by Amber Hart
“Am, too.”
“Liar,” she challenges.
“I am a liar,” I admit, swallowing down my trepidation. “Just not about this.”
The sun trades off with the moon. There’s nothing like a night in the bog. Cicadas buzz so loudly that I swear they’ve found a way into my eardrums.
“Trust me this time.” I practically have to yell.
Willow laughs. “Trust you? That’s rich.”
I see her point.
“Look, all I know is that Samantha was upset. She called and asked if she could come over. I said no. I never should have let her come the one time I did. Usually we went to her house.”
Willow’s eyes narrow further.
“That’s not the point,” I say. “Point is, I said ‘no,’ and that was the end of it.”
“Yet still, she ended up here.”
I nod. “She must have come anyway. I didn’t know. I never saw her. Ask my family. I was with them all night.”
Willow looks me directly in the eyes. “See, right now I think you might be telling the truth, but maybe not.”
“I am.” I might be mean sometimes, but not mean enough to kill.
Willow shifts, and a spider crawls dangerously close to her arm. She pays it no mind.
“Fine, let’s say I believe you,” Willow says. “That really only leaves more questions like: who would do such a thing?”
“Believe me, I’d like to know.”
Because that means Willow’s family and my family aren’t the only ones out here.
11
Willow
I don’t speak a syllable for nearly two hours. I know because that’s the amount of time I’ve spent walking, rowing, climbing the swamplands, seeking relief from being stuck indoors, and thinking about the dead girl. My parents keep me company, searching for elusive birds that apparently, for whatever godforsaken reason, need complete quiet to show their faces.
As soon as Mom heard about the murder, she insisted we have a day together, picking me up directly from school to do so. Probably mostly to make herself feel better for leaving me alone so much. Dad, having questioned me about Beau’s connection to the victim, doesn’t seem convinced that my hanging out with Beau is a good idea, no matter how many times I tell him that the police cleared him of any wrongdoing and that Beau has an alibi. I don’t blame Dad for looking out. He only means to keep me safe. Mom believes in the police findings, thankfully. If there were reason to doubt, she’d insist I don’t see Beau again. But instead, she encourages me to keep close to a friend.
“I don’t think the birds are coming,” I say, glancing at my mother.
“They’ll come,” she insists. “You just haven’t taught your patience how to wait yet.”
How much longer could it possibly take? It’s a couple of hours until dusk, the sun angling overhead, pressing down on us with blazing rays. I wonder if more birds come out at night like many of the other swamp creatures.
We’re sitting in a grassy spot that snakes insist on taking from us. I keep having to warn them off with a long stick. So far only one of the three has been venomous.
“My patience is perfectly fine,” I argue.
I almost never argue with Mom. She knows instantly that something is up.
“What has that boy done now?” she asks with an all-knowing grin.
Dad glances at us but notices the keep-out sign attached to my forehead, so he says nothing.
I can’t talk to Dad about boys.
Mom is another story.
I lower my voice. “He had a girlfriend.”
“But he doesn’t anymore?”
“Right.”
“And this is a problem because…?”
“Because,” I say, sighing, “there’s a chance that he might have broken up with her for me. I hung out with him, thinking the girlfriend rumors were false. It’s so hard to tell with him. He doesn’t always come right out and say things directly. But it was true—they were together. We didn’t do anything, he and I, but still. What if I unintentionally played a part in their breakup? She came to the swamp to see Beau. I can’t help feeling guilty for that.”
Mom sighs, gently patting my hand. “Sweetheart, you can’t make decisions for someone else. What’s done is done. Try not to worry too much about the specifics. It’s horrible, yes. But it’s not your fault. You’re experimenting. Creating memories. As long as you’re safe about it, it’s not a bad thing.”
Mom is all about experimenting. It took her nearly all the years she’s been married to Dad for Gran to warm up to her free spirit. Gran likes structure and boundaries. I do, too. I also like seeing how far they stretch.
