The Undrowned

by K. R. Alexander

  That almost makes my stomach feel worse. It might be calm out here, but I bet anything that the school will be in full panic mode.

  Except … when I get to school, it doesn’t seem any different from before. There are kids milling about out front and talking and even laughing. Don’t they know that Rachel is missing? That she might be dead? There is a murderer walking among them right now.

  (But it was an accident. It was an accident.)

  No one looks at me twice when I make my way up to the big double doors. No one whispers secrets behind my back. They just move out of my way like they always do.

  Everything feels completely normal, and that feels completely wrong. Should I slam someone against their locker? Should I knock the homework out of that kid’s hands? I don’t want to look suspicious, but I don’t want to draw attention to myself, either.

  I settle on glaring at anyone who looks at me, making them avert their eyes or run away.

  It’s hard to keep my angry composure. I can’t stop thinking about how much trouble I’m in.

  At the very least, there should be signs posted about a missing girl. Right?

  A wave of nausea crashes within me and I stumble, grabbing on to the door to stay upright. Maybe I should go home. This was a bad idea. A really bad idea. Even if it means facing the inevitable questions and wrath of my mother, it has to be better than this.

  I’m going to crack. I know it.

  Someone walks into me. A girl the grade below me.

  “Sorry!” she squeaks. She flinches when I look at her. Expects me to scream and yell, and I know I’ve screamed at her before.

  “It’s fine,” I manage.

  Her eyebrows furrow, but she doesn’t say anything about my strange behavior, just turns and scurries off.

  Pull yourself together, Samantha. You have to be mean. You can’t look suspicious.

  I can do this.

  I don’t have a choice.

  No one else seems to care about my presence as I walk down the hall. There’s no commotion in here, no panic or tears. Kids wander and laugh just like they did outside. There aren’t any cops questioning kids on when they last saw Rachel or who she was with. No newspaper reporters interviewing teachers or students to learn more about her story.

  It’s just a normal Thursday.

  Everyone seems bubblier and louder now that it’s almost the weekend. Everyone seems happy and completely unaware of the monster in their midst.

  Once again, the normalcy makes me feel worse. Because the news will drop soon that Rachel is either missing or dead. I don’t want to spend all day on edge waiting for it to happen. I almost want to run down the hallway screaming at the top of my lungs, “Don’t you all realize she’s gone? Why don’t you seem to care? Rachel is missing! Rachel is dead!”

  I don’t do that, though. Even if the idea does take over my thoughts as I near my locker. Even if I’m equally torn between running home or running down the halls screaming. I may be freaking out, but I haven’t gone crazy. Not yet.

  My heart somewhere in my throat, I begin to gather my things. Already, the daily routine feels off—this is when I should be trying to find Rachel and demanding she give me my homework and lunch money. The thought makes me feel bad, and that’s dangerous.

  I can’t. Feel. Guilty.

  Otherwise I will be found out for sure.

  When I slam my locker shut, I catch sight of someone passing around the corner and nearly gasp.

  It can’t be.

  Long black hair. That familiar blue polka-dot top.

  No way.

  My blood goes cold as I slowly walk toward the hall. Everything else in the school seems muted, conversation and laughter dulled down to the low sound of rushing water.

  I turn the corner.

  There, by her locker as usual, is Rachel.

  I gasp and leap behind the corner, pressing my back up against the lockers and breathing heavily. My heart thuds so loud in my chest I can barely hear the two words hammering on repeat in my head.

  No way.

  No way no way no way.

  It can’t be Rachel.

  I saw her drown.

  Or at least I thought I did.

  Did she survive?

  The thought should fill me with relief, but instead it terrifies me.

  Because if she’s alive, she’ll tell someone that I pushed her.

  That I didn’t try to save her.

  That I left her there to drown and didn’t tell anyone, like a true criminal.

  How did she make it out alive? I never saw her come back up, and I know I stayed on the dock far longer than anyone can hold their breath. Did she secretly swim to the shore and sneak out without me noticing? Did she watch me and laugh at me while I panicked? Was it all some sort of creepy test or torture?

  Slowly, I peek my head back around the corner.

  It’s her. It’s definitely her. The long black hair and blue shirt I got her for her birthday when we were still friends, the perfect skin and pale blue eyes.

  I swallow heavily, trying to breathe slowly and regularly, as I watch her put her backpack away and gather her books.

  Her books! I still have her sketchbook. Is she going to use that against me somehow?

  Even though there are dozens of kids walking around or between us, it feels like it’s just her and me in the hall. Her and me, and she still hasn’t realized I’m here, watching.

  I have to keep it that way. She can’t see me. If she does, she’ll confront me. She’ll scream at the top of her lungs that I tried to kill her. She’ll call all the teachers and they’ll call the cops and I will go to jail.

  If she sees me, I know I am done for. If I run home, it will be highly suspicious. The only thing I can do is try to make it through the day without her seeing me. Maybe I can think of something. An excuse. An alibi. You must be crazy, I’d say. I was never at the lake. And then I’d get Jessica to back me up.

