ON THE walk from the store to the dock, I understood what Dixie meant about the point of clothes being how they made you feel. In the new clothes, I was a different person, solid on my legs. Strong. My face, with my hair back, felt exposed, like people could see all my flaws, all my angles. But it felt good to not hide, to not apologize for existing.
I hadn’t been on a ferry since seventh grade, when my class took a trip to a marine park on one of the islands. Which island, I can’t remember, or much about the park. I do remember standing up on deck with Miriam Reed when we were still friends, and the way birds would fly right next to the ferry, and the wind in my face, all of it making me feel a kind of freedom I never had before. This time, Dixie and I sat inside, on benches facing each other, near an electrical outlet. I kept my backpack snug between me and the large window while my new phone charged, and I sensed something like that same freedom, a space opening up inside me where I’d only felt smallness before.
It wasn’t only me who noticed—Dixie kept staring. “Shit, Gem. You should see yourself.” She took her charger out of her bag.
“How come you never helped me before when I asked? With clothes and stuff?”
“It’s not just the clothes.” She struggled with the packaging of the charger.
“Yeah, but—”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess I’m a selfish bitch?”
“I’m not saying that.”
“I know. But are you going to be mad at me forever? For every time I wasn’t who you wanted for a sister?”
It surprised me, that she saw it that way. “No. Are you?”
She suddenly dropped the package. “Fuck! Fucker.” She’d torn off part of her fingernail; there was blood.
I resisted taking her hand to check the cut, like I might have before. “You used to like me,” I said. “When you were little.”
“Gem . . .” She cradled her hurt hand in the other. “Don’t.”
We had this time. We had this little bit of time together for being honest. It felt sharp and finite, like it could end any second without warning. “I know you want me to be different than I am,” I said. “But you could have helped me be more what you wanted by actually talking to me. Telling me things.”
She squeezed her finger. “I need to go get a paper towel.”
She stalked off. A gull flew alongside the window, pumping its wings and moving at the same speed as the ferry, exactly like I remembered birds doing on that seventh-grade trip, as if it wanted to be close to the boat, the people. One of its eyes seemed to stare straight at me.
Maybe I could ride the ferry for days, getting on different ones and using the money a little bit at a time for food and shelter, if I needed it. Maybe I could last out here off and on ferries for . . . I don’t know. Months? Would anyone notice me? Would anyone—Dad, Mom—even look for me? For reasons other than getting the money back, I mean.
The gull peeled off and flew up out of sight.
Dixie returned from the bathroom and picked up our conversation. “You’re not exactly big on personal sharing, you know.”
“I don’t have anything to share.”
She stared at me and then let out an incredulous laugh. “Okay. Your life is totally normal. I get to high school and find out you don’t have friends, and you never told me that. You’re in Bergstrom’s office all the time and I have no idea what you talk about. You’re a secret smoker. Yeah, nothing to see here, okay, Gem.”
I unplugged my phone and put it, and the charger, in my bag. “Is your finger okay?”
“It hurts but yes.”
“Let’s go up on deck.” I wanted to be in the wind and open air.
We shouldered our bags and climbed the steps. I held the rail to steady myself from the very slight rocking of the boat on the water. Strong in my boots and warm in my coat, I led Dixie to the front of the ferry. The wind blew harder than I expected, but I liked it—the sting on my face and the sense of steady movement, us gliding away from the city and the people we’d been there.
After a few minutes, we walked around to the back and leaned over to watch the foaming trail of water behind us.
“I lied,” Dixie said. “About going on the Ferris wheel with Dad.”
For a second I didn’t understand what she was saying. I thought she meant she’d lied about not enjoying it because she hadn’t wanted my feelings to get any more hurt than they already were.
“It never happened,” she continued. “You want to know about me? I’m telling you.” Her eyes had that Dixie defiance, ready for me to be mad at her.
I wasn’t, though. I tried, but the resentment for her that I could usually find in a second wasn’t there. How could I have been mad at Dixie so long for wanting exactly what I did? What anyone in our situation would want? Like she said, it wasn’t her fault. Sometimes it was just hard to accept that things weren’t how they should be.
Her hair blew around her face; her defiance had evaporated. I put my arm around her, half expecting her to shove me away. But she turned and fell into me and I held her, close. The way she cried at fourteen was different from how she’d cried at six. No big sobs. No drama. Just a quiet shaking and the pressure of her fingertips digging into my sides, my hands, stinging in the wind, pressed to her back.
She pulled away, red-eyed and blotchy. She swiped her sleeve across her nose. “I’m freezing.”
We went back down and I managed to get her charger out of its package. Dixie plugged her phone in and we both stared at it as it came to life. One alert after another poured in—a stream of messages, a couple of voice mail notifications. Dad’s texts alternated between angry and sorry.
answer your goddamn texts dix!!! this is IMPORTANT!
Then:
I’m not mad just call me
In another one he asked:
is gem with you??
It was the first mention of me since it all began.
There were also messages from Mom, who seemed to have no idea what was really going on; she’d only sent a check-in text to see how Dixie’s night at Lia’s was and if Dad had bothered her anymore. He’d come by the apartment, she said, but he wouldn’t tell her what he wanted. She was working a shift at the bar tonight but she’d see us later.
“Listen to the voice mails,” I said. “We should know what he’s thinking.”
“I don’t want to know what he’s thinking. I don’t care what he’s thinking. I don’t want to hear his stupid fucking voice. If he tries calling again, there’s no way I’m picking up.” She jiggled her leg and stared out the window, then turned to me suddenly. “Let me see yours. Your phone.”
I handed it over, and she started punching in numbers.
“What are you doing?”