Shit.
I bumped into MK and Annabelle in the hallway and took the stairs carefully, Lizzie still in my arms. MK and Annabelle followed with heavy, lumbering steps.
We should have heard the motor by now, the sound splitting the night. Instead, Peter came racing back up the pathway.
“What’s going on?” I called.
“The boat’s gone,” he panted, passing us at a breathless pace. “I’m calling the police, the water taxis, the Coast Guard, anyone I can get on the phone.”
“The boat’s gone,” I repeated. “And so is Megan.”
I turned to MK, and his face was pale, realization dawning. For once, he had the decency to look ashamed.
Megan
In some ways, those minutes on the boat, floating out into the darkness between The Island and Yarmouth, were the worst moments of my life—worse than my father dying, even worse than those moments in the gazebo with Michael, when I was already promising myself I would survive.
I couldn’t make the same promise to myself now. After the house was finally quiet, I’d lugged my duffel bag down the stairs, out the door and down the footpath, loading it with a mighty heave into the Mabrey’s fishing boat. Too late, I realized that the bottom of the boat was filled with a few inches of sludge from the day’s excursions, and no one had bothered to tip it over. Well, shit. Wherever I was going, I would arrive with damp clothes and ruined books.
Behind me, The Island’s quiet was ominous, the sound of waves and wind indistinguishable from each other. Get out of here, get out of here now. I untied the knots, freeing the boat from the pier, and pushed off with an oar. For a dizzy moment, the boat spun, directionless, while I steadied it. I knew the motor would be too loud; it would split the night and wake everyone back at the house. I would have to row, at least until I was far enough away to risk the noise.
I struggled to get both of the oars in place, eventually finding a shaky rhythm. Sweat dripped into my eyes. My arms were instantly tired. If I’d known I was going to have to row alone in the middle of the night on the Atlantic Ocean, I would have taken a different PE class than beginning jazz dance. What if I never made it to shore? What if the motor didn’t work, or the boat took on water, or a giant wave came over the side, washing me into the ocean?
These were good questions, and I focused on them, stroke by stroke. The next one—what was I going to do when I got to shore?—was harder to answer. But I didn’t doubt that I’d done the right thing. I couldn’t stay on The Island one more night, not under the same roof as Lauren’s scorn and Mrs. Mabrey’s indifference, to say nothing of the threat that was Michael, sleeping just down the hall.
Something bumped against the side of the boat, and as a reflex, I leaned over, seeing nothing but the lapping of the water, not even my own face reflected darkly back to me.
I didn’t allow myself to turn around until The Island was far behind me, ringed by its exterior lights. It was beautiful and fantastical, a dream and a prison. From this distance, the house itself was solid and massive, like a natural element, formed over time, impermeable and everlasting. I thought about everyone back there, sleeping in their beds—Mr. and Mrs. Mabrey, Kat and Peter and sweet, spoiled Lizzie; the horror show that was Michael; the Brewster-Holmeses in their cabins; and Lauren, the loss that would hurt the most. Lauren who had been so kind and funny and clueless; Lauren who was now my enemy.
Here was where it ended, here in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of our lies.
There would be no more Lauren and Megan.
I pulled the cord to start the engine, but nothing happened. Deep breath. I remembered how easily Lauren had done it, how she’d said, “Hold on, hot stuff,” when I picked that moment to crawl over a bench to get closer to the stern. How did she make it look so effortless? Because she’d done it her whole life. Because everything was easy for her. I pulled again, too slow and too weak. Damn. What the hell was I doing? It was freezing, and I was alone, wearing tennis shoes weighted down with seawater. At this moment, no one on earth knew where I was, and no one was waiting for me to arrive on the mainland. I couldn’t tell how much time had passed since I left The Island—ten minutes? Half an hour? Longer?
Then I remembered Dad’s long-ago lesson in our front yard and gave the cord another yank, this one quick and decisive. Like a lawnmower. The boat shot through the water, nearly knocking me off balance.