  Even I know it won’t work. Hopefully I can think of something before we have class together. Before I have to face the music. I just need to avoid her until then.

  But as I turn to go, she does something that makes me pause.

  Her head twitches quickly. Back and forth, like she’s shaking her head no, except it’s far too fast for normal movement, so fast it’s practically a blur, a terrifying glitch.

  It makes my cold blood freeze even further.

  Then I blink, and she’s back to normal.

  I try to convince myself I imagined it.

  I can’t.

  Clutching my books to my chest, I turn and run down the hall, trying to lose myself in the crowd of kids as I make my way to class.

  I swear I feel her cold blue eyes on my back every step of the way, fear dripping down my back like lake water.

  When I look back—just once—she is gone.

  Even though I don’t have any classes with Rachel until after lunch, the first couple of hours of school have me so stressed out I can’t sit still. All I can do is stare at the clock, waiting for an announcement to come over the intercom or for cops to rush in and grab me. Either that, or I stare out the window in the classroom door and wait to see Rachel poking her face in, pointing me out to the principal while she mouths the words:

  She did it.

  Waiting. All I’m doing is waiting.

  By the time third period comes along my stomach is one giant knot and my skin is sticky from my constant cold sweat and I feel so gross that I’m tempted to go to the nurse and say I’m sick.

  But I don’t. Because that would be suspicious.

  Right now it feels like everything I do is suspicious.

  The way I keep looking over my shoulder.

  The way I start whenever someone with dark hair walks past me.

  The way I walk down the hall, skirting to the edge of crowds and intentionally avoiding the paths I know Rachel takes—especially the hall where her locker is, which is difficult since I have to pass by there to get to social
studies. I can’t even find it within me to bully anyone—my entire body and brain feel cold with shock.

  If the cops are watching me, they’ll know without a doubt that I’m guilty.

  But there aren’t any cops. There aren’t any teachers patrolling the halls. Rachel hasn’t found me.

  Not yet.

  Not yet.

  “There you are!”

  I scream.

  I can’t help it—the yelp rips from my lungs before I can stop myself, and I even drop my books to the floor in the process. Everyone in the hall stops and looks at me.

  But I don’t care about blowing my cover or not looking suspicious.

  I’ve been found out.

  Rachel stands in front of me. Well, she was standing—she immediately drops to her knees and picks up my books for me. Then she stands and holds them out.

  I don’t take them.

  “Are you okay?” she asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear her lips quirk in a smile when she says it. Around us, the other kids go back to heading to their next class. If they notice anything unusual, it’s just that I’m talking to the girl I’ve spent the last year actively trying to make miserable.

  I try to steady my breathing.

  It doesn’t work.

  “I’m fine,” I say, my voice squeaking.

  “You don’t look fine,” she says, still holding the books. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? I didn’t see you this morning. You forgot your lunch money. That’s not like you.”

  She says it so sweetly, so placidly, that I feel like I’m walking into some sort of trap.

  She lowers her eyes and continues to speak.

  “I should probably apologize, too, for not staying around after school yesterday to get your homework. We weren’t feeling too well and went home early. I hope you aren’t mad.”

  I can’t help it—my mouth gapes open in shock.

  She wants to apologize to me?

  Why is she acting like nothing happened yesterday?

  Why isn’t she screaming at the top of her lungs that I tried to kill her?

  I keep looking around, past her, to see if there are any teachers watching us, or other suspicious adults who might be cops in disguise, recording our conversation, hoping I’ll say the wrong thing and admit guilt. It feels like a setup. But I don’t see anyone watching us. As far as the rest of the students around us seem to care, we are invisible. They just assume I’m going to scream at Rachel, and they don’t want to be caught in the cross fire.

  They couldn’t be more wrong.

  It’s me expecting to face her wrath.

  “Mad?” I ask. Then I swallow, try to wet my throat, which is suddenly more dry than a desert. “No, it’s, um—it’s okay. I did the homework myself.”

  “Oh,” she says. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to do that.”

  I don’t know what to say.

  I don’t know why she’s pretending.

  “Are you—” I begin, and stop myself. I glance around. “Are you okay? After yesterday?”

  Her eyes squint in confusion.

  “Yesterday? What happened yesterday?”

  “I just … I thought …”

  I’m saved from digging myself deeper in the grave by the bell ringing. Once more, I yelp from the noise—then I’m grateful. It’s a reason to leave.

  Immediately, I turn to go.

  But Rachel won’t let me go.

  “Wait,” she says. I freeze, cringing from what I know is about to happen. She’s going to accuse me in front of everyone. She’s going to yell for the cops to jump out. She’s going to—

  “You forgot these.”

  I turn and look at the books she still holds in her hands.

  My books.

  I honestly forgot. Books and class are the last things on my mind.

  I have no idea what’s going on

  why she’s here

  why she’s alive

  what I should be doing.

