The Voice inside My Head

I’ve been uniquely blessed to benefit from the wisdom and talent of several women. First among them is Sue Tate, my editor at Tundra Books, whose meticulous editorial skills are only surpassed by her warmth and compassion.

Second is my former agent, Andrea Cascardi. I wasn’t at all surprised when she decided to return to editing because she was always the best combination an author could hope for, a truly gifted editorial agent.

Third are my friends at MiG Writers, who continue to accompany me on the writing journey as we savor the successes and share the angst. It would be a lonelier world without them.

As always, I want to thank my husband, Richard, who not only supports my writing but didn’t balk when I told him I wanted to buy a home on a tiny island off the coast of Honduras.

Finally, I owe a debt of gratitude to my parents that I can never repay. To my mother, who is still the most determined woman I know and taught me to read, despite my dyslexia, confidently assuring me I would one day become a writer. And to my father, who shared his own passion for books and talent for writing, and who, for many years, long after his passing, was the voice inside my head.

Y
ou know that moment when you spot a gorgeous girl across a room and just as you’re working out your opening line, you realize she’s checking you out and it’s like every atom in the universe has lined up to create this one perfect connection?

Only then it turns out the room is actually a cramped, stifling cabin on a ferry heading to an island off the coast of Honduras, where your sister has disappeared. And you know the authorities might be right — she could have drowned, or got eaten by a shark, or fallen into the hands of South American drug lords — so you start to wonder what kind of person thinks about getting laid when his sister might be dead, or worse. Okay, so maybe you’ve never experienced that exact scenario, but you can see how it might be a buzz kill.

I turn away from the vision of perfection because all I see now is the face of my sister and I talk to her in my head. I continue the conversation we’ve been having for the past two weeks. I’ll admit right up front that I’m filling in her lines; when you live with someone as opinionated as my sister, it’s not hard to hear her telling you off, even when she’s not there.

I look at the wet, yellow goo that has just landed on my shorts and the little kid sitting next to me who put it there. He stares at me with ginormous brown eyes, like he’s as surprised as I am to find me covered in barf. His mom leans over and swipes at my shorts with a cloth, which rubs more of it in than off, while the kid edges away from me. Puke-stench soaks the already fetid air as the boat continues to rock violently and my stomach rocks right along with it. I fish my water bottle out of my pack and take a swig. Puke-kid looks at it longingly.

“I better not see this on my shorts, buddy,” I say, before handing it over.

He continues the big-eyed stare as he drains my bottle. His mom smiles gratefully. She says something in Spanish, which I don’t understand because Spanish followed Study Hall last year, and Jamie McCredie and I did a lot more weed than studying.

“Are you going to Utila?”

I look up in surprise to see the gorgeous girl has made her way to my side of the boat and is swaying over me, her long blond hair brushing my shoulder as she grabs the back of my seat to steady herself. She has an accent; Swedish maybe. That would just figure. The one time in my entire life I get hit on by a hot Swedish girl and I can’t complete the play because I’m obsessing on my sister.

“Yeah,” I say.

“I’m Birgit.” She smiles.

“Luke.” I don’t smile.

She notices my lack of enthusiasm. I expect this is a unique experience in her world, where guys drop at her feet like bugs hitting a zapper.

“You don’t sound happy,” she says.

“I’m great.” I show her my teeth.

“So why are you going to Utila?”

I doubt she’d be this persistently friendly if she felt she had easier options. We’re on a boat with about forty Hondurans, crowded onto benches built for half that number, with only one other guy who looks like a fellow tourist. Judging by his bleary-eyed stare, he’s not up for chit-chat.

“I was just going to ask you the same thing.” I wasn’t, but it beats telling her my own life story.

“It’s supposed to be beautiful,” she gushes, “and I’ve heard the diving’s amazing. I want to snorkel with the whale sharks.”

I’m bored.

Hot Swedish chick is boring me.

I don’t want to hear about beauty, or diving, and I sure as heck don’t want to hear about whale sharks.

“My sister works at the Whale Shark Research Center.” Damn! I specifically don’t want to talk about my sister. Why can’t I keep my mouth shut?

“Really?” says Swedish chick, with way too much interest. “That’s amazing. I’d love to meet your sister.”

Now what? I really don’t want to explain about Pat’s disappearance to a stranger. The truth is, every time I talk about her, I get a pain in my gut. Sometimes it’s all I can do not to throw up. I’m already feeling boat-queasy, so I definitely don’t want to take any chances. I stare out the window. Maybe if I ignore this girl, she’ll take the hint and go away.

The boat lurches.

Swedish chick falls into my lap.

Not making progress here.

God, she smells good. How does she do that in this heat? Her hair is tickling my face. She shifts in my lap so she’s facing me and says something like “Oooplah,” which makes no sense whatsoever but sounds unbelievably cute. At the same moment, we both stiffen, though not in the same way.

I’m sure there’s some special hell reserved for guys who get turned on even when they’re on a quest to find their missing sisters. Come to think of it, maybe this is it.

Spanish lady gives me a disapproving look, like I engineered this situation. She pulls puke-kid onto her lap. It’s not clear if she’s trying to get him away from me or making space for Swedish chick. Whatever the case, Swedish chick wriggles off and squeezes in beside me, which theoretically is a good thing but definitely not helpful under the circumstances.

“How old are you?” she asks, darting a look at my lap like she needs to confirm the evidence.

“Seventeen,” I admit.

“You look older.” She sounds disappointed.

I get that a lot. I’ve been over six feet since I hit high school, and working construction this summer, I’ve bulked up. I guess I should be happy I look older. It’s an advantage for attracting girls, but this isn’t the first time someone’s expected more from me than I can deliver.

“I’m twenty,” she offers. “An old lady to you.” She smiles smugly. She knows there isn’t a guy on the planet who would think of her as old. Unattainable, yes. Old, no.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asks in a patronizing tone reserved for little brothers and other lower life forms.

“Yeah,” I say, giving her a cool look. “She’s twenty-two.”

I immediately regret the lie. Not that I have a problem with lying, but I don’t like to be pushed into it.

“Hey, dude!” It’s the bleary-eyed guy, weaving unsteadily toward us. I guess I should have figured he’d migrate over eventually, but I’m amazed to see him upright. “You didn’t tell me you were catching this ferry!” He stops just in front of us and runs a hand through long frizzy hair, which is only marginally redder than his eyes.

“Hello, miss.” He gives Swedish chick a friendly smile and burps. She eyeballs him disdainfully. “You wouldn’t mind finding another seat so I can sit with my man here, would you?”

She purses her luscious lips and turns to me. I think fast. Do I go with snotty Swedish chick or crazy stoner guy? It’s no contest, really.

“Great to see you, man,” I say. He holds out his knuckles and I knock them with my own.

“Cosmic,” he says.