“Ollie? Olivia? Ozzie”. The young girl in the striped sailor suit stared at the beach towel in her hands with the big embroidered” O” in the corner. . What did the “O” stand for? For her name? What was her name? There was a cool ocean breeze brushing her cheek. Her cheek felt hot and her head felt heavy. Where was she? And would it help if she knew? She needed help. Where to begin? How to save herself? She looked down at the beach towel again, where the big “O“ was embroidered. Next to it, was stitched an elegant purple orchid. That must be my name if this is my towel! What a strange name for me, a black girl with dreadlocks! But, whatever.

A desert island can be a charming place when it is warm and sunny, when your legs are buried in the sand, with white capped waves lapping at your toes and the seagulls circling overhead. If you are there with a cold sweet drink in your hand, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, Inert as a lizard on a rock in the afternoon sun. But that was not how it was for the girl in the sailor suit.

Orchid was no twelve-year-old female Robinson Crusoe. She was a city girl. Orchid did not know where she was (it did seem like a desert island) or why she was wherever that was or how she got there, breal ut worst of all, she didn’t know who she was either, or even if her name really was Orchid!

The white capped waves were lapping away at the shore, the sand was golden and warm, and the seabirds were circling overhead. Everything was in sync, but Orchid was lost. No, Orchid was stranded, Orchid was lost at sea. She had lost more than her way; it seemed she had lost her memory. Did Orchid have– what did they call it – amnesia?

A sandpiper landed on the big “O” on her towel, staring at her, cocking its head from side to side, as if to say, “What are you doing here with us birds? Here, where there are no other humans?”

“If only you could talk”. Orchid watched the little bird skitter away, a tear running down her cheek.

Was she all alone with the speechless sea, the sand, and the birds? How had she gotten here? Was anyone coming to rescue her? Did anyone know she was here? Did anyone care?

She felt foggy. Orchid squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head so angrily her beaded braids flew from side to side, making a hollow clacking noise.

“Think, think. Think, Orchid.”

“Where do you live, Orchid, or whoever you are? Surely not here. Nobody lives here, do they?”

But was that true? Was this a real deserted island like you read about in books?

Were there real wild animals here, like monkeys and tigers and snakes that hung from trees waiting to strangle passersby beyond the beach? Or spiders the size of cats with spindly, poisonous legs who crawled out from inside the rooks and crannies? She had seen movies and cartoons about islands like this!

At least she had shoes for her feet. Well, sandals at any rate. She slipped them on. One step in front of the other, that’s how to make progress in life, Ms. Slezack, her homeroom teacher, had told her. Of course, Ms. Slezack had probably never been out of the Bronx.

What had she done to wind up here in this godforsaken place with its (possible) spiders, snakes, monkeys, and roaming tigers? How long would it be before they all sensed she was here? How long before they came out to do away with her?

Had she been on a boat that shipwrecked?

Think, Orchid, think!

A shipwreck. If that was true, where were the remains of the shipwrecked boat? And the other people who had been on it? Had the monkeys stolen the ship’s remains and the tigers eaten the passengers? But why had they let her live, just her?

Except for the chorus of seagulls, it was disturbingly quiet. And it smelled like seaweed and salt water. Orchid walked down to the shore through the cushy warm sand, stepping around the clam and snail shells and the sparkly little rocks, stopping to look over both shoulders.

Ah, wait. Clams! Maybe her memory, or what was left of it, was beginning to return. Like the light coming on in a dark room. In her mind, she could see clams on the half shell with wedges of lemon on the side. In front of her on a plate on an elegant white tablecloth. Clams Provencal ! Where had she eaten that ? On the ship? At home (wherever that was)? With friends or family (if she had any?)

If only she had a mirror so she could see her face. That would help. She felt frightened and groggy.”Help, help!! I don’t belong here. Please, someone, come and get me.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t do that. It scares the gulls. This is their home. We’re only visitors.”

It was a boy’s voice.

"You fell asleep after taking that allergy medication. Maybe you took too much? Not everybody is comfortable being on a desert island, even a make-believe one. That med must really have knocked you out, Olive. “

“Olive? My name is Olive? I’m named after a vegetable, not a flower?”

Olive took a closer look at the young boy, who was probably a young man, not a boy, dressed in khaki shorts and a hoodie. He seemed friendly.

“I guess you’re not fully awake yet, but your eyes are open and you're upright. That's progress. I'm Ethan. Here, are you ready to take a look at these again?”

“Is the ship coming back? Were you on it, too? Are there wild animals back there ?”

Olive took the stack of papers from his hand without looking at them.

“Wild animals? No, just the camel, but it isn’t here yet. Maybe you need a longer nap. Those meds can really knock you out sometimes. Let me check with Mr. Fleishman. “

“A camel?? Mr. Fleishman? Is he the captain of the ship?

“What ship? No, he’s the production director, Olive. Remember?”

“You mean this isn't the jungle? Or a desert island?”

“Well, sort of. An imaginary one. But we’re really on a beach in Santa Monica. Maybe you’re too groggy to remember…”

“Clams Provencal,” Olive said, looking at the young man. Would it mean something to him?

“Yep, that was dinner last night at the Shoreline. You remember that, all right.”

Olive looked down at the papers in her hand. “What are these?”

Maybe she was being arrested or deported? Is that what the papers were about?”

“That’s the script in your hand. “It’s a movie, Olive. You are Orchid! Check out the title.”

Olive turned back to the first page.

“Orchid Overboard,” it read on the first page.

“Turn the page, Olive!”

She turned the page.

ORCHID OVERBOARD, it read.

And underneath, she read

In her debut role…. Olive Firth Taylor.

Olive sighed. A cool breeze brushed her cheek.