We ship it, p.2
We Ship It, page 2
“You never know unless you ask! And . . . you’ve got nothing to lose.”
“I guess,” I said, already sitting down at my desk and drafting the email. Shruti was right—this was my only option. Plus, this gave me another reason to email Dr. Klober and tell her just how interested I was in the internship.
A few minutes later, a new email appeared.
Presenting online is no problem. Enjoy your trip. —Dr. Klober
I tore apart my room that night as I packed. It was good I didn’t generally bring friends home—other than Shruti—because even I had to admit I had gone a little overboard in the decorating department.
Above my bed was a giant multimedia flowchart I had been adding to for the last five years. The bottom row was for high school—featuring an array of old report cards and certificates from volunteer trips. The row above that was “the shrine to Saint Brown,” as Shruti called it—different Brown paraphernalia I had purchased on the annual trips my parents took me on, as well as a beautiful tapestry my parents had gotten me for Hanukkah the year before. The final row consisted of a series of framed photographs—Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell, Dr. Rebecca Lee Crumpler, Dr. Mary Edwards Walker—all famous female doctors whose life stories I had committed to memory.
It was a bit much, but it was helpful to wake up every morning surrounded by reminders of what I was working toward. Getting into Brown. Graduating with a medical degree at twenty-six. Finishing residency by twenty-nine. Becoming a real doctor by the time I was thirty. Not wasting any precious time toward achieving my dream.
I walked over to my printer and collected the hundred-plus pages of journal articles I had printed (along with duplicates, to be safe), which I would need for the paper. Luckily, Shruti was an amazing friend and had helped me come up with a new plan—I’d read through the articles and draft the paper while on the ship, and Shruti would be in charge of editing the drafts and doing the final, in-person presentation. I was doing the majority of the work because I a) wanted this more and b) didn’t completely trust Shruti to take the lead, especially if a school grade wasn’t attached.
I packed the articles alongside my laptop, highlighters, stapler, note cards, notebooks, and scientific calculator (you never know). Then I began throwing anything seemingly beach-appropriate into my suitcase. I didn’t even know if I still had a bathing suit that fit, much less anything I could even ironically attempt to pull off as “beachwear.” A little more than forty-eight hours’ notice would have been nice.
As I ravaged through my sock-slash-random-knickknack drawer, discarding lone wool socks and cat figurines left and right, my fingers grazed a hard surface.
When I looked down to see what I had touched, my breath caught in my throat.
My journal.
The last gift Logan had ever given me.
I was blindsided by the sudden rush of memories that came flooding back. Spending the week after the funeral paralyzed, lying in bed. My dad knocking on my door and telling me Logan had left me a gift. My mind struggling to piece together the impossibility of those words, a gift from someone who no longer existed.
My dad had found the present while cleaning out Logan’s room. Logan had wrapped it in the haphazard way he wrapped gifts—tons of packing tape and no folded corners anywhere.
I gingerly removed the journal from the drawer and ran my fingers over the beautiful embossed golden island on the cover. The island was surrounded by blue waves, and in Logan’s slanted, left-handed writing, he had Sharpied in Antigua.
I slowly opened the journal to the first page and stared down at the message Logan had written. I could practically hear the high-pitched enthusiasm in his voice, the way his thoughts took off like a runaway train whenever he got excited. How everything he spoke, no matter how far-fetched, was pronounced as fact—and how I always believed him.
Olive—can’t believe you’re turning the big ELEVEN! These next 525,600 minutes are going to fly by so fast—and I just know this is going to be a great year for you. By the time this journal is filled, I’m sure you’ll be the CEO of Celeste pizza, and we’ll be living in our castle on the shores of Antigua. And explarrring shipwrecks fer treasurrre.
Love, Cap’n Plank (Logan)
After my dad had given me the journal, I had shoved it to the bottom of my sock drawer and hadn’t taken it out since. It hurt too much to be reminded of Logan. Of all the promises and plans we had made that had vanished along with him. I couldn’t imagine how disappointed he’d be if he could see me now.
