Playing for Keeps (4 page)

“I’m Rosie Marstead,” I answered.

“Sixteen? Seventeen?”

“Sixteen.”

“Me too.” Julieta leaned back against the elevator wall and sighed with relief. “I’m glad you’re aboard. I’ve been wandering around looking, but I’ve only met thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds so far.”

The elevator stopped at deck five, and I said, “Here’s where I get out.”

“Are you going shopping? Mind if I go with you?”

“Sure.” I smiled, feeling much better. Here was someone my own age who wanted to be friends. I didn’t need Neil, and—no matter what Becca had predicted—I wasn’t looking for romance.

At the desk I asked for a postcard of the ship, bought a stamp for it, then tried to think of a quick message that would fit. I needed to write something that would tell Mom exactly how I felt and how much I really loved her.

Julieta watched, impatiently shifting from one foot to the other, but I tried not to let it bother me. I thought hard, but what could I really say on a postcard, open for anyone to read? I finally wrote,
Dear
Mom, This is a beautiful ship. I wish you were
here. I love you. Rose Ann.

It wasn’t what I’d hoped to write, but it would do. I’d write another postcard later, when I had time to really think about what to say. I dropped it into the ship’s mailbox and walked with Julieta into the mall.

“When the ship sails at five, there’ll be a calypso band on deck eleven, by the outside swimming pool,” Julieta said. “They’re having a
bon
voyage
party.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked. We stepped into a shop that had racks of jackets, sweat-shirts, and T-shirts—all with the ship’s name and logo on them.

“How do I know all this?” Julieta shrugged. “My parents and I live in Miami, so we go cruising every year. By now I’ve learned the drill.” She bent over a jewelry counter. “Pretty,” she said, pointing to some twisted gold costume-jewelry rings.

But what caught my eye were pendants—silver replicas of sunken treasure edged in gold. “How much?” I asked the woman behind the counter. I knew Mom would love one of those.

“The small ones are thirty-five dollars,” the woman answered. “They go up in price according to size. Each comes with a certificate.”

“Thanks,” I said, and turned away. Thirtyfive dollars? That would be nearly all my spending money.

I spotted Mr. Diago at the far end of the shop buying a navy blue T-shirt. Ricky still wasn’t with him. “Julieta,” I said, “if you know a lot about cruising, then you’ll know the answer to this. Could anyone get lost on board this ship?”

“Lost like you don’t show up for dinner on time, because you’re still in the pool?”

“No. I mean lost period. Like no one would know if you were on the ship or not.”

“A stowaway? I don’t think so. No one gets on board without an identification card, and there are security people all over the place.”

“I didn’t mean like a stowaway,” I said.

Julieta tilted her head and studied me with a puzzled look on her face. “Well, what
did
you mean?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never been on a cruise ship before, and I suppose I was just thinking about how big this ship is.” I didn’t want to tell Julieta about Mr. Diago. I didn’t know her well enough. I wasn’t even sure what I was suspicious of yet. I wished Becca were on board to talk to.

Julieta and I visited all the shops on the promenade, stopping to refuel at the serve-yourself ice cream bar.

We were just finishing our cones when we heard an announcement that everyone aboard ship was required to be at their proper station for the compulsory lifeboat muster.

“As soon as it’s over, meet me on deck eleven so we can hear the calypso band while we sail out of the harbor,” Julieta said.

“Okay,” I answered. My heart beat faster with excitement. We were almost ready to sail! I hurried to our stateroom and saw that only one of the bright orange life jackets was still on the bed. Glory was probably already wearing hers.

I read the instructions, pulled on the bulky life jacket, and hurried to our assigned station on deck four, where the crowd of passengers searching for their places on deck moved like a swarm of fat orange bees.

For a moment I remembered the terrible scene in
Titanic
when people scrambled for lifeboats and there weren’t enough places, and Rose Calvert and Jack Dawson . . . I groaned. The last thing I wanted—or would ever get—was a gorgeous Jack Dawson. And anyway, Rose and Jack didn’t live happily ever after.

I paused in the doorway to the outer deck, looking for Glory, and overheard someone grumble, “I haven’t got time for this rubbish. I should be on deck eleven setting up. Nobody told me there was going to be so much to do.”

I glanced to one side, where a lean, blond man wearing gray slacks and a light blue polo shirt was struggling to strap on his life vest.

