Trapped in a Island with James Tullos

Chapter 2

I stepped into my cabin and took a deep breath. The sight of those dark clouds heading towards the ship had rattled me, and I still felt on edge. Maybe some peace and quiet would help to settle my jangled nerves? Retreating to my room had long been a go-to strategy for me, and it usually helped. My room on the yacht was small, but cozy and well furnished, even including its own private bathroom. The theming was cliché but in way charming, with a dark sea-blue bedspread and scenes of idyllic islands decorating the walls. Anchors and seashells were prevalent in the décor not just in my room, but throughout the ship. A small vase of rhododendrons sat on top of the desk opposite the bed – the cleaning lady must have come in earlier. In addition to the ship's own amenities, I'd managed to bring aboard a few of my personal creature comforts. But before I could indulge, I had to attend to my own needs.

It was far cooler in the body of the ship than outside, so I quickly changed from my swimsuit to a simple baggy T-shirt and knee-length denim shorts. I threw on a light hoodie, too, for good measure. I could always take it off if I got too warm.

I grabbed a glass from the bathroom counter and filled it from the tap. There was fancy bottled water in the kitchen, but I didn't feel like trudging all the way across the yacht just for a drink. I brought the water to my lips and guzzled it down, thirstier than I had realized. As I was running myself a second glass, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and grimaced. Martín had been right.

My hair was as frizzy as I'd ever seen it. Though there was much to love about the climate here, the humidity absolutely wrecked my hair. I immediately abandoned any hope of salvaging it without a shower and substantial amounts of product, and instead pulled it back into a loose ponytail. My face was slightly rounder than it had been a week ago – I'd gained a bit of weight from all the rich foods the Hendersons provided. Not that it mattered. It would all come off after I went home and went back on my parents' low-carb, lean-protein, low-sugar diet. I didn't mind it too much, as my mother was a decent cook, so all the food we ate was reasonably tasty. But sometimes I just wanted a pizza.

There wasn't much that could be done about the dark circles under my eyes other than rest. I hadn't been sleeping well since coming on the trip, which was unusual. Seasickness hadn't been a problem for me since I was young, and I found the rocking motion of boats relaxing. If anything, I typically fell asleep faster while at sea.

I walked out of the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bed. Still too wired to take the nap I wanted, I tapped my toes on the thick carpet, thinking about how to best take the edge off and hopefully relax myself to sleep.

There were still a few hours until dinner and I was feeling a bit peckish, so I decided to start with a snack. Thankfully I'd grabbed a handful of the Henderson's expensive granola bars from the kitchen earlier. I took one from my backpack next to my bed and opened it carefully, trying my best to avoid spilling any crumbs. The Henderson's bars were lavish, filled with nuts and chocolate. I held the partially-wrapped treat to my face and inhaled deeply. Delicious. So much better than the date-based snack bars I was used to.

I tried to eat slowly, but the bar was gone far too soon. While I felt more satisfied, I still didn't feel relaxed. I stuffed the wrapper in my pocket and turned back to my bag, where I had stored two other potential sources of comfort. A small collection of books sat there, most of them quite terrible. Or so I expected. While I hadn't had the time or mental energy to write in the past few weeks, I'd recently come across a counterintuitive piece of advice on one of the writing blogs I followed. The author of the article had said that aspiring storytellers should read bad books as well as good ones – after all, a lesson on what NOT to do while writing can be just as, if not more helpful, than a lesson on how to write well. This had made sense to me, so afterwards I had done some research on the worst books I could find. In my hunt, I'd come across a goldmine in the form of a YouTube channel run by a man named James Tullos. He not only talked about bad books, he also frequently posted hour-long videos analyzing why they didn't work, pointing out specific issues with pacing, character, and worldbuilding. I devoured his content voraciously.

Using his recommendations, or, more accurately, his derision, I'd made a number of purchases in the following days: The 5th Wave, Elixir, The Way of the Shadow Wolves, and the first few books in the House of Night series. I'd also picked up The Lovely Bones – though I wasn't sure I would feel about that one. While James had absolutely despised it, it had received such high praise from others. I was looking forward to reading it for myself and making my own judgements soon. I'd also brought a few well-written books as palate cleansers: Devolution, recommended by James, and The Hitchhiker's Guide to Galaxy, a personal favorite of mine.

I thought for moment before pulling Elixir from the pile. A dumb, light young adult romance seemed like just what I needed. I placed the book on the bed and dug further into my bag. Under the books, hidden from view, were a number of scented candles. I knew how dangerous it was to have an open flame aboard a ship, but I hadn't been able to resist. Other than swimming, scented candles were the one thing I could use to leave the world behind and reliably calm myself. Whenever I lit a candle and closed my eyes, I was transported. I imagined myself in distant lands, in scenarios I constructed based on the aroma. The right book in combination with the right candle was absolutely magical, the words on the page and the scents in the air becoming more than the sum of their parts. In those times, I forgot I was reading a book altogether. I became the brave adventurer in a misty forest, the hapless maiden wandering through an ancient castle, or the satisfied outdoorsman sitting by a warm campfire.

I could sure use that level of immersion right now. I'd only had room for two candles in my bag – any more would have been exceptionally difficult to sneak aboard without anyone noticing. One with the lighter, warm scents of coconut, honey, and vanilla, and the other a cooler combination of cucumber and mint. I selected the second candle and pulled the lighter from a pocket on the side on the bag. I wasn't so stupid as to store them together. As I moved to place the lighter to the waiting wick, I hesitated. The chances of causing a fire about the yacht with my candle were small, but it wasn't impossible. Perhaps this was what my sense of impending doom had been warning me about? I sighed and stuffed the candle back into my bag, under my many books, and shoved the lighter into the pocket of my shorts. As tempting as it was to use a scented candle as means of escape, it simply wasn't worth the risk.

After all, if I was careful, maybe I could avoid the coming disaster altogether.