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  “There was only one real redhead in the right age bracket, even adjusting for under-overs.”

  “Under-overs?”

  “You know, women who look twenty-five but might be thirty-five and vice versa.”

  Music starts to blare from the pirate ships as the passengers file on. We watch the flashing lights and throngs of people pushing their way up the gangplank.

  “And which am I?”

  He puts his hands on my waist. “Under, definitely. Not a day over twenty-five.” He pulls me toward him, and now our hips are touching.

  I tuck my hands into his back pockets. “You’re teasing me now, aren’t you?”

  “I’ll never tell.” He brushes his lips against mine.

  “Do you think we should’ve stayed at that thing tonight?”

  “You having a bad time?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Now how about Anything Goes, the private edition?”

  “We’ll see.”

  He kisses the side of my face and my neck. The music blaring down the beach recedes.

  “Jack.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “We saw a shark today.”

  I can feel him smile against my skin. “A big fucking shark.”

  I pull him closer to me, my hands still in his back pockets.

  “Da-dun, da-dun,” he sings into my collarbone.

  “Da-dun, da-dun,” I breathe into his ear.

  Chapter 15

  Don’t Feed the Animals

  I’m sitting next to Jack on a bus, trying to get through On the Road while he reads my book. He’s been bugging me daily to read it, and I finally gave in this morning, handing over the pages I got from my editor before I left. I was supposed to read them one last time, but I’ve been a little preoccupied.

  We’re on our way to a lost Mayan city a few hours from our hotel. We’ve spent the last two days hanging out by the pool, reading, eating, drinking, talking. I’ve turned various shades of red, while Jack turns browner by the day. At night, we’ve spent hours . . . “necking” is the only word that comes to mind, with all that implies. In fact, I frequently feel like we’re in high school. I’ve had too much to drink, eaten too much food, blurted out all kinds of things I’d never say when sober, and my lips hurt from kissing.

  Jack arrived at my door at six-thirty this morning with a backpack on his back and a large to-go cup in his hands. The dark aroma wafted into my tired brain.

  “Oh, thank God. Where did you score this?”

  He handed me the cup. “One of the staff took pity on me. Watch it, it’s hot.”

  I took a large sip anyway, scalding my tongue. “Shit.”

  “Told you.”

  “Fuck it. It was worth it.”

  “Junkie.”

  “You know it, baby.”

  “You’re in a good mood this morning.”

  “I guess I am.”

  He gave me the crook of his arm. “Shall we, my dear?”

  With my arm looped through his, we walked to the front door of the hotel. The air smelled different on the other side of the hotel: dustier, less salty, hotter. I hesitated on the threshold. “Do you realize we haven’t left this place for days?”

  “Scared?”

  “No, I just have that feeling I get when I’ve been holed up in my apartment, writing. You know, when you go outside for the first time and everything around you looks new or different, like something has shifted slightly while you were away.”

  “Deep thoughts for so early in the morning.”

  “Forget it.”

  “You ready to see what’s out there?”

  “Sure.”

  We met our tour guide for the day—Marco—in the parking lot. He’s in his early forties, has light brown hair, and is wearing a white Puma baseball cap. He speaks English well but with the local accent.

  We clambered onto the bus, tossing our backpacks in the overhead bins above our seats. And now it’s an hour into a bumpy ride.

  I’m too nervous to pay attention to Sal Paradise on his speed-driven journey. I glance over at Jack. He’s wearing a khaki desert shirt and a Panama hat that’s a little too small. My manuscript is in his hands. He smiles, and then a few minutes later, he laughs out loud.

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  Jack lowers the manuscript. “Anne, I’ve told you a million times, I’m not going to tell you until I’ve finished it.”

  “Just give me a hint. Please?”

  Jack brings my hand to his lips. “Read your book.”

  I read another page, but the words are floating around instead of drawing me in. I close the book with a sigh. When I look up, Jack is smiling at me.

  “What?”

  “Come here a second.”