The pretty young woman next to him, wearing the ship’s uniform, raised one eyebrow. “Don’t tell me this is your first job as a cruise director, Tommy.”

Tommy stopped and scowled. “I’m a last-minute sub, okay? Your company’s VP had to take whoever he could get. Your regular cruise director should have picked a more convenient time to fall off the stage and break his arm.”

The woman laughed. “Poor Jerry. And poor Tommy. All week you’ll be on energy overload, and you won’t get much sleep.”

“Thanks for the encouragement,” he grumbled. “If Broadway hadn’t been totally dead for comedians this season, I would have turned this gig down.”

“Where on Broadway would you get the chance to lead a group of six-A.M. joggers around the top deck each morning?” She looked as if she was enjoying the conversation, and I wondered if this last-minute cruise director wasn’t too popular with the rest of the crew. What could be worse than a comedian with no sense of humor?

Tommy stopped scowling. He leaned against one of the lifeboat supports and flashed a smile at the woman. “After the show closes tonight, I’m hosting a little party in my cabin,” he said. “It’s room eleven-oh-five. Wanna come?”

“Ask Rita,” she said.

“Who’s Rita?”

The woman’s grin was pure mischief. “That short, cute room steward on deck seven. She likes your looks, and she thinks you’re a Broadway star.”

“Rosie, there you are!” Glory came up behind me and clutched my arm. “We’re all down at station seven. Come with me, sweetie. Hurry!”

3

WE JOINED THE OTHERS AT OUR STATION IN TIME TO line up as ordered and listen to instructions about evacuating the ship. It didn’t take long, and as soon as everyone had been dismissed, I asked, “Glory, may I go to deck eleven and listen to a calypso band?”

“Of course,” Glory said. She stood on tiptoe to scan the group, which was quickly disbanding.

“Neil already left with his grandmother,” I told her.

Glory didn’t even bother looking embarrassed. “I thought he’d enjoy going with you,” she said.

I didn’t argue. I walked with Glory to our stateroom, stowed the life jacket in the closet, fished my Polaroid camera from my carry-on, then hurried up to deck eleven, where Julieta was waiting.

The cruise director I’d seen at the drill bounded through the waiting crowd onto a makeshift stage and introduced himself as Tommy Jansen, star of Broadway and TV. The stiff breeze blew his hair into his eyes as he tried to tell a joke about losing more than one toupee overboard. I didn’t laugh at the joke, and neither did most of the others crowded around the stage.

Finally Jansen introduced the band members, who swung into their first selection before he jumped from the stage.

I smiled as Julieta immediately began bouncing to the calypso beat. “This reminds me of the Cuban music in that movie
Buena Vista Social Club
,” I said.

Julieta suddenly stiffened. In a firm voice she insisted, “It’s
not
Cuban music. It’s calypso.”

Surprised, I tried to explain. “I thought . . . that is, well, I mean since we’re going to sail near Cuba . . .”

Julieta turned and leaned on the rail. “Don’t talk about Cuba to me. My parents escaped from Cuba to the United States when Fidel Castro came into power. They had to leave everything behind and start over.”

I took a step backward, not knowing how to answer. “Your parents must have done well in the United States. You told me you go cruising every year.”

“My father is an orthodontist. He has a good practice,” Julieta said, but as she stepped away from the rail, she bristled with anger. “You couldn’t know what it has been like to be an exile. I was never able to meet any of my grandparents. I never had the chance to sit on their laps or feel their hugs. There were phone calls and letters, but that was not enough. My parents sent American money so my grandparents could shop at the Cuban dollar stores and buy things to make life comfortable, but my grandparents couldn’t leave Cuba, and we couldn’t go back. During the past few years all four of my grandparents died. Now I’ll never . . . don’t say another word about Cuba. I don’t even want to
think
about Cuba.”

Julieta leaned again on the railing, and I joined her. I hadn’t meant to make her angry, and I was still surprised at how upset she had become. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know any of this, but now that I do—”

“It’s okay. Forget about it,” Julieta interrupted. She took a deep breath and acted as if we hadn’t had the conversation about Cuba at all. “Look at the Miami skyline as we sail out of the harbor,” she said pleasantly. “I’ve seen it so many times, but it always looks so white and clean and beautiful.”

