by Sara Biren
Maybe. Simon’s cute and friendly, but the best thing is that he’s not from here.
He doesn’t know about poor Lucy, the girl who lost her best friend.
“Guess what? My mom’s going on a book tour this summer, and I get to come along, and guess where we’re going? Texas!” She squeals. “Oh my God, what if I meet Tony Romo?”
I roll my eyes. Hannah’s mom, Madeleine Mills, has written twenty-six bestselling historical western romances. Twenty-six. Each one sells more than the last, probably thanks in part to covers with bare-chested cowboys and women with bosoms bursting out of their pioneer frocks.
Hannah’s bosom is pretty much bursting out of her own shirt tonight. She’s wearing a pink cowboy hat, the brim low over her forehead, a fitted cream-colored eyelet tank, tight denim mini-skirt, and her favorite boots, brown suede with fringe. She loves those boots enough that she would wear them to gym class if she could.
“Did I miss the memo to dress like a rodeo-ho?” I ask.
Hannah laughs as she rolls through a stop sign onto Main Street. Her dad competed on the professional rodeo circuit for a few years, and Hannah knows more about the sport than anyone I’ve ever met. As unlikely as it seems, Minnesota is home to dozens of rodeos every year, and she’s been trying to get me to go to one since the day we met.
“Must have. But I believe the term you’re looking for is buckle bunny, sweetheart. What do you call your ensemble? Laundry-basket chic?”
I laugh. “Exactly. How did you know?”
“Oh, I know you, Lucille. That skirt is too long. God, girl, show a little leg or something. What good is that hot gymnast bod if you don’t show it off?”
My gymnast bod isn’t as hot as it used to be. I quit the team after Trixie died. Not that there would have been the money for it anyway, not with Clay calling home and asking for money all the time on top of everything else.
Hannah pulls the Lexus into the parking lot across the street from the theater and leans forward to scan for a good spot.
“By the way,” she says, “remember Dustin, that guy from Carly’s party? He’s meeting us here.”
“Great.” I pull the mirror down and tuck a loose curl behind my ear. “You two have fun.”
“Oh, now, Lucille, don’t be a party pooper!” She opens her door and gets out of the car.
It’s been a long day. I’m tired, and I’m 99.9 percent sure that when I cross the street with Hannah to hang out with the crowd that’s gathered under the marquee of the theater, Ben will be there. It’s easy enough to try to pretend that he’s not around at school. He’s a junior; I’m a sophomore. We have different schedules. But on the weekends, it’s hard not to run into him.
But it’s not just Ben.
Ben will be there with Dana, his girlfriend.
Typical Saturday night in Halcyon Lake.
6 · Ben
I get in the Firebird and drive.
I’m in the parking lot at the Fire Tower before I even know where I’m going.
The lot is empty—not that there are ever a lot of cars here this time of night. Later, after the movie’s over, and in the fall after football games, that’s when the lot fills up.
Right now, I’ve got the place to myself.
I reach into the backseat for my hiking boots and once I’ve got them on, I hit the trail. It’s a good hike up a steep hill to get to the tower, and by the time I reach it, I’m breathing heavily.
Shit, I need to start training again.
The tower looms tall against the trees and inky blue sky. I start to climb, gripping the handrails as the tower sways in the wind. This thing isn’t called “historic” for nothing.
It’s a long way up.
I reach the top and stand near the railing, looking out over the roads and trees and lakes, and I realize that I’ve never been up here alone.
It’s quiet and peaceful high above the treetops, but I don’t feel that way inside. I don’t remember what it’s like to live without the clutch of guilt and sorrow around my neck.
At Trixie’s funeral, I greeted the hundreds of people who came to the church to offer their kind words and clichés. I nodded my head, said, “Thank you for coming,” and “That’s so kind of you,” a million times.
Then it was over, and Lucy and I were the last ones in the church basement.
And I remember thinking, Lulu is the only good thing about today. She is the only good thing about my life.
We walked out to the parking lot so I could drive her home. She didn’t want to get in the front seat of the Firebird and I understood that. Sitting there, without Trixie to ride shotgun, meant that it was real. The funeral, the casket in front of us, the sound of the dirt hitting the top of it—all of that was real, expected.
This was not expected. We had not factored this into the plan.
This was how our lives would be now, the subtle differences along with the obvious ones.