  He puts his hands on either side of my face and kisses me briefly. He moves his lips to my ear. “It’s good, Anne.”

  “Really, really?”

  “Really, truly, truly. Come on, you know it’s good.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Some days I think it’s good. Others, I think it’s shit. Or small. Or too personal.”

  “The personal is what’s good. What makes you think it’s shit?”

  “Reading other people’s books. Seeing good movies.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like Brokeback Mountain. I almost stopped writing after I saw that movie.”

  “You’re truly a strange girl, Anne Blythe.”

  “So you keep saying.”

  Jack gives me a weary smile and smothers a yawn.

  “Oh my God. My book is boring. It’s putting you to sleep. I knew it.”

  “Relax, Anne. I just haven’t been sleeping that much lately.”

  “Oh? What’s been keeping you up?” I look out the window at the passing scenery and try to calm down. We’re on some secondary dusty road. The bus jostles and jolts its way along.

  “I think you know what’s been keeping me up,” Jack says. “And what would make me sleep better.”

  I turn back to him, my face aflame. “You want to talk about that here?”

  “Why not?”

  Because I’m not sure I’m ready to sleep with you yet, and if we don’t talk about it, then I don’t have to think about it?

  “How about we talk about your novel? When do I get to read it?”

  He looks disappointed, but only briefly. “I brought a copy with me.”

  He gets his backpack out of the overhead bin, takes out a book, and hands it to me. It has a forest-green cover featuring a picture of a craggy, snow-covered mountain range. Its title—Race to the Finish—is scrawled across it in bold white lettering. I turn it over to read the synopsis on the back. There’s a black-and-white photo of Jack smiling at the camera.

  “This is a really good picture of you.”

  “Deceiving, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. Can I read it now?”

  “Sure. But I want a rain check on the ‘Sleepless in Mexico’ conversation.”

  “We’ll see.” I snuggle down in my seat, crack the spine, and start reading.

  I like it straightaway. He writes in crisp sentences, and I’m immediately sucked into the story. It’s about a team of adventure racers and maybe—I can’t tell yet—a romance between the narrator and the only woman on the team.

  “Jack.”

  My manuscript is lying across his lap, and his eyes are closed. “Mmm?”

  “How can you sleep knowing I’m reading your book?”

  He cracks an eye open. “I’m keeping my mind off it by fantasizing about us on the beach.”

  “Jack!”

  “Can I go back to sleep now?”

  “Okay.”

  “Thanks, ’cause you look hot in this fantasy.”

  I whack him with the book, and he rubs his arm, laughing. Then I settle into my seat and let Jack tell me a story.

  Ladies and gentlemen, hello,” Marco, the tour guide, says. “We’re almost at Cobá, so I want to give you some information
before we get there. First, so we can all find each other today, I will be calling you Pumas, like my hat.” He pronounces the word in an elongated way—Pooommmaaas—as he points to his baseball cap. “So when you hear ‘Pumas,’ please make sure to come to me. Everyone got that? Pumas, come to me. Pumas, come to me.”

  He looks around the bus expectantly, and I smother a laugh.

  “Okay, next, we need to order our lunch when we get off the bus. We’ll be going to an authentic Mayan restaurant, and there are three choices. First, there is armadillo. Armadillo tastes like chicken. Second, there is snake. Snake tastes like pork. And finally, there is alligator. Alligator tastes like beef. So when you get off the bus, just tell me armadillo, snake, or alligator. Okay?”

  “Anne, please tell me you’re not being taken in by this?”

  I totally am. I was just thinking I don’t want to eat any of those things.

  I square my chin. “Of course not.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Kidding, Pumas, kidding,” Marco says. “The choices are chicken, pork, or beef. Tell me which when you get off the bus. Okay, so we are coming to Cobá, site of the highest Mayan pyramid in the Yucatán Peninsula.” He pronounces the word “Mayan” in the same way as “Pumas”: Maaayyyaannn. “People think the pyramid at Chichen Itza is higher, but they are wrong. Also, you can’t climb the pyramid there anymore, so you chose the right tour today, Pumas.”