I closed the journal, looking again at the cover. It was hard to ignore the significance of Antigua. Maybe Antigua would finally give me some answers. Maybe when I got there, I would feel closer to Logan. And maybe then I would start to understand what had happened to him.
Because who dies from a heart attack at seventeen?
Two
Day One AD (After Departure)
When the taxi from the airport dropped us off at the dock, I had to throw a hand over my mouth to keep myself from bursting out laughing.
The Regal Islands SS NY Sea was the most garish eyesore I’d ever laid eyes on. I had read on the website that the ship was 1,200 feet long—a quarter mile, the length of five freaking city blocks. But reading that distance is different from seeing it in reality. Because the ship wasn’t just 1,200 feet long, it was also freaking enormous in every other way—a gazillion stories tall, over 50,000 tons, and painted in bright, neon colors you couldn’t look away from.
I glanced over at Justin, who had an adorable smile plastered on his face. He was pointing and repeating, “That’s the ship, that’s the ship, right?” Matt’s face, meanwhile, was drawn in confusion. He tugged on my mom’s sleeve. “But if we’re in Puerto Rico, why is the ship called NY Sea?”
Great question, kid. We lived forty minutes from New York City, and back when my parents used to work there, they’d bring Logan and me along whenever we had off from school. Then we’d get to spend the day going to restaurants and seeing a Broadway show—always Rent, never anything but Rent. I was enamored with the city, its grittiness and bright lights and fast pace. Taxi drivers shouted obscenities, and people glared at you as you walked by, and I loved everything about it.
I looked back at the SS NY Sea, its sparkling clean white exterior and the neon-green Statue of Liberty painted on the side—with a grossly heretical bright red smile plastered on her face. This ship couldn’t be further from NYC if it tried. The masses of people climbing on board were laughing and carefree—clearly not New Yorkers. Their sole purpose was to be entertained with cheesy, off-off-off-Broadway performances while they drank cheap wine and ate extremely fake and culturally appropriated dishes.
I gave the overly chipper Regal Islands employee my ticket. He handed me back an electronic “passport.” “Enjoy your time at sea!”
As I took my last step on land and my first step on board, I kissed the air twice, said “Thank you God,” and kissed the air twice again. It was a tic I had developed after Logan had died, that my body now did as a reflex, whenever something bad could happen—when I got on a plane or in a car or when I felt really anxious. I wasn’t religious—I didn’t even know if I believed in a god, and I always did the act so quietly, more or less just mouthing the actions, that even someone standing right next to me wouldn’t notice. I had never told anyone—not even my parents or my best friend, Shruti—that I did it.
I snapped back to attention as a mechanical voice shrilled, “Welcome aboard the SS NY Sea! Enjoy your Big Apple faux-tini!” A bartender robot was standing in front of me, its metallic arm holding out a martini glass, containing what appeared to be apple juice.
I wasn’t sure how to politely turn down a robot, so I just kept walking, following the long line of people in front of me up an escalator. When we stepped off, I blinked twice as my dad let out a low whistle.
The two-story main promenade was decorated as the Coney Island boardwalk—wooden planks, hot dog stands—even a giant two-story Ferris wheel. But it had about the same effect as a pig wearing lipstick—you knew what it was trying to do, but the juxtaposition couldn’t have been more glaring. Coney Island was Coney Island because of its history, because the old boardwalk games hadn’t been changed in years (minus the price tag), because of the cracks in the boardwalk and the chipped paint on the signs.
Meanwhile, everything in this ghoulish version of Coney Island shimmered and shined with its newness, its artificiality. The combined effect made my chest constrict, reminding me that I’d be trapped in this fake city for the next week plus.
The twins seemed just as terrified as I was. They held my hands tightly as we walked past carnival games and flashing neon signs.
I matched their strong grips, not wanting them to get lost among the seas of people.
