She had laughed at me. That’s the point.
I watch this girl pick up a few more plastic bottles and jam them into her bag. “You speak English so well.”
She glances at me. “I’m aware.”
“I didn’t mean—” I hesitate, trying to not say something inadvertently offensive. “It’s just nice to have someone to talk to.” I reach down and grab a bottle, holding it out for her bag. “I’m Diana,” I say.
“Beatriz.”
Up close, she seems older than I first thought. Maybe fourteen or fifteen, but petite, with sharp features and bottomless eyes. She is still wearing her sweatshirt, arms pulled low beyond her wrists. There is a school crest over her heart. She seems perfectly content to ignore me, and maybe I should respect that. But I am lonely, and just days ago, I watched her self-harming. Maybe I am not the only one who needs someone to talk to.
I also know, based on our previous interactions, that she is more likely to flee than to confide in me. So I choose my words carefully, like holding out a crust of bread to a bird and wondering if it will dart away, or hop one step closer. “Do you always pick up the trash here?” I ask casually.
“Someone has to,” she says.
I think about that, about all the visitors, like me, who descend on the Galápagos. Economically, I’m sure it’s a boon. But maybe having all the boats and tours suspended for a few weeks isn’t a bad thing. Maybe it gives nature a moment to breathe.
“So,” I say, making conversation. “Is that your school?” I point to my chest, in the same spot where the logo is on her sweatshirt. “Tomás de Berlanga?”
She nods. “It’s on Santa Cruz, but it shut down because of the virus.”
“So that’s where you live?”
She starts walking; I fall into place beside her. “During the school year I live with a family in Santa Cruz,” she says quietly. “Lived with.”
“But this is where you were born?” I guess.
Beatriz turns to me. “I do not belong here.”
Neither do I, I think.
I follow her further down the beach. “So you’re on vacation.”
She snorts. “Yeah. Like you’re on vacation.”
Her barb hits home; as holidays go, this isn’t exactly what I hoped for. “How come you go to school off-island?”
“I’ve been there since I was nine. It’s like a magnet school. My mother enrolled me because it was the best chance of getting me out of Galápagos forever, and because it was the last thing my father wanted.”
It makes me think of my own mother and father. Separate circles that didn’t even overlap to form a Venn diagram where I could nestle into both their spaces.
“He’s your father,” I guess. “Gabriel?”
Beatriz looks at me. “Unfortunately.”
I try to do the math; he seems so young to be her parent. He can’t be much older than I am.
She starts walking away. “Why was he yelling at you?” I ask.
She turns. “Why are you following me?”
“I’m not …” Except, I realize, I am. “I’m sorry. I just … ?I haven’t had a conversation with anyone in a few days. I don’t speak Spanish.”
“Americana,” she mutters.
“I wasn’t planning on coming here alone. My boyfriend had to back out at the last minute.”
This, she finds intriguing; I can see it in her eyes. “He had to work,” I explain. “He’s a doctor.”
“Why did you stay, then?” she asks. “When you found out the island was closing?”
Why did I? It’s been only a few days, but I can barely remember. Because I thought it was the adventurous thing to do?
“If I had anywhere else to go, I would,” Beatriz says.
“Why?”
She laughs, but it’s bitter. “I hate Isabela. Plus, my father expects me to live in a half-finished shack on our farm.”
“He’s a farmer?” I say, my surprise slipping out.
“He used to be a tour guide, but not anymore.”
Likely, I think, because he was so unpleasant to his clientele.
“My grandfather owned the business, but when he died, my father closed it down. He used to live in the apartment you’re in, but he moved to the highlands, to a place without water or electricity or internet—”
“Internet? There’s internet on this island?” I hold up the postcard I am still clutching. “I can’t send email, and I haven’t been able to call my boyfriend, either … ?so I was writing him. But I can’t buy stamps … ?and I don’t even know if there’s still mail service …”