LURE

by Stephanie Jenkins

  I looked to Andy for affirmation. Maybe he wanted to torture me into feeling like a bigger letdown because he nodded. He dropped down beside Sophie and poked her belly button. She punched his arm. I didn’t miss the lovesick, slack-jawed expression he gave her before turning his eyes back to me. “Sophie caught a ride home. I stuck around and waited for the cops.”

  I recalled Andy racing off to rescue Sophie just before my life took its bizarre and troubling twist. Later—when she wasn’t around—I’d bug him about what happened. “My dad said they took you in. You’re in big trouble, aren’t you?” I paced the floor. Its creaking was the only sound in my room.

  “Nah, they tried to make me take their alcohol test, but I said no. By time my parents came, nothing showed up,” he said. Andy could haggle himself out of any situation—his dad’s the best criminal attorney in Gloucester. “My folks weren’t really mad, just scared for you.”

  A whooshing sigh of relief filtered from my lungs. “Good to know.” I scrunched my face, recalling my own dilemma with the law. “I didn‘t blow anything either. But they got me for trespassing. Pretty screwed up, huh?”

  “No way! You almost drowned,” Sophie squealed. She rolled her eyes and hugged one of my pillows. “They let kids go all the time. What’s their deal?”

  Poke the girl who made them come out to BFE on a Friday night.

  “Times up, Char!” Dad yelled.

  “He’s timing us?” Sophie asked. I nodded and she coughed. “Wait, you’re grounded?” Reluctantly, I told her I was. She and Andy exchanged their “WTF” look—raised eyebrows and scrunched noses. I knew what they were thinking: Cam drinks right under his nose, so why are you grounded?

  Maybe it was because Dad never caught my brother. Or because my family now believed I was just a tad suicidal.

  “Guess he wants to see what happens in court. The fine is going to blow, though,” I said. Suddenly, I smacked the palm of my hand against my forehead. “Shit! I lost my bag at the beach last night.” My keys were in my bag along with tip money from Friday and Saturday. Two hundred dollars, to be exact, and that was made being a kiss-ass to Summer Kids and gossipmongers.

  Andy rolled off my bed and went to the door. He cast a broad smile over his right shoulder. “In your kitchen.”

  I rushed toward him. Bouncing on my toes, I kissed his cheek. Scruffy facial hair irritated my lips. “Dude, I love you, but shave. Please?”

  Andy and Sophie laughed. For the time being, their worries were gone. I wasn’t so lucky. Doubt turned into anxiety because I still couldn’t remember many details from the night before. Maybe I had amnesia from hitting my head on a rock. If that were the case, I wished I could forget arguing with Kyle and the music. That creepy song refused to stop stalking my brain.

  “Call when your dad isn’t freaking out,” Andy said, breaking my thoughts. I gave him a thumbs up, but we all knew that my father’s apprehension would last for the next few weeks at minimum.

  I settled in to eat breakfast with Dad and Cam after my friends left. Know those families on TV who have meals together and share sunny details about their day? That isn’t us—at least not since Mom died. I watched them spoon down overcooked eggs and applesauce and listened to the clang of forks on plates. Hazelnut made my stomach lurch, so I pushed my coffee away and drank water.

  “Rob called,” Dad said.

  Less than 24 hours ago, Rob had accused me of dabbling in drugs. Imagine his reaction to finding out about my escapade at The Lighthouse. There was a good chance he’d start giving me bi-weekly drug tests. I looked up from the grape-bordered placemat and cleared my throat. “He did?”

  “He wants you to take the day off. Give him a call after school tomorrow to go over next week’s schedule.”

  I twirled the spoon through my mug, watching as the non-dairy creamer turned my drink a rich gold. “Oh.”

  Coffee splashed from his “Greatest Dad” mug when he slammed it down. “But I’m not too sure if I should let you go back to work!” Stormy eyes narrowed, and he sucked in his cheeks.

  “Dad—” Cam groaned. Snort. Was he actually concerned about my well-being or the fact Dad’s roaring voice conflicted with his hangover migraine?

  My father sopped up the spill with a wad of napkins. “It was awful, Char. Thinking you were dead. What’s the matter with you? Summer school? Parties with cops? What next?”

