Like, the tiniest sliver of happiness. It fades quickly, but I know I saw it. Like a sighting of Bigfoot in the woods, or a UFO in the skies at night. It’s exciting … and a little bit sexy.
“I should’ve brought a camera and taken photos,” I say, pushing my luck a little.
“Definitely should have,” he says. “Could post those online and get all the likes and hearts and re-likes and re-hearts.”
“True. You’re famous now. Working-class hero, smashing a town elder’s window as a symbolic protest against privilege and colonial pedigree? Well done. I think all of Beauty High’s going to rise up and stage a march for you.”
“Very funny.”
“Shepard Fairey will create poster art with your face on it. People will wear it on T-shirts and paint murals of it on sides of buildings.”
“And you’d rather it beyourface?” he says. “You want all the fame and attention?”
“Attention, no. The cold, hard cash that comes with fame? Maybe. Film is expensive, and as you’ve pointed out, the Nook isn’t a high-paying gig.”
He laughs. “All right, respect. Seeing as I’m all out of cash these days myself …”
Yeah, that. I glance at the boarded-up window that he’s working to pay off.
He glances at my portfolio.
We look at each other.
“Actually, I’m glad I saw you,” I say, as if it was pure accident that I came over here and not like I was scoping out the scene of my crime, hoping he would be here. “I had an idea I wanted to run by you, if you were interested in hearing it. It’s not perfect, but it’s something.”
He throws a look over his shoulder. “I’m done here in half an hour, and I can spare a little time before I head back to the boatyard for the rest of the afternoon. You want to meet me someplace?”
The Quarterdeck is a coffeehouse off the Harborwalk between my family’s neighborhood in the South Harbor and the heart of the historic district. But it’s not just any old coffeehouse: It’sa docked replica of a French ship from 1778’s Battle of Rhode Island. Patrons cross a plank-like bridge and board the main deck of the ship, where tables sit under masts and rigging, flags fluttering in the harbor breeze.
To order, you head down into the belly of the ship—there are tables and small booths down here, too—and Lucky has given me a very specific, very irritating drink order: Fill the cup exactly one-quarter-full of cream, then add plain cold brew coffee to the brim, no ice. The barista gives me an apathetic look when I repeat this but doesn’t question it, so I tip her extra.
Nearly spilling Lucky’s stupid extra-full drink, which threatens to slosh out of the straw like a whale spewing water from a blowhole, I climb back up to the upper deck and find an empty table between two cannons that overlooks the harbor. When I’m halfway finished drinking my normally filled but not-so-great latte, Lucky slides into the seat across from me. He’s wearing his leather jacket over the paint-splattered tight T-shirt, so at least I don’t have to stare at the pornographic outline of his chest.
He inspects the cup sitting on his side of the table. “You got it right.”
“Don’t sound so surprised. I can order a drink in a coffee shop … even ridiculous ones. You forget that my mom’s managed half the bookstores in New England and a good chunk of them had coffee shops inside. I’ve done most of my homework in below-average coffee shops.”
“Don’t drink coffee in bookstores? That’s what you’re saying?”
“Oh-ho-ho, the health code violations I’ve seen.”
“Well, you left town before the Quarterdeck opened, so I should’ve warned you that the only thing good here is the cold brew. Because I’ll take coffee in a bookstore over coffee in a tourist ship any day of the week,” he says, peeling off the top of his plastic cup to drink without a straw, like he can’t even be bothered. He downs half of it in three swallows. “What’s that?” he says, nodding toward my portfolio. “Is this the big idea you wanted to talk about?”
“This is nothing.” I cover it up.
“Weird, because it looks like a portfolio. Andyoulook dressed up.”
“So?”
“Come on, Saint-Martin,” he says, stretching out long legs under the table. “Thought we already agreed you’re still a terrible liar.”
“Don’t think weagreed.”
“You said you were going to try to weasel your way into a magazine internship.” His eyes crinkle at the corners; he’s teasing me and clearly enjoying himself.
“Hustle my way in. Not weasel.”
“Because when people tell you no, you can’t have something, that’s when Josie Saint-Martin digs in her heels and tries harder. You haven’t changed one bit.”
