Free Girl at Sea by Maureen Johnson Page A

all legal. You can do what you want.”
    “Clio, I don’t know if your mother is—”
    “And I’m not going to tell you,” Clio cut him off. “It’s fine. I just don’t want to know the gory details of your dating life, okay?
    Is that too much to ask?”
    Instead of laying into a complicated defense of ear love, her father simply nodded. They walked a few paces in silence. He reached into his pocket and produced a small, clip-on orange walkie-talkie. He passed this to her, then continued walking.
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    “This is your com,” he said. “Everyone on board will carry one, and everyone has a number. You’re number five. Always identify yourself by your number. There’s a number list on the back.”
    Clio flipped the com over. There, stuck to the back, was a small sticker with the following list printed in an extremely tiny font:
    Ben Ford: 1
    Martin Young: 2
    Julia Woodward: 3
    Aidan Cross: 4
    Clio Ford: 5
    Elsa Åkerlund-Woodward: 6
    “What are we doing that we need these?” she asked.
    They parted temporarily to let a bicycle pass between them.
    “Some archeological work,” he said.
    “So why the spooky secret-secret?” she asked.
    “It’s just a precaution,” he said.
    “A precaution against what ?”
    “Clio, all I’m asking you to do is take a com, use a number, and not to give out too much personal information. We have a nice boat with expensive things on it. That’s all. This is a perfectly common safety procedure.”
    Clio seriously doubted this. Her dad always had to take things just the one step too far, to make a game out of everything.
    “So why can’t I just say, ‘This is Clio, and I see a giant squid attacking the boat. Come quickly.’ What’s wrong with that?
    What’s with the number? Do you just want to be called Number One, like they used to do on Star Trek ?”
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    “The numbers are easier to understand.”
    “Not if I have to flip it over and see who Number Four is,” she said.
    “You’ll learn the numbers.”
    “But why ?” she said. “That’s my question. I can’t walk around all summer calling myself Number Five. ‘Number Five got some sunburn today.’ ‘Number Five really liked that book you gave her.’ It’s stupid.”
    “Clio,” he said, clearly running out of patience, “just follow the rules of the boat. Now, second thing you need to know. Your job. You are the official chef.”
    “The what ?”
    “You love to cook,” he said.
    “No, I don’t,” she said. “I’m the queen of takeout.”
    Her father turned on his heel and started back in the same direction that they’d just come.
    “You’re good at it,” he said. “You always were. Remember that soup you always used to make, the one with the little meatballs?
    That was great! And the cooking class in Japan?”
    “Just because I can do it doesn’t mean I like to do it,” she said.
    “I haven’t made the meatball soup since I was ten. And the cooking class was one day. I learned how to cut a little faster.
    That’s all.”
    “Everybody has to do something. Running the boat, setting the course, running the equipment . . . someone has to do it all. The galley is your domain. I’m giving that completely to you.”
    “What’s Elsa’s job?” she asked.
    “Elsa is our translator.”
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    “What is she going to translate?” she asked. “We all speak English.”
    “Look,” he said. “Elsa is not my daughter. I can’t tell her what to do.”
    “This is your way of telling me that Elsa has no job,” said Clio. “Isn’t it?”
    “One last thing,” he said. “I realize that you’re . . . that age.
    And that you’re going to be in close quarters with . . . a guy. But I just need you to know, that can’t happen, okay?”
    “I guess those rules don’t apply to you, huh?” she said.
    “That’s different,” he mumbled. “Clio, we’re adults, and—”
    “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I already have someone?”
    Clio went on. “And maybe I had to leave him behind