It’s hard to make out faces between flashes of the strobe lights. I gasp when someone trips, falling into the pool, but he resurfaces laughing, even though his lip is bleeding.
What does dust do, exactly? I shake my head, and as I do, the lights from the floodlights seem to drag across my field of vision. I guess I’m about to find out.
My circle halfway complete, I stop behind the DJ’s table, even though here the music is so loud I can’t hear myself think. I stand on my tiptoes, craning my neck to see over bodies bouncing up and down with the beat. A shirtless boy carrying a skateboard looks like Michael from behind, but then he turns and I see his eyes are a dark, muddy brown—nothing like my brother’s. I hear a laugh that sounds like John’s, but I can’t for the life of me find the person it’s coming from.
Suddenly, the music stops—a break between songs, something even the worst DJs know to avoid. But I’m grateful for the silence, for the way the bodies stop dancing, for the stillness that allows me to look around in peace. There, directly opposite me, clear across the party, is Jas, leaning against the side of the house. He raises his eyebrows when he sees me staring, and I immediately drop my gaze, looking at his shoes—boots that peek out from under dark, tight jeans, standing out against the sea of flip-flops and sandals and bare feet.
The music starts up again, louder than before. When I look up, Jas is gone. Shit.
“Wow,” I say, and the word feels sticky in my mouth, like I’ve just swallowed a spoonful of syrup. “Wow,” I say again, slower this time, remembering what the boy at the door told me: take all the time you need.
All the time I need for what?
To find Jas, that’s right. I smile. Wait, I was already smiling. I’m smiling so wide my jaw hurts, but then it doesn’t hurt. The ache is sweet. I press my hands to my cheeks, soft as silk. Soft as a kiss. Even my teeth feel like satin.
I shake my head.
I’m looking for Jas. I’m looking for Jas. I’m looking for Jas.
“No need to shout, sugar,” someone says.
I look up and see a boy wearing a T-shirt and board shorts, like almost everyone else here. He’s got a beer bottle in one hand, and his other arm is slung around a bikini-clad girl. I didn’t realize I was shouting. I didn’t realize I was saying a word out loud.
“He’s right over there.”
“Where?” I say, looking in the direction in which he’s pointing. There are those blue eyes again, so bright even in the darkness. I wonder what it would be like to stand close to those eyes. Would it feel warm, like standing next to a fire, or cold, like standing beside an enormous block of ice?
Jas is right where I saw him, leaning against his house. Maybe he never moved. Slowly, careful not to blink—I don’t want to lose sight of him again—I begin making my way across the backyard to Jas. My feet feel fuzzy on top of the wooden porch—wait, when did I take my shoes off?—and then it feels like I’m weightless, like gravity stopped existing at all and there’s nothing, not a thing, tethering me to the ground, and I’m floating toward the handsome boy with the dark jeans and the black boots. But without gravity, there wouldn’t be any waves, and even with the music pounding in my ears, I can still hear the waves crashing against the beach below.
“Where are my brothers?” I shout, and Jas’s blue eyes narrow in confusion. I say it again. I say their names. I say Witch Tree. Or maybe I don’t say anything. It doesn’t feel like my mouth is moving. I try again: brothers, John and Michael, Witch Tree. But the look on Jas’s face doesn’t change, doesn’t shift with even the slightest hint of recognition. Instead, he reaches for me.
“Wendy, how much did you take, sweetheart?” He pulls me close, and his hands are cool against my skin, refreshing as rain.
I let myself be folded in against him, my back against his front. I close my eyes; it feels like Jas is going to take care of me, wrapped around me like a blanket. He smells delicious, like Tide and salt and beer.
“Don’t worry, it’ll wear off eventually,” he says, whispering the words into the back of my hair, his breath soft and cool and soothing, his voice deep.
How does he know my name? I never told him my name. Wait, that’s right, Belle told him my name. Belle, who knew my brothers, knew they were dusters. And Jas supplies the dusters.