It’s only ten days, I reminded myself. No matter how bad it was, it would all be over in ten days.
Let the countdown begin.
We made our way over to the elevator banks and headed up to the ninth floor, where our combined staterooms were.
I began unpacking in my linen closet–sized room (although I was grateful my parents were bunking with the twins and had let me have my own room), debating the best organizational system for the few belongings I had brought.
As I was searching for a spot to stow my suitcase, a siren began blaring. My chest seized up—the boat hadn’t even left yet, and there was already an emergency? I knew a 55,000-ton floating mall was a terrible idea.
“This is not an emergency,” a voice boomed from the in-room speaker. I let out a breath, but my heart continued to race, oblivious to the lack of real danger. “Please make your way to the muster drill station labeled on your cruise passport. This is a mandatory drill, and the boat will not depart until all cruise passengers have checked in to their muster stations.”
My family and I found our way to our station on the fifth floor, the Coney Laugh Lounge. We took seats toward the front and waited as the theater filled up with hundreds of people.
After twenty minutes, a blond man and woman took the stage—they looked like they could be siblings—and introduced themselves as our “muster captains,” Michelle and Dan. They then began performing a horrifying song and dance that stated the rules of the ship and what to do in case of emergency.
I wondered if they had spent years studying musical theater, only to end up on a cruise ship rapping about life preservers. Yet another reason I was glad I had a safe plan. Med school graduates ended up as doctors, not as actors attempting to rhyme “water safety” with “don’t be late-y.”
After they had finished and everyone politely applauded, Michelle looked around the room. “So for this next part of our presentation, we will need a volunteer.”
I sank down farther into my seat, in case they were as loosey-goosey with the definition of “volunteer” as my math teacher was.
But hands flew up all around me. It was clear that we were no longer within a 200-mile radius of NYC, where no one would ever willingly step forward for this type of public humiliation.
Michelle’s face lit up at the enthusiasm, and she pointed toward the back of the crowd. “The boy in the gray hoodie—come on up!”
A boy with messy dark hair stood up. A much larger guy next to him began cheering and stomping his feet, as if his friend had just won the lottery and not a free ticket to embarrassment central.
“What’s your name?” Dan asked, shoving the microphone in the boy’s face.
“Sebastian,” he answered. When most people spoke into a microphone for the first time, their voices were either muffled or far too loud. But not Sebastian. His voice was low and crystal clear. This was obviously not this boy’s first time in front of a crowd.
“Sebastian, welcome on board the SS NY Sea! Where are you from?”
“Kansas City,” he said, which was met with another series of woots from the large guy who had been sitting next to him.
“And who are you cruising with this week?”
“A few friends.”
“Lovely! For this demonstration, I would love if you could model how to properly put on this life vest.” Michelle handed him the bright orange vest, and he followed her instructions like a model student, nodding and smiling. He took his time and cheated out—turning his body toward the audience—so that he could be sure everyone in the room saw exactly how to buckle the vest and pull the safety straps.
“Now just blow some air into the oral inflation tube.” As Michelle said those words, a loud cackling erupted from the back of the theater. I glanced behind me to find the group Sebastian was cruising with all laughing and nudging one another. I rolled my eyes.
When Sebastian was finished, he was met with a round of applause, as well as fervent foot stomping and cheering from his friends. The applause kept going, even after he’d found his way back to his seat. People were clearly smitten by his performance—not that he’d done anything actually impressive.
But I guess these were just the type of people I’d be surrounded by that week. Happy-go-lucky vacationers who were easily impressed. So not New York.
A smiling woman in a green Regal Islands polo walked up to us. “Hi, I’m Shari,” she said, shaking hands with my parents, me, and then the twins. “I’ll be the twins’ aide this week.” I eyed Shari up and down. Her hair was tied back in a crisp ponytail, and she had a small stud on the left side of her nose. She looked more like an overeager camp counselor than a real adult.
