There was a sudden clatter overhead, and Sophie instinctively ducked, but it was just the guy messing around the ceiling. The fan turned her way and blasted her hair across her face. “Thanks.”
She made for the table in the corner. Two of the men had gray hair and deep tans, and the third was entirely bald. Sophie stood beside the table and waited. The poker players glanced at her casually, but didn’t give her their attention until she cleared her throat and tapped the table. Then they turned away from their game and stared at her silently, each of them looking offended that she’d interrupted the round.
“Sorry to bother you,” Sophie said, doing her best to keep a rein on her frayed and weary temper. “I was told one of you might know the location of Skin Island, and could fly me there?”
They exchanged looks. The bald man laid his cards face down on the table and twisted his neck, making his spine crack. “Skin Island,” he said slowly, drawing the words out in a low tone that Sophie barely caught. The other two stared at Sophie again, but this time, there was a guarded look in their eyes. The one who’d spoken was American by his accent, and the other two looked Polynesian.
“Maybe I’ve heard of it,” the bald man went on. “Maybe I haven’t. But I’d sure as hell not fly you there.”
“Wouldn’t fly the president himself to Skin Island,” growled one of the others. He tossed a five dollar bill into the pot. “Raise you five, Pete.”
“I see you,” the third man said. “And I raise you five back. Look, little lady, what my friends here are trying to tell you is that nobody flies to Skin Island. Nobody. I don’t know what you want with that place, but you’d best just turn around and go home.” He glanced around the room, as if afraid someone had heard him speak.
She started over. “Listen. My mom works on Skin Island. I don’t know what you’ve heard or what your deal is, but I have to get there. Please. It’s an emergency.”
They were unmoved. If anything, they looked even stonier.
“Nandu flew out there a few months back,” said Pete. “Didn’t he tell you about it, Jordy?”
The bald man grunted. “He’d run into engine trouble and had to put down. Skin Island had the nearest airstrip. Said he was met by an armed welcoming committee—they welcomed him to leave. He got a good look around, though. That old resort—Halcyon Bay or something like that—they’d taken over a few of the buildings, had a bunch of doctors running around, real secretive. They marched him back to his plane and sent him packing. Would have shot him, he said, if he didn’t go. He took his chances with the faulty engine.” He shook his head. “He barely made it back in that old junker he calls a plane.”
The story seemed stretched to Sophie, a tall tale told by a pilot to impress his friends, perhaps. Then again, her father had always told her she’d never be allowed to visit Skin Island, no matter how many times she begged her mother to let her come. The security around the place was Code Paranoid, which Sophie found a bit melodramatic considering the focus of her mom’s research was finding cures for psychological conditions like Alzheimer’s. “What are you scared of?” she’d asked her mother once on the phone. Moira Crue had replied, “Our work has the potential to make billions of dollars, Sophie. People have committed genocide for less. Now stop asking questions.”
“See, girl? You’re better off getting a flight to the moon,” said Pete.
“Forget about Skin Island,” said Jordy, and he folded, leaving the third man to collect the pot.
“Is there no one who will take me there?” Her voice pitched upward. I will not panic. I will not panic. But as many times as she told it to herself, it didn’t quench the riot of nerves sizzling like cut wires inside her. She clenched the paper in her pocket as if it were a rabbit’s foot to bring her luck. She had to get to that island. It wasn’t just the e-mail. It wasn’t just her mom. I can’t go back now. I’d look like an idiot. Dad will murder me for this as it is!
“Well . . .” Pete yawned and drummed grease-stained fingers on his Heineken bottle. “There might be just one guy stupid enough to—”
“Pete.” Bald man’s voice was low, cutting the pilot off mid-sentence.
“Can’t hurt to ask,” Pete replied genially. He peered up at Sophie from beneath wispy white eyebrows. “If there’s anyone who might fly you to Skin Island, it’s Jim Julien.”
“Jim Julien,” Jordy grunted disdainfully as he shuffled the deck.
“Jim Julien,” replied the third man with a thoughtful look. “You know, I think Pete may be right. Jim might take you.”
“Jim Julien,” Sophie whispered. A little bell began to ring in the back of her mind. I know that name . . .
“Jim!” the bartender yelled suddenly. “Get down here. Someone for you.”
“Not the IRS, is it?” asked a voice.
Sophie spun to see the work boots making their way down the ladder. Her eyes trailed up, over the jeans and sleeveless gray undershirt, to a tan, square jaw and a pair of deep, goldenbrown eyes. He was no older than she was, from the look of him, and he was not what she’d expected at all. After talking to the poker pilots, she’d imagined every aviator on Guam was ancient, grizzled, and half-sunk into a bottle of beer. This one was anything but. And the moment she met his gaze, it all fell into place: golden afternoons spent splashing in the shallow blue bays around the island, star-speckled night hikes through the jungled mountains, hours of playing hide and seek at the Chamorro fiestas that were held on an almost weekly basis around the island.
Jim Julien. She knew him, all right.
His housekeeper Ginya had practically raised the pair of them while Jim’s mom taught at the university and his dad flew tourists around the islands and Sophie’s parents did their research on Skin Island. Though he figured prominently in most of her memories of Guam, she hadn’t really thought about him in years. He hardly looked like the energetic little boy who was always dragging her into trouble, but there was a trace of mischief in his eyes that was the Jim she remembered, and she found herself grinning ear to ear.
“Oh,” he said, looking Sophie up and down as he pulled a red bandana from his back pocket and used it to wipe sweat from his forehead. He didn’t seem to recognize her, and the fuzzy feelings in her stomach faded a little. “You don’t look too dangerous.” He pocketed the bandana and jumped to the floor, then stuck a hand out. “Jim Julien. Can I help you?”
Sophie realized her jaw was open. She snapped it shut and took his hand. It was warm, callused, and she noticed how defined the veins on the back of it were, tracing up his wrist and over the muscles in his arm. Definitely not the little boy I remember. He had an Adam’s apple and stubble on his jaw. The Jim she’d known had had a childish plumpness to his limbs and gaps where his baby teeth had fallen out.
“Hi. Um, my name is Sophie. I was hoping to get a—a ride.” She watched him closely, to see if he’d recognize her, but he just nodded and leaned on the counter, ran a hand through his hair—not, Sophie thought, without some idea of the impression he made when he did so. She narrowed her eyes, irrationally indignant that he didn’t seem to be keeling over with sudden recognition.
“Sophie, huh? It’s hot out there. You want a drink?”
“I don’t drink. I’m just seventeen.”
He gave her a bemused look. “Just a Coke. Porter?”
The bartender tossed a can to Jim, who cracked it open and handed it to her. “You sightseeing?” He looked her up and down, grinned again. “I know some great spots for sunbathing. You a sunbather?”
“You a pilot? You seem kind of . . . young.” She was being snappish, wondering why he didn’t seem to know her. We used to weave hats out of palm fronds and strut around the neighborhood as if we owned it, stealing bananas from the fruit vendors. Ginya used to let us take naps on the grass, but when she fell asleep we’d sneak off and you’d steal matches from the kitchen and teach me how to light them. They’d set the neighbor’s chicken coop on fire and then Jim had tried to convince Ginya that the chickens had done it.