Take It Off (10 page)

“Does Hillary hate you?”

“Is it true that you grew up in the slums of Mexico City?”

“Come on, no way. You guys are so gullible …,” This from a girl, of course.

“He
does
kind of look like Clinton.”

“What!?”
Arno, who had a perfectly sculptured nose, said. A look of confusion had come over Del, and it looked like it might soon morph into the grimace again. Arno giggled. Mickey elbowed him.

Just then the door banged open, and a girl's voice yelled, “Everybody
out
!”

The crowd scrambled around, although nobody really seemed to actually leave the room. As the crowd rearranged itself, Arno saw that the voice belonged to Sara-Beth Benny. She was standing in the doorway with her arms thrown up, like a gymnast, and her head tilted forward, like a rock star. Her hair was somewhat messed, and she was wearing a clingy black wraparound dress that looked expensive, and tall black leather boots that looked even more expensive. She swayed a little bit on the stiletto heels of her boots, then dropped one arm. The other arm still pointed to the ceiling.

“I said,
out
!”

“Uh-oh,” said Mickey, “she's wasted.”

“Plastered.”

“Blotto.”

The CD changed just then, and an old Cars song came on. Sara-Beth perked up immediately. She started twitching her hips to the beat and stomping her heels.

“Wait, you all can stay. I
love
this song! Woooooooo! Let the good times roll! Who's got some coke!?”

“Oh, God.”

Everyone seemed to calm down and return to dancing or smoking or squealing or whatever they had been doing before the interruption. Even Del was back on the dance floor.

“She's about to lose it,” Mickey said.

“I think she might have already lost it.”

“Somebody's got to get her out of here.”

Arno sighed heavily. “Fine. I'll do it.”

“Great.”

“Why don't you work on getting most of these losers out of here. When I come back, we can have the kind of party we like.”

“Right. And, Arno?”

“Yeah?”

“I hope you never do anything that freaking low again.”

They gave each other an awkward, appreciative nod,
and then Arno went over to where Sara-Beth was riding on the shoulders of one of Del's friends, pulled her down, and carried her out of the room.

“This place looks like it might be all right …,” I said. We were standing in front of one of the big grand hotels that faced the Paseo Maritimo. It was called the Miramar. You could just tell from looking at it that the sheets were all four hundred thread count, the room service was excellent, and that terry cloth bathrobes came with every room.

“I don't know …,” Suki said to me. We had been walking around in mild shock for an hour or so, and neither of us looked our best. Her braids were coming undone, and she was still wearing those American Apparel short shorts and flip-flops and, now that it was a little bit cold, she was wearing my Hugo Boss sweater, and none of it really went together. My hair was falling down, too, and I was pretty sure I had pit stains, even though I didn't have the heart to look.

We had finally decided that we weren't going to figure out what to do about being stuck on Mallorca without our ship, not tonight, anyway, and that we should probably just get a place to sleep and rest. I had explained about my wallet, and had promised Suki—who had a Visa card and about sixty euros—that if she paid for the hotel tonight I would call my mom tomorrow and get her to wire money and that would pay for a way to get us out of here.

“Come on. I mean, we're
here
. And it's late. If we don't act now, we might not be able to even get a room.”

Suki nodded, and we walked in through the big, glass sliding doors.

The inside was very Iberian-opulent, with red velvet couches and heavy chandeliers and gold leaf everywhere. Ravel's
Bolero
was playing in the background. We could see a few well-dressed people loitering at the bar on the mezzanine. In the corner, behind a huge dark-stained welcome counter, was an officious-looking concierge.

“Bueno,”
he said, looking us up and down.

“Buenas noches,”
Suki said. I was relieved she'd gone ahead and done the talking. Her accent was way better than mine.
“Queremos
una habitación para dos personas, por favor.”

The concierge rattled off something in really fast Spanish that I didn't catch. Suki said something like:
“Hay algo más barato, señor?”

