“All right,” he said after a while. “How do you know if the anchor’s holding?”
Gia perked up. If she knew, he might let her out alone. It was a good sign. At least he was considering at all.
“Easy. By noting your position on land. If the boat moves in a circle, that’s OK, but if the position to the thing on land changes, it’s dragging.”
“What do you do if the outboard gets tangled?” Her father cast off again.
“Cut the engine. Lift it up and cut it free. Also, watch for stuff before it gets tangled.”
“What if you’re drifting in a bad spot?”
Why would anyone do that? She searched his face for a clue, but he was staring forward, reeling the line back, cutting an invisible line through the water, the rubber fish trailing underneath. Maybe he wasn’t talking about the boat anymore.
“What do you mean?”
“Everything’s fine till you realize it needed more direction, but by then it’s out of hand.”
Gia was confused. “Maybe, maybe row if you can’t motor and get to a better spot.”
Her father nodded, but it didn’t seem like he’d heard her at all.
“You know, start over. Try things a different way,” Gia pushed on. A gull circled overhead, but the cookies were gone. There was nothing but crumbs in her pocket. The sun burned into her face, making her see spots. If he wasn’t talking about the boat, then what was he worrying over?
“What if you’re taking on water?” The line was back at the boat now, but he didn’t pull it in, just let it dangle.
“Bail. Get to land,” Gia said.
“What do you do if it’s the middle of the night, middle of the ocean, and a torpedo’s heading right for your boat?”
The marsh grass bent as a breeze raced toward them, changing the shadow on the water until Gia felt it on her face, whispering the answer in her ear.
“Pray,” she said quietly.
“Never let praying be your only option,” he said softly.
“Dad.” Gia worked up the nerve. “When do you think I’ll be ready to come out here on my own? I’m only two years younger than Leo, and he’s allowed.”
A plane raced down the runway before its front wheels lifted and the plane tilted toward the sky, aiming for the shadow of the moon. Gia’s heartbeat picked up with it.
“Leo . . .” Her father sighed, choosing the right words.
“Is indestructible,” Gia finished.
“No.” He whirled in the boat. “Nobody’s indestructible. Not anyone. Never make that mistake.”
Gia stiffened, suddenly uneasy as she thought of that rock in Ray’s basement, of the man near the swimming canal, of no one ever believing a dangerous thing was dangerous until it was too late.
Her father steadied himself, holding the seat ahead of him with two fingers.
“Fearless. Your brother is fearless. You are careful, considerate.”
“And a girl,” Gia finished, which was the only real reason Leo was better suited than she was. Her father reeled in the line one last time before setting the rod aside.
“For fun, why don’t you row us back? Prove you could do it if the motor cut out.”
Gia stared at the oars. This was her chance, only she’d never used them, never needed to. Her father smirked. He didn’t think she could do it. Gia picked the oars up, thinking of the old cops pulling pranks on the rookies, how they respected the ones who bucked up.
The sun beat at her back. The oars were heavy, splintered from years of salt spray. Her first few tries didn’t catch or caught on one side but not the other, spinning the boat instead of propelling it.
“All right, there you go. Flatten it out so it cuts like a butter knife; then flip before dropping them again.”
The splintered wood spun against the soft part of her hands. Gia huffed, arms screaming, but kept quiet. Blisters pulsed beneath her skin. She pushed into the seat ahead of her, crunching her stomach, leaning as far forward as she could to stretch the oars farther, dropped them in, pulled back, pulling the muscles in her back and shoulders, down her spine, and under her arms so intensely she could feel the web of muscle and sinew that held her together pulling apart like the skin off a rabbit.
“Lean back when you pull. Push off the seat ahead for power.”
Sweat burned her eyes, plastered hair to her forehead. Reach, pull, repeat. Reach, pull, repeat. Was it working? Her mouth was dust dry, the cookies sour on her tongue. She pressed her eyes shut, sweat welling on the lids. Her face would explode, like a potato in tinfoil for too long, but this was her chance. Her one chance. She couldn’t blow it, not when he was trying to prove she’d fail. It would be easier without him in the boat, or if she were Leo. They both knew it. His feet were up on the seat ahead, calling instructions over his shoulder like he was helping, but really to make his point. She pulled harder. The marsh grass was moving. The boat was inching away from the airport. Or she hoped it was. She spit an acid taste into the water.
“OK, that’s enough. Motor us in.”
No. She pulled again. This time, a splinter ripped a blister. Juice ran free, making it harder to grip. The oar slipped. The boat turned. Gia bit her bottom lip, pressed her eyes shut again, blocking the sun overhead, the back of her father’s calm head. She imagined the marsh grass sparkling in the breeze, catching this way and that, rooted into the water below, her herons and osprey and seagulls and currents, because she felt most alive here, most Gia. The blood in her veins running like a tide back to sea, pulling with the moon instead of her mother’s wishes or her father’s, causing this pulled-apart feeling, throat burning, acid swelling. She could not grow up and get married like Aunt Ida, pressing blouses and skirts to sit under fluorescent lights all day in low-heeled pumps, worrying over runs in nylon stockings or how many words she could type per minute or fretting over what to wear to a Tupperware party. She’d rather die.
“Gia, that’s enough.”
She kicked back again. The boat lurched with the effort. It was moving. Only her stomach was moving too. Bakery sprinkles and butter cookies rising in her throat. She forced it down until she couldn’t and vomited into the water, poisoning her fish. She’d failed. Couldn’t do it after all. Her father was right. He balled the back of her shirt in his hand to keep her righted, but Gia swatted it away. He held tight. She would take this boat out alone—with or without permission. Gia’s stomach emptied, heat burning under her skin. She picked up an oar again, but her father yanked it free and tucked it under the seats.
“Motor us in.”
The last of her fight was gone. Gia struggled, jelly limbed, to lower the outboard without bouncing it, then to pull the cord hard enough to catch. She got it on the third try, fumes filling her nose, making her queasy again. Water lapped up, splashing her face, offering a cool spot on her hot cheek, promising that the water, at least, knew how much she was struggling, offering just a little comfort.
Her father sat ahead, legs up on the front seat, head back on the middle, the oars and fishing rod tucked into a pile beside him while blisters welled on Gia’s hands. She thought of that rock and all the energy it could give her: a million cups of coffee. She needed that now.
“Next time,” he said lazily, eyes closed, the sun on his face, “we’ll practice getting the outboard untangled.”