I was aiming for the lights of Yarmouth; beyond that, it didn’t matter. The Mabreys would find their boat or they wouldn’t. Jordana would probably be the one to notice it was missing; by the time everyone gathered for breakfast, it would be clear that I was gone, too. The boat would be an inconvenience for them—they would have to call the water taxi and figure out something once they got to Yarmouth, but at that moment I didn’t particularly care about inconveniencing the Mabreys.
For once, I was going to care about me.
I almost sobbed with relief when I could make out the landmarks I recognized—the restaurant at the end of the wharf, with its gaudy lobster outlined in blinking red lights, the ferry building with its slanted roof. I tried to slow like I’d seen Lauren do countless times over that summer, but I cut the engine too late, misjudging the landing and crashing hard into the side of another boat tethered to the wharf. The noise was loud enough that I figured someone would come running, but the only movement was the water churning against the sides of boats, jostling them gently against their moorings. I hadn’t paid close attention to the knots Lauren made when she secured the boat, so I tied the same simple loop twice, my fingers fumbling in the dark. It would do. It would have to do. I reached for my soggy duffel bag, nearly losing my balance as I threw it over my shoulder.
And then, for the first time since I’d dried my tears in the upstairs bathroom, I allowed myself to cry, just a little.
* * *
Somewhere between The Island and Yarmouth, I’d made a decision without knowing I was making one. I wasn’t going to the hospital, and I wasn’t going to the police. To do either one was to put myself squarely in the path of the Mabreys for the foreseeable future, and possibly for the rest of my life. Michael would deny any accusation I made, and the wagons would circle. It had already happened—Mrs. Mabrey must have known, and she’d turned away. Lauren hadn’t even questioned her brother’s version of events. She’d already framed me as the jealous slut, bent on getting revenge. If I told the truth, I would be reminded, over and over, that I was a no one from nowhere, that the Mabreys had the kind of power that could buy justice, that could shape truth.
I remembered Lauren’s story, the dark secret of her boyfriend who had ended up dead in a prison yard. The pot had been found in Lauren’s backpack, but she’d never been charged. Even with the evidence right there, she’d walked free. It would be the same with Michael. The semen that was still crusted between my legs only proved we’d had sex, a story he’d already told. Somehow, I would be the bad girl, the ungrateful houseguest, the horny roommate, the girl who was plotting to bring down a modern-day Camelot.
And then there was me—all the lies I’d told, but the truths, too. Maybe Lauren was right now unburdening herself in front of her family, telling them what I was really like, a fiction cobbled together from my foolish bravado. Oh, please. She’s had a lot of boyfriends. Maybe she would even offer up my darkest truth, the pillow I’d pressed over my father’s face and held there, willing myself not to feel anything, until he was gone. Do you know she actually killed her father? This was all the evidence they needed, wasn’t it? Megan Mazeros couldn’t be trusted, not even as a character witness for her own character.
No, I wouldn’t put myself through that. I would do anything not to see the Mabreys again, even if it meant staying silent about Michael’s crime.
* * *
We’d passed the bus station on the way into Yarmouth six weeks ago, but it looked different at night, buses lined up sil
ently next to their platforms, casting giant rectangular shadows in the moonlight. It was after two-thirty, according to the clock over the locked gate. The station opened at five-thirty, and there were buses to Portland every forty-five minutes, beginning at six-fifteen. That was nearly four hours from now. My elbow throbbed and the cut on my knee stung, but more pressing was my general exhaustion and the niggling edge of panic. Would the Mabreys report their boat missing, sending someone from the Yarmouth police department out to find me wandering through the streets? Would one of the Mabreys themselves locate me before I could get on a bus and on my way to safety, away from them?
I left my duffel bag on the bench outside the bus station and crossed the street to an ATM, drawing curious looks from a man in a pickup truck that rattled slowly past. The town stretched in front of me, its streets deserted, gutters littered with food wrappers and tourist debris. I withdrew my daily limit, two hundred and fifty dollars in crisp twenties and a ten. Thirty-eight dollars would get me a bus ticket to Boston, but what would I do when I arrived there, a day earlier than scheduled and on a federal holiday?
