Painted a shitillion

Painted a shitillion times and in a perpetual state of latex molting, The Pelee Islander was a floating tin can. Mr. O said to pass the trip across Lake Erie writing in our journals: observations on nature and over-consumption and our plan for saving the planet from corporate greed and political corruption. And as an aside: what did we want to change about ourselves?

Everything, morons.

We were about to graduate from high school.

I passed the trip nose-in-phone, absently peeling paint scales off the seats and rails. Two hours of sitting did nothing for my especially-achy left leg. To distract myself from the pain, I drooled over the picture of Mason. It had been a week. Why could I not remove his picture? Why hadn’t I changed it to him with horns on his head and warts, or a mustache and angry eyebrows? Keeping Mason’s pic as my home screen proved I wasn’t over him, that I hadn’t moved on.

Scroll…scroll…I stopped on the image I’d posted two minutes ago. Jack Peters liked it already. I scanned the deck. There was Jack, by the stairs. He smiled into his phone, possibly, hopefully, at my cleverness. The pic was me, holding Mason’s necklace over the rail of The Pelee Islander with a malevolent grin and the caption: a woman’s heart is full of secrets. I shouldn’t have done that. It was mean. But I didn’t actually drop the necklace into Lake Erie, so it was only theoretical assholery—all I had the courage for.

Jack caught me staring. I was actually staring through him, thinking about Mason and that look of revulsion on Mason’s face when he found me out. The one right before: “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Because you’d look at me like you are now.

A text arrived with a laugh-cry emoji. A number I didn’t recognize. Jack gave me the atta-girl nod and held up his phone.

I was jumping up and down inside and formulating my witty text response when Mr. O powered up his bullhorn and explained we were to experience “cell service disruption” that would begin any minute.

Gasps, all around.

“It won’t be much better when we get there, either. T-Mobile customers will have hit or miss. Verizon can only get service on the southernmost tip of Pelee Island.”

“When will we be there?” one student asked.

“We’ll hike there in the morning. But don’t worry. In the spirit of fairness, you’re all handing over your phones when we dock.”

This was met with groans and expletives. A shout rose above the din. “We have rights, Mr. O!”

And even: “What if we get lost?”

“No worries about getting lost on Pelee. It’s small enough; we’ll find you.” He winked at Miss Robinson. “Assuming we want to find you.”

“My parents are expecting a call,” someone shouted.

“Nope. Your parents were sent an email. And they all signed off. Have you forgotten the definition of retreat? Seclusion, folks.”

“But you didn’t tell us!”

“Exactly. Otherwise, you’d have brought contraband phones. I was born at night, not last night.”

Miss Robinson laughed. Her blindingly white teeth were framed by ruby-red lipstick. Oh, he was scoring points with her now. I pursed my own thin and not-very-exotic and certainly-never-painted lips. My biggest beef with no phones was no picture-taking. Just as I thought of it, someone made that point, too.

“I and Miss Robinson will take lots of pictures. Worry not. We’ll post them to the Facebook page…assuming we can get cell service.” He laughed again, at his own joke, which wasn’t a joke at all, but was stupid.

The rest of the ferry ride was a communal fantod.

With a shriek of rubber and a few jolts, The Pelee Islander docked. We were officially in Canada. Stern-faced port authority workers wound the boat tight to the steel bollards with thick ropes. She settled with belch of diesel and black smoke.

As students filed off, Mr. O held out a black trash bag. I wanted to punch the smirk off his face.

“Aw smile, Halle. I’m sure I won’t confuse this bag with actual trash.” To Jack he said, “Remember that unflattering shot you took of me last week while I was sick? Payback, Mr. Peters. You better pray you don’t blow your nose or do anything else camera-worthy this weekend.”

Jack’s jaw dropped.

“Thought I didn’t know?”

Jack moved on, eyes ahead. I turned and gave him a sympathetic smile. It was a half mile trek to the beach. Great. My leg would be on fire.

Without the slim rectangle it usually held, my hand felt naked. Seclusion was already getting to me, and to the others. Hands clutched at empty pockets before remembering. Fingers instinctively squeezed air. All our snap streaks, gone. Like that.

None of us were here because we wanted to be. Some idiots on the school board had made the unilateral decision that a retreat in the spring of our senior year was necessary to round out our high school educations—to reflect on life and purpose and all that philosophical shit none of us would care about for another decade. And how would we generate all these profound thoughts? A scavenger hunt. We’d be assigned to teams and have the run of the 16-square-mile island. Bikes would be provided. No cars. No soliciting the locals for use of boats or golf carts. No alcohol. No sex. No drugs. No fun. No phones. And don’t eat the grapes in the winery fields. They’re sprayed with shit that makes you shit.

I wasn’t sure I believed that. But did I want to chance it?

“I’ve got my own mission.” Adele from Honors Chemistry opened her palm to reveal a Juul. She wasn’t into cigarettes, caffeine, or other “shit that doesn’t even get you high.”

“What about the drug-sniffing dogs?” I whispered.

She scoffed. “Oh please. Pelee is too dinky. Do you know how much those dogs cost?”

Dinky or not, the Canadian island employed a slew of port authority workers. They shot us that military-hostile scowl, like we were a threat or something. One unzipped a bag and fished around in it without so much as looking. I studied him as he picked his way through bags and suitcases. I would have videoed him, had my phone not been taken. He struck me as…what? …blasé. Like he was going through the motions. Maybe he was. Maybe his girlfriend broke up with him last week, too. Did I want to see heartache everywhere? Maybe I did.

From somewhere close by, a dog barked. A drug-sniffing dog? Please, no. The bark, it had a friendly feel. Or did I want it to be friendly? And what did drug-dogs sound like? I didn’t know. More lusty barks. I clenched myself, anticipating the beast’s rush on us and a violent slam to the dock and handcuffs and Miranda rights and a cold, smelly, hungry night in a Canadian jail cell next to Adele.

The reality: I didn’t watch where I stepped.

My foot caught a boat cleat, steered my already-uncoordinated stride sideways and off the dock. I. could. not. stop. That realization lasted a millisecond, enough time to scream and alert all my classmates that one exquisitely stupid girl was about to fall headlong into Lake Erie.

There.

Was the murky water with its swirly grease trails coming to meet my face and my outstretched and flailing arms. The water was a cold slap. Still, I was tempted to stay under. Should I come up and face everyone, or drown? Tough choice, but since I couldn’t force myself to drown, I broke the surface and gritted my chattering teeth.

A milky hand extended toward me. A port worker pulled me out with surprising ease, and when I stuttered a thank you, he made no reply. Miss Robinson rushed over and put her coat around my shoulders. The laughter of my classmates was just the beginning. I’d hear about this the whole weekend. The only upside was that the phones were gone, so no one had footage of me getting fished from the lake. As we trekked to the beach, my sneakers squished. My left leg was heavier from the water and would stink in no time if I didn’t take care of it. And maybe even if I did. And another thing: my hand was freezing, the one he’d clasped when he lifted me out.

#

Mr. O was a master delegator. He organized the students into work groups. Some gathered driftwood or dry grasses. Some searched out rocks and stumps to place around the fire. His most trustworthy students skewered marshmallows or arranged the chocolate pieces and graham crackers on picnic tables. And all the while, Master Delegator was inside his phone.