It was what I wanted for Simon, too. At least that’s what I told myself.
“He said it’s finally starting to warm up. Yesterday it reached sixty—only a few degrees below normal for this time of year.”
“What about thunderstorms?”
“There hasn’t been a cloud in the sky for weeks.”
I relaxed in his arms and pressed my cheek to his chest. “That’s a relief.”
“There’s something else, though.”
I stared at the rippling horizon, hoped he couldn’t feel my heart accelerate.
“Vanessa?”
“It’s thawing.” It wasn’t a question.
He pulled away and lifted my chin. “It was frozen for three months.”
I nodded.
“Frozen solid, from top to bottom. Whatever was alive is dead now—and has been for a long time.”
I wanted so desperately to believe him, but too many previously unthinkable, scientifically implausible things had happened. The frequent, fleeting storms that had pummeled Winter Harbor—and only Winter Harbor. The tides that had risen and retreated four times an hour. The men who’d washed ashore, looking happier in death than they’d probably ever been in life.
And the women. The women who breathed salt water like oxygen. Who controlled the heavens. Who enchanted men and then dragged them deep below the water’s surface until their lungs exploded, their lives extinguished.
Women like me.
“I shouldn’t have told you.”
I started to protest, but he continued before I could.
“I kept going back and forth. My first instinct was to protect you from knowing and worrying for no reason… but then I couldn’t not tell you. You deserved to know.” He paused to gently brush my hair away from my face. “Not to mention, you… this… I want to do it right. I know it’s not always going to be easy, but no matter how hard it gets, I want us to always be able to talk to each other. About everything. Just like we always have.”
And there it was. The right moment. The perfect moment to tell him what he deserved to know.
The waves crashed on shore. My heartbeat drummed in my ears. Simon looked at me, his eyes concerned yet happy, so
happy, as I opened my mouth and started to speak.
“Will you swim with me?”
He kissed me then. It was long, and sweet, and almost made me forget that it shouldn’t be happening.
Almost.
CHAPTER 4
PAUL CARSONS. CHARLES Spinnaker. Aaron Newberg.
I read the names as I scrolled down the page, past photos of handsome men dancing with their wives, holding children, steering sailboats. My eyes lingered on certain words in the accompanying blocks of text: “was found,” “cause of death,” “asphyxiation.” The Winter Harbor Herald, the small town’s only newspaper, which mainly served as a guide for tourists, had gone all out in its coverage of “High-Seas Tragedies,” and continued to update the special section with images and information about the victims’ families. Before a few days ago I hadn’t visited the Web site in weeks, but after learning that the ice was melting, I was now checking it whenever I could steal a few minutes on a school library computer.
So far, the good news was that no new bodies had washed ashore. The bad news was that it was getting warmer every day. According to the site’s cartoon sun, it was currently sixty-three degrees in Winter Harbor. Temperatures would eventually drop again with the arrival of fall, but by then the harbor might be completely thawed—and it likely wouldn’t freeze again. Until this summer, it had never frozen before, not even in the dead of winter.
Before I could reach Justine’s entry, I returned to the home page. The main photo had been taken yesterday and showed two people on the harbor. One person ice-skated on a still-frozen patch; the other bobbed in an inner tube in one of the small melted pools.
Shivering, I closed out of the page and logged on to Hawthorne’s e-mail system. After each Herald visit I usually couldn’t stomach being on the computer another second, so I hadn’t checked my messages in a few days.
I watched the new e-mails fill my inbox, scanning over the usual ones about the weekly lunch menus, theater auditions, and sports tryouts. Of the new messages, only two were addressed to me personally.
The first had been sent last week.
To: Sands, Vanessa
From: Mulligan, Kathryn
Subject: College Applications
Dear Vanessa,
Congratulations! After working so hard for so long, you’ve finally made it to senior year. The upcoming months are crucial to the next phase in your educational career and will be filled with exciting opportunities and challenges. I’m meeting with each senior to discuss his or her college plans, and I’d like to schedule an appointment with you during your free period on WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, at 11:30 A.M. Please confirm upon receipt of this e-mail.
