Free The Summer of Chasing Mermaids by Sarah Ockler

from the grip of the past. When I nodded, his concern changed to relief, then excitement. “Shall we get this good time rolling?”
    Christian may have been pissed about the fact that his father made the bet without consulting him, but he wasn’t talking about it, and the idea of fixing up the boat seemed to buoy him. I felt it too, the lightness in him emanating outward. For me, fixing up the old Queen wasn’t like prepping for the stage at Carnival, or even for the show my sister and I put on for the resort guests. But it felt good having a purpose again, a project with a clear goal. A partner.
    I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded, and together Christian and I got a system going. Mostly it involved him tossing things from the saloon through the companionway, and me catching them, dropping them into boxes.
    â€œYou spent a lot of time here, I think.” He flipped through a dark gray book I recognized as Moby Dick . “Yeah. This one was never my favorite. Look alive.” With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it.
    I caught it, dropped it in the box with my blankets. After the notebook incident, I’d decided to cast my lingering embarrassment out tosea. After all, Christian didn’t seem bothered by the fact that I’d taken up residence in his boat, painted the walls with poems. Why should I be? Anyway, I meant my apology about the writing, and if he wouldn’t let me paint over it, the least I could do was work my boomsie off ­getting the boat regatta ready. Christian depended on me now; I’d put myself in his trust, as far as the boat went.
    But more than that, Lemon depended on me too. Even if she’d never say it.
    Still digging out the V-berth, Christian said, “Since you obviously like stories, allow me to regale you with the tale of how I came to own this fine fixer-upper.”
    I sat down on the saloon bench, starboard side, and Christian said, “Oh, it won’t take that long.”
    I rose.
    â€œDad won her in a poker game in Coos Bay,” he said. “Two years ago. Later that summer, after Noah and I won the race on Never Flounder , Dad gave me the Vega. Said we’d build her up together, make her gleam until she outshone Katz’s boat.”
    I looked on, waiting for him to explain how the project got derailed.
    Christian’s laugh was bitter. “Sweetheart, this boat is so damn metaphorical it could bring tears to the soul.” He considered that a moment, then the fog lifted, his half smile back in place. He pointed at my chest. “That’s some poetry, for you. Tears to the soul. Write it down.”
    Behind the sarcasm, the clenched muscle of his jaw told me thatwe’d reached the end of the story—as much as he was willing to share, anyway. I pulled out my notebook and scribbled a question.
    What’s Noah say about this bet?
    â€œHaven’t seen him yet—we just got into town yesterday. But I’m sure he’ll be pissed. We’ve always raced together. But our dads? Everyone knows they won’t back down from a bet.”
    â€œNever could,” a voice said from the docks. I knew it immediately, thanks to all those café runs with Kirby and the times I’d spent alone at the Black Pearl, doodling in my notebook over a cup of coffee.
    Noah gave us a smile, a broad and unabashed thing that lit up his face. Other than the lack of a suntan—common in this misty gray part of the world—he had the hot-surfer vibe going on, complete with blond dreads and an easygoing gait.
    Christian hopped off the boat, grabbed Noah in a rough hug.
    â€œGood to see you, man,” Noah said. “You’re tanner than I remember.”
    â€œGet out of Oregon once in a while, dude. Might see the sun,” Christian said. I was still on the boat, and he started to introduce us, but Noah waved him off.
    â€œElyse and I go way back,” Noah said.
    Christian folded his arms over his chest.