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 bandanna 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 bandanna 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 and grinned. “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.
“I’m twenty-two,” he said casually, stretching his arms and giving her the full benefit of his biceps. Sophie rolled her eyes. She knew it was a lie. And since when had he been a pilot? His dad had taken the two of them up in his plane on several occasions, Sophie recalled, and he’d let Jim sit up front and pretend to fly. The memories were swarming back like sparrows taking flight, startled out of hiding by the unexpected appearance of this strangely grown-up version of her childhood friend. Best friend, Sophie thought. When I was four, I was convinced he was my brother. She remembered crying when her parents explained he wasn’t.
“Now, Jim, don’t lie to the lady,” drawled Porter. “He’s eighteen, sweetheart, and that’s a fact.”
Jim laughed, seemingly unfazed that Porter had called his bluff. “Oh fine, eighteen, then. I’ve had my license a year, but I’ve been flying since I was ten. You going to tell on me?” He leaned on the counter and flashed her a smile worthy of a Colgate commercial. “So where you want to go? Want to buzz up to Saipan? Great lagoons, beaches, and we could probably scare up some whales. How many in your group?”
“It’s just me. Whales? Really?” She shook her head, feeling dizzy with nostalgia and almost forgetting why she was here to begin with. She slipped her hand into her pocket and wrapped her fingers around the paper inside to remind herself. “I mean—no! No, not Saipan. Look, I need to go to Skin Island.”
The smile fell from Jim Julien’s face. On the other side of the bar, Porter’s hands froze on the glass he was drying. For a moment, the only sound in the bar was the tick and whirr of the metal fan beside Jim’s elbow and the hum of the neon Budweiser sign above their heads.
“What?” she asked. “What is it?”
Jim’s eyes darted from Porter to the men in the corner, then he took Sophie by the elbow. “Come with me.”
“What? Stop it! Let go!”
He pulled her toward the door, shouldered it open, and then waved her through. Bewildered and irritated, she stepped outside and then whirled to face him as the door clanged shut.
“What’s wrong with you? Why’d you drag me out like that?”
“Where’d you hear about Skin Island?” he asked.
“My mom works there. What’s the big deal?”
Jim ran his fingers through his hair, which was thick, unruly, and in need of a trim, and looked around nervously. “You don’t just go to Skin Island. Nobody goes to Skin Island, you—” He stopped dead. His eyes grew wide. “Wait, wait, wait. What did you say your name was?”
“Sophie. Sophie Crue.”
“Sophie . . .” And then it must have hit him, because his mouth spread into a smile. “Sophie Crue! But—but I know you!”
She folded her arms, holding back a smile of her own. “So your brain finally catches up to you.”
“But you’re Sophie Crue! You’re supposed to be this big!” He held his hand at hip height.
“And you’re supposed to be running around shirtless,” she retorted, then she flushed. “I mean—you know what I mean. You used to—”
“Always rip off my shirt and use it to haul the shells you insisted on collecting?” He grinned, apparently amused by her discomfiture. “I remember. And I remember you used to pick your nose.”
She gaped at him. “I did not!”
“Oh, yeah you did. C’mon, you don’t remember? We used to have contests to see who could—”
“Shut up!” she said, her face as hot as a sunburn. “Never mind. Look. We can catch up later, okay? Right now I just need to know if you can or can’t take me to Skin Island. It’s my mom, Jim. Remember her?”
His smile fell away and he paced around her, his boots crunching on the gravel parking lot. Sophie waited impatiently, biting her lip to keep herself from begging with every last breath she had. She wondered at everyone’s reaction to the words “Skin Island.” It’s not like I’m asking for a plane ride to Mordor, she thought.
“She still works out there, huh?” he asked, his tone guarded.
“Always has. She moved there permanently when I was seven.”
“Which is when you and your dad moved to the States.”
“Yeah.”
“I remember, but I can’t take you to Skin Island. I’m sorry.” He folded his arms and looked mildly embarrassed, but a wall of finality seemed to have risen between them.
“Fine,” said Sophie, her ears burning. “Then at least tell me where it is—and where I can rent a boat. I’ll go myself.”
“What’s going on with you?” he asked, unfolding his arms. “Why can’t your mom help you out?”
“I don’t know the details, but I know she needs me. She e-mailed me a few days ago and asked me to come, said it was an emergency.” She took out the paper from her pocket and held it out. She already had the words memorized.
Sophie,
I need you. Please come at once. I’ll look for you on Friday. Do not reply to this e-mail.
Emergency.
