Free Antsy Floats by Neal Shusterman

the roller coaster, please,” she said. “I’ve never been on a roller coaster at sea before.”
    â€œNeither has the rest of the planet.”
    â€œNot so,” she said. “The Plethora has been sailing for almost six months, which puts us behind the curve of cutting-edge experience.”
    We both knew that this wasn’t about a roller coaster, though. This was her opportunity to have “the talk” about why I was breathing so irregularly—and needless to say, there was a long line to ride the “Rogue Wave” roller coaster, leaving us plenty of time to talk.
    â€œIt’s a lovely night,” Lexie said, not minding the wait. “I love the sultry Caribbean breeze.”
    â€œSultry. Right.”
    The line moved quickly, so she dispensed with the small talk. “Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” she asked, in her most sympathetic, understanding voice. “You’ve been awfully quiet . . .”
    â€œWhat do you mean quiet?” I said a little too loudly, because I find it insulting to be told I’m quiet. Behind us, a group of foreigners looked at me severely for being loud and American.
    Lexie sighed. “Is it something I did? Or maybe you’re worried about seeing my parents again? They dislike you less than they admit, really.”
    Lexie has a tendency to think any strife in other people’s lives must somehow be about her. I could have said that she got it right, but I couldn’t do that in good conscience, so I said, “It’s not about you, and it’s not about your parents.”
    â€œAha! So I’m right! There is something wrong!”
    I cursed and she laughed. It made me feel cornered. “Why can’t you let my situations be mine?”
    â€œBecause you’re my friend and I care about you.”
    We were at the front of the line now and took our places as the previous riders, now soaking wet, exited the roller coaster.
    â€œIf you care about me, then you’ll respect me enough to stop asking.”
    Then she got all bristly. “Fine. If you don’t want my help, then you won’t get it.”
    We rode to the peak of the ride in silence, then after an insane drop, we spun through loops and corkscrews and twists and a final plunge right to the surface of the waves that drenched us in tepid—did you hear that— tepid Caribbean water that felt cold at sixty miles per hour. Then the ride brought us back to where we started.
    Although I love roller coasters, I had just eaten half a dozen lobsters, and my stomach was now trying to push my lungs out my ears, and Lexie says—
    â€œLet’s do it again!” She tries to drag me back to wait in line, but I won’t budge, because if I ride again, I know those lobsters are gonna come a-calling.
    â€œMaybe tomorrow,” I tell her. “Right now I gotta lie down.”
    â€œYou’re such a lightweight.”
    And then I hear, “Excuse, please. You like up-down fastness? I ride mit you, ya?”
    I turned to see one of the guys who had been behind us in line—he was about our age, although it’s sometimes hard to tell with foreigners.
    â€œYou no eyes, so I touch you,” he said, and he took Lexie’s dainty hand in his large one to guide her. “You safe, ya?”
    Lexie giggled. “What a charming invitation. I would be honored,” she told him. He nodded, clearly not understanding her words but getting that she meant “yes.” Then she dismissed me with a wave of her hand. “Go Pepto-Bismol yourself into a pink stupor. Whatever your troubles are, you can share them with the bottle.” And she went off for more up-down fastness.
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    From there, I went up to the buffet—which is where all the people went who either didn’t want to dress up for dinner or couldn’t wait to be served. Food was the last thing I wanted to