  “Where did they find this guy?” Jack asks.

  We pull into a parking lot full of tour buses and disembark. We get our tickets and follow Puma Marco on a two-mile hike through the jungle. The canopy is thick, blocking out the sun and trapping the humidity steaming up from the ground. Though I know the noises are real, the air is filled with what sounds like a fake jungle soundtrack.

  We stop at the ruins of a ball court where the ancient Mayans played pok-ta-pok, a primitive ball game. Marco explains that it’s commonly believed the players who lost were killed, but, he adds, “There is no evidence of human sacrifice at this site. There is only evidence of self-sacrifice. Seelllfff-saacccrriifiissse,” he says again, making a motion like he’s trying to commit suicide by cutting his wrists. “This is also why you chose the right tour, Pumas: you are getting the truth today.”

  The weathered gray stone pyramid we’ve come to see is 138 feet high—as tall as a ten-story building—and stands in the middle of a clearing. A line of tourists is scrabbling up and down the central staircase with the aid of a rope.

  “Race you?” Jack asks, a glint in his eye.

  “Oh, I don’t know . . .” I bend down to tie my shoe, then sprint away from him toward the steps.

  “Hey!”

  I keep my head down and concentrate on making it up the stairs as fast as I can. Jack catches up to me about thirty steps in. We weave between the large-bellied and blistered tourists. It’s 120 steps up, and my calves start cramping on step 83.

  “Come on, Anne! You’re not going to give up so close to the top, are you?” Jack yells beside me, panting.

  “Ne . . . ver . . .”

  I find a last reserve of energy and take the final three steps in one giant leap before collapsing on the square platform at the top.

  “I win,” I say as triumphantly as I can.

  Jack drops down next to me. His face is bright red and there are sweat stains across his shirt. He’s struggling for breath. “If you’re that fast . . . maybe you should do the next adventure race with me . . .”

  “Not a chance.” I turn toward the view and catch my breath. The near–heart attack was worth it. We can see for miles. Other ruins poke up through the jungle. The people down below look tiny. I’m glad I remembered to bring my camera.

  A few pictures later, I hear Marco bellowing from below. “Come on, Pumas . . .”

  We struggle to our feet. I look down the steps. Big mistake.

  Jack grabs my arm to steady me. “Don’t look down, Anne.”

  “Too bad you didn’t tell me that a few seconds ago.”

  “You gonna make it?”

  “What goes up must come down.”

  “Hold on to the rope, and take it one step at a time. I’ll be right beside you.”

  I grab the rope. It’s slippery with the sweat of a million tourists. I step gingerly on the first step like I used to do when I was three years old. First foot, second foot, stop. First foot, second foot, stop.

  Jack stays with me step for step. When we get to the bottom, I feel almost as triumphant as I did when I reached the top.

  We follow Marco through the jungle back to the parking lot, climb onto the bus, and drive a mile to an “authentic” Mayan restaurant. Tables for twenty are set up family-style within the large dark wooden structure. There’s a thatched roof above. We sit at the end of one of the rough-hewn wood tables. Jack grabs two beers from a big ice bucket in the middle of the table. “So you made it.” He clinks his bottle to mine.

  “Thanks to you.”

  “Anytime.”

  “Do you mind if we sit with you?” Margaret asks. She’s wearing a long, shapeless cotton dress. Brian is sweating quietly behind her in jeans and a white T-shirt.

  I catch a warning look from Jack and ignore it. “Of course not.”

  They sit down. Brian reaches hungrily for a bottle of beer.

  “Where did you come from?” I ask. “I didn’t see you on the bus.”

  “Oh, we’re on a different bus,” Margaret answers vaguely.

  “What did you think of the ruins?”

  She shrugs. “Not as impressive as I thought they’d be.”

  Jack looks nonplussed. “What do you mean?”

  “I thought they’d be taller. You know, like the Egyptian ones.”

  “I don’t think you can compare the two.”

  “Why not? They’re both pyramids.”

