Swept Away (16 page)

As Freaky walks back to the truck, he rolls his shoulders a few
times and shakes out his hands. I have a feeling lifting and hauling Candy Cane Jr. was his own brand of bravado.

Oliver goes to the rowboat and stands there, assessing. He calls to Freaky, “Do you think I should get into it on land?”

Freaky shrugs. “Safer on ground. But how strong are your friends?”

Oliver glances over at us, worried.

“Come on, help us get Oliver into the lighthouse,” I say to Justin.

Oliver sits in his spot in the middle seat. For a moment we all just look back and forth between the rowboat and the lighthouse. “That won't build itself,” Freaky says as he ambles over with the clamps we're going to use to attach the lighthouse to the rim of the boat.

“So how are we going to do this?” I say, worrying as the time keeps passing and people start arriving.

To my astonishment, Freaky takes charge. “Ollie, scrunch down. Once we give the okay, slowly straighten up. Mandy, get in the boat and guide the lighthouse down over him. What's yer name, tall girl?” He snaps his fingers at Lexi. “You, me, and the boy there”—indicating Justin—“will hoist the thing. High.”

“Got it,” Justin says. Under his breath he mutters, “Hope you got your measurements right.”

“We tested it,” I snap. It's true. When we finished the chicken-­wire tower, before we put on the papier-mâché, Freaky, Oliver's mom, and I lowered it down over Oliver. It worked on land. I just hope we can manage it once it's on the boat.

I clamber into the boat, Oliver scrunches, and the three of
them raise the lighthouse. I reach over to help them get it above Oliver and centered. I shove it a bit more to the left, and Oliver disappears inside the tower.

“You okay in there?” I ask.

“Yeah,” comes his muffled reply.

“Are you sitting all the way up?” Freaky asks.

The lighthouse shifts and wiggles but it doesn't flip over. “I am now.” We all exhale loudly with relief.

Freaky, Justin, and Lexi step away delicately as if any sudden movement might topple the structure.

“Does it look straight?” I ask them.

Lexi walks all the way around it. “Looks good. Time to clamp it on.”

Freaky and Justin get to work as I climb out of the boat and help Lexi with the blue-green fabric we also brought. Once they're done, we cover the wooden platform and metal clamps with the fabric, the idea being that it will look like waves.

“Still okay?” I ask.

“Excellent,” Oliver replies.

“Let's get this baby in the water!” Justin says.

Freaky has returned to his truck and leans against it, arms crossed. I guess he's done. Justin, Lexi, and I grunt and heave and shove, and finally get the rowboat into the water. I hop into it, making it tip.

“What's going on?” Oliver calls from inside his prison.

“All okay, just getting settled,” I assure him.

“Oars?” Oliver asks.

“Coming!” Justin calls. He and Lexi slip oars in through the
portholes. I'm relieved when they begin to move rhythmically, which means Oliver not only has a good grip, but actually has been practicing as he promised.

We immediately ground.

“What happened?” Oliver shouts.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” I say. “I wasn't navigating. Don't do anything until I get set up.”

“Hang on,” Justin says. He wades into the water and holds the rowboat still. I am going to owe him big-time. Except no one seems annoyed. In fact everyone seems to be having fun. Even, I realize, as I take a quick look, ol' Freaky Framingham.

“I'm getting into position,” I tell Oliver, being his eyes. “Lexi is tying the bib on. Now she's pinning the fabric.”

I sit still as Lexi arranges fabric in the bow so it will look as if the doll shoes are standing on a boulder, and then brings it around me to hide my body.

“Done!” Lexi declares. She moves all around the boat in the water, taking photos.

“Is the lantern lit?” Oliver asks.

“I'll get it,” Justin calls, rushing forward. “There's going to be a kind of a lurch,” he warns. Lexi holds the boat steady.

Justin carefully gets into the boat. It tips side to side, but the lighthouse holds. Yay, clamps! Justin flicks the switch on the ­battery-operated candle in the lantern room. “All set.”

That reminds me to do the same to mine. I click on the toy lantern.

“Adorable,” Lexi declares.