The concierge rattled some more rapid-fire Spanish.

Suki leaned toward me and whispered, “Jonathan, their cheapest room is 250 euros a night.”

That sounded about right to me. I nodded at her and said, “Can't you just put it on your card?”

“It's like a debit card, you know, linked to my checking account. I'm not sure how much is in there, but I think it's probably around sixty dollars. Besides, shouldn't we try and save as much money as possible?”

The concierge was sneering at us.

Things looked to be going south here, so I stepped forward. Who knew? Maybe he had heard of Penelope Isquierdo Santana Sutwilley, and maybe, just maybe, dropping her name would be better than a credit card. Maybe he would just let us stay, and I could pay with wired money tomorrow. But when I heard the word
“senior”
come out in my flat, American accent, I knew this wasn't going to work.

“Señor,”
he said with a corrective accent. “May I to suggest to you the hostel? It is perhaps more in your price range.”

He plucked a tourist map from the brochures on the counter and fanned it out in front of his. With a pen, he marked an X on the map.

“We are here,” he said, and then dragged the pen through the streets up higher into the city. “The hostel is here.
Bueno
, you can take this,” he said, folding the map and passing it icily to me.

“Thank you,” I said, feeling more like a teenager than pretty much ever. Suki and I turned and hurried out of the Hotel Miramar as fast as possible without actually running.

Neither of us could think of anything to say, so we kept quiet and followed the map. It took us up into the old town—through the winding streets that I'd run through earlier that day. We could see warm windows up above, and the laughing and general noise of people having a good time at night. I was breathing in big, wistful breaths of Spanish air when Suki said:

“So
that
was a great idea.”

“What does
that
mean? Forgive me, but I think we could both use a good shower and a comfortable bed.”

“Oh, yeah? Listen, Jonathan, you and I are stuck together for at least a couple days. So you'd better get used to the fact that I don't live the way you do.”

I didn't even know what to say to that, so we just didn't talk for a while. That was, of course, how we got lost. All of a sudden, we were on a street that wasn't on the map with no idea how we got there. But neither of us was really feeling very helpful, so we just sort of kept walking. It was near midnight by the time we found the hostel.

It was on a narrow street of apartment buildings, cheap shoe stores, and seafood restaurants, a tall narrow building with a dirty red and white sign that said HOSTEL LA CUCARACHA.

“Oh, God,” I said.

“Come on, rich boy,” Suki said.

The lobby was small and dark and stank of old cigarette smoke. Several vinyl couches that were pretty beat up lined the walls, and above them hung a series of pastel still-life paintings. They appeared to have been done by some failed art student disguising his lack of talent by painting in a faux-cubist style. They were possibly the ugliest things I've ever seen. There were travelers
sprawled all over the couches, most of them with dreadlocks, all of them speaking English in loud Australian accents. One of them was noodling on a guitar, and pretty much all of them seemed to be smoking and talking at the same time. It was the exact opposite of tranquil.

Behind the counter, there was a doorway with a sign that said INTERNET over it. For a minute, I considered rushing in there for any news of Flan. Or—shudder—Rob. But then I realized that bad news could be extremely crushing right now, so I killed the urge and silently followed Suki up to the front desk.

An older woman with gray bags under her eyes sat behind the counter. A cigarette was dangling from her mouth, and she exhaled and inhaled without removing it.

“Oh, God,” I said again.

Suki rolled her eyes and said,
“Buenas noches.”

A very long moment passed, then the woman behind the counter slowly rolled her eyes up to look.
“Diga …,”
she said, without moving any of her features and drawing the word out long.

“Por favor,”
Suki said, clasping her hands.
“Por favor, una habitación para dos personas.”

“Habitación privada?”
the woman asked. I was pretty sure I understood that one, and stepped forward and nodded yes, looking probably more crazed than I'd meant to. The woman stared at me for a moment, and then turned back to Suki.

