The Starboard Sea: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

he’d just sucked down his second scotch on the rocks, before remembering that he’d been asked to introduce himself to me.
    “I must have drifted off. Long day.” I got up out of bed and looked down at his bare feet. My toes were hairier than his. He had slender feet and high arches. My feet were stubbier, flatter.
    “I’ll be your sailing coach.” Mr. Tripp gripped my hand and patted my arm. “We have big plans for you. I know for sure I want you to skipper, to sail on our first team. Some of the other boys might have a problem with that in the beginning, but don’t worry.”
    I continued to examine his feet. A good high school sailing coach has calculated the strengths and weaknesses of every skipper and crewmate on every team in his division. I suspected that Mr. Tripp already had notes on me and knew that Cal and I won ninety percent of our races with our closely timed starts. Already knew that we preferred triangular racecourses over windward-leeward courses. Knew that we trained on 470s. In terms of sailing, he understood more about how Cal and I worked than Cal and I ever had. My new coach had had the time to examine it all from a distance.
    Mr. Tripp cleared his throat and walked over to the wall of windows. I was afraid that he’d caught me staring at his toes. At that moment, I should have told him that I didn’t want to sail. That I didn’t want people relying on me to win for them and that I never liked the company of racing sailors. Just a bunch of gearheads in life vests. But I sensed that Mr. Tripp thought he could teach me something. He pulled up the screen of the middle window and leaned out.
    “You know, this fire escape leads right down past my apartment. Not that you would ever use it to sneak out or anything, but I thought you should know.” He beamed and winked at me. Not a creepy wink, like most people give you, but a wink that told me he didn’t mind a little messing around in his dorm, as long as no one caused him any trouble.
    “Thanks for the warning. I’ll only use it if I set myself on fire.” He laughed and said, “You shouldn’t sleep in your clothes. That’s how they get wrinkled. Okay, the waterfront, tomorrow afternoon.”
    I skipped breakfast and arrived the next morning early for class. The lecture hall was shaped like a fantail, elevated at the top, with semicircular rows of bolted desks descending to a stage. I dashed up a set of stairs and chose a seat against the wall by a pair of tall windows. From my backpack, I took out a notebook and wrote “Modern U.S. History” on the cover. Together, the first letters spelled out MUSH, and on the basis of this acronym alone, I decided that the class would be easy. There were a dozen or more students waiting. All boys. The only one I recognized was Chester. He sat at the other end of the room, against the wall and parallel to me. We nodded hello, and I considered changing my seat to be closer to him. Before I could move, Race and Stuyvie entered the class and sat in the center of the lecture hall.
    “Hey, Prosper. Want to see Mr. Guy go ballistic?” Race left his backpack on the seat of his chair, walked over to the blackboard.
Stuyvie kept lookout for Mr. Guy, poking his giant head out the door. Race pushed up his sleeves and waved a large piece of yellow chalk. We all waited to see what Race would write. He started to draw something, then erased the lines with the heel of his hand.
“Incoming,” Stuyvie warned and rushed back to his seat.
Race froze in place, his orange hair still wet from that morning’s shower. Because he had to do something, and fast, he scrawled “DILDO” in large rounded letters. Just as Race sat down, Mr. Guy entered, locking the door to the classroom behind him. He wore a plaid wool vest with a matching bow tie. He looked elderly but well maintained. Agewise, I guessed he was in that strange meridian between my dad’s age and my grandfather’s. I wondered if he’d taught at Bellingham for