Free Girl at Sea by Maureen Johnson Page B

to come out to this pirate-dance camp or whatever it is we’re doing on the boat? Did you ever think of that?”
    “Do you?” he fumbled. “I mean, your mother didn’t say.”
    “Did you ask?”
    “I figured she would mention—”
    “No. Did you ask me ? Have you shown any interest in what was going on in my life when you dragged me away from home?
    Do you even know who I am anymore?”
    “Well,” he said. “Were you . . . seeing someone?”
    “Whatever,” Clio said, having no idea how to answer the question. “I mean, if I’m lucky, he’ll still be there when I get back. But that’s not the point.”
    This seemed to satisfy her father. The conversational arrow had whizzed by his head. The actual point had missed him entirely. As usual.
    “Of course he will!” he said. “You just need to know, this is not 75

    a party cruise. This is a working vacation. You have to take it seriously. You have a job. So, no drinking, no fooling around.
    And the bedrooms are off-limits. You don’t go into Aidan’s room, and he doesn’t come up to yours. That’s the bottom line.”
    “Whatever you say,” she said. “I’ll make sure to report myself if I’m ever having a good time. And I guess all the other usual things are out—dancing, playing cards, wearing red, smiling.”
    “You know what I mean,” he said.
    “No,” she answered. “I really, really don’t.”
    They both stopped speaking and looked away from each other, walking until they reached the point where they had started, the gap in the cliff, the twisting steps down to the sea.
    “What about my e-mail?” she asked. “Or my phone call?
    Even people in prison get one phone call.” The entire time they’d been walking, she’d been looking for a sign for an Internet café but hadn’t seen one. There had to be a public phone somewhere.
    “I already sent your mom a text saying that you got here safely when your plane landed in Rome. There’s supposed to be a storm during the night. We have to get back and make sure everything is secure. We’ll figure out your phone call when we get back.”
    He pointed to a heavy cloud lingering over the bay. It was only a few miles away, from the looks of it, lurking around the volcano. It had a lightning storm contained within it and silently cracked pencil-thin bolts at itself.
    Clio had never seen such a clear omen of trouble in all her life. But her father was right—they wouldn’t have much time to get back before it hit. Ollie would have to wait. Again.
    76

    The Champagne Suite
    When she got back to the boat and opened the door to her bedroom, she found a strange sight. Elsa was standing at one of the mirrors, carefully tucking the pictures alongside the frame.
    Her suitcase was open on the floor, and clothes had spilled out of it in all directions.
    “Hi,” Clio said. “This, um . . . this is my . . .”
    “I’m guessing your dad didn’t tell you,” Elsa said.
    “Tell me what?”
    “That we’re sharing this room,” she answered. “And yes, that means the one bed.”
    Clio slumped against the doorframe.
    “He neglected to mention that,” she said.
    “Apparently the bed math was difficult,” Elsa said. “It was assumed that we wouldn’t mind sharing. Which I don’t. It is a boat. Space is tight. And I’m used to sharing small quarters.”
    “I don’t care either,” Clio said automatically. “It’s fine.”
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    They were frozen in their politeness for a moment. Clio looked around. Utter chaos had already developed on Elsa’s side of the room. There was a pile of thongs on the chair. The coffee-colored carpet was all but completely covered. Her clothes weren’t covered in paint. They were short, bright, simple, happy.
    They were the clothes of a body-comfortable dairy goddess.
    “I’m a bit messy,” Elsa said. “Useless at cleaning. I’ll try my best to keep it under control.”
    “No, no,” Clio said. “It’s all good.”
    This was just one more blow on an endless