inside of a mask from a Halloween costume. A man at the bottom of the steps demanded five euros each before they could go inside. He stamped their hands with a neon green image of a camel.

Clio had never been to a real club before. She was expecting lots of tiny people in tiny dresses, barely able to support the weight of the cosmo glasses in their hands. This wasn’t what she got.

There were maybe two dozen people in the club, and it was completely clear to Clio that every single one of them was a tourist. In the center of the room was a dance floor made of multicolored squares that lit up at random. No one went anywhere near it. To give the club the Moroccan theme that its 162

name promised, there were massive frondy plants all over the place.

The club made up for the lack of people and activity by being very dark and very loud. It was currently blasting some dance song that Clio had never heard before. This was something she remembered from her previous travels—

anonymous dance music was one of Europe’s bountiful natural resources.

It was too loud to say much. Elsa signaled that it was time to go over and get some drinks. There wasn’t really anything else to do, so Clio followed along. Elsa shouted something to the bartender, and three bottles of Italian beer appeared. Clio went into her wallet to get some money and was shocked to find just how little she had now. She had seen herself spending it, yet it didn’t seem possible that her hundred euros had so quickly dwindled to eight. It immediately became two.

They drank the beers quickly and silently, looking around and making eyebrow conversation with each other about the lack of movement. Clio tried desperately not to think about the conversation she had just had and let it ruin her night. She felt the beer filling her with a numb buzz.

Elsa bounced a bit as she drank, piling her hair on top of her head with one hand and letting it fall down. She reached over and did the same to Clio, who had much more hair. It tumbled over her face and shoulders. Then she ruffled Aidan’s hair. For some reason, this gave Clio another uncomfortable pang. The night was starting to feel out of her control.

“What’s wrong?” Elsa said, as quietly as she could. “You have a funny look on your face.”

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“Nothing,” Clio said, unable to meet her eyes.

Elsa bobbed her head in a deep nod to the music and ruffled Clio’s hair some more.

The volume lowered a little as the tracks changed and a new beat took over.

“Time for our dance,” Elsa said. “Mind if I go first?”

Elsa put down her mostly empty beer and pulled Aidan off his stool. Obviously, the dance floor was there for whoever had the courage to take it. Clio stood on the edge and watched as Elsa made Aidan demonstrate his technique. He really couldn’t dance, at least he didn’t even try, but he picked her up over and over. Elsa did her part laughing, putting in leaps and spins. She gave Clio the occasional wave or made a “watch this!” gesture.

Aidan occasionally shot her a quick glance as he was setting Elsa down. The more times they did this, the closer they got to each other, the longer he held her—and the less he looked over.

And here was Clio, drinking the rest of Elsa’s beer now, still wondering who that had been on the phone . . . the phone of someone who wasn’t even her boyfriend. Someone she had no right to be jealous about. Someone who wasn’t hers.

All the joy from before, all the feelings of being in a group, of being happy . . . it drained away, disappearing into the spaces between the gaudily lit squares. Something was deeply wrong with her. She finished Elsa’s beer and watched as Elsa leaned over and said something to Aidan. She came over to Clio.

“Your turn,” she said.

Aidan stood, his arms extended, patiently waiting for his next partner. He wasn’t smiling or smirking. His expression was 164

strangely flat. Maybe he didn’t
want
to dance with her. This was too much.

“I have to go,” Clio said, handing Elsa back her empty bottle.

“Go where?”

“I have to make another call.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Elsa asked.

“It’s fine,” Clio said quickly. “I just . . . I’ll be back.”

Clio hurried across the dance floor. Aidan reached out halfheartedly but then let her pass.

Out on the street, Clio took a deep breath of air. It was too warm and heavy. She made her way back to the computer place quickly. Her two euros weren’t even enough to get her another call. It was just enough money to buy ten minutes on one of the computers. When she managed to log on to her e-mail, she found that she had a hundred and seventeen notes in her in-box.

She backtracked into the older mail. She had an e-mail from Ollie somewhere, from months ago. They had been talking about an exhibit that came to a small gallery in the city. It took her a few minutes and a few tries. The connection was slow, but it was there. She hit reply and stared at the screen.

As her precious minutes ticked away, she looked for something in her head, something to express what it was she wanted to say to Ollie. She didn’t want to accuse him. She didn’t want to freak him out. She felt dizzy.

She managed to start typing something about Italy and ink and how she was sorry if her call had been confusing. Nothing made sense. Her sentences wouldn’t go together. She kept deleting and retyping and noticed only at the last second that 165

the timer was at three seconds. In one panicked moment, she hit send.

“Oh my God,” she said aloud. “What did I just do?” The short guy behind the counter glanced at her and shrugged.

As she stumbled back to Fez, Clio looked up between the buildings at the white, full moon. Someone had dangled a fitted bedsheet out of a window. It looked like a lazy ghost, empty and mournful.

Outside the door, Clio showed the host her stamped hand and descended into the smoky, sad depths of Fez. There were five people on the dance floor now. Things were more animated and had graduated to some flailing arm moves.

“It’s a party,” Clio mumbled under her breath.

Elsa and Aidan were not in this particular party. Clio looked around the bar, behind a potted palm. She saw them in a far corner. They had moved back a bit. She started to walk toward them, her head pounding from the music, then realized just how close they were standing to each other. In fact, they were
very
close. Elsa put her arm behind Aidan’s neck, and the two started kissing.

Clio stood there, dumbstruck. This made perfect sense. She’d seen it coming from the very first moments. It was clearly what Elsa wanted and needed, and therefore, Clio should be happy. It shouldn’t have been a surprise.

But she didn’t feel that way at all. It was a shock—a cold, disgusting shock. Her stomach tumbled. She turned away from the sight and ran out of the club.