Page 2 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

“Maybe take a lifeboat?” Meg suggests, the wince in her voice letting me know that she can tell I’m close to losing it.

“I gotta go. I’ll see you soon. Don’t let that boat leave without me,” I say grimly.

The boat left without me.

In my defense, Meghan said Danica tried to bribe the guy who stands on the deck and rings the ceremonial bell with a drunken lap dance—and now she has to wear a red wristband with a scan code that means she can’t be served any more alcohol until noon tomorrow.

What am I doing at five on a sweltering June afternoon? Sobbing over my phone, texting my parents every five minutes, bugging St. Anthony, patron saint of lost items (which I hope includes cats), running around this stupid little town with an open can of tuna, and hating my life choices right now.

My cat is missing. He got out because I was busy worrying about my luggage and my ride to the city. What if he’s been run over by a car? What if he’s hopelessly lost? What if I never see him again?

Don’t think like that. Father, hear my prayer... I cross myself. This is bigger than St. Anthony, and I’ve already been bugging him since eleven with no results.

I’m missing the cruise, all the fun, and time with my besties. I haven’t seen them since Christmas, since they all live about an hour south of the Jersey City area, and I moved up into this “quaint” little mountain town in rural New York state. What was I thinking, going to school for music education, not nursing (when all the other girls in my family are nurses, and none of them has ever ventured into teaching or music), moving up here instead of waiting for a job near them? I just keep messing up, and now I’m stuck in Pine Ridge, which is as different from my home city as day is from night.

This quaint little town is boring as heck if you’re young, single, and ready to mingle. I mean, mingle responsibly. I’m a teacher, and according to my mother, one lucky break away from becoming a concert pianist. It’s not like I wanted to get drunk and flash the ship’s first mate or a frat guy from Harvard Law. I just wanted a break from boring little towns, loneliness, and work.

You get the summer off, my snide inner voice (which sounds unpleasantly like my Tita Carla) reminds me.

Yes. Which means the boredom and loneliness can split me fifty-fifty, instead of taking turns with stress, exhaustion, and the busy-ness of being a perfectionistic first-year teacher four hours away from all of my family.

“Chopin!” I call, shaking off my tears and shaking my tuna can, tapping it with a fork. “Your favorite! People food!”

My phone buzzes. It won’t stop buzzing—hasn’t stopped buzzing in five hours.

Mom: Any luck? I will light candles to St. Francis.

Dad: Did you get your money back from the UltraRyde app? You need to file a claim if you didn’t. It’s not your fault you didn’t keep the appointment. It’s a family emergency.

Meghan: Okay, Shane says there’s a flight on Saturday morning from LaGuardia to Nassau for only $589. She said it would normally be cheaper, but it’s really short notice. There are only two seats left, she says. Want it?

Dad: Did you get travel insurance? I told you, always get travel insurance.

Mom: Your father is going on and on about travel insurance, but Tita Carla says if you missed the boat because you lost your cat, they won’t honor it. I told her I would light a candle to St. Christopher, but Tita Filamena says you haven’t traveled anywhere yet, and it might confuse him.

I sit down hard on the grass outside my apartment, not caring if I’m ruining my beautiful blue dress, the clingy one with cutouts in the shoulders, the sexy but chic one that I planned to wear on my first day aboard the ship, hoping to turn heads.

Me: Do saints get confused, Mom? I feel like they’d get it. Tell Daddy I’ll deal with the money after I find Chopin.

Mom: Tita Carla says you can always get another cat.

Dad: You can’t throw 1800 dollars away! You’re a teacher. Teachers make less than nurses. You should have listened to your mother and become a nurse.

Mom: Don’t listen to your father. You should have become a concert pianist. It’s not too late to move back home and try to get into Juilliard.

“Arghhhhhhhh!” I let out a long, wailing scream of frustration. “Everything is driving me nuts!” I shriek.

“Mew?”

I look up into the tree above me so fast I pop my neck. It’s so leafy, and the light is fading, but I can just make out a shadowy bulge on one branch. “Chopin!” I gasp. “Is that you?”

“Mew!” Chopin’s voice is louder now.

“I have tuna, boy. Come here! Come down,” I coax, scurrying to my feet and over to the tall tree. Chopin is on a branch that’s close to the second story of the apartment building.

Chopin lets out a noise that’s very much in disagreement with what I just said.

“You just ruined my entire summer vacation!” I scold. “Do not be a drama king on top of it! Climb your fluffy behind down here right now,” I try to sound firm, even though my insides are shaking with relief.