By now the boat parade official, Mr. Saunders, has arrived. He
quickly wades into the shallows. “You're not supposed to launch until it's your turn,” he tells me.

“Do we have to get out of the water?” I ask plaintively. I
really
don't want to have to ask Justin, Lexi, and Freaky to haul us out and then put us back in again.

“What's happening?” Oliver's stifled voice asks.

Mr. Saunders looks startled. “There's someone in there?”

I want to ask him if he thinks Candy Cane Jr. is rowing herself, but I don't since we're asking him to bend the rules for us. I put on a pathetic face and say, “It will just be too hard to pull us out and then bring us back in.”

“What number are you?”

“Five.”

He glances at the people arriving with their boats. He looks down at his clipboard. “You okay if we make them third?” he calls out to them.

There's a brief stomach-tightening moment as the entrants confer with each other. Then I see shrugs and hear “Sure!” and “Fine,” and “No problem,” and I relax again.

Well, relax-ish.

“Get over as far as possible to make room for the first two boats,” Mr. Saunders instructs.

“Thank you SOOOOOO much!”

Freaky ambles back down to the boat, then slips a hefty pair of wire cutters under the brown fabric by my feet. “Just in case,” he says. He jerks his head toward the invisible Oliver. He lowers his voice and adds, “Lad can be stubborn. Can't imagine where he gets it from.”

Then he winks, pats the boat, and stands. “Have fun.” He gives the boat a little shove so that we move more out of the way, then heads back toward the truck.

I have the astounding impression that I might have just gotten a glimpse of the “real” Freaky. And that this was his way of letting me know he's not really mad at me for the other day in the attic.

The first boat isn't fancy, but has cuteness going for it. A dad wearing typical lobsterman gear rows a boat with lobster traps hanging from bow and stern. Four little kids wearing homemade fish costumes wave. A mom sits in the stern holding a baby dressed as a lobster—a popular infant Halloween costume around here. It takes them a while to launch because all kinds of relatives insist on taking videos and snapping pictures.

Next up is a boat full of scantily clad mermaids, and I'm secretly glad that Oliver can't see anything from his spot inside the tower. My brother Justin happily helps the girls get the boat launched. I have a feeling this boat is going to be a hit with the boys lining the banks.

Then it's our turn.

“Showtime,” I tell Oliver.

“Now?” Oliver asks.

“Now!”

My stomach clenches. I've just realized that even though Oliver is the one powering the boat, I'm really the one in charge. It's all up to me to get us through this.

Oliver's oars hit the water with a splash. “Hey!” I yelp.

“Sorry! Sorry!”

He gets the oars under control, and we glide away from shore. First challenge: get around the bend without snagging on any boulders or low-hanging trees, or going aground.

“Straight,” I instruct Oliver. “Straight.” I keep my voice calm and even. Almost singsong. Our first task is to get far enough away from shore to make the turn without disaster. But not so far that the spectators won't be able to see us.

“Turn!” I call out.

“What?” I hear Oliver ask.

“Turn!” I screech.

“Which way?” Oliver shouts back.

It just now occurs to me that we should have practiced the route. Not to mention tested our ability to hear each other since Oliver is
inside
Candy Cane Jr. sitting backward to row—and facing
away
from me. Too late now.

“RIGHT! RIGHT! RIGHT!” I holler.

Oliver adjusts quickly (points to Oliver!), and we move into the correct position. Up ahead the first boat is getting
awww
s, and the boatload of gyrating mermaids is getting a lot of whoops and catcalls. I'm hoping they don't totally eclipse us and we glide by the shore without anyone even noticing.

I underestimated our fan club.

“Candy Cane!” someone screams onshore. I think it's Lexi.

“Look!” a voice sounding suspiciously like Justin's shouts. “It's Mrs. Gilhooley!”

A rhythmic cheer goes up. “Candy Cane! Candy Cane!” I detect a strong Brooklyn accent in there. Joanna must have stopped texting her boyfriend long enough to join in.

I grin from ear to ear. It's amazing to hear the applause and chanting and know it's for us. I suddenly understand the rush Cynthia says she feels onstage.

“What's happening?” Oliver asks.

