Page 48 of The Bully's Dare

“Where are we going?”

“Where aren’t we going?” Jason answers mysteriously. He has a cat that swallowed the canary smile—like he has some big, Mona Lisa secret he can’t wait to share with us.

I’ll admit it: my crush on Jason has only gotten worse the more we hang out. How couldn’t I? He’s a beautiful boy, with linebacker shoulders, a disarming smile, and he’s taller than most of the adults I know. His dark hair blows in the wind as we start down the road and I itch to run my fingers through it and mess it up.

His arm brushes against mine as we bounce down the road, those fine hairs tickling, and it makes me shiver. Donovan glances behind him and I must have drool on the corner of my mouth because he rolls his eyes at me.

Donovan is beautiful in a different way—quiet, brooding boy with sharp features and intense dark eyes.

It’s strange to me that I found myself attached to these two boys all summer. Stranger still that, once September rolls around, I’m going to go back home to Queens and I won’t get to see them every second of every day anymore.

“We’re here,” Donovan announces as he pulls the golf cart off the road and into a parking lot behind a giant warehouse.

I ask. “And here is…?”

“Boat graveyard,” Jason replies.

We get out and follow Donovan around the side of the building. Sure enough, on the other side, it’s a boat yard.

If you’ve never seen a boat out of water, it’s a bizarre sight. Like a giant whale on display. There’s a huge metal frame on wheels at the edge of the water with a long double sling in it, which, I imagine, is how they scoop the boats onto dry land.

Donovan winds us through the yard with purpose and then comes to stop in front of one. “Check this one out,” he says.

The sailboat in question is hoisted up on these metal stands that do not look like it should be able to hold it up in place. The keel—which is boat-term for the big fin at the bottom of the boat, I’ve learned—makes it look twice as big. The sail is wrapped up in a shabby cloth, and the boat itself looks pretty beat up. There are more than a couple dents in it, holes in the sides, and damage to the windows.

It’s not surprise that it’s out of the water, getting repairs.

Sorry, she. Donovan corrected me about that once. All boats are shes.

“What happened to it?” I ask. I feel oddly sorry for the thing. It’s like witnessing a dog tied to a pole with a too-small collar. Neglect looks ugly, even if the item in question has no feelings.

Still. I may never be a skipper, but this summer has certainly taught me one thing: boats have souls. Even damaged ones like this.

Especially the damaged ones, if you ask me.

“It’s abandoned,” Donovan responds. “Come on.”

Then he grabs the ladder, which is at least a solid three feet off the ground, and hoists himself up.

“Wait…we’re going inside? This feels a little like breaking and entering.”

“You won’t get in trouble,” he reassures me. “I promise.”

I frown at the thin metal stand keeping the boat propped up. Logically, I know I’m not going to topple over a thirty-foot sailboat. But the nagging parts of my anxiety are dubious.

Jason helps me up the ladder and Donovan helps me into the boat. But when I climb onto the landing, my converses slip on the damp boards. Jason catches my arm, saving me from a tumble off the side of the boat and onto the gravel below. For a second, my body brushes against his, and I feel his hard-muscled chest underneath the thin layer of cotton.

“Careful, Trouble.” He grins at me.

“Thanks,” I reply. Hating how breathless and girly my voice sounds.

We climb aboard and Donovan pushes open the latch so we can go below deck. It’s dim inside and I can only make out shadows and shapes.

“There’s no electricity,” Donovan explains, “but we’ve got this.”

He lights a match, and, seconds later, ignites a brass gas lantern that hangs from the ceiling. Now, I can see the ship in all of its glory.

It’s old—that’s obvious. The walls are lined with wood and there are patches where the wood has been punched out. It’s been mostly emptied out, nothing on the shelves but a couple of books. There are a couple old school touches—the gas lantern, navigation table with an old water-stained map on it, and some kind of compass that looks like it came from a different era. In short, everything that appeals to my anachronist heart. The upholstery looks newer than the rest of it, though, dark cushions that line the benches.

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