Back at the bus station, I lay down on a bench, using my duffel bag as a lumpy, soggy pillow. I’d been awake for nearly twenty hours, during which time I’d survived a rape by my best friend’s brother, rowed several miles through the Atlantic and lugged a heavy duffel bag through half of Yarmouth. I had a horrible moment of déjà vu when a car turned into the empty parking lot, remembering how I’d met Joe Natolo at the bus station in Scofield. I’d thought I had it bad then. Now I was alone again, in much worse shape, with fewer options.
The car—navy with white lettering on the side—stopped in front of me. A-1 TAXI, PORTLAND. The driver, an older man with a trim white beard, called through the open window, “You heading somewhere?”
I sat up. “Can you take me to Boston?”
He whistled. “That’s a couple of hours. Maybe less at this time of night.”
“How much?”
“Hundred and fifty,” he said.
I nodded.
He left the taxi idling while he loaded my bag into the trunk. I climbed into the back seat, numb and relieved. I noted the identification badge pinned to the dashboard: Jim Perkins. We navigated Yarmouth’s dark streets, its slowly blinking traffic lights, its credit unions and crab shacks.
“You got an address in Boston?” he asked, just as I was drifting off.
“Cambridge,” I said. “Harvard.”
Jim whistled, studying me in the rearview mirror. It occurred to me that he was the age my dad would have been, with the same kind eyes. “Harvard. Not bad.”
I unbuckled my seat belt and curled up across the back seat, staring out at the purple-black sky. I would have to call someone when I got to Boston, but none of the options looked any better than they had a few hours ago.
Despite all logic, I wanted to talk to Lauren. Since I left Kansas, she’d been the hearer of all my thoughts, the holder of all my secrets, but she was the last person I could talk to now.
Would she be worried about me in the morning, the same as I’d felt when she went to New York? Somehow, I didn’t think so.
Once, Lauren had told me that the Mabreys would pay two million dollars to keep their scandals out of the media, and I’d laughed, thinking it was a strange kind of joke, political humor that I just didn’t get. Now the number seemed very specific, a calculation of risks versus benefits. How much was their son’s future worth to them? I tried to imagine myself cornering Senator and Mrs. Mabrey, presenting them with evidence and demanding a specific amount of money. No—it probably didn’t happen like that at all. These things undoubtedly involved lawyers and mediation, a piece of paper pushed back and forth across a table, the dollar amount being negotiated, like the purchase of a used car.
What was the going rate for my body? I was twenty-one, with larger breasts than I needed, hips like a bell curve, a scar on my forearm from where I’d scalded myself with hot coffee at the Woodstock Diner, a dimple that only showed when I really, really smiled. What was all of that worth? Or would the calculation relate to time, in seconds rounded to minutes, from the moment Michael’s hand had groped my ass, to the moment I’d been on my back, staring up at the peeling paint of the ceiling of the gazebo? More likely any calculation would take into account our futures, our relative worth. Whatever amount I was offered would represent only a fragment of Michael’s potential future—lawyer, politician, bearer of the family name.
I must have slept at some point, because I woke to Jim asking a question. I ran a tongue along my teeth, grimy and unbrushed. My throat was dry—the last thing I’d had to drink was a Sam Adams on the beach during the fireworks. It took a full minute for me to remember why I was sore—my arms bruised, legs aching.
Michael Mabrey, the gazebo.
I sat up, blinking. The sky was a lighter shade of purple now, buildings visible out the window. “Sorry, what?”
“We’re in Cambridge, coming up on Harvard Square. Is there anywhere particular you want me to drop you? I mean—pretty much everything is closed at this time of day.”
I asked if there was a coffee shop nearby, and Jim circled for a few blocks before finding a bakery where a woman was setting out chairs on the sidewalk. I counted off one hundred and fifty dollars, but Jim handed fifty back to me. “Do me a favor,” he said, shoving the bills into his pocket. “Call your parents, would you? It’s a holiday. I bet they’d love to hear from you.”