“They're cheering for us!”

I think he says “Cool,” but it's hard to tell under all that papier-­mâché and chicken wire.

Then the sound changes. The clapping falls off, there's a bit of a hush, and then I hear Justin yell, “Mandy! Watch out!”

I snap out of my reverie. Oliver is a righty, and with no visual cues he's rowed us more toward shore than keeping a straight and centered heading. We're closer in than we should be. Here there are rocks and debris—all just waiting to snag our boat and topple Candy Cane Jr.

“Pull left,” I yell.

But he doesn't hear me. The next boat must have appeared behind us because a new section of the crowd starts applauding.

“Left, Oliver! Left!”

“What?” Oliver calls through the papier-mâché.

“Left! Left!”

I turn to yell it directly at the tower, ripping up the fabric, Mrs. Gilhooley's dress flapping and feet kicking as I swing around. “LEFT!”

People onshore join in. “Left! Left! Left!” they shout.

The boat finally straightens back out, and there's loud applause again. I swivel in the seat and rearrange my various pieces, though I know it looks totally sloppy compared to Lexi's careful job.
Oh well,
I think. We already passed the judges before
this little mishap, when we were still looking good. I silently vow to ignore the shore and pay attention only to navigation.

“We're starting the curve now,” I instruct Oliver. We'll have fewer cheerleaders here—this section tends to fill up with families living on the west side of the inlet. That'll make it easier for me to concentrate.

We row around the inlet and land just opposite from where we began without any further incidents. It's only been about a fifteen-minute trip, but I know Oliver must be exhausted. And hot. And if he is anything like me, totally stressed. Maybe even claustrophobic.

We safely make it to where we can get out, and thankfully, a bunch of people come help us the minute we reach shallow water. Someone detaches the fabric from my shoulders, and I undo the costume bib. I drop Mrs. Gilhooley into the boat and leap out. I hold it stable as three dad types unclamp the lighthouse and lift it off Oliver.

He's drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his face. Someone hands him a bottle of water, which he accepts gratefully. He's too winded to speak or even climb out of the dinghy. I lean over and fling my arms around him anyway, tipping the boat a bit. “We did it!”

He's still breathing in gasps but says shakily, “I'm totally gross.”

I stand back up and hold out my hands to help him. “Yeah, you are!” I say with a laugh.

Once Oliver is out of the boat and we've stumbled through the shallow water, the same dad types drag the dinghy out of the
way of the arriving boats. I know we should be helping, but given our natural clumsiness and Oliver's exhaustion, I figure we're doing them more of a favor by standing still.

Oliver pours the rest of the bottle of water over his head and rubs his wet face. He takes in a long breath, then blows it back out.

“I wish you could have seen them,” I say. “They were clapping and cheering for us.”

“I
kind of
heard it,” he says with a rueful smile. He shakes his head hard, like a puppy, spraying me with water.

“Hey!” I scream.

“Sorry!” Oliver smiles and lays a wet arm across my shoulder. I don't mind. “As much as I hate to admit this,” he says, “I really should have listened to you. And Lexi. Eyeholes would have helped. And rowing from inside was no fun.”

“Well, we survived,” I say. “That's all that matters.”

Oliver twists to look at Candy Cane Jr. “Yeah . . . I guess. . . .”

“I've figured out something about you,” I tell him. “It's like you once said to me. You're excellent on the micro scale. But when it comes to macro . . .” I shrug as I trail off.

“What do you mean?” Oliver asks, turning back around. When I don't answer, he bangs his hip into mine. “Come on, you can't leave me hanging.”

I hope he doesn't get mad, but I continue. “Your measurements were perfect. Your staples absolutely evenly spaced. The lantern house, the stripes, it's all just right, all the little details.”

“But . . . ?”

“But let's just say the big picture kind of gets crowded out.”

“Like giving up the ability to see in exchange for a completely accurate model,” he says with a sheepish grin.

I give him a little squeeze. “Don't feel bad,” I tell him. “I'm good at the big picture, and totally sloppy in the details.” I frown. “I guess that makes us opposites.” That seems like maybe it's a bad thing.