That was back when he loved that she played. When music was still a subject without controversy for them. Every night after dinner, he’d put on an old Billy Joel album while they did the dishes, the two of them singing over the sound of the faucet to “Piano Man” while Helen laughed and Asher rolled his eyes.
The girl picks at the peeling paint on the rail. “I’ve been trying to figure out ‘Birdsong,’ actually,” she says, referring to a not-particularly-popular track off Greta’s EP, a choice that makes her like this kid even more.
“That’s a tricky one.”
“I know,” she says. “Way trickier than ‘Told You So.’？”
Greta smiles. “Told You So” was the first single off her debut album, which came out a couple years ago, and it’s her most popular track by far, having achieved a level of success where people tend to know it even if they’ve never heard of Greta James.
“Not into the mainstream stuff, huh?” she says to the girl, who gives a solemn nod.
“I prefer the deep cuts.”
Greta laughs. “Fair enough.”
A horn blares once, then twice, and everyone on the deck startles and looks around. The engines have begun to stir, the water churning as the ship vibrates beneath their feet. Somewhere, invisible speakers crackle to life.
“Good afternoon, passengers,” comes a slightly muffled voice. “This is Captain Edward Windsor. I want to welcome you all aboard and let you know that before leaving port, we’ll be holding a safety briefing. Please collect your life jackets and proceed to your muster station.”
The girl glances around at the receding crowds. “I guess I should go find my parents. But it was really cool to meet you. Maybe I’ll see you again?”
Greta nods. “What’s your name?”
“Preeti.”
“Nice to meet you, Preeti,” she says. “I’ll look for you when I want to talk shop, okay?”
Preeti’s face brightens at this; then she gives a wave and hurries off.
By the time Greta grabs the life jacket from her cabin and arrives at her assigned spot for the muster drill, her own little crew is already assembled. Her dad frowns at the way she has the vest slung over one shoulder. He was a naval officer during Vietnam, stationed on a patrol boat in the western Pacific, and he doesn’t mess around with this sort of thing.
Around her, there’s a sea of bright orange; everyone is wearing their life jackets, even Davis Foster, who is six foot seven with shoulders so broad it looks like a child’s pool toy has gotten caught around his neck. Greta lifts hers over her head, fastening the clips and hoping there are no other unexpected fans nearby. The last thing she needs is a picture of this.
“While it’s doubtful you’ll ever encounter a real emergency, it’s important to be prepared,” says a man who introduces himself as their station captain.
Behind him, Greta can see the tops of the orange-capped lifeboats fastened in a row along the edge of the ship like ornaments on a tree. The man’s voice is even-tempered as he lays out all the worst-case scenarios, the many calamities that could—unlikely though they may be—befall them on this floating city. It’s the same way the doctor had spoken after her mother’s aneurysm, when Greta—stuck at the airport in Berlin, where she’d just played a festival for tens of thousands of people—had insisted on talking to him. Her mom was in a coma by then, and the disconnect between the awful things he was saying and the calm way he was saying them was so jarring it made her want to throw her phone clear across the gate.
“If you should see anyone fall over the side,” the man says, his voice almost cheerful, “please throw them a life buoy, then shout ‘Man overboard’ and inform the nearest crew member.”
A ripple of laughter spreads across the assembled passengers as they make whispered guesses about which of them will be the first to go over. Davis grabs Mary’s shoulders so suddenly she lets out a yelp. Eleanor reaches for Todd’s hand as if to anchor herself, but he’s busy watching a small iridescent bird flit past what little sky is visible between decks.
“A purple martin,” he whispers excitedly, fumbling with his binoculars. But they get tangled in his life jacket, and by the time he lifts them, the bird is gone.
Greta tugs at the straps of her own vest and looks around. Down the row, she spots the guy she’d seen earlier with the typewriter. As she watches, he lifts his phone to take a picture of this, the safety briefing, of all things. When he lowers it again, she can see him typing and wonders who he’s sending the photos to. Then she wonders why she’s wondering this.