Free Just One Day 02: Just One Year by Gayle Forman Page B

calls to Ana Lucia. “I need to steal him. We have a soccer match. Lapland forfeited so now we’re playing Wiesbaden.”
    Lapland and Wiesbaden?
Ana Lucia is ignorant about all things soccer, but this is pushing it. But her face registers no suspicion about the pairing, only sourness about Broodje’s untimely arrival.
    In the bag is someone’s old soccer kit, jersey, shorts, cleats, and a thin tracksuit to wear on top. I look at Broodje. He gives me a look. “Better go change now,” he says.
    “When will you be back?” she asks me when I return. The tracksuit is several centimeters too short for me. I can’t tell if she notices.
    “Late,” Broodje answers. “It’s an away game. In France.” He turns to me. “In Deauville.”
    Deauville? No. The search is over. But Broodje is halfway out the door and Ana Lucia already has her hands crossed over her chest. I’m already paying the price, so I may as well do the crime.
    I go to give her a kiss good-bye. “Wish me luck,” I say, forgetting for a second that there is no game, no soccer game at least, and that she’s the last person who should be wishing me luck.
    Anyway, she doesn’t. “I hope you lose,” she says.

Thirteen
----
    Deauville
----
    I t’s off season in Deauville, and the seaside resort is buttoned up tight, a cold wind whipping in off the Channel. From a distance, I can see the marina, rows of sailboats in drydock, on their stands, their masts unstepped. As we get closer, the whole marina appears shut down, hibernating for the winter. Which seems about the right idea.
    On the drive down in Lien’s car, which had smelled of lavender when we left and now smells of wet, dirty laundry somehow, the boys had been ebullient. W had located a barge called
Viola
late last night and had then decided we should take a road trip to France. “Wouldn’t it be easier to call?” I’d asked after the plan had been explained to me. But no. They seemed to think we should just go. Of course, they were properly dressed for it, and I was in nothing but a thin tracksuit. And they had nothing to lose, except a day’s worth of studies. Me, I had even less, but it felt like more somehow.
    We drive around the labyrinthine marina, finally reaching the main office only to find it closed. Of course. It’s now four o’clock on a dark November day; anyone in their right mind is holed up somewhere warm.
    “Well, we’ll just have to find it ourselves,” W says.
    I look around. As far as I can see in every directions are masts. “I don’t see how.”
    “Are marinas organized by type of vessel?” W asks.
    I sigh. “Sometimes.”
    “So there might be a section for barges?” he prompts.
    I sigh again. “Possibly.”
    “And you said this Jacques lives on his boat year-round so it wouldn’t be drydocked?”
    “Probably not.” We had to pull our houseboat out of the water every four years for service overhauls. Drydocking for a vessel that size is a massive undertaking. “Probably anchored.”
    “To what?” Henk asks.
    “Probably to a pier.”
    “There. We walk around until we find the barges,” W says, as if it’s all that easy.
    But it’s not easy at all. It’s raining hard now, wet below us and above us. And it seems deserted around here, no sound except the steady pounding of rain, the waves against the sides of the hulls, and the clang of the halyards.
    A cat streaks out across one of the piers, and behind it, a barking dog, and behind the dog, a man in a yellow slicker, one dot of color in all the gloom. I watch them go and wonder if I’m like that dog, chasing a cat because it’s what a dog does.
    The boys take shelter under an awning. I’m shivering now, ready to pack it in. I turn around to suggest a warm bistro, a nice meal, and some drinks before the long drive home. But the boys are all pointing behind me. I turn back around.
    The
Viola
’s blue steel shutters are closed, making her look lonely out here strapped alongside the cement slips