“Sun-soaked,” I said as I took a couple of pictures.

Julieta smiled. “Yes,” she said. “That’s a good way to put it. Miami is sun-soaked.”

We watched the shoreline until it disappeared. I barely made it back to the stateroom in time to change before dinner.

Dinner was elegant, and the table we’d been assigned was just below the golden, sweeping double staircase. I leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes for a moment, absorbed by the soft background music of harp and piano. The romantic music, the glittering light from the many chandeliers, the train of a long gown trailing behind me as I gracefully descended the stairs . . .

Mrs. Carver leaned across the table, asking loudly, “Are you okay, Rosie? You have a funny look on your face. It’s probably that spicy shrimp cocktail sauce acting up. It gets me every time.”

I felt a rush of warmth to my face. Becca and her
Titanic
dreams of romance. They were hers, not mine, and I had to keep them from capturing me. “I’m fine,” I said. “I was just, um—enjoying the music.”

As the waiter brought our desserts, Glory leaned forward, turning to address everyone at the table. “Listen, y’all, as soon as we finish, let’s go to the Welcome Aboard show in the theater. It begins in half an hour.”

“Show” seemed to be the magic word. All the women at the table began talking eagerly about shipboard shows and dinner-theater shows and Broadway shows. I enjoyed my absolutely guaranteed low-fat chocolate éclair and kept myself from asking for another one. I really didn’t want to see whatever Tommy Jansen had dreamed up for a welcome show, but this was Glory’s trip. I reminded myself that I was here to “help” Glory. And I’d been spared having to spend time with Neil. He was half turned away, talking with his grandmother. Good.

But later, after the welcome show—a busy hour with dancers, singers, and a short speech from the captain—all the bridge players declared their intention of going to bed early.

“We want to be in top condition when the tournament begins tomorrow morning,” Mrs. Applebee said.

I rebelled. Past the huge windows the sea stretched into a dark, mysterious void, but the ship was alive with lights and laughter and music. I didn’t want to leave it. Impulsively, I turned to Neil, who was standing near me. “There’s still so much to see and do. Come with me. Let’s check out the disco.”

For an instant Neil looked panic-stricken. He swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and said, “No thanks, Rosie. I’d better stick with Grandma.”

I shrugged, trying to hide the frustration I felt at asking and getting turned down. “Okay,” I said. I began to leave, but Neil surprised me by putting a hand on my shoulder.

“Uh, Rosie . . . , wait,” he said. “Uh, how about . . . uh, could we do something tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” I wanted to tell Neil that I didn’t care what he did, but I saw Glory watching, and the courage to say what was on my mind vanished. “Okay,” I answered. “Tomorrow will be fine.”

The next day—Monday—was a day at sea. The ship wouldn’t reach its first port, Bonita Beach, until early Tuesday morning. The bridge tournament began at ten A.M., so with Glory’s blessing I was free to swim, get some sun, and join in a volley-ball game.

Julieta and I met at the pool and sat in the shade to enjoy a lunch of hamburgers and fries. To my surprise, Neil joined us.

“Hi,” he said. “Your grandmother said you might be up here.” He perched uncomfortably on the end of the long chaise I was sitting on, facing me, but as he looked at me his cheeks turned red. He quickly looked away.

I caught the spark of interest in Julieta’s eyes as she was introduced to Neil. I had to admit that in swim trunks and without a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, Neil looked pretty cool.

“Want to swim?” Julieta asked him.

“That’s why I’m here,” he said, and Julieta laughed as though he’d come up with something clever.

As Julieta stood up, pulling off the shirt she’d thrown on over a brief red bikini, I asked, “Don’t you want to finish your lunch, Julieta?”

“I’ve had enough,” she said. She took Neil’s hand and pulled him over to the swimming pool.

I munched on my hamburger. If Julieta wanted Neil, she could have him. I didn’t care.

Glory suddenly appeared, a scarf over her head and extralarge sunglasses resting on her nose. She slid onto the chaise Julieta had vacated. “Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” I answered. “Want something to eat?”

“No thanks,” Glory said. She pushed Julieta’s plate aside. “We had a lunch buffet and we’re on a short break. How are things going?”

“This ship is fabulous,” I said, and grinned at her. “Thanks again, Glory.”

“You don’t need to thank me. You’re doing
me
a favor. Remember?”

