The Starboard Sea: A Novel by Amber Dermont

with yellowing plastic. I stroked each off-colored note and began to improvise medleys of old songs my mother had taught me. “I Remember You,” “All My Tomorrows,” and “You Stepped out of a Dream,” then crescendoed with a number Riegel had insisted I learn: Mötley Crüe’s “Home Sweet Home.” Aidan listened as I tried to make up for Tazewell’s serenade.
“You’re very sweet,” she said. “And completely ridiculous.”
The politeness in her voice told me that I’d done enough and that she would be okay on her own. It was my signal to leave. I didn’t want to. “Can I ask you,” I started, “why you stand out on the rocks?”
She smiled. Sat up straight. “For the ocean. The one good thing about this place.”
“Why do you stay here if you don’t like it?”
She stared hard at me. “I grew up on the West Coast. The water makes me feel safe. It’s a constant.” She put her hand to her face, “Have you ever wondered how the oceans were formed?”
“They weren’t just always there?”
“I figure it must have rained. Incredible storms for hundreds of thousands of years. Raining all the time.”
“I guess,” I said. None of this had ever occurred to me. “I sail,” I said, and instantly regretted it.
Aidan glanced at her watch. “You should go to dinner.”
“Join me.” I stood up.
“Sorry, no.” Aidan looked out the window at the darkening sky. “You don’t eat, do you?”
“I know how to take care of myself.”
“I don’t believe you.” I closed the piano cover and stood up to leave. “You know, I’m going to make it a point whenever I see you to be like the ocean. You can look to me for relief.”
Aidan said nothing, and I left her on her own.

FOUR
    We gathered on a green skirt of lawn for an all-school photo. A four- tiered section of bleachers had been arranged in a horse shoe formation to hold the three hundred or so Bellingham students who had lasted through the first weeks of school. Positioned in front of the stalls was an old-fashioned camera set up on a tripod. Tinks, the headmaster’s secretary and our impromptu photographer, marshaled orders, flashing a strobe over our faces, taking light readings, and fixing the camera’s exposure. Mr. Windsor stayed cool under the red shade of a Japanese maple.
    “We want to do this fast while the sun is still with us.” Tinks, with her gin-and-tonic lockjaw, looked like a candy cane in her bright pink- and-mint-striped dress. “You know the routine. Seniors in back standing tall, then the juniors, then sophomores. All of you freshmen will have to sit down on the grass.”
    “The grass is wet,” one of the freshman girls said. I recognized
    Nadia’s accent.
“Do as you’re told,” Tinks said. “Your clothes will dry. And, please:
no fidgeting.”
We rushed onto the steps like a frenzy of fire ants. Below me, I saw
Nadia lifting the hem of her floral-print dress, arranging herself awkwardly on the wet ground.
“Freshmen, please keep your feet flat on the grass.” Tinks tapped
the tips of her shoes. “We have no wish to photograph the scuffed-up
soles of your clogs and loafers. Sophomores, fill in the gaps, but don’t block the person behind you. Remember, this is not just any snapshot. One day, this photograph will be the only proof you’ll have of having been here. The pose you strike today will be the pose your grandchildren, as they walk through these halls, will know you by.” Though Tinks was a much older woman, there was something strangely sexual about her. Like a favorite nursemaid who might spank you and call you naughty. “You”—she pointed to Aidan, who stood beside Mr. Guy— “go join your class up top. Chop-chop.” Tinks flashed the light meter
near Aidan’s face.
Momentarily blinded, Aidan hesitated before climbing up onto the
stall. She saw me, began to move in my direction. Someone started the
wave, raising wild arms and pushing Aidan forward. She braced herself against my leg. I helped her