“That’s not how I wanted to start things with a boy,” I say.
Maybe I’m a bit of a romantic.
“But you like him,” Mom counters.
“I like a lot of things. Doesn’t mean they’re good for me.”
“So don’t keep him forever. Maybe just for a little while.”
Mom is the kind of parent who hands the reins to me and lets me figure out how to steer. I appreciate her leniency, even if sometimes I crave more direct advice.
“So what you’re saying is that I should go for it?” I ask.
Dad cuts in, although it might cost him his tongue. He promised not to interfere with boy issues. That’s what Mom is for.
“I’m not sure I like this plan,” he says.
“Do I need to tell your daughter some of the adventures we had at her age?”
They dated in high school. Broke up. Connected again after college. Once Mom was finished with her own experimenting.
Dad’s face goes scarlet. “Absolutely not.”
Mom smiles and kisses him so hard that he forgets what he was saying. I turn around and try not to hear whatever it is they’re doing that I’m going to pretend they’re not doing.
“We’re supposed to be quiet for the birds!” I yell.
They pull apart and laugh. We go back to not speaking. The entire time, I try to focus on the scenery and not on Beau.
It takes every filament of my being to succeed. When a bird finally lands on a low-hanging branch, Mom and Dad scribble reports in their trusty pocket notebooks. Mom hands a notebook and pencil to me, encouraging me to draw the bird. Since any reprieve is welcome, I get lost in the scratch of lead on paper, in the act of directing my attention to such an infinitesimal process, looking up every few seconds to commit another feature to memory. A shimmery blue wing. A sharp, quizzical look reflected in a beady black eye. A creature perched for viewing. My sketch is messy but surprisingly good.
“Impressive, sweetheart.” Mom looks over my shoulder at the drawing. “I should bring you along for every observation. Do you want to stay longer and wait for the next bird?”
I love my parents, but I will die of boredom if I have to stay much longer. When I glance back up, the bird is gone.
“I have a date, remember?”
Mom leans in to me. “I remember. Are you sure that’s the date you really want to be on, though?”
Somehow, Mom knows it’s Beau I truly crave, not Brody. And since I have no intention of lying to her, I remain silent. My lack of response hangs in the air, and Mom seems to watch it float by.
“Do you think it’s wrong for me to go on a date when I have feelings for someone else?” I ask. Not that Beau and I are an item. I just wonder if I should go through with my plans tonight.
“No, it’s not wrong. Go have fun. Who knows, you might actually enjoy yourself tonight. Maybe you’ll like Brody more than you like Beau,” she says.
Maybe she’s right.
Even still, when I turn to leave to head back home, when I look up at the sky and try to make shapes of the clouds, it’s Beau’s face I see.
…
I’m not sure that going on a date with Brody is smart, especially since I can’t stop thinking about Beau. But here I am. Brody seems much more likely to be boyfriend material. It’s worth a shot.
> Our double date begins just as the sun slips down the sky. Brody’s friend Yin accompanies Jorie. I hope he’s as nice as Brody. But just in case, if things turn sour, Jorie and I can leave together. No awkward goodbyes and fake excuses.
Keeping pace a step ahead of us, leading us through town to a shop that boasts a miniature golf course out back, are our dates. Seven dollars each to get in. Jorie and I offer to pay, but the boys insist that they’ve got it.
I wonder if Beau would pay for me. My gut tells me that he wouldn’t. Maybe because he sees me as an equal who can take care of myself, or maybe because he doesn’t have as many kind bones in his body as I’d like to give him credit for.
“They’ve known each other all their lives,” Jorie says. “Their parents co-own the general store in town.”
Our dates have been best friends longer than I’ve been friends with anyone.
“Think we’ll still be close, you and me, years down the road?” I ask.
Jorie’s smile could light the entire town. “Definitely. One day we’ll look back at this night and talk about how I beat you in miniature golf.”
“Hey!” I laugh. “You don’t know for sure you’ll win.”