Here’s to your future!
Regards,
K. Mulligan
Guidance Counselor
I reread the e-mail, which obviously had been sent to all seniors. The only personalization besides my name was the meeting date and time.
The second e-mail, however, was for me only. It had been sent early this morning.
To: Sands, Vanessa
From: Mulligan, Kathryn
Subject: Today’s Meeting
Hi Vanessa,
I haven’t heard from you regarding today’s appointment and wanted to confirm that we’ll be meeting in my office at 11:30.
I know things probably seem quite uncertain right now. I hope you’ll let me help you sort them out.
All my best,
K.M.
I moved the mouse to delete the e-mail just as a head appeared over the top of the computer cubicle. I looked up to see Jordan Lanford, senior soccer star.
“Tragic,” he said.
“What’s that?” I asked reluctantly, returning my gaze to the computer screen.
“You there. Me here. So close yet so very far.”
My cheeks warmed. Hearing whispering, I glanced behind me. A few girls sat at a nearby table. They must’ve been under-classmen because I didn’t recognize them, but they seemed to know who I was. They talked quietly behind their hair and hands and looked at me like I’d once seen countless girls look at Justine: frowning, with their brows lowered and eyes narrowed.
Like they were jealous.
I turned back to the computer, signed out of my e-mail, and gathered my stuff.
“Where are you going?” Jordan asked. “Can I walk with you?”
“I don’t think so. But thanks.”
I hurried away from the computer terminals. When I neared the main entrance, I checked behind me to make sure he wasn’t still watching, and then veered left. I darted through the reference section and into a dark alcove nobody liked to use because of its lack of windows and Wi-Fi.
Unless, of course, they couldn’t wait for the end of the day to make out with their significant others. Which was what Parker King was doing with Amelia Hathaway on an old plaid couch.
I turned quickly, quietly, and rushed back down the aisle.
“Stop,” Amelia said.
Assuming she was talking to me, I did.
“What’s wrong?” Parker asked.
My face burned as I waited for her to point me out. They kissed again, and I was about to throw an apology over my shoulder and flee the reference section when she continued talking.
“This,” she said as clothes rustled and couch springs squeaked. “I can’t do this.”
“Actually,” Parker said, “you can. And quite well.”
This was followed by more squeaking. Taking advantage of their movement, I ducked between the ends of two bookcases and slid down one until I crouched above the floor. I peeked out once to see Parker lean toward Amelia, who pushed him away.
“I’m serious,” she said. “It was fun… but I’m kind of over the constant, meaningless hooking up.” She straighten
ed her sweater vest, patted his knee. “We had a good time, right? Let’s leave it at that.”
“But we’re not just… I’m not just—”
He was cut off as she stood up. I pulled back behind the shelf and waited until she passed before peeking out again. Parker was slouched down, his head resting on the back of the couch. He pressed his thumb and pointer finger into the corners of his closed eyes, as if to keep them from leaking.
“Wow,” I whispered. Parker King was usually the one doing the breaking up, not the other way around.
“Vanessa?” he asked, sounding confused.
I flew back behind the shelf. Hearing the couch screech again as he got up, I half stood and disappeared into the next aisle. I kept my head lowered and didn’t stand up straight until I reached the circulation desk. Then, not daring to look behind me to see if he followed, I ran the remaining distance to the library entrance.
It was the middle of the period, so the hallway was empty except for a few teachers talking outside the main office. I tried to walk normally, but when I heard the library door open behind me, I quickened my pace and darted into the first non-classroom doorway I came to.
“Vanessa!”
My back was to her, but I recognized her voice.
Ms. Mulligan. I’d fled to the one place I didn’t want to be more than the library: the guidance office. Checking the wall clock as I turned around, I saw that it was 11:45.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said.
“Don’t give it another thought. I’m just so happy to see you.”