  A wilting slice of soggy toast in my plate became my new staring target. If I defended myself, my father would become more irritated. I poked at my food with the fork, and sighed. “Sorry.” A lame response, but what else could I say to fix what was broken?

  “Why’s the door locked?” someone yelled from the garage. The only person who ever used that door was Cam’s friend, Brian. Unlike regular school, college let out at the end of April. Brian had been a pest—one that was impossible to eliminate with a commercial-sized can of Raid—ever since he returned from NYU a month and a half ago.

  When neither Dad nor I budged, Cam had no choice but get up and trek across the kitchen. Poor kid looked like he was in pain. Then again, he wasn’t the one Dad was tearing into.

  Brian was dressed for winter instead of the beginning of summer in his black long-sleeve shirt, heavy cargo pants, and knit skullcap. Maybe he spent the morning fishing. A getaway from Dad on the water seemed strangely appealing at this point.

  “Morning, everyone,” Brian said. He helped himself to the leftover food on the stove then squeezed into the chair against the wall. “How’s it going, Char? Mr. Brewer?”

  What kind of question was that? I was in trouble with the cops, and Dad was on the verge of hiding knives, ropes, and baby aspirin from me. Brian couldn’t expect my answer to be positive. “Peachy,” I muttered, praying he wouldn’t torture me with more questions.

  I turned away as he shoveled cold eggs into his mouth—watching him eat made me queasy even when I wasn’t shunning food. “How’s work? D-bag being nice this summer?” Brian used to be a busboy at Romano’s, but he and Rob went together like bleach and a bright red shirt. He only lasted a few months at the restaurant.

  “Didn’t I just say I was peachy?”

  Dad cleared his throat. “I have to work, but I’ve asked them to pick up the Jeep. Why don’t you rest while they’re gone?” He didn’t know how to handle grounding me properly—that was always Mom’s way of correcting us. Asking Drunkard and Brian to pick up my car was his method of punishment without sentencing me to house arrest.

  “Great.” I slid back from the table, leaving my untouched plate behind. I lingered in the hallway in front of the photo of my JV volleyball team. Mom coached us, and in the picture, she sat in front of the team, holding the volleyball. I ran my fingers across her face—pale with a slightly crooked nose—and decided that Kyle was right about one thing: I looked like her.

  “I bet you’re disappointed, too.”

  I snorted, unsure of what response I expected to wheedle from the lifeless photo. God, I wish she would talk back, though. I needed her.

  Dad and Cam needed her.

  I slammed my bedroom door and heard Dad curse sharply. Not that I cared this time. I lay on the pink and blue braided carpet with my eyes glued to the window. Softly, I hummed the tune that brought me to my knees and made me forget so much.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  My dream wasn’t about Mom or funerals or even dying and being sentenced to one hundred years of servitude at Romano’s.

  I dreamt about The Lighthouse.

  Instead of parking my car, like I usually did, I drove all the way to the lofty stone structure. It entranced me. It also scared me, especially since I knew that the sea waited just beyond The Lighthouse. I stomped on the brake and the Jeep accelerated. Bile filled my throat as panic took over me. I jiggled the shifter knob, attempting to force it into reverse.

  The car stopped then, the force causing my forehead to smack into the steering wheel. My dreams were so messed up that I knew better than to get my hopes up. The J
eep began to teeter. Back and forth. Down and up. Each time, the motion sharper, faster, until it was like the seesaw Cam and I used to play on in the backyard.

  It’s going to fall. I’m going to die because the car will fall, and I can’t swim.

  I wrapped my fingers tightly around the wheel as if I would be able to drive underwater. At last, the inevitable happened: the front of the car won its battle against the back. My Jeep crashed into the sea, the scene playing out like a clip in a horror movie—slow-motioned and heart pounding.

  As I sank, I pressed my face against the window and scratched at the glass. Didn’t take me long to discover I couldn’t claw myself free. I slammed my foot on the gas, but the sea swallowed the car. Water from the Atlantic seeped through the windshield. Glass and liquid burst around me, and the music continued to play.

