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quasi-normality.
    “Just enjoy yourself, hon,” Stef gives my waist a little squeeze and heads belowdecks.
    I look over and see that clean-cut boat boy staring at me again, but I ignore him. I am in control of this situation. I can handle this. I can handle anything.
    “I’ll take you to your cabins,” says Goatee, and we all follow him, the girls shrieking all the way down.
    The décor below deck is sort of pan-Asian, with dim, sexy lighting, Chinese illustrations, Thai sculptures, and Japanese blossom prints on the bed. Interior decorators don’t always care about the cultural sanctity of their creations, I’ve noticed.
    The girls pair off to sleep in doubles together. I’m given my own room, a single with a tiny en suite. Three bottles of Coca-Cola are already waiting in a bucket of ice on my dresser. Wow. That’s good service.
    With the door shut and locked, I lie down on the bed, still wearing my Converse and sunglasses. I have that numb thoughtless inertia that I always get after a heavy night of meds and booze. I should really stop doing it. I will, I will stop …
    The yacht is rocking gently, the bed is soft and clean and … I’ll just close my eyes.

 
    CHAPTER 6
    I wake up alone to the sound of happy shrieks outside my cabin window (porthole, whatever). I can see a speedboat going around, trailing two of the girls in one of those blow-up donut things.
    Man, I am going to get seriously sick of hearing those chicks squeal.
    It’s just past 3:00 P.M. I should let Pia know where I am … but I don’t have cell reception out here on the goddamn ocean. And she probably doesn’t want to talk to me after my behavior last night. She’s at work right now anyway. And I’m all the way down here in the Caribbean. Weird. The world is so big. It’s easy to get lost.
    I drink one of the Coca-Colas, take a long shower, French braid my hair and tie a red ribbon on the end just for fun, and throw on my white bikini, sunglasses, and my white sundress. I forgot to bring sunscreen, which is a drag. (My skin is so white it’s nearly translucent. I swear to God, I can’t even fake tan, it’s like my epidermis rejects it.) I have a little blister from wearing my Converse for too long without socks, and I have a feeling that heels are not appropriate on deck, so I go barefoot.
    I look at myself in the mirror one last time before I leave my cabin.
    “No drugs, and no meds,” I say sternly to my reflection. Angie in the mirror nods back obediently.
    When I get upstairs, the party is in full swing. Beecher is making out with one of the girls, Lars is drinking margaritas with another, and the squealers are back from their donut excitement, self-consciously wringing out their hair in the sunshine so they can dry off their personal-trainer-and-surgeon-sculpted bodies without resorting to something as unsexy as a towel. Stef isn’t here. No one even looks up when I arrive.
    “Could I get a margarita, please?” I say to the guy manning the bar. “Where is the host?” I ask. “Hal, isn’t it?”
    “I’m right here,” says a voice. I turn around and am greeted by the sight of a swarthy dude wearing huge wraparound shades, white pants, and a white linen shirt (undone to midchest, ha, I knew it!). He’s hotter than I imagined. “Angie, right? Finally, we meet. I’m so glad we both dressed to match.”
    I flash him my best smile. “Virginal white. That’s totally my thing.”
    “I’ll bet it is.” Hal looks around. “Lars! Take it easy, my friend! Beecher, whoa there, big fella. Get a cabin.”
    He’s normal! Well, rich-kid normal.
    I can relax. It’s just a bored, insecure rich kid’s party. I can play this scene like a fucking guitar. (Well, okay, I can’t play a guitar. Like a harmonica. Whatever.)
    My margarita and I follow Hal down to a shaded lounging area where mellow trance music is softly playing.
    “This music is seriously annoying,” I say.
    “What do you want to hear, Angie?” Hal grins