A lady with a poof of hair held together by what appears to be an entire can of hairspray offers me a red-handled club and golf ball and Jorie a purple one.
“Here you go, sweetheart. Golf course is right out the back. Come on in for refreshments if you get thirsty. Cooler’s on the side wall over there. I might even give y’all free slushes, since it’s dead around here. Our little secret, though. Can’t have every customer wantin’ one.”
She winks and offers Brody the green club and ball and Yin the blue one.
“Thanks.” I drop a dollar into the tip jar.
It’s quiet as we step outside. A beautiful breeze slides among the buildings and cools the heat, which is maybe why no one else is here. There’s a storm on the horizon. The chalk-white moon spills over the course. Small stringed lights line each numbered section, reminding me of Christmastime, helping to ease my nerves.
“I can keep score if you want.” Brody places a miniature pad and pencil into his shirt pocket and flashes me a warm smile. I like his smile. It’s honest and genuine and nice. Unlike Beau’s wicked grins.
“That’d be great, thanks.” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and force down the nerves that lodge in my throat.
“Who wants to go first?” Brody asks.
They are opposites, Beau and Brody. Where Beau is wild and mysterious and sharp around the edges, Brody is smooth and kind, with soft eyes that match his gently smiling mouth, which quirks to one side with my assessment. His skin is beautifully dark, such a contrast to my own. His gaze fixes on me, calm and unflappable.
“Me!” Jorie says, showing a competitive side. “Y’all better be ready to buy me ice cream when I win.”
That was the deal. The winning duo buys.
“Are you any good at this?” I ask Brody.
“You’ll see.” He winks.
Turns out Brody is good. Really good. He gets a hole in one right off the bat.
“How did you do that?” I cringe at the score he’s recording for me. Okay, so I’m not the best golfer.
“There’s not much else to do around here,” he replies.
Which is true. The town is basically a row of shops that sell clothes, knickknacks, candy, ice cream, and coffee. Miniature golf is the only attraction. Which explains why both Jorie and Yin are good at it, too.
“We’re gonna lose,” I warn Brody.
He laughs and bumps my shoulder playfully. “It’s okay, I don’t mind. I’m just glad you’re here.”
Maybe I could go out with Brody again. It’s easy to talk to him. And he seems like a good guy. For a moment, I honestly do forget about Beau.
“Yes!” Jorie yells when she sinks the ball in only two shots at a super-twisty hole.
It’s my turn. It takes me eight tries to get the ball in the tiny cup.
“I forget. How does it feel to lose?” Yin jokes with Brody.
“It’s my fault. Brody is really good.” I’m bringing him down, but I honestly don’t know how to do any better.
“I know.” Yin smiles to let me know he’s only teasing. “But there’s just not enough chances for me to rub it in his face that he’s losing.”
“Because I normally beat you.” Brody laughs. I’m drawn to the deep sound.
“I like peach ice cream,” Jorie says. “In case you were wondering which to buy me.”
“Oh, shut up.” I grin.
“Are you even trying out there?” Jorie nudges my arm with her elbow.
“Would you believe me if I said I was?”
We walk to the next hole, enough space between us and the boys for Jorie to lower her voice so as to not be heard by anyone but me. “He’s watching you.”
I look up to see Brody’s eyes on me.
“He’s nice,” I say.
“Better than Beau.”
A sudden image of Beau’s face flickers across my mind, a camera lens going in and out of focus. First, a sparkling-clear Beau with sweat dripping from his temples, standing under a one-thousand-degree swamp sun. Then a blurry Brody, obscured by low-reaching fog that begins to spread like steam over the golf course. Then Beau, mouthing my name, as though calling me to him. Then Brody edging closer to me.
“Yes, better than Beau.” I think twice. “At being nice with people’s hearts, I suppose, but maybe not better in other ways.”
“Such as?”
I wonder if I should admit the truth. That I’m thinking of Beau even now. That I am comparing him to Brody.
“Such as keeping my interest.”
“You’re bored with Brody?”