“No,” I say, shaking my head and disentangling myself from him, even though the minute my body separates from his, I miss his touch. What the hell is in this drug that it makes me long to be close to the person who sold dust to my brothers?
“No,” I repeat, more certain this time. I say the words again: brothers, John and Michael, Witch Tree. But this time, when Jas reaches for me, I manage to dance out of his reach. I can feel my face falling, crumbling up like it’s made of paper and someone has thrown water on it.
Not water. Tears. I’m crying.
But the tears feel so good on my skin that soon I’m cooing like a baby.
“You can’t catch me!” I shout, gleeful as a little kid playing tag. But then I trip, hitting the ground hard.
Jas steps forward, concern knitted into his brows, but I want to tell him it’s okay. The fall didn’t hurt. Even the gravel against my cheek feels good. I taste something I don’t recognize, not at first. Blood. I must have bitten myself. It tastes as good as chocolate cake.
I stand up; it feels like I’m bouncing off the ground.
Jas reaches for me again; I think maybe he’s going to catch me, but I dart away. He reaches for me again, wrapping his arms around mine. The muscles in my arms ache deliciously, sore from all the paddling I did this afternoon. Was that just this afternoon? It seems like a million years ago.
There’s no reason for me to stay here with Jas, not anymore. He doesn’t even know what I’m talking about, doesn’t even know my brothers’ names. But I don’t want to leave either. Not when everything here feels so good.
20
I’m not in the backyard anymore. I’m not anywhere. Or maybe I’m everywhere. Was my skin always this soft? There is a set of stairs beneath me. Not cool tiles like the floor at Pete’s house on the cliffs or in the glass house on the hill. These stairs are soft and plush, and so hot I think they must be on fire.
Fire is so beautiful. Really, it travels in waves, just like the ocean.
I’m not alone. Someone is holding on to my waist, pulling me up, up, up over the hot stairs. Carpet. These stairs are covered in carpet.
“You’re gonna be fine, Wendy,” Jas says, his voice deep and rich. He’s so close, I can still smell him.
Wait: it’s quiet. So quiet. There’s no music, no party. The house is awash with light: the sun is shining brightly through the windows. It’s daytime. The party must have ended hours ago.
But not for me. I spin away, dancing in the sunlight, the carpet warm and soft beneath my feet. Funny that Jas’s house is carpeted. Houses by the beach usually have bare floors. Carpets can be ruined by sand and salt too easily.
Jas laughs. “These new pills stay with you for a long time,” he says.
I shake my head. What does he mean, these new pills? Oh, that’s right, the dust. For some reason, this seems insanely funny, and I start laughing so hard that I think I’ll never stop, so hard that I can feel my abdominal muscles wince at the effort of taking my next breath, but I can’t stop.
Wendy Darling is not the kind of girl who takes drugs. Wendy Darling doesn’t even stay out past curfew. But there’s no curfew anymore, not where I live now, not with Pete in the house on the cliffs. In Pete’s house, they can stay on the beach all night just to make sure that they’re there when the waves peak first thing in the morning.
I shake my head. I don’t live in the house on the cliffs anymore. Do I live here, with Jas? No. Jas is bad. I don’t like Jas.
“I don’t like you,” I say, but there’s still laughter in my voice. “It’s all your fault,” I add.
My words must surprise him, because he drops my arm, and the next thing I know, I’m running, running away
from him. Out of his house and down stairs that are wooden and rickety, dirty and covered in sand. And then I feel the sand beneath my feet. I’m on the beach. The sun is shining yellow and red and pink on my back—wait, it’s sunset, not sunrise, when did that happen? I have the whole beach to myself, and I spin around, spin around, dancing to music that only I can hear.
But then he is beside me again, dancing right along with me.
Why did he follow me here? Why won’t he let me out of his sight?
“Come back to the house please, Wendy.” And he says it so politely, so softly, with such a smile playing on the edges of his lips, that I say okay and let him lead me back up and over the cliffs. A cool breeze rises off the ocean, following us back to Jas’s house, making me shiver.
I wonder just how long we were dancing on the beach, just how much time we’ve spent together. Wait, I’ve been on the beach with Jas before.