—Mom
It was the first time in Sophie’s life that her mom had needed her, the first time she’d ever invited Sophie to the one place she’d never been allowed to go, the place that had stolen her mother from her and ended her parents’ marriage. She couldn’t go back to the U.S., not now. Not back to the stepmother who’d never loved her as much as her two natural children, not to the fathe
r with whom she’d argued to the point of tears. There was just one person in the world whom Sophie needed, and now at last, impossibly and wonderfully, that person needed her back.
Jim didn’t look at the note. “You think you’re just gonna sail yourself out to Skin Island?”
She pursed her lips and stared resolutely over his shoulder.
“You’re crazy!” he said.
“Not crazy,” she muttered. “Desperate.”
He studied her, his eyes narrowed, as the wind ruffled his thick sun-streaked hair. Slowly, he shook his head. “If you were anyone else . . .” he murmured. “Sophie Crue. Who’d have thought? I’d almost forgotten all about you.”
“Gee,” she said. “Thanks.”
He sighed. “I’ll take you,” he said, but before she could squeal with delight he held up a hand. “But I hope to God you know what you’re getting into.”
TWO
JIM
Jim pulled the chocks from the wheels of the faded old Cessna Caravan and tossed them into the grass on the side of the runway. The temperature seemed to be increasing exponentially, and his shirt was stuck to his skin. After shrugging off his faded bomber jacket, he pulled his bandanna from his back pocket, dark with grease and smelling of avgas, and wiped sweat from his neck and forehead. The heat in Guam was fairly mild, but the humidity could sap the energy out of him in a matter of hours, even after so many years.
There wasn’t another soul in sight. The airstrip was almost completely abandoned, used only by a few locals like Jim and his dad. The airlines all went in and out of Won Pat, on the northern end of Guam. This little forgotten splash of pavement was much quieter, though he still had to deal with the larger airport’s traffic control.
Two unpainted, narrow runways streaked toward the southern curve of the island, abruptly stopping just yards from the beach. The grass around them was tall and uncut, and a perpetual ocean breeze shuddered through it and curled beneath a loose flap of tin on the lone hangar, making it rattle and clap. Jim was so used to the sound he barely heard it, the same way he tuned out the steady hush of the surf and the throaty cries of the seagulls.
He ran his hands over the propeller of the plane, then along the familiar aluminum fuselage, feeling the smooth round rivets against his palm. It was warm to the touch from baking in the sun all day, and the green strip that ran from nose to tail was so faded it was nearly yellow. Dents and scratches marred the metal, each one telling a story of some landing or storm or parking mishap, and the floats beneath it had churned as much water as any boat. He knew each ding and dent by heart. Despite its age and appearance, Jim trusted N614JA more than the pavement beneath his feet. He fingered a scratch along the engine cowl that had come from a freak collision with a seagull during takeoff three years ago.
“Well, beauty, I guess we’d better get going,” he said, slapping the edge of the wing as he ducked beneath it. When he came up on the other side, he found himself face-to-face with Sophie Crue. Her long blond hair and thin white cargo shirt fluttered in the salty breeze. Little Sophie Jane, all grown up.
“You made it,” Jim said. He’d told her it would take a while to get the plane fueled and prepped, so she’d gone off in search of something to eat. That had given him an entire hour to reconsider the deal he’d made. On the one hand, this was Sophie Crue, who’d been his faithful follower for years, letting him drag her from one mild crime to the next, playing the sidekick to all his superhero shenanigans, covering for him when he set things on fire or broke valuable items. On the other, it was Skin Island he was flying to. The only aircraft flying in and out of Skin Island were black, expensive helicopters piloted by men in dark suits and sunglasses. They used the main airport, but never stopped to hobnob with the locals. He knew where the island was—all the other pilots did, because they had to avoid it—but he’d also heard the story about Nandu. The island had a whole canon of urban legends attached to it: boaters who sailed there and never returned, strange lights on the shorelines in the middle of the night, lab-created monsters that were half-man, half-beast. Jim didn’t put much stock in most of the rumors that went around about the place, but he knew better than to test them himself. Now those stories cut through his thoughts like an emergency alert on the television, a warning he was tempted to heed.
He had vague memories of Sophie’s parents, both doctors or scientists or something, who had worked on Guam but went out to Skin Island several times a week. When they did, Sophie stayed with him and Ginya, his Chamorro nanny. His mom had been a professor, and if he remembered it correctly, she met Sophie’s parents at the labs in the university, which they used from time to time. Those days were a distant haze, another life. He thought of that time period as Before She Left, and it was a vault of memories he rarely opened. It only left him with a sucking hollowness in his chest. But Sophie Crue . . . She was a memory he didn’t mind reliving, especially now that she was here in the flesh, nine years older than when he’d last seen her. What can I do? Tell her no? Watch her walk away, disgusted with me?