  “Yes, but they didn’t have the same technology.”

  “What’s technology got to do with it?”

  “Have you ever heard of a little thing called the wheel?”

  I place my hand on Jack’s arm. “Well, I was impressed.”

  A waiter comes to our table to verify who’s having chicken, beef, or pork.

  “I’m having the armadillo,” Margaret says.

  “Otherwise known as the chicken,” Jack murmurs, rolling his eyes at the waiter.

  “Are you going to the Mayan village this afternoon?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Margaret says with relish. “I can’t wait to see their houses and the little children. I hear they’re super-cute.”

  “We go into their houses?”

  “Yeah, to see how they live, you know. We get to go right in and look at their stuff.”

  The waiter arrives with our food. The chicken is very tender from having been cooked in a clay oven with tomatoes and spices, and it smells delicious. We pass around family-size portions of rice, salsa, and tortillas.

  Jack cracks open another beer and leans back in his seat. He has a hint of mischief in his eye. “So, Margaret, how do you like Mexico?”

  “It’s fine, I guess. Not as good as China, though.”

  “China?”

  “Yeah, that was brilliant. The Great Wall, now, that was impressive.”

  “You can’t really be comparing China and Mexico.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because no one says, ‘Should I go to Mexico or China?’ You don’t go to those places for the same reasons at all.”

  “They’re both places to visit, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, I guess. But really, if you think about it . . .”

  “I don’t see the difference.”

  Jack shakes his head. “If you can’t see it, I can’t explain it.”

  Margaret spears a piece of meat on her fork and holds it up. “You know, this armadillo really does taste like chicken.”

  “Now, Pumas, we are going to see an authentic Mayan village. The families who live here make about a hundred and fifty dollars—yes, a hundred and fifty dollars�
�a week. Where you come from, you would pay a hundred and fifty dollars not to get out of bed in the morning, eh, Pumas? But here, that is a good wage.

  “One thing, though, Pumas—it’s important not to give money to the children, no matter how cute they are. They learn bad habits that way. We had to cut one family from the tour because the children got too aggressive asking for money. So please, please, don’t give them any money. Candies, yes; money, no. Okay, Pumas?”

  Jack leans toward me. “What do you think he means when he says, ‘We had to cut one family from the tour’?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s like Mayan Disney World and the village is fake?”

  “Ah, but Pumas, it’s supposed to be authentic!” Jack says.

  Marco continues. “You know, Pumas, they have a great health care system here, second only to Cuba. There are many great things in Cuba. Health care, education.” He shrugs. “The people aren’t free, but you can’t have everything.”

  Jack’s shoulders are shaking with laughter. “Whatever we paid for this tour, it wasn’t enough.”

  The “Mayan” village is a collection of ten corrugated iron shacks along a very dusty road. Two little girls, brown from the sun, are sitting in the doorway of the first house. They’re wearing white peasant blouses and brightly patterned ruffled skirts. They wave and smile at us with extremely white teeth.

  Inside, the house is lit by a single bare lightbulb. A woman in her mid-forties sits at an ancient Singer sewing machine. A fire sputters in the corner. The room is filled with acrid smoke that makes my eyes water.

  “You wanna get out of here?” Jack asks, looking as disconcerted as I feel.

  “Yes.”

  We duck out the front door and walk up the road in silence. A ten-year-old boy whizzes by us on his bike, his friend riding pillion behind him, laughing with delight.

  Jack turns to watch them fly down the road, kicking up a cloud of dust. “This place looks like the opening sequence of a movie about a South American revolutionary.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “I don’t like this. I don’t think it’s right that we’re here.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Okay, Pumas, back to the cantina!”

  “Hear, hear.”

  Back at the hotel, Jack tips Marco heavily, and we separate to clean up. An hour later, Jack picks me up for dinner wearing a light lime-green shirt and linen pants. The tan on his face has deepened over the course of the day. I don’t know if it’s the memory of his hands on my skin or the addictive nature of his scent, but he’s looking better to me by the day.