“What did you mean when you said I looked different?”
“What are you talking about, sweet girl?”
“On the beach. You said living in Kensington agrees with me.”
Jas’s teeth are so white when he smiles, I bet he scares the sharks.
“I meant that you looked beautiful, Wendy.”
I laugh. What a funny word. “Bee-yoo-tee-full!” I shout, each syllable making me laugh harder.
I’m in a bed. The softest bed in the entire world, softer even than the bed in the house on Brentway. I start laughing again: did I really help rob a house? The sheets in this bed are cotton, but they’re silky as satin, and the pillows are fluffy beneath my head. The room is dark, but my eyes are wide open. Suddenly, I’m thirsty, thirstier than I’ve ever been in my whole life. I open my mouth to ask for water, but my throat is too parched to say a word. But then I roll over and a tall glass of water is here on the floor beside the bed, waiting for me.
And sitting beside the glass, he is still there. Refilling my glass, offering me coffee and tea, crackers and Popsicles.
Oh my god, a Popsicle would be so delicious right now. How did he know that?
Well, of course he knows that. He knows exactly what a person high on dust would want. Which reminds me of why I came to him in the first place. Why I took this drug in the first place. I open my mouth to ask my questions, but instead of speaking, I’m coughing. He hands me another glass of water, so cold, so delicious, that I wonder why I ever wasted time drinking anything other than water in the first place.
I sit up. I stand. I shout question after question, and I swear I can see my words hitting Jas like bullets, sliding down his body like ink.
I drop the empty glass on the floor and collapse into the bed. His hand reaches out for me, brushing my hair away from my face. I coo like a baby. His touch feels so good. He drops his hand and slides across the floor, backing away from the bed, putting some distance between us. But he stays where I can see him, disappearing only to bring me more water, an orange-flavored Popsicle, a plate piled high with crackers and cookies.
Why is he still with me? Why does he care?
21
I wake up on the ground.
I’m not supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be spending this summer at home, with my parents, shopping for towels and pillows to bring with me to Stanford in the fall. I’m supposed to be on the beach with Fiona, slathering on sunscreen while she sprays herself with tanning oil, watching from a distance while she and Dax splash hand in hand through the waves.
“This is all wrong,” I say out loud, and my throat feels like it’s on fire. I swallow, cringing at the sour taste in my mouth.
Someone is grabbing me. I turn toward the sensation, expecting to see Jas, but instead I see Fiona’s face, hear Fiona’s voice saying, “My god, Wendy, what happened to you?”
Even though she’s standing right beside me, it sounds like she’s miles away. She repeats her question, louder this time. She’s in her pajamas, her eyes still cloudy with sleep. I must have woken her.
The scent of eucalyptus tells me where I am. I’m sitting on Fiona’s front porch; my fingers are still pressing her doorbell. I drop my hand into my lap. I’m shivering. How did I get here?
I close my eyes, willing myself to remember anything that happened over the past few days. I remember kissing Pete on the cliffs. I thought nothing had ever felt as good as those kisses; I thought nothing ever would.
But in a flash I remember Jas’s party. Pete’s kisses didn’t even feel as good as falling to the ground felt when I was on dust.
I went to the party looking for answers about my brothers. Did I even remember to ask Jas about them? I don’t know. I wonder if that’s what happened to my brothers; if they simply forgot to come home after they took dust, if they simply forgot that my parents and I were back in the glass house waiting for them.
I remember running down the beach, the waves crashing in their perfect rhythm, one right after another, a surfer’s paradise. I remember the shadow of someone else beside me. I remember reaching for Pete and finding Jas instead.
I let Fiona lift me off the ground and pull me into her house.
My car is parked in the driveway beside us, but there’s no way I could have driven it here, not in the state I’m in.
I may never stop crying. Sometimes it comes in choking, wracking sobs and sometimes it’s silent tears streaming down my face and filling my throat with the taste of salt water.
I cry until I think there can’t possibly be any water left in me for more tears, and then I cry some more.