According to Nandu, the airstrip that serviced the island was set on a smaller spit of land just off its north shore; he might not even need to set foot on Skin Island itself. He’d stay with the plane, let Sophie do her thing, not get involved. He ignored the voice in his head that pointed out that as many times as he’d sworn to stay out of other people’s problems, it wasn’t really his style, and interfering had gotten him in more trouble than he cared to add up. Not this time, though. He’d help Sophie, but he wanted nothing to do with Skin Island itself.
“Are you sure this thing is safe?” Sophie asked, giving his plane a dubious look.
Jim didn’t deign to answer that. “You ready to go?”
“Sure.”
She looked ragged, as if she hadn’t slept in days, with shadows under her eyes and tangles in her hair. She was obviously going through some kind of hell, but was trying her best to just keep it together for a little while longer. He knew the feeling all too well.
“Not too much daylight left,” he said. “You’ll have one hour on the ground, two at the max. Got it? No delays. This trip—well, being Skin Island and all, I’ll kind of be flying below the radar. Don’t want to broadcast it to the whole world. They’re touchy that way, these scientists.”
“What do you know about them?” she asked sharply.
“Not much.” Jim opened the passenger door. “You sure about this?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” She gripped the metal doorway and pulled herself into the cockpit, and he had to duck to avoid being slammed in the face by her backpack.
“You want to go to Skin Island.”
“If it’s so bad”—she leaned out of the doorway until her nose was inches from his, her turquoise eyes burning with a look that brought back an onslaught of memories, most of them involving their five-year-old selves running wild through the street markets—“why are you taking me there?”
Jim shut the door, making her sit back quickly to avoid getting caught in it. He grumbled to himself as he made one last walk around the plane, asking the same question. It came down to one, she was pretty and needed help, and that was a powerful combination, and two, simply for old times’ sake. As he climbed into the pilot’s seat and jammed his ancient headset over his ears, a third reason occurred to him: I’m an idiot.
Well. It was done now, and he wasn’t one to go back on a promise. He checked to be sure Sophie’s seat belt was strapped over all the right places and securely fastened—he was paranoid about seat belts ever since a Japanese tourist kid had left his off and gotten his head knocked on the ceiling during landing, resulting in a concussion that had severely damaged Jim’s dad’s finances (such as they were) in the resulting insurance fiasco.
Then he went though the preflight procedures, checking the throttle, flaps, instruments, brakes; on and on the list went. He set the altimeter, then pulled the headset
over his ears and took a scratched pair of aviators from under the seat and slid them over his eyes. The plane rumbled and vibrated around him, making his heart beat faster. There was nothing more exhilarating than flying. When he was fifteen, and his mom finally gave up on him and his dad and returned to the States, Jim spent more time above the ground than on it, covering hundreds of miles of open sea and sky, trying to lose himself in the vast blue-white atmosphere. On the ground, he only ever felt half himself, an empty body going through practiced motions while his soul lingered in the clouds. Every time he went up, it was like slipping back into his real skin, like coming up for air after being too long underwater. Easy and natural and right.
Like going home.
The cramped, weathered plane felt more like home than the house he and his dad lived in. He thought of his dad, whom he’d found that morning passed out on their dilapidated porch, surrounded by empty bottles. Jim had dragged him inside and left him on the couch. It was becoming an all-too-common routine each morning.
He pulled an extra headset from the pocket behind Sophie’s seat and dropped it in her lap. “Put that on.” She pulled it over her ears, adjusted the arm of the mic, and then gave him a dazzling smile. He sighed and pushed her backpack over so he could reach the throttle.
Jim revved the engine and the plane jerked into a taxi. The Cessna roared up to speed, fighting to leap into the air, but Jim waited until he was nearly out of pavement before pulling back on the yoke. The climb was steep and swift, just how he liked it. Back when he’d bothered to care, Jim’s dad had always criticized him for flying recklessly, but he himself was just as bad. He glanced at Sophie, wondering if she’d get sick from the rapid, rattling ascent, but she looked absorbed in her own thoughts as she stared out at the towering clouds rising around them like ghostly, vaporous skyscrapers. The smile was gone. He knew she must be worrying about her mom, and whatever emergency had called her to this godforsaken armpit of the universe.