I laughed. “I’d be able to help if you’d tell me what I can do for you.”

“You can pay attention to that nice boy, Neil. Where is he, by the way?”

“In the pool.”

“Is this his hamburger?”

“No,” I answered. “It’s Julieta’s. She’s a girl I met yesterday. She’s swimming with Neil.”

Glory turned to gaze at the pool, and I did too. Julieta and Neil were playing some kind of water tag, laughing and splashing and obviously having fun.

Glory faced me, peering over the top of her sunglasses. “You need to get into the game, Rosie,” she said.

“There’s no point,” I said. “Neil isn’t interested in me, and I’m not interested in him.”

“He could be,” Glory answered. “And there’s no reason for you not to be.”

“But I’m not,” I said. “Not in Neil, not in any guy. I’ve been dumped. I’ve been rejected. I’ve had enough.”

The humiliation I’d experienced at that awful party returned so suddenly that I felt ill. I put down what was left of my hamburger.

“You’re only sixteen and you’re giving up? Nonsense,” Glory said. “There are many nice guys in this world—guys like Neil. Tomorrow I’m going to see that the two of you take the first tender to Bonita Beach. With Eloise’s blessing, I’ve signed you and Neil up for a snorkeling excursion.”

“I don’t know how to snorkel.”

“Neither does Neil, according to Eloise. But I understand it’s easy to learn.”

I sighed. I was beginning to realize how hard it was for Mom to resist Glory when she had a goal in mind. “Are you going too?”

Glory stood and smoothed her cotton skirt. “Of course not,” she said. “I’m going to be doing my best to the win the bridge tournament. I drew Dora as my partner tomorrow, and we make a good team.” She winked. “So will you and Neil. He’s a much better person than that Cam Daly. Now, get in the pool and make Neil pay attention to you.”

As she left, I sank back on the chaise and squeezed my eyes shut. I had no intention of competing with Julieta for a guy I wasn’t even interested in and who didn’t seem to be interested in me.

And as for tomorrow . . . it wasn’t fair! A date that had been arranged by a pair of grandmothers? I was positive that Neil would hate it every bit as much as I would.

The next morning at eight-thirty I left the bright elevator for the narrow, dull, beige corridors of deck one and waited to board the first tender to Bonita Beach with Neil, who reeked of suntan lotion.

“Have fun!” Glory called to us from the sidelines.

“Neil, turn up your collar. Be careful not to get too much sun!” Mrs. Fleming shouted. “You know how easily you burn.”

I pretended I didn’t hear and saw that Neil was doing the same. Why didn’t our grandmothers leave us alone?

A uniformed woman with a microphone announced, “Those who are signed up for the snorkel expedition, gather at pier B. Everyone who is planning to enjoy the beach activities, stop off at the booth with the thatched roof to pick up your bottled water.”

I wished Neil would say something—anything—so our being together wouldn’t seem so awkward, but he didn’t, and I couldn’t think of any small talk. To kill time, I glanced around at the others waiting in the narrow passage. To my surprise, I saw Mr. Diago, who was obviously alone, with no nephew in sight. As many of the passengers did, he carried a small sports bag. His was green with a sports logo on one side, and he was dressed in neatly pressed slacks and a white polo shirt. That was not the kind of outfit to wear for a day at the beach.

“Neil,” I began, “there’s something strange about—”

The woman speaking into the microphone overrode what I had hoped to say. “Form two straight lines as you board the tender,” she called out. “Be sure you have your blue card. You won’t be able to reboard the ship without it.”

“What did you say?” Neil bent to ask me, but the crowd surged forward.

I shook my head. “I’ll tell you later,” I said, and glanced again at Mr. Diago, who was up ahead. I was growing more and more sure that Mr. Diago’s nephew, Ricky, had not returned to the ship before it sailed. But Mr. Diago was pretending that he had. Why?

I followed Mr. Diago onto the boat, deliberately sitting beside him. “Good morning,” I said.

“Good morning,” he answered. His smile flickered, and his words were clipped. “We have good weather. It’s a beautiful day.”

“Yes indeed,” I said. “By the way, Mr. Diago, where is Ricky?”

“Ricky slept late. He will be along soon,” he answered. He looked away, toward the beach.

But by the time the boat pulled away from the pier, Ricky still hadn’t joined us.