Fiona’s mother is standing just inside the doorway. She’s wearing her bathrobe.
“Wendy?” she asks, like she’s not sure it’s really me. “What are you doing here?” She looks from me to Fiona, a dozen questions just waiting to be asked.
But before she can ask a single one, I ask one of my own.
“What time is it?”
“It’s six in the morning,” she answers.
“Exactly?”
She glances at a clock behind her. “Six-oh-seven,” she says.
I actually stop crying for a second. That’s how good it feels to know exactly what time it is.
Fiona whispers that I should go to her room. Even in my addled state, I know exactly how to get from the front door to Fiona’s room; remember, from years of countless sleepovers, how much Fiona hates being woken up in the morning.
I climb into her bed, her pink sheets as familiar to me as my own. I wrinkle my nose because there is a smell here I don’t recognize. Something new mixed in with Fiona’s shampoo and the fancy detergent her housekeeper uses.
It’s Dax, I realize with a start. Dax’s smell is all over.
I nestle deep under her covers, letting myself be drenched in her scent and Dax’s, too. Willing away the smells of Kensington, of the beach, of the ocean, of Pete, of Jas.
“Wendy,” Fiona says slowly, “I’m calling your parents.”
“No,” I manage to get out between sobs. “Wait.”
I really don’t know why I’m crying like this. I’ve never been much of a crier. Maybe these tears are just a chemical reaction, some dip in my neurotransmitters from everything the drug used up. Everything it’s still using up as it snakes its way through my system.
“I lied to you,” I say carefully, struggling to hold my voice even. “I wasn’t at a hotel all this time, grieving.”
Fiona seems disappointed in me. “Where were you?” she asks carefully.
“I was looking for my brothers,” I say, and then the floodgates open. I tell her everything: about Kensington Beach, about the waves that flow like clockwork and the sand as soft as flour. I tell her about Jas and dust, and my brothers getting kicked out and leaving to surf Witch Tree, about cliffs and the tiles in the house that never got dirty. I even tell her about the party and the drug so powerful that it made lights bleed and pain a pleasure. I tell her about everything.
Everything but Pete. I don’t make a decision to leave him out, not exactly. But when I tell the
story, he just kind of stays out of it. Maybe I’m still too embarrassed that I fell for him when I should have known better.
While I speak Fiona holds my hand, and sometimes she stops to hug me. She nods when she should, her eyes widen when they should, they even brim with tears when I tell her that my brothers were hooked on drugs. When I finish, I say, “I know it sounds crazy. I know I must look crazy.”
Fiona shakes her head warmly. “No,” she says. “It all makes perfect sense.”
I’m so grateful for her understanding that I begin crying again, and Fiona pulls me into a hug.
“You need to get some rest,” she says soothingly. “Lie down. Go to sleep.”
“I need some rest,” I echo, remembering that I was up all night. Fiona pulls the covers up around me like I’m a little kid and closes the door gently behind her.
Before it clicks shut, she says, “Everything’s going to be okay.”
I close my eyes and welcome sleep.
I awake to whispers.
I don’t know who Fiona is talking to, but whoever it is, she’s telling them my story; telling them about Kensington Beach, and dust, and my brothers. I get up and open the door.
Fiona and my parents are standing in the hallway outside.
“Mom, Dad,” I say, and they look at me sharply, sadly, almost guiltily, as though they were doing something to me behind my back. I try to ignore my pounding headache. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right away. I thought I could handle it by myself. I was wrong, I know I was wrong. Did you call the police? Tell them to reopen the case? To head to Witch Tree, wherever that is?”
I try to smile, but my parents look so devastated that it’s impossible.
“Wendy,” my father says gently, “your brothers—”
“I know, I know. They’re addicts. It’s bad. But—”
“No,” he says firmly. “No.”
“I didn’t want to believe it at first either.”
“Wendy,” he says again, “your brothers are dead.”
I shake my head; they don’t understand.
“Wendy. Your brothers died months ago. They found their boards up the coast, destroyed.”
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