The Starboard Sea: A Novel by Amber Dermont Page B

battles. Islands of sea grass.”
    “What made you stop writing?” Aidan swept strands of hair off her face.
“Cal found it. He copied some pages and plastered them around campus. Cal knew me better than anyone. Knew how to get a rise out of me.”
“So if Cal were here, what would he tell me about you?”
“Like how would he embarrass me?”
“No. I don’t want to hear anything goofy or mean. What would Cal say to convince me that you were one of the good guys?”
I didn’t have to think too hard to recall Cal’s favorite story about me. “Here’s the thing you need to know about Jason,” he’d begin before highlighting what in his mind was my singular achievement. I told Aidan how Cal and I had gone to grade school in the city together. “We had this teacher who gave out gold stars for every book report we did. I’m not talking tiny stickers but like these really big stars she cut out of foil. If you got enough of them you could trade them in for prizes. Stuffed animals and calculators. She even had this really nice desk globe, you know, the kind where the ocean is all black. That was the grand prize. Anyway, there was this kid in our homeroom, Paul Sullivan, a really sweet kid, you know. Everything made him happy. A pink eraser, pizza at lunchtime, indoor recess, you name it. Paul would just smile and clap and hug everyone. He was so fucking happy. Sometimes seeing him like that made me want to cry, I guess because I knew I’d never be that excited about anything. Poor kid had Down syndrome. Our teacher told us not to treat Paul any differently, but then the teacher did this really messed-up thing. She wouldn’t let Paul do any book reports so he could never earn any stars. The only time he’d get anxious or flap his arms and cry was when she’d hand out those stupid stars. Maybe I just wanted to make up for our teacher’s stupidity. I read a lot of books and did a ton of reports, and at the end of the year, I gave Paul all my stars. I didn’t tell anyone, I just did it. Then Paul went right over and told the teacher he wanted that globe. It was worth the most stars. She probably never thought anyone would earn that many. I remember Paul spinning the globe at his desk. I was nine years old and it was the first time I’d done anything nice for someone. Of course, Cal found out and blabbed to my mom.”
I paused and looked at Aidan. She smiled.
I said, “That’s what Cal would tell you about me. ‘Jason’s the nice one,’ he’d say. ‘He’d give you all his stars.’ ”
“So you were Cal’s hero.” Aidan folded her arms and tilted her head.
“No,” I said. “It wasn’t like that. We were just pals.” Telling the story made me feel embarrassed. Like I was full of fake humility. Cal had been less impressed by my generosity and more impressed by the fact that I hadn’t bragged about what I’d done. “You kept it to yourself,” he’d said. “That’s what makes you special.” I neglected to tell Aidan how for the remainder of grade school, I did my best to avoid Paul or how I always felt uncomfortable when he would run over to hug me. I leaned back and tried to touch the back of my head against the wall, but I lost my balance and braced my hands on the piano bench for support.
“You all right?”
“Fine.” I nodded and pointed to her journal. “I’ve told you my story. Now you tell me what’s in there?”
“Flotsam and jetsam. Scattered thoughts.”
“Unscatter some.”
“I don’t know. You think I’m bright, but there’s so much I can’t do. I can’t paint, or draw, even, but I love art.” She opened her journal. “My art teacher at my old school told me this story about Cézanne, about why he painted so many apples. It’s a silly thing, but I like to understand people through their obsessions. Like you with your sailing.” She paused and smiled at me. “Anyway, Cézanne grew up with this writer, Émile Something. Zola?”
I wasn’t sure whether I recognized the