“For what?”
“For not listening as well as I should have. This is the second time you’ve said you wanted to be a monster, and instead of listening to what you were saying, I told you that you didn’t have to be something you obviously like. That was unfair of me, and I apologize without reservation.”
David blinked. “Oh. That’s … okay?”
Arthur shook his head. “It’s not. I should have heard you better than I did. So there is no misunderstanding, I shall say this: here, David, in this place, you can be whoever you want to be. A monster? I will do my best to make sure you have everything you require to see it through. What if you find yourself enamored with cheese and wish to become a fromager? I will make that happen. An actor? I don’t know how much more I could teach you as you’ve already proven adept at staging plays on your own, but I will attend every performance, and I will be the first to rise in what I imagine will be a thunderous standing ovation.”
“Why?” David asked, wiping his nose as he sniffled, little ice crystals forming at the corners of his eyes. “Why would you do that?”
Arthur leaned forward over his desk. “Because you deserve it, David. That being said, I need your help.”
“You do?” David asked. “What can I do?”
“Ah, I’m so glad you asked,” Arthur said. “Why don’t we start with something simple? We will meet three times a week: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. On Fridays, like today, I will give you a special mission, one that you can take the weekend to perform. Is that something you might be capable of?”
“A mission?” David asked eagerly, sitting up in his chair. “Like I’m a spy?”
“Exactly like a spy,” Arthur said, “if a spy’s job is to find out one interesting thing about each of the people in the house. A talent they have, or something they said that you find appealing. Then, next week, you can share with me what you learned.”
David nodded. “Got it. You want me to spy on everyone. Find out their secrets, report back so you can use what I learned against them. Diabolical.”
“That’s not quite what I meant, though I do love where your mind goes. No, this isn’t about finding out secrets, but learning about the people you live with. There is a difference, David, much like there is a difference between right and wrong. But I think you know that, given that even though you want to be a monster, you understand that scaring people isn’t the same as hurting them.”
“So … just, like … talk to them?”
Arthur beamed. “Exactly. And while the prospect might be scary in and of itself, I think someone as strong and fearsome as a yeti should have no problem seeing it through. What do you think?”
“I can do it,” David said, sounding resolute.
“I know you can,” Arthur said. “Now, since tomorrow is Saturday, I will give you a brief yet comprehensive outline of adventures past, so that you may have a better grasp on what potentially life-altering and/or life-threatening event you will be participating in. But worry not! We haven’t yet lost a single child, so I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
Saturday adventures were a tried-and-true staple of Marsyas Island, something Arthur had decided to include almost from the very beginning. Initially, it’d been monthly until the children asked if they could do it more often. Arthur and Linus agreed, so once a week, each child took turns planning what that day’s adventure would be. Sometimes, there were dangerous expeditions into uncharted territory where anything from cannibals to gigantic snakes awaited (much to Linus’s dismay). Other times, they took trips into the village. Just last month, they’d spent the day touring residents’ gardens at Talia’s request. It had gone extremely well.
(Mostly. Toward the end, she’d discovered a flower bed soaked in chemicals, and had asked for permission to knock on the door so she and the homeowner could, in her words, “have a little talk.”)
On a sunny morning in June—thin, wispy clouds stretching from one end of the sky to the other—the responsibility for this particular Saturday adventure fell onto the squishy shoulders of the boy known as Chauncey.
Chauncey, who made his appearance that morning descending the stairs wearing a rather large straw sun hat. The brim was at least a foot in diameter with two holes cut near the top for his eye stalks and was adorned with a massive fake flower with a yellow center and white velvet petals. Over his eyes, a pair of cat-eye sunglasses sat askew, the frames adorned with glittering plastic crystals. He practically floated down the stairs, and when he spoke, his voice took on a posh accent. “Dahhhlings,” he breathed. “You are all looking divine. Perfect day for yachting, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would like to lodge a complaint,” Linus said, grimacing as he pulled at the form-fitting wetsuit Chauncey had all but demanded they wear for his day. With Zoe’s help, Chauncey had gotten a wetsuit for each of them.
Linus’s wetsuit was yellow, almost too bright to look at. Lucy’s was red, Talia’s brown like the soil she loved so much. Phee’s was forest green, Sal’s white with polka dots that, if seen from a distance, could have been mistaken for buttons, which explained why Theodore (sans his own wetsuit, saying that he’d prefer to be nude) kept trying to peck at them.
David, too, had a wetsuit—blue, like ice—a rush order that Zoe had put through to make sure he wasn’t left out. While it fit, his suit was a little bulky, given his thick strands of hair. But he didn’t seem to mind, bouncing on his toes in excitement.
Arthur’s own wetsuit was gold in color, and it came complete with a pair of snorkeling goggles that Chauncey insisted they would all need. It was tight-fitting and left little to the imagination, but then Arthur had long accepted that he was knobby in ways that could not be fixed.
Chauncey lowered his sunglasses, revealing his eyes as he looked Linus up and down. “You silly man,” he said. “You look brilliant. A vision. Yes, that’s what you are. Like the sun. The nice, round sun that—”
“Not helping,” Linus muttered.
“To the yacht!” Chauncey cried, arms flailing.
“We don’t have a yacht,” Lucy said. “I would know if we did. I would have crashed it by now.”
“We get to crash boats?” David asked, impressed. “No one told me that we get to do property damage.”
“That’s because we don’t,” Linus said.
“We do,” Talia told David. “But only if we pay for it after. And apologize. And promise never to do it again. You can get away with anything once, sometimes twice if you try hard enough.”
“Talia,” Linus said sternly.
She turned toward him, her eyes unnaturally large. “I’m sorry, Linus. I promise I’ll never do anything like that again. You’ve taught me the error of my ways.”
Linus blinked. “Oh, well. Thank you. I’m pleased to hear that—”
“And that’s how you get away with it,” she told David. “It’s quite easy if you can make your eyes big enough.”
“Daahhlings,” Chauncey said, bringing the attention back to him. “Shall we embark on the adventure of a lifetime? What surprises wait in store? Romance and love? A mystery where someone’s priceless hula-hoop is stolen and requires the brain of a green person who is a detective and a bellhop and happens to own a watercraft? Anything can happen on Chauncey’s Yacht of Dreams!”
“Chauncey,” Linus said pleasantly. “It appears that we need to work on your vocabulary lessons. Yachts are defined as sailing or power craft used for cruising, racing, and/or pleasure.”
Chauncey lowered his sunglasses slightly, only the tops of his eyes visible. “My good man, that’s where you’re wrong. Everyone knows there is no true definition of a yacht, only that a yacht must have a cabin for overnight stays. And would you look at that! There’s a cabin.”
There was, though Arthur thought it might not be large enough to accommodate them all, seeing as how it was an old cardboard box barely bigger than Chauncey, placed near the front of the vessel. Inside the box, a sleeping bag, an old pillow, and what appeared to be a pile of seaweed, something that Chauncey considered to be a delicacy.
Which was to say nothing of the rest of the yacht. The reason being, of course, that it wasn’t a yacht at all, but a rowboat. And not just any rowboat, no: while large enough to fit them all (even with the “cabin”), the vessel looked as if it belonged on a trash heap rather than on the water. Paint chipped, metal rusted. Small wooden benches. A wooden pole placed in the middle with a thin, limp bedsheet for a sail. Two oars—one of which was broken, the handle mostly gone and leaving only the paddle itself—and orange life jackets for each of them. Next to the box at the front, a cooler and a large palm frond resting against the lip of a bench. The rowboat had been pulled up halfway out of the water, waves lapping gently at its sides.
