Page 11 of Blue Arrow Island
My eyes lock onto a scaly, bright-green lizard a few feet away from us. With its tail, it’s more than three feet long. I keep half an eye on it as we pass it.
“Train for what?” I ask.
She side-eyes me, sneering. “Physical training. You’ll learn how to throw a punch and I seriously suggest you practice on yourself.”
I press my lips into a thin line. Unfortunately, mean girls are like cockroaches. Even an apocalypse can’t keep them down.
Sixteen hours a day of work and physical training? I don’t mind, because it’s far better than being confined to a dark, mildewed cell.
The row of buildings ends, the jungle just twenty feet away. Marcelle stops next to a crooked wooden sign on a post made of a small tree trunk. The word “Spa” is burned onto it in black letters.
“Shower.” She still refuses to look at me. “The toilets are here, too. You get two minutes of water a day for showering and if you lose your soap, too bad.” She crosses her arms and sighs heavily. “Go. Feel free to drown yourself.”
There’s a raised wood-plank walkway, showers on one side and primitive toilets on the other. I step onto it and then look back at her.
“Towel?”
Her face lights up. “Of course. Would you like it warmed? Shall I fetch a silk robe for you, too?”
Ignoring her, I glance at the toilets. They’re about eighteen inches off the ground, constructed of wooden planks built into squares. There are half-wall dividers between the toilets, but other than that, they’re open air.
The showers are about the same. Wood-plank floors, with the ground beneath them angled so the water runs off toward the jungle. There are dividers between the dozen or so showers, each one about five feet tall, but no doors.
I deliberately look at anything but the person in one of them, making my way to the stall on the very end. It’s nothing fancy, but I have water and soap, and that’s enough. I’m beyond ready to wash the filth from my skin, hair and nails.
My dad used to take us camping, and we learned to adapt, sometimes only having a creek and a bar of soap to get clean. Maven and I would spend a long time in the water, splashing, talking and washing each other’s hair.
I smile as I remember a weeklong trip in our home state of Washington, where we got to swim in a crystal clear spring. My parents said they wished we’d never had to go back to civilization, and I couldn’t have agreed more.
The showers have an ingenious system of ropes and pulleys to deliver water. The water sits in a rectangular tub a couple of feet above my head, a rope hanging down beside it.
Stripping off my shoes and clothes, I leave them on the edge of the wood-pallet floor with my pile of supplies. When I stand beneath the tub and tug on the rope, the tub tilts, a steadystream of warm water pouring down from a makeshift bamboo faucet.
I let the water flow over my hair and body for about fifteen blissful seconds before I release the rope. I lather the soap between my hands quickly, gasping in silent happiness as I rub my hands over my face.
It wouldn’t surprise me if Marcelle stomped over here and made me come running after her naked for taking too long, so I speed wash, scrubbing every inch of my skin with soap and my hands. Then I focus on my hair, creating a big handful of suds to massage into my hair and roots.
I rinse as quickly as I can, timing myself. I’ve only used about a minute of water and Marcelle’s not yelling at me yet, so I repeat the process, quickly washing my body and hair a second time.
Part of me wants to close my eyes and turn my face up to the stream of water, relaxing. But I can’t risk taking my eyes off the open front of the small shower stall.
I finish, clean for the first time in more than a month. I gather my hair up in my hands and wring the water out of it, the waves of it already pronounced in the humid jungle.
Since I don’t have a towel, I use the wool blanket to dry off, which is better than nothing. Then I dress in the new clothes I was issued, sweating before I’m all the way dressed. I didn’t get a bra, so I rinse out my old one and put it back on.
Still, I’m clean. I even managed to get the grime out from beneath my fingernails.
I pick up my things and walk back, a male voice calling out to me as I pass.
“Hey, new girl. What’s your name? I’m Ky.”
Instinctively, I look over. He’s sitting on a toilet, grinning and completely unconcerned that I can see his penis hanging down between his legs.
I fling my gaze away from him and pick up my pace, my cheeks warm with embarrassment.
“That’s okay, I’ll catch you later!” he calls after me.
Marcelle doesn’t say anything to me. She glares at nothing and turns, going back the way we came.