  Only it wasn’t the radio. The faceless voice was back, set on punishing me for evading it before. Its melody wrapped around me and was more suffocating than drowning. And then, Brian floated by. He motioned for me to come to him, but I shook my head. He shrugged and mouthed, “Your loss, Char.” Grinning, he held up both arms and flashed devil horns. The sea dragged him down until he vanished.

  ***

  Sunlight hammered my eyelids and saved me from the pressure. I flipped over to shut the blinds, but instead of the mattress groaning beneath me, my cheek smooshed something gritty and damp. I opened my eyes and wheezed at what I saw. Water. Miles of it, to be exact. I turned in a slow circle and the rest of my surroundings staggered me.

  I had slept behind someone’s house.

  Keeping a cautious eye on the house, I crept through the sand and past three red and white beach chairs lined up beside one another. All I had to do was get to the road before the owners woke up to find me trespassing, drenched from head to toe in my lame smiley-face t-shirt and underwear. Then I would figure out where I was and go home.

  Only made it to the side of the house before the sound of a door swinging open stopped me in my tracks.

  “You were singing,” said a male voice.

  If I ran, he might chase me down and tackle me. Or worse, call the cops. I winced, imagining Officer Hale and Red slapping me in the forehead with another ticket. I spun around to see Golden Boy from Romano’s, and my stomach and chest furled together. Maybe he forgot me. Yeah, he hooked up with someone else last night and won’t remember asking for my number.

  He squashed that dream as soon as he spoke. “Hey, I know you! You’re that waitress, aren’t you? Charrrr-liiiit?” He spoke my name slowly, drawing out each syllable. Sleepy eyes swept over my damp clothes. I tugged my shirt down to cover my underwear and fought the urge to tell him that although I waited tables, I was not a Hooters girl.

  “Yeah, what’s up?”

  “You tell me. You’re the one standing in my yard singing.” He wiggled his eyebrows and added, “In a wet t-shirt. And no pants. What’re you doing here?”

  “You’re dreaming.”

  Snorting, he shook his head. “Whatever. If I was, you’d be naked already.”

  Did he really just say that to me? I wanted my skin to crawl, but it didn’t happen. “Sleepwalking,” I hissed. That was possible, right? I just couldn’t figure out what cruel twist of fate drew me into his backyard of all places.

  He sauntered over and leaned against the house. “You’re shitting me.” I became painfully aware he wore nothing but striped boxers and a thin, Hanes white t-shirt. “Your singing woke me up. You’re good,” he said.

  Maybe his radio serenaded him awake or MTV—if they still played music videos—but not my voice. I enrolled in choir freshman year for an easy grade. Not only did I receive a B, my teacher also asked me to sing very, very quietly. The extent of my vocal talent was staying on key while butchering The Alphabet Song. “I can’t sing.”

  “Well, you were. Spanish or Italian, I think.”

  Why does he sound so convinced? “Hate to tell you this, but I barely passed Spanish with a C. Trust me, you didn’t hear me.”

  His mouth moved, and even though his words were barely audible, I knew what he said. One of the perks of being a waitress is learning to read lips. He’d called me a liar. Before I had a chance to respond icily, he cut me off. “Tried to call last night. The number you gave me doesn’t work. Didn’t think you’d show up at my house, though.” There was that annoying grin again. It revealed dimples I hadn’t noticed before. “In a wet t-shirt. Not that I’m complaining or anything.”

  Did he have to reiterate my lack of clothing every 10 seconds?

  I took a tentative step forward. “Where am I?”

  “Changing the subject?”

  “No . . . I really don‘t know where I am.” The concern in his blue eyes was a look I was accustomed to. Golden Boy thought I was batshit insane, and this time, I agreed. Normal people didn’t wake up in the sand wearing only panties. And normal people knew where they were when they woke up. After gnawing on his bottom lip for a moment, he shrugged and said, “Annisquam.”

  Annisquam Beach was a ten-minute drive from my house. He rushed forward when I swayed and grabbed my bare upper arms to steady me. I jerked from his grasp, avoiding his stare so I wouldn’t have to see curiosity or mockery. Don’t make fun of me, Golden Boy. Not today. Any other time but today. “Can I use your phone? I need to call my brother to come get me.”

  “I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

  My eyes lifted to his face, and I swallowed hard, despite the scratchy burning in my throat. His blank expression was impossible to read. “Thanks.”