“No. It’s just that Beau won’t let me be. Even when he’s not around, I can’t erase him from my mind.”
“Well, at least Brody isn’t tied to a dead girl. That ought to help ease your mind.”
I cringe and fumble with the putter in my hand. “Is that fair?”
Jorie shrugs. “Maybe.”
The wind catches her white dress and wraps it around her body. Her striped hair is decorated with a pink headband, and I think about how beautiful she looks. She put more effort into tonight than I did. I glance down at my jeans and cream top. My hair is in a messy ponytail, and I didn’t bother with makeup. If it hadn’t been for Beau taking up so much of my thoughts, I might have concentrated more on preparing for my date with Brody.
“Let’s just have fun,” Jorie says. “We’ve got three more holes, and then you can buy me ice cream.”
She runs up to knock the ball into the hole, which she does in four tries. It takes Yin four tries, too.
Brody joins me. “The trick is to hit it to the left. There’s another hole there that acts as a tunnel straight to the final hole. It’ll pop out right by it. You can get it in two tries.”
I take his advice and make it in two tries, much to my astonishment. I raise my hands in victory, a broad grin on my face. Even so, there’s nothing I can do that will push us ahead of Jorie and Yin. Not even the fact that Brody makes a hole in one five times.
“Knew it,” Jorie says with a smile.
“Fine, I’ll buy you peach ice cream,” I say.
We turn the clubs back in and make it to the sweet shop just as the first raindrops begin to fall. The sky rolls with thunderclaps and purple waves of clouds. I picture Beau standing under it all.
No.
That’s not what I should be picturing.
Brody slowly drapes a tentative arm around me, waiting for my reaction. And since I don’t want to think about Beau tonight, I lean in to Brody to tell him it’s okay, that I like him, because I honestly do. Simultaneously, I act as though I’m not at all thinking about another boy.
If only I were oblivious to my own lies.
12
Beau
The bog stretches on forever, and my curiosity goes with it. Charlotte
and Grandpa sit in the boat with me, each of us wondering the same thing.
Who’s creeping through our swamp?
No one has permission to be on our land. Old Lady Bell has given no one authorization to be on hers, either. We have a trespasser on our hands. A murderer, more like it. Finding them, if they’re still here, is now our number one priority.
Just out of reach, a snapping turtle surfaces. Its spiky shell is covered in green fuzz, and its head is as large as my fist, tipped with a beak-like jaw. Its milky eyes and size tell me that it’s old, and it’s easily one hundred pounds. One of the bigger ones I’ve seen but certainly not the biggest.
“Mom’s favorite,” Charlotte whispers.
But then her face goes blank, as though she didn’t mean to say the words. It’s too late. I’m already remembering her.
I watch, transfixed, just barely nine years old, as Mom wrangles an alligator snapping turtle into the open for Charlotte and me to see. She’s huffing and panting and completely out of breath. Her brown hair is plastered to her face, and she’s lying atop the thing like she’s wrestled an actual alligator, pushing all her weight on it to keep it still. Dad pins down the head, the most dangerous part because it has a mouth that can snap off fingers.
“Look at it,” Mom says, in awe.
She’s covered in muck from the turtle, which looks as though it’s been submerged for a while. Unlucky, he surfaced for a breath right near the shore. Of course Mom and Dad took the opportunity to jump in the water and fight it onto land. This one is a male, I can tell from sheer size.
“Must be at least one hundred and fifty pounds.” Mom huffs.
I feel as though I’m looking at a dinosaur with its prehistoric wrinkled skin and massive shell.
I glance at Mom. She’s smiling.
“Well, come on,” she says to me. “Give it a touch.”
“It’s going to storm,” Charlotte says, whipping me out of my memories.
Above us, a grumpy sky glares down, threatening to spill. We don’t mind, though. A little rain won’t deter us from finding a killer.
“You sure you didn’t do it?” Charlotte asks.
I rock the boat so she almost falls in the water with the gators.