“How old are you?” I blurted out. My mom shot me a look, but I ignored her. After all, the twins’ lives were going to be in this person’s hands. I wanted to make sure she was at least legal.
“Twenty-one,” Shari answered.
“You look young.”
“Just ignore her,” my dad said with a wry smile.
Shari laughed. “Don’t worry; I’m used to it. So, can I take you on a tour of the ship?”
“We’d love that,” my mom said. “There’s so much to see; we don’t even know where to begin.”
“I know!” Shari’s ponytail bounced as she spoke. “This is my seventh time on the SS NY Sea, and I still find myself getting lost!”
Not really selling yourself here, Shari. I wondered how soon would be too soon to request a new aide.
“That said, this ship is definitely much better organized than other cruise lines,” Shari continued. “I also worked on”—she looked around, as if she were about to divulge top-secret information—“the cruise line with the animated mice,” she loudly stage-whispered. “Where I was a godmother chipmunk in training. And let me tell you, the Regal Islands is so much better.”
Shari paused briefly, as if she were waiting to be asked why.
“Oh, is it?” my mom finally asked. Shari was clearly a talker, but she had found the wrong audience. My parents and I were not oversharers. Far from it.
“It totally is! Because on that cruise line, you work six days in a row, but here you only work five. And also there, you have very limited eating hours and cuisines. But I think the best thing here is the individuality that Regal Islands allows. Like, I would never be allowed to wear my nose ring on that other cruise line.”
“I see,” my dad said. When Shari turned back around, my dad exchanged a small smile with me. I smiled back and shook my head, glad my dad at least shared my sense of humor.
We followed behind Shari as she took us to one of the large glass elevator banks at the back of the ship.
“Can I press the button?” Justin asked, just as a large group crowded in behind us.
“Sure, buddy,” Shari answered. “Can you hit three?”
Shari started by showing us the laughably large three-story theater where the nightly “Broadway” performances of Kinky Boots would be held. The theater had thousands of seats and purple overhead lights, and apparently held some giant ship-wide karaoke contest that always “went down in history.”
We then spent over an hour exploring the dizzying array of activities on the ship—the three-story main dining room; the main cafeteria (Penne Station); the kids’ pool deck, which consisted of an entire water park and a 130-foot-tall (!) waterslide; the main pool deck (Pool Time Square); an entire floor dedicated to a wave pool for surfing; and too many additional restaurants and bars and coffee shops to keep count.
In that time, we had learned Shari’s entire life story. That she was from Orlando, but her football allegiance lay with the Eagles because she went to Penn State. That she had studied musical theater and dance, which was why she originally worked on that other cruise line, but then she fell in love with cruise ships in general and thought maybe she wanted to go into special ed or something?
Shari was very serious about her job and was determined to show us each and every restaurant, bar, café, pizzeria, lounge, pool, spa, and knickknack on the ship—and she made sure to also include exactly why each place made the Regal Islands superior to the other cruise line. There were about a gazillion different eateries, but they all mostly looked the same, like the cafeteria at my grandparents’ retirement community in Florida.
I zoned out as Shari spoke, only focusing on the few spaces that would actually be useful to me—the small business center filled with a few old PCs and a single printer. The café closest to my room, where I could stock up on Frosted Flakes and turkey sandwiches—safe, easy fuel to get me through my research sessions.
My parents now had their very-patient-client smiles pasted onto their faces. Matt looked like he wanted to cry. Justin, on the other hand, was overjoyed, thrilled at all the neon-colored attractions.
“We can probably skip any future bars or casinos,” my mom told Shari, her patient facade finally cracking. “We’re not really big drinkers.”
That was the understatement of the century. The only time I ever saw my parents go near any type of alcohol was on Jewish holidays. And even then, it was just a few sips of Manischewitz. Logan had snuck me a glass once at Passover when I was eight; he had mixed it with water and served it as “juice.” I had nearly blown our cover and spit it out after the first sip—it was sickly sweet and gross.