  He nodded to the back door. “Just have to get my keys and put on some pants. Come on in.”

  Convincing myself that I only followed because I was cold, I stepped into the house. We padded into a tiled laundry room the size of my bedroom, and better decorated, at that. My room didn’t have ornate sconces and teak cabinets. He fished a hoodie and sweatpants out of a woven hamper and tucked them in my hand. “They’re big, but clean. Bathroom’s next door.”

  I backed out of the room—the last thing I wanted was to give Golden Boy an eyeful. After I dressed, I found him in a kitchen straight from the pages of Better Homes and Gardens, leaned over a granite center island. He spoke to a short, blonde woman. His mother. She settled on me, dressed in his baggy sweats, and blinked.

  It looks like I spent the night with him. This can’t be good.

  But she smiled, and held up an empty coffee mug. I shook my head to decline. Golden Boy cleared his throat and said, “Mom, this is, um, my friend. Charlotte.” He was cute when he stammered and blushed, and I had to admit, I found some sick pleasure in seeing it.

  His mother maneuvered around the island and held out a hand. It was soft and smooth and smelled like cucumber lotion. She was a reincarnation of June Cleaver, minus pearls and pin curls cemented with hairspray, but I bet my tips for a week she wore both when they hosted parties. “Nice to meet you, Charlotte. Wyatt didn’t tell me he invited a friend over for breakfast,” she said.

  Wyatt. The name fit Golden Boy. I opened my mouth to speak, but he interrupted me. It was an aggravating talent of his. “Actually, Charlotte and I made plans to meet friends.”

  Friends. Right . . . because I just love eating crêpes with Summer Kids.

  She nodded and let go of my hand. I was glad she ended the excessively long handshake first. I’m not a touchy-feely person but I figured pulling back was rude. “Come to see us again, okay?” Her expression seemed so sincere that I could not possibly tell her I thought her son was a total asshat.

  I tried to return the smile. “Yeah, sure.”

  Under normal circumstances, my elbow would have connected with Golden Boy’s gut when his hand slipped to the small of my back. Today was different. I welcomed his touch and even found it soothing as he led me through their house. Mute, earthy tones and distressed furniture that was only available at antique auctions surrounded me. Once more, I thought of the decorating magazines at the grocery store chec
kout.

  His family was loaded.

  “Your dad’s in the Navy?” I asked as we passed a large portrait of a man in uniform hanging above the stone mantle.

  He led me out the front door. “Coast Guard. And he just retired.” I felt a twinge of surprise when he opened the passenger door of the truck for me. The interior of the Dodge smelled leathery, and I swear the seats were the most comfortable I ever sat in.

  The time, 8:09, popped up on the screen of his navigation system when he started the ignition. Great, school started in less than an hour. “Hate to rush, but can you drive fast?” The truck squealed in reverse down the sloped driveway. He stared at me, waiting for an explanation. “Summer school,” I huffed.

  Wait! Was he laughing at me? He sounded like a quietly dying hyena as he tried not to choke on his piece of gum. “Sorry, just don’t see you as the summer school type.”

  What did he see me as?

  Telling him my life story was a waste of time for us both, so I shrugged. “Skipped a bunch of school this year, you know, drinking with my friends and stuff.” While the first part was true, I never missed class to party. Didn’t go because I couldn’t always handle the stares and the whispers about my mom.

  “I shouldn’t laugh, but I have this picture of you drunk,” he said. To clue me in on his twisted image, he cocked a thick eyebrow.

  “You’re foul.”

  “Hey, you’re the sleepwalker. You do that often?” The attempt to sound nonchalant was unsuccessful because his voice cracked. He doubted my story as each minute passed.

  How could I answer his question when I was unsure about what was going on? “A few times a year,” I said. He mumbled something about wanting to see more of my nightshirt collection, and I rolled my eyes and pointed to the next green street sign. “That’s it. Third house on the right.”

  Our cozy, vinyl-sided house was at most half the size of his family’s garage, though he didn’t mention it. He cut the engine and turned to me, sliding his hand behind my headrest. “I don’t understand how you walked from here to my house.” He leaned in close to study my face. “But I’m glad you did.”