Read Online The Other Side of Blue by Valerie O. Patterson - Free Book Online Page B

did. Dad would say he shouldn’t interfere, that Mother had to have her space. And her space didn’t always include him. Maybe it didn’t always include me, either. But she always brought me to the island. I came along like a barnacle attached to the hull of a sleek speedboat.
    In Willemstad, Jinco jerks the cab to a stop near a banyan tree before the Queen Emma pontoon bridge.
    â€œWe’ll meet you here at four o’clock,” I say. In the heat of the afternoon. I’m probably making him come for us just when he’d be taking a nap under a shade tree or having a beer.
    Jinco shrugs and taps the car clock, the one that runs ten minutes slow compared to my plastic wristwatch. “Four,” he says. He’ll be late. He and I both know it.
    â€œCome on, get out on this side.” I slide out the door and motion to Kammi to follow.
    She says thank you to Jinco. His eyes follow her in the side-view mirror. He can’t help himself.
    When Jinco speeds off, leaving a cloud of burned oil in our faces, we’re standing on the pontoon bridge. The Queen Emma Bridge opens to let the big cruise ships in and out of the main harbor. Every summer, I come down at least once to wave as the ships inch out of port, saying goodbye to tourists pointing their cameras at us from the deck.
    I lean over the side. Anemones cling to the pontoons and the bridge supports near the shore. “If you squint, you can see through the water at an angle.”
    Kammi stares, a few strands of hair blowing across her face.
    â€œThere,” I say, pointing. “Just on the edge, see the parrotfish?”
    Her gaze darts back and forth along the water. I can tell she can’t see it.
    â€œLook
through
the water. Follow the light.” I point again. “Quick, before a cloud moves in front of the sun.” The fish hovers just there, motionless.
    Kammi throws out her arm, pointing. “I see it.”
    Looking where her hand is pointing, I see nothing. The startled fish has moved away.
    â€œSure,” I say. Whatever. “Come on.” We pass the tourist shops closest to the cruise-ship dock, the ones that pay extra so they can be listed in the brochures. “Safe, friendly sales staff.” “Air conditioning.” “Extra-special prices,” they claim, “just for the ship passengers.” It’s a lie. No one checks to see if I’m with a cruise ship when I claim a discount. Maybe they mumble, “Ship?” and I name whatever ship is in port. Only once last year, a nosy clerk, just a little older than me, asked me for my ship card, for proof, and she thought she had me. Her smirk and unbelieving eyes said so. I shrugged and claimed my mother had my ID card. Then I said loudly, so the manager would hear, “She’s not coming to this shop, so I guess there’s no sale.” The girl gave in and sold me the shell bracelets for ten percent of. Better a sale than no sale, and no skin off her nose if I cheated the owner. She’d have done the same. And the truth? The truth is the ten percent discount is no discount, but we all play the game.
    Kammi darts under the shady overhang of a food stand, where the air smells of cinnamon, one of Curaçao’s exports. An oscillating fan whips the scent into the air, and it wafts into the street, where it mingles with dust and diesel. Tourists slathered in sunscreen mill about, struggling behind tour guides with tasseled flagpoles, calling out for beach tour this and snorkeling tour that.
    Kammi waits in line and buys a Coke with ice. She
hands over her money and then takes a second cup and passes it to me, without asking if I want one.
    I can’t be bought for a cold drink.
    But I take it.
    When the mob of cruise tourists pass, I lead us down a quiet side street. Colores. The shell and bead shop is still there. I feel the bulge of sea glass in my skirt pocket. I keep no valuables in the crocheted purse that hangs