“Bueno. Treinta euros, señorita.”

Suki nodded and put the money on the counter. The woman handed her a key and her change and said,
“Numero dieciocho. El piso tercero. Buenas noches.”

I turned the edges of my mouth upward in Suki's direction, doing my best to convey relief. She sighed disgustedly, and we headed up to see what La Cucaracha had in store for us.

“Everything's going to turn out fine.” Patch said this more for Greta's benefit than out of any personal conviction. He did have to smile a little at the irony of the crew losing Jonathan, when Jonathan was usually the one going on about how they'd lost him, Patch, and how stressful that was. But Patch also just sort of knew that Jonathan cared more about comfort, and, well,
things
, and that it was going to be really tough for him being out there in the world.

They were walking through the halls of the ship at night, heading for Patch's cabin. The floor shifted with the water underneath their feet. They'd turned the ship upside down looking for Suki—computer lab, late-night snack bar, every corner of the deck. They'd combed the halls of every level and knocked on every door they could think of. Nobody had seen them.

Greta nodded at Patch's reassurance, but she still looked pretty worried. Patch realized that the only
times he'd seen Greta, she'd been with Suki, or looking for her.

“Listen, at least they're not alone. I'm sure they ran into each other on the dock. We're not going to land in Barcelona till the day after tomorrow. They can probably get a ferry, or maybe even a flight by then. J probably has his dad's credit card and cash, which should cover it no problem. They'll figure it out.”

“But maybe Barker could do something …?”

“If we tell Barker, he'll kick them off the trip. This way, maybe they can still get back on. Nobody'll know the difference.”

“I guess.”

They were coming to one of the remote, upper level cabins and they could hear music. It smelled a little like smoke, too, which was weird.

“Isn't that Prince?”

“Um …,” Patch said as he reached for the knob of his door. By this time, it was pretty obvious that his cabin was the source of the music.

Greta lowered her eyes sheepishly. “I think Suki might have mentioned something about you having a party tonight. She might have, uh, mentioned it to a couple of other people, too …”

Patch pushed through the door and into what would surely go down as
the
party of Ocean Term 2005. His
bathtub had been filled with ice and this strange Spanish beer that someone had bought a truckload of in Mallorca. Some kid had whipped out his iBook and was now perched on Patch's desk playing the role of self-appointed deejay. Everyone was dancing, except those couples that had slipped off to the corners to discreetly hook up. And Mickey Pardo, God bless him, was on the bed singing along to “Little Red Corvette,” and pretending to drive. This mime was (not surprisingly) both convincing, and somewhat perverse.

“Mickey!” Patch hollered over the crowd. The music was really loud, and Patch wasn't sure Mickey would even hear him.

Mickey turned to them, pretending to shift into a faster gear and sort of slap the imaginary steering wheel. “Move over, baby, gimme the keys,” he mouthed at them, “I'm gonna try to tame your little red love machine. Little Red Corvette! Baby, you're much too fast …”

Mickey jumped off the bed and came over to them. He looked Greta in the eyes and shrieked, “Yes, you are …” along with the song. Then he cackled and threw his head back. When he brought his eyes back on them, it was as though Prince had disappeared and he'd been transformed into Mickey again. “What's
up
, dudes?”

“Who are all these people?”

“I dunno. Didn't you invite them? I had to hear about your party from Greta. Which, no offense—”

“None taken.”

“—was lame.”

“Dude,
I
didn't invite them. I just invited Arno and I was going to invite you and Jonathan, and—”

“Oh, speaking of J,” Mickey said, “did you ever find Suki?”

Greta shook her head.

“They definitely got left on Mallorca,” Patch said.

“Holy shit.”

Just then, Arno came through the door.

“Where the hell have
you
been?” Mickey asked, shaking his head in disgust because he already knew the answer. It had been about an hour since Arno left.

“Sara-Beth got, um … sick …”