In her office, Ms. Mulligan waited until I was sitting to close the door, like I might make a break for it. I looked around as she retrieved my file from a nearby cabinet. The main reason parents enrolled their kids in prep school was to increase their chances of being accepted into the Ivy League, and Hawthorne was no exception. Ms. Mulligan and I had spent quite a bit of time together over the past three years; in some ways, her office, with its fancy degrees and college posters, felt more familiar than anywhere else at school.
In other ways, it felt as if I’d never been there before.
“So,” she said, sitting across the desk from me.
“Dartmouth.”
“Excuse me?”
“The last time we met, you said Dartmouth was your first choice.” She removed a piece of paper and held it up so I could see her notes.
“Oh. Right.” Now I remembered. Last spring, Ms. Mulligan had been determined to get a first choice out of me so that we had a clearly defined goal. I’d said Dartmouth because that’s where I’d thought Justine would be. And what had been even more important than a college’s academics or internship opportunities was its proximity to my sister.
“Have you changed your mind?” Ms. Mulligan asked.
“I haven’t really given it much thought.”
She closed my file and crossed her arms on the desk. “Of course you haven’t.”
Here it came: she was so sorry for my family’s loss. Poor Justine. Poor me. What did I need? What could she do to help?
“My father passed away when I was seventeen.”
Or, even worse: she could relate.
“He was sick for a long time, so we knew when the end was probably near. We prepared as best we could, but it was still such a shock when it finally happened. I cried for weeks.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
She leaned toward me. “Do you know what helped get me through it?”
“School?”
“College. Planning, organizing, thinking about where I’d be in six months, a year, five years.” She sat back and studied me. “Justine was an excellent student. She applied to thirteen schools and was accepted to every one.”
I swallowed my response. Ms. Mulligan didn’t need to know that Justine had lied. She hadn’t been accepted anywhere because she hadn’t even applied. That wasn’t something Justine had wanted to share. I’d discovered the truth only on the day of her funeral, when I found a blank common application hidden underneath pictures on her bulletin board.
“Your sister knew the importance of higher education, Vanessa. She wouldn’t want you to risk yours… especially not because of her.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll definitely think about it. Soon. And hard.”
Her lips turned in as her eyes turned down. After a moment she reached for her mouse and squinted at her computer screen. “How’s this time next Monday?”
“For what?”
She started typing. “I think we should meet once a week. Even if we don’t make any big decisions right away, it will help to have time to talk things through.”
“That’s okay,” I said quickly. “I mean, thanks, but I’m sure I’ll come to a decision soon enough. My dad’s a professor at Newton Community College, so I can ask him any questions I might have about the application process.”
The printer hummed behind her. She took the paper it rolled out and handed it to me.
“A copy of the e-mail I just sent you,” she said. “Next week, same time, same place.”
I barely felt my legs as I stood, took the paper, and started for the door.
“Oh, and Vanessa?”
I paused, one hand on the doorknob.
“It does get easier. That hurts to hear… but it’s true.”
I tried to thank her, but my lips wouldn’t move. I opened the door and left without answering.
In the hallway, I swung my backpack around so that it sat against my side. As I rummaged through its contents, my lips felt like they were shriveling, shrinking. I tried licking them, but my tongue was as dry and heavy as a brick. My hands shook more every second, so it took several seconds to find the plastic bottle and yank it from my bag.
I drank as I walked. The salt water was lukewarm but felt like an icicle sliding down my throat. I emptied the bottle in five gulps and then stopped in front of a display case as the liquid did its job. Whenever a student or teacher passed by, I leaned closer to the glass and pretended to read the trophy engravings so they wouldn’t ask questions.
The third time I did this, my eyes landed on a familiar name.
Justine Sands.
Her name was in a dozen different places inside the display case—on field hockey trophies, soccer plaques, softball certificates. All of her life Justine had been the best at what-ever she did, including sports, which she’s played every season at Hawthorne.
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