Chapter Thirty-Nine
HECTOR
We hide in a grove of trees fifty yards away from the Rock Harbor main dock. The buildings stand there quiet and deserted, and the white boat we’d seen is now moored. At first, there’s no one in sight. Anda is acting twitchy and weird, and I remember our recent conversation with a sinking feeling. I don’t know what she’s running from, but I shouldn’t have been so hard on her. I don’t need her explanations. I never did. I don’t know why I demanded them.
No, I understand. It’s because I feel the noose tightening. We both do.
Anda is biting her nails and not even facing the harbor. I hear voices and clanking noises. A dark head pops out of the door that goes to the interior of the vessel. It’s a tall guy. Middle-aged, and big.
No.
“I think my uncle is on that boat! Shit,” I hiss.
Anda just gnaws her nails and stares into a small shrub at her knees, as if it were a crystal ball. “There are two men. They’re looking for us.”
“You’re not even looking.” She turns to catch my eye with that unnerving, unblinking stare. The reflection of light in her smoky pupils glimmers with an odd iridescence. “Right. Never mind.”
Soon, she starts working on her fingernails again, clicking on them with her teeth, and she bites off little bits here and there. She goes back to staring at the bush. She actually cocks her head toward it, as if it were transmitting a radio broadcast only she can hear.
Suddenly, the boat’s engine groans back to life and water bubbles beneath the propellers. The guy who I think is my uncle starts the engine.
Wait. My uncle doesn’t know how to drive a boat. I shield the sun from my eyes for a better look. This guy standing on the dock has a white beard and glasses. It’s not him, and I sigh so loudly that Anda flinches.
The bearded guy undoes the lines tethering the boat. He’s got a large backpack with him and a thick winter parka. Two other bags lean against his legs. A fisherman’s knit hat covers his head, but there’s gray hair peeking out of the edges. The boat purrs louder and quickly leaves the dock, trailing a white vee of foamy wake behind it. The bearded man watches it for several minutes as it grows smaller and smaller in the distance.
“Who is this guy?” I whisper to Anda. “He doesn’t look like police or anything. You think he’s one of those park researchers?”
Anda removes her raw fingertips from between her lips and looks back over her shoulder. She suddenly jumps to her feet and her mouth drops open.
“Father!” she cries.
...
I stay in the shadows. Anda runs right out and gallops down the shore, pebbles spitting out from her quick footsteps. She sprints straight to the dock, her feet thumping the planks. Her father doesn’t freak out. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world to encounter your extremely unnatural daughter staying illegally on a deserted island. No exclamations of joy or yells of anger. As she closes the distance the last few feet, he reels back, as if hit by a wall of air. She stops and they just regard each other.
I hold my breath.
Thank God the boat is far away now, which means hopefully they can’t see Anda. I watch them talking a little, and her dad leans over to look where I’m squatting in the trees. My heart pumps a little faster. I’ve never met any girl’s father, and this is not ever how I imagined the circumstances would be. Anda turns around and motions for me to come out.
There’s no running away now. I have to trust her.
So I force myself to stand up and start moving my legs.
As I walk along the shore to the dock, I notice that Anda is shifting her weight from one foot to the other, like she’s standing on a red-hot grill or something. She’s not smiling. Neither is her dad. Ah, shit. He stands there and watches me approach. He’s got that white hair like Anda’s, but more wiry. His face is weathered and reddish, with deep lines in his forehead. He looks like he could be her grandfather, rather than a dad. And he’s got those tiny circular wire-rimmed glasses that people from old-fashioned movies used to wear. As my boots creak against the dry boards of the dock, Anda comes to stand by my side.
“This is my father, Jakob Selkirk.” She gestures awkwardly to him, like she’s only just met him recently.
I extend my hand to shake his, but he doesn’t take it. He stares at my hand for a moment, like he’s not sure I’m altogether here. I clear my throat. “My name is Hector.”
“I don’t need to know your name.” His voice sounds like gravel and burning coals mixed together.
Anda and I immediately exchange glances. This is not good. He looks at me, not unkindly, and rubs his white beard. “You’re not supposed to be here. Your parents and the police are probably looking for you. You need to leave this island, and you need to leave my daughter alone.”
My stomach bottoms out and lands somewhere on the other side of the world.
Parents.
Uncle.
No.
I drop my eyes to the dock. God. It’s suddenly oppressively stuffy, like I’m in a coffin, which can’t be possible, surrounded by all the water and trees and sky. He’s going to turn me in. I’m going to have to go back soon. I’ve been here for almost a month. Hungry. Cold. Sick as a dog. Confused as hell, particularly when it comes to Anda. But it’s been paradise.
I don’t want to go back.
Don’t make me go back.
But I don’t have the balls to say it out loud, or to beg. To everyone in the world, I’m just a brat teen who ran away from a generous family member who’s taken me in. There’s no evidence that he’s hurt me. In school, with my social worker, with my foster agency, with Dad—I’m always the bad guy. I’m ungrateful trash.
Mr. Selkirk turns to his daughter, his eyes taking in her hiking clothing and her newly shorn, mud-caked hair. Worry melts into resignation, and he sighs. It’s like he’s already given up, but I’ve no idea about what.
“Come on. You both look half starved and dirty as hell. Get your bags.”
After I run back to get Anda’s backpack she left in the trees, he sets up this portable hanging shower thing so Anda and I can take turns washing off the grime from a week of camping. I guess we’re funky enough that he won’t even get in a boat with us yet. It’s icy cold, but I don’t care. It’s not as bad as diving into the lake, and I’ve done that too many times. Afterward, we walk to the dock.
“I’ve got food with me,” Mr. Selkirk tells us. “We have to get Anda someplace safe. There’s another boat I can use.”
We make our way to a smaller boat docked alongside several others farther down shore. After several tries, the engine grumbles to life and he makes me—not Anda—wear a life jacket of blinding fluorescent orange. He steers us out of the bay, then turns up the engine. We hang on to the sides of the boat as the coastline zips by and the lake water sprays our face with an unrelenting, chilled mist.
Only after we leave the harbor far, far behind, do I realize my mistake: Mr. Selkirk said nothing about keeping me safe.