I spent the morning drinking strong coffee and eating day-old bagels at the bakery, trying to figure out what came next. Most of Cambridge seemed to be closed for the Fourth, and traffic outside the window was light, only a few pedestrians passing the storefront in jogging shorts, their dogs panting at their sides. I felt safer the farther I was from the Mabreys, until it occurred to me that they knew I would be here. They’d asked incessant questions about my program, and I’d obliged with what I was studying, where I was staying, what my daily schedule looked like. It wouldn’t take more than a phone call to the program administration to track me down.
I asked the woman behind the bakery counter about hotels in the area, and I watched her unsubtle gaze take me in—the matted hair, the bruises on my arms, the duffel bag that contained, for all practical purposes, everything I owned. “There is a place,” she said, and drew me a map on a rectangular napkin.
“The Algonquin,” I said, reading the name.
“Yeah, it’s not too fancy or anything, but...” Her eyes lingered on my wrist, where a bruise was forming. Michael had held me there, pinning my arms over my head. “Listen, if you don’t mind my asking—”
I snatched the napkin from the counter, my elbow smarting from the motion. “That’s perfect, thanks.”
* * *
The Algonquin was better than I expected, although after a summer on The Island, my standards had been greatly inflated. I paid sixty-eight dollars for a room on the fourth floor. The pillows were lumpy and stained beneath their cases, but the bedding was clean. I tried to pick up the remote control that operated the tiny television in one corner, but it was anchored to the nightstand. The door had a lock with a deadbolt, but just in case, I wedged the room’s only chair beneath the knob, then settled fully clothed onto the bed and sank into a relieved sleep.
When I woke, it was dark, and I was surrounded by gunfire. No, not gunfire—fireworks. I peeked out the window and saw an explosion high in the sky, out over distant water.
Back on The Island, the Mabreys were probably watching the fireworks from Yarmouth, the adults lined up in the sand on the beach, the kids splashing in the water. Lauren would be there with her camera. Michael would be there, maybe chuckling to himself over how easy I’d been, how he hadn’t even had to break a sweat. Mrs. Mabrey would be grateful that I was gone.
Forget about them.
Forget everything.
I found the
bathroom down the hall, showered without any soap, and dried myself on a scratchy towel that may or may not have been clean. It was late when I ventured out into Cambridge, clutching my money and identification inside the front pocket of my jeans, not trusting the security of the Algonquin. More people were outside now, drinking in bars, wandering the sidewalks and lingering in the square. I bought a slice of pizza from a vendor and then went back for another, washing it down with a warm can of Coke. Following street signs, I wandered the perimeter of the university. It was massive, much larger than I expected, the gates imposing and immense. Students milled past in groups, laughing and talking. Someone yelled the word entropy! and was answered by a call of “Long live entropy!” from a nearby group. I was the same age as they were and dressed roughly the same, but I wasn’t one of them. They were brimming with confidence as if they knew their place in the world, and this was it.
That would be me tomorrow. Anytime between noon and four, I would gather my belongings from the Algonquin and walk down Massachusetts Avenue to the campus, where I would find Boylston Hall and complete my registration. I’d read the letter from the PEW committee often enough to have memorized the important details—registration until four, room assignments, meeting with program organizers in the dorm, dinner, opening lecture and mixer. Tomorrow, I would be one of those students, talking about literary theory, name-dropping Foucault and Derrida. I would put Lauren and Michael and the whole mess of the Mabreys behind me, and I would do it on my own.
I decided to cut through one of the parks near campus, trying to avoid being jostled on the crowded sidewalks. Cambridge was drunkenly celebrating. I moved forward, still clutching my half-full Coke, trying to embrace the feeling of being one of them, someone who belonged. Every noise had me on alert—the random crackle and pop of fireworks, the occasional sound of glass breaking as a bottle hit the ground or went clanging into one of the giant metal trash bins. You’re okay, I told myself. This is okay. This is all normal.
Here We Lie Page 27