Page 10 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise

“Capacity will be something like forty,” I say. “It will be the field study portion of the senior astronomy course, and the grad students will use it too.”

Mrs. O’Malley turns to Molly, who’s gazing up at the astronomy dome with interest. “It’s too bad you couldn’t have taken that class,” Mrs. O’Malley says. “You could have come to the Virgin Islands and gone stargazing every night.”

Molly blinks at her mother. “I’m not studying astronomy.”

“I know that,” Mrs. O’Malley says, waving her hand.

“I’m not even at U of F—”

“I know that!” Mrs. O’Malley says again, more vigorously this time. “I was justsaying.It would be neat, that’s all. But you’ll be back in February.”

“Nothere,precisely—” Molly begins, but Mrs. O’Malley cuts her off.

“Molly is getting her master’s degree in fish,” she says to me.

“In fish,” I repeat faintly, raising my eyebrows at Molly.

“A master’s degree in fish,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “It sounds stupid when you say it like that. Call itichthyology. Or fishery science, or marine biology.”

“It sounds stupid because itisstupid—” Wes begins, but Molly silences him with awhackto the back of the head. “Ouch,” he mutters, rubbing the place she’s just cuffed him. “Violence is not the answer, Moll.”

“Why ichthyology?” I say, turning to Molly.

She looks at me with surprise—like she wasn’t expecting me to speak to her. And, I realize with a twinge of guilt, she probablywasn’texpecting it, considering how I’ve been acting. But she doesn’t say anything about that; she just tilts her head and looks at me curiously. The motion causes her bun to flop dangerously to one side on top of her head, the sun glinting off the red and showcasing a spectrum of colors everywhere from coppery orange to strands of gold. Then she crooks one finger at me, beckoning me closer.

I freeze in place like a dang coward. That finger crook, and her accompanying smile, give off flirtatious vibes that make me want to run in the opposite direction. But her family is here, every one of them watching our interaction; she wouldn’t try anything, and anyway my pride won’t let me flee. So I step toward her, swallowing down the sudden nerves that are crowding my throat. I have to crane my neck even closer to her in order to hear when she talks.

“Why ichthyology?” she says, looking amused.

I already regret asking, but I nod anyway—one short jerk of my head.

“Because,” she whispers, “I strongly suspect I was a clownfish in my previous life.”

Wes snorts loudly, muttering something about “ridiculous” and “nutjob.” But I can feel my eyebrows climbing my forehead.

“Are you serious?” I say. The words escape without my permission, and they sound undeniably rude.

The corners of Molly’s lips twitch, her eyes dancing with laughter.Hot chocolate,I think out of nowhere. Her eyes are the exact color of my favorite mint hot chocolate, the kind I have to special order, the one my colleagues tease me about drinking in the balmy tropics.

“No,” she says, looking more amused still. “I just don’t feel like telling you the truth.”

What? She doesn’t feel like telling the truth? How am I supposed to respond to that—do I laugh? It wasn’t really that funny. But if she’s waiting for me to laugh—

Except no; she’s not waiting for me to laugh. She’s not waiting for me atall. She turns right on around, giving me her back. Her hair flops to the other side as she tilts her head again, lifting one hand to shade her eyes as she begins chatting with her mother about who-knows-what.

Fish, probably.

I think most of our group would be perfectly fine to get moving again after this glimpse of the building, but Mrs. O’Malley is having none of that. She wants to see it from every angle, and she looks so eager and interested that I don’t have the heart to tell her no. Wes puts up a fight, complaining loudly, but Molly doesn’t seem to think it’s worth it; she just nods with tired acceptance when Mrs. O’Malley asks if she’ll please come along. So while the O’Malley men stay back, fanning themselves and clinging to their patch of shade, I lead the female O’Malleys around the perimeter of the building—even though there’s no footpath.

“It’s still going to look like a brick building on the other side,” Molly mumbles as she trails behind us. “With a dome on top and a lot of trees.”

“I know that,” Mrs. O’Malley says. “I just want to see, that’s all.” She stops and turns around, putting her hands on her hips. “You could’ve just stayed with your brother and father back there. There’s no need to be here if you’re just going to complain.”

Molly stops too. “You asked me to come with you,” she says.

“Well, yes, but you could have said no if you wanted.”

I see Molly’s lips move as she answers, but I can’t hear whatever she says. Her disgruntled facial expression makes it pretty clear, though, that she’s wishing shehadsaid no. I can sympathize; Mrs. O’Malley is hard to say no to. She doesn’t really ask for bad things, so you rarely have a good reason to deny her requests, and she wheedles you if you initially turn her down. She’ll respect your answer if you stand firm, but very few people have the nerve to do so.

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