Page 5 of The Chaperones

Charles, the stay-at-home dad

I trail Lei and Kai up the narrow stairs to the top deck, the jackets Cassie gifted everyone slung over my arm as I attempt to stay as far away from her as possible. I can sense her keeping tabs on me, like she always does when we’re in public, even when our husbands are so close. This time is different. This time, the prospect of sneaking off with Cassie Bent isn’t intoxicating. It’s downright nauseating.

Which is a terrible choice of words considering we’re about to cross a channel infamous for emptying stomachs with its punishing swell.

On the top deck, we snag three metal seats in the front row that faces the ocean. Here, we’ve got an unfettered view and maximum airflow. The boat’s still docked to the pier, and already I can feel the floor careening. Maybe I should take a gummy now to settle my system. I’ve got more than enough to see me through the weekend. Surely the gummies-after-dark edict doesn’t apply to this trip. Even with the vacation exemptions, I know starting at 9:00 a.m. is a terrible look. I pop a Tums instead.

Kai and I settle into our seats as Lei stands, staring at the older couple in matching cargo pants to our right, and the three bros, who are likely bringing even more pot to the island than I am, occupying the chairs to our left.

“Where’s Javi going to sit?” Lei asks.

There are empty seats behind us, which I’m praying someone claims before my son’s best friend can. Javi means Sofía, which means Cassie.

“They might want to sit downstairs, bud.” Please, Cassie, please stay downstairs. “You have all weekend to hang out with Javi.”

Lei pouts, then notices a stork diving straight into the ocean. At least I think it’s a stork. Animals aren’t my strong suit. Kai, at five, knows more than the rest of us combined.

Before Lei’s come down from the high of the bird, his enthusiasm is renewed by the arrival of his best friend.

“Javi.” Lei waves his arms frantically as Javi sprints over to us. Sofía pauses at the top of the steps to get her bearings, Cassie hovering at her shoulder. The Tums is no match for the sinking feeling in my stomach as Cassie surveys the deck and her eyes land on me, flirting without visibly changing. This hits me with a tinge of annoyance. I don’t want to hurt Cassie.

Fuck it. I pop a gummy. There’s no way I’m getting through this weekend without the constant—but subtle—buzz of THC.

I still can’t believe we got roped into this trip. Ray and I aren’t exactly the let’s eat gorp as we drink creek water sanitized with iodine pills outdoors type. I only know about said iodine pills and gorp from research I did for a script about a man hiking the Sierras, which I quickly abandoned because, like I said, I’m not the outdoors type and it reeked of inauthenticity.

The moment Mona floated a camping trip in the class WhatsApp chat, the moms started rattling off bonding games from their corporate retreats we could play, and I began brainstorming reasons we couldn’t go. Ray’d have a premiere or I’d have a deadline, although every writing deadline these days is self-imposed. Then, Mona had bolded my name in WhatsApp and asked, oh so innocently, if Ray might be willing to cook a dinner while we were on the island. Ray wasn’t on the group chat, didn’t organize or even peruse our joint calendar. I considered not telling him and politely declining on his behalf, but I knew how Mona operated. At casino night or the school play, she’d offhandedly mention to Ray that it was such a shame we couldn’t come on the camping trip because she knew how much everyone would have loved to see what Ray would whip up in the great outdoors. Ray would have told her, Oh, I’m sure we can make that work. Once it became about cooking, Ray would never say no, sleeping on the hard ground and shitting in a latrine notwithstanding.

You see, Ray’s greatest pleasure in life is to feed people, any people. Even Mona. Even Cassie. And, he’ll do anything to put on a good show. Part of me is surprised he didn’t invite the contestants on the current season of Knives Up and create a challenge out of this school trip. But, right now, Ray’s not allowed anywhere near his own show, let alone the contestants.

I lug Kai onto my lap so Javi can have his seat. Keenly aware that Cassie and Sofía are approaching, I make myself busy so I won’t have to interact with Cassie. Kai is the obvious distraction, so I ask him about the animals he thinks we’ll see on the ride to Santa Cruz. I nod along as they slip into the seats behind us, intensely focused on my son’s exhaustive list of whales he intends to spot on the ride to the island. Blue whales, gray whales, humpbacks, and orcas. My stomach relaxes as Cassie and Sofía chat quietly, focused on each other rather than on me.

Then, I feel a hand on my back.

“Hi, Charles.” Cassie squeezes my shoulder a little too familiarly.

“Hey,” I say casually, my attention laser focused on Kai, who has moved on to dolphins. Long-beaked, short-beaked, bottlenose. The boat rumbles beneath my feet as it begins to pull away from the dock, where the hot young crew wave goodbye.

The air’s thick with the tang of petrol and the fishiness of the stagnant water as we glide into the harbor. The young woman who’s part tour guide, part crew leans against the railing whistling to get everyone’s attention. Dutifully, we all quiet as she reviews the rules, wagging barf bags like a scalper hawking tickets. If we do feel nauseated, she insists, we shouldn’t lock ourselves in the bathroom. It’s the worst place to be if you’re seasick. The whole schtick feels a little overkill to me.

Cassie’s hand is no longer on my shoulder, but I can feel its lingering pressure like she’s bruised me. Reflexively, I roll it, trying to free my body and my mind of Cassie. I can still picture her crooked smile, her parallel breasts, that glint in her eye when I touch her in just the right spot.

The guide, who’s started to blur along the edges like a hologram as the gummy sets in, continues to prattle on, advising us to look out for dolphins, possibly a blue whale.

“If you’re lucky”—she shifts toward Kai, who’s utterly engrossed—“we might see a superfeed.”

“It’s a feeding frenzy.” Kai beams.

“Frenzy?” I ask. Not exactly a word organic to a five-year-old’s vocabulary, even the five-year-old son of a screenwriter. Wannabe screenwriter? Failed screenwriter? Barely-even-got-a-start screenwriter? It’s hard to know anymore.

My five-year-old explains that the dolphins and whales team up with the birds to eat all the fish.

“Where’d you learn that?”

“YouTube,” he says, like it’s obvious. I suppose it is.

We abandon the flat lands of Ventura. The mountains beyond the city oscillate with the rock of the boat or possibly my clouding mind.

The captain’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker, welcoming us aboard. “I’m noticing a bit of texture on the water,” his garbled voice continues. “It’s going to be a bumpy ride. Hold on to your hats because the only way I’m going back for them is if they’re attached to someone’s head.”