Where Sea Meets Sky(33)

I have my budget written down in my sketchbook but I don’t feel like pulling it out and analyzing it like some cheap bastard. Traveling around in Mr. Orange and having most of the accommodation and transport covered is saving me money in the long run. I have enough money now to make the occasional splurge in the adrenaline capital of the world.

“Count me in.”

“Me too,” Amber says quickly, and I have to wonder how much money she’s saved up for her around-the-world trip. Something tells me that her parents are helping out a lot.

“Awesome,” Gemma says. She turns to look at me and me alone, it seems. “You’ll be starting your trip out right. Good thing you’re fearless.” Then she nearly swerves into oncoming traffic and quickly corrects, swearing under her breath.

I’m not fearless, but I let her believe that.

It doesn’t take more than two hours before we’re pulling into the village of Waitomo and everything is cave this and glowworm that. We stop in a local grocery store and get beer for me and Gemma, wine for Amber, and nothing for Nick because he says he only drinks twice a week before noting that sugar is the enemy of metabolism. I briefly wonder how on earth Gemma deals with him, but seeing as she’s eager to drink beer, I think she’s dealing with him just fine.

We pile our cart with sausages, buns (gluten-free for Amber), eggs, bacon, water, and other foods that will tide us over for the next few days, then putter to the local camping spot, or “holiday park,” which happens to be close by.

Even though it’s a busy time of the year, it’s still mid-week and doesn’t take us long to secure a spot. Gemma has stored a tent and extra camping chairs under our seats. The flip-up table inside of the bus is removable, and soon we’ve set up camp outside by a fire pit.

It’s hard not to feel immediately at ease. Even though the holiday park is commercial and filled with neatly mowed grass, noisy families, and fences, there’s this total sense of wilderness just beyond the trees. The birds here are different—even the pigeons are pretty—and the plants have this tropical feel that you don’t see at home. The late afternoon sun shines down on me with a kind of clarity and strength I haven’t seen before. It burns beautifully and the sky reaches above us in never-ending blue.

I itch to sketch, to paint, but I know I won’t produce anything good here. There are too many people, too many distractions. I’m drinking too much beer called Tui, with a bird on the can. I need focus and privacy to do this world justice.

When the sausages hit the grill, we’re all eager and relaxed, even Nick. He eventually starts drinking Gemma’s share of beer. I guess it was too much being the odd one out. I know it’s petty to feel triumphant about that, but I can’t help it. The guy rubs me the wrong way, and it’s not just because he’s with Gemma.

It’s because he’s a fuckmuppet.

We run Mr. Orange’s battery for a bit to play side two of The Wall. Gemma starts singing along to “Comfortably Numb,” and though I want to join in, there’s something about her performance that seems very private. Her voice is clear and strong and it seems she’s just singing for herself, lost in her little world with the band. I can tell the song means something to her, and because of that it means something to me.

So I just watch her and appreciate it, even while Nick goes for another beer and Amber downs her gluten-free hot dog. They don’t get it. But I do.

When the tape is over, we turn off the engine and are enveloped by the sounds coming from various campsites. Someone has an acoustic guitar and is playing Eric Clapton—badly.

Another site is listening to children’s songs, like the classic “Banana Phone” by Raffi. The couple closest to us is bickering. Our fire provides enough crackles and pops to blend them all into one strange melody.

“So, Josh,” Amber says as she pours white wine into a red cup. “Gemma mentioned something about you being an artist.”

It’s not exactly a secret but I still find myself shooting Gemma a furtive glance. She looks a bit melancholy for some reason but manages to smile at me. “Cat’s out of the bag,” she says.

“An artist?” Nick almost scoffs. “What kind? Graffiti?”

“Actually,” I say, giving him a steady look, “I have done street art before, and I’m pretty good with a spray can. But I got charged for vandalism after high school, just for painting a woman on the side of an abandoned building. Charges were dropped but it scared the shit out of me.”

I’m surprised I’m even admitting it to them—I haven’t told anyone about it, not even Vera. Of course, Nick tilts his head back in an I knew it manner. Yes, yes, I am a dastardly criminal. Naked ladies, ooooh.