Wanderlove Read Online Free PDF Page B

percent certain I can trust her, but telling her seems like the responsible thing to do. In case the boat is overtaken by lake pirates or something.
    “Okay,” she replies, adjusting her flowered hat.
    “It’s just for the evening. Please don’t tell Marcy.”
    “I won’t.”
    I touch my waist again to make sure my money belt is under my skirt. It’s not the sexiest accessory—more like a top secret fanny pack, or one of those vintage belted maxi-pads our grandmothers suffered through as teens—but I don’t know how else to carry money since my bag was hijacked. I wave goodbye to Glenna, who looks almost wistful.
    As I walk down Calle Santander, several apple-red motor taxis whiz past me, beeping gaily. I pass a man selling snow cones from a pushcart. “Granizadas!” he calls, pointing to a row of syrups in skinny bottles like crayons. Wildflowers grow in the gutters, and butterflies flicker in the alleyways. At the end of the volcano-dwarfed street, the lake draws me toward it like a whirlpool of blue.
    But when I see the Mayanet internet café, I can’t help stopping by. Just for a minute.
    To: “Olivia Luster”
    
    Subject: I met a guy!
    I pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Bizarrely, I start to feel guilty. As if somewhere across the lake, the ponytailed guy knows exactly what I’m doing.
    Delete.
    I jog the rest of the way to the lakeshore, where I’m the final passenger on the six o’clock boat. The driver cranks the motor, and as we roar into the fading light, the water changes from clear to pale blue to deep blue-black. It reminds me of all the times I sat on the beach back home, staying out until that last scrap of sun dropped below the horizon. The wind rushes against my face, tangling through my hair. I should be feeling weightless, wonderful.
    But the farther the boat rumbles from shore, the more nervous I get. I’m not even at the hostel yet, and already my hands feel like Mickey Mouse gloves. I sit on them, ordering my knees not to jiggle. I wonder what it would take to turn the boat around.
    A tsunami? A kraken?
    Maybe I could jump out and swim to shore. I’d probably be stuck there, but that’s all right. I could build myself a hut of sticks. Make sketchbook paper from chewed-up trees. Spend the rest of my days in solitude. Whatever happened to Bria?  every one would ask. I’d be like La Llorona, the weeping lake-lady from the Mexican ghost story. Haunting, beautiful—and deadly.
    “Santa Lucía!” yells the boat driver.
    I jump to my feet but am knocked back as he cranks the wheel. Grimy water laps over my sandals, soaking the hem of my skirt. Fabulous.
    The boat bumps against the dock. Santa Lucía looks much smaller than Panajachel. Tin-roofed homes stagger up a sweep of hillside. About twenty yards up the road, which looks practically vertical, I see a hand-lettered blue sign: la casa azul.
    I reach for my camera. And then I remember.
    “ Click ,” I mutter sadly.
    The dogs find me hiding in the doorway. There are two of them: massive, woolly black beasts that bark like disgruntled sea lions. I stand very still as they snuffle their insolent noses against my hands and skirt. Just inside the room, I hear laughter.
    “ Osa ! León !” calls the bartender.
    The dogs back off—but now I’m exposed. I cross my arms and survey the space: part pub, part restaurant, and part collective living room. Six picnic tables are arranged on a dirty plank floor. One wall is propped open like a garage door, letting the evening in. Beyond it, there’s a patio deck furnished with potted plants and colorful hammocks. And everywhere, there are backpackers.
    I see:
    tanned skin
    tattoos—including, inexplicably, a winged hot dog
    bare feet (hairy ones)
    dreadlocks
    knit caps, including one with fake
    dreadlocks attached
    and lots and lots of linen.
    But I don’t see the ponytail boy from the market anywhere. Distraught, I head to the bar.
    “They’ll be done