  Hastily, I grab the books from her and head down the hall.

  I don’t turn around.

  I don’t stop.

  I don’t look back.

  It’s not until I’m at my desk in the next classroom that I notice:

  Rachel has left handprints on my books.

  And they are dripping wet.

  I spend the entirety of my next class thinking about what she said—and what she didn’t say.

  She was lying. Stringing me along for some sick prank. She had to be.

  She said she went home early? No mention of meeting at the lake or even being there in the first place? Does she really not remember what happened? Maybe she suffered a head injury and forgot everything? But that doesn’t make any sense, either, because then how did she get home? How did she last so long underwater?

  And what did she mean when she said we weren’t feeling well?

  I keep reaching down to my books, feeling the covers for the damp traces of her hands, reassuring myself that I actually saw her in the hall. That it was really her.

  If she’s alive, then I didn’t kill her.

  If she’s alive, then I’m not in trouble.

  I should be relieved.

  But I’m not relieved.

  Every time I touch the damp handprints, chills wash over my skin. Still, I keep doing it. It lets me know I’m awake. It lets me know she’s hiding something, because how on earth could her hands be wet like that? Even stranger, the water never seems to dry off. I try to wipe it. Blot it. Blow on it. But by the end of class, there are still two faint handprints on my textbooks. It makes me want to throw the books away.

  I don’t. But I do shove them to the bottom of my locker at lunch.

  Then I look back at my locker, waiting to see the water come pouring out of the bottom.

  It doesn’t.

  I need a reality check.

  * * *

  Rachel’s at lunch, and I find myself watching her from afar.

  This isn’t very different from usual since we never sit anywhere near each other. I sit with Felicia and Sarah again, along with some of their friends whose names I’ve never cared to learn. Liz? Theresa? Skylar? I don’t know and I don’t care. And they seem more than happy to keep it that way—even though I’m in the group, there’s more space around me than there is around the others. Like they’re scared I’m going to punch them or something. I haven’t hit anyone at lunch in months.

  “Did you hear?” the one I think is called Skylar says. “They’re doing half-priced funnel cakes at the adventure park this weekend. I can’t wait!”

  Sarah goes bolt still, her eyes darting to me, wondering what I’ll do or say.

  I barely hear the girl, though. I’m too busy trying to not think about Rachel and what happened yesterday. The low chatter of kids around me sounds far too much like the roar of waves.

  “Do you know if Bradley’s going?” another nameless one asks.

  That makes me pay attention, even if I try not to make it obvious.

  I’ve had a crush on Bradley since math class two years ago. I didn’t tell him, of course. The only person who knows about it is Rachel, and I made her promise never to tell anyone. So far, she’s kept her word. I glance over to her and wonder how long it will hold.

  “No,” says Felicia. “I hear he’s having some of his friends out for a boat trip.”

  “Ugh,” says maybe-Skylar. “Lucky.”

  “I know, I’d kill to go.”

  I’m half tempted to scream at them to stop talking about him, but the conversation quickly slides on to the next topic. I don’t even pay enough attention to hear what it is. Puppies? I don’t know.

  I sit there and listen to them drone on and stare at Rachel from the corner of my eye. She sits at a table all by herself. If I wasn’t so freaked out by her right now, I’d almost feel sorry for her. Almost. It’s pretty much my fault that she has no friends, but she deserved it. I mean, who
would want to be her friend anyway after what she did to me? Who could ever trust her?

  It probably wasn’t nice of me to spread rumors about her. But in my defense, there’s no doubt anymore that she is really weird.

  Especially now.

  She sits there with three bottles of water on her lunch tray. She doesn’t seem to eat any of her food—not that I can blame her—but she downs all three waters, one after another, without taking a breath in between.

  Then she just sits there, one hand on each side of her tray, staring blankly at the kids at the table across from her. I look to where she’s watching and feel myself blush. Bradley sits there. Along with his friends, including the mean girl Christina who started all this. The one girl I’ve still not really gotten back at, even though I’ve definitely tried.

  Why is Rachel staring at them? There’s a grin on her face that I don’t like. Especially because she doesn’t even seem to breathe.

  After a few minutes, something else catches her attention. Her eyes snap up and dart around, following something I can’t see. A bug? It must be a bug. We have a lot of flies around here. It’s a real problem. And also why I don’t eat anything with black flecks in it, even if they’re supposed to be blueberries or chocolate chips. I can’t trust them.

  I watch her, and my fascination turns to horror when her hand snaps out, whip-fast, and she snatches whatever it was that flew by her face.

  In the same, quick movement, she opens her mouth and swallows whatever it is whole.

  I gasp.

  And she turns her head

  fast as a snake

  to smile directly at me.

  There’s no escaping Rachel after lunch.

  We have the rest of our classes together, and they get worse with every single minute. I sit as far away from her as I can. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps.

  She doesn’t do anything. She doesn’t say anything.