“It’s okay,” I told her, and she slid in, crying.
She’d cried so much. I wished I knew a way to help her.
We sat in her driveway for a long time, not talking, the rain landing in sheets across my windshield, the wipers on double time until I flicked them off, pointless because we weren’t moving, and she started to cry again and I couldn’t bear it.
So I reached out my hand and gently turned her head so that she faced me, and I wiped away tears with the pad of my thumb. I leaned in and did what I’d wanted to do for weeks.
I kissed her.
I kissed Lulu and it was a perfect moment, perfect, until I fucked it up.
She pulled away from me, stunned, her eyes wide.
“Why did you do that?” she asked me, her voice brittle. She sounded so young at that moment. So hurt.
“Lulu,” I said, “you know why.” I couldn’t say it, but she had to know. It had been there between us all summer. I had started to tell her on the swim float. I put my hand on hers, but she pulled it away.
“We shouldn’t, Ben. Not today.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Bile rose in my throat, and I was overcome with dread and guilt and anger.
Filled with a terrible, inexplicable need to hurt her.
I slammed my hands against the steering wheel.
“You’re right,” I said, my voice cold. “This was a mistake. We shouldn’t be here. Trixie shouldn’t be dead. But she is. I couldn’t save her. And we both know why.”
“What?” she whispered. “What do you mean?”
“I couldn’t save her. I didn’t get to her in time. If you hadn’t been there, I would have.”
She didn’t say a word. She looked at me with those wide eyes that filled with tears once again until the pools overflowed onto her cheeks.
And I kept going. “All of this is your fault.”
“Why are you saying this?” she cried.
“It’s true. And you know it.”
“Ben—” she began, but a sob shook her body and she dropped her head in her hands.
“I hate this,” I said. “I hate that you’re here and she isn’t. Get the fuck out of my car.”
And she did. She opened the door and stumbled across the driveway in the heavy rain, her feet bare, her plain black pumps gripped tightly against her chest.
The pain of losing Trixie was too much—I had to give some of it away. So I gave it to Lucy, who more than anyone didn’t deserve such a terrible thing. I should have told her that if I could, I would take away her pain. Because my own was so unbearable, what difference would it have made if I could have cut hers in half and taken it for myself?
Instead, I gave her more.
For one moment, she turned to look back at me before she opened the door, a moment that I could have gone to her through the rain and the mud and told her I didn’t mean it, told her that I was crazy with grief and sadness, begged for her forgiveness.
But I didn’t.
And I’ve lived with it every moment since then.
My cell phone buzzes thre
e times, fast. I pull it out of my pocket and check my messages.
One from Guthrie. Dude u got trouble. Dana pist.
Two from Dana.
Where r u? I’m @ the theater.
Ben, you promised.
Shit. Shitshitshit.
I take one last look across the treetops and try again to find some peace in the silence and solitude. There is nothing, and I can’t escape the reality that waits for me at the bottom of the tower. I turn and begin the climb back down.
When I get to the theater, everyone is inside except for Dana. She’s alone, leaning against the wall, her arms crossed. Guthrie was right. She is pist.
Here’s how it goes down:
Dana: You’re late. You promised me you wouldn’t be late, Ben.
Me (swats at a swarm of gnats): Sorry. Got tied up at the resort.
Dana: Oh.
Me: You don’t believe me?
Dana: Of course I do!
Me: Doesn’t seem like it.
Dana: Ben, I’m trying to help. You seem so, I don’t know, lost lately (puts hand on my arm).
Me: Dana—
Dana (in a soft, low voice): I wish you would let me help you.
Me (pulls arm away): What makes you think I need help?
Dana (pinches lips together): You have no idea how many people care about you, Benjamin. How many people love you. How many people ache for you because you’re in so much pain—
Me (interrupts, angry, sick of the drama, sick of hearing her talk in italics all the time): Shut up.
Dana (mouth drops open): What? What did you say?
Me (takes a step back): I said shut up. You want to help me? You can help me by shutting the hell up.
Dana (takes a step toward me, panicked): You don’t mean that. You can’t possibly mean that.
Me (raises one eyebrow, takes another step backward): Oh, I mean it. And my name is not fucking Benjamin.
I’m a dick and she’s too nice. She shouldn’t put up with my shit.
I walk across the parking lot and get in the Firebird. It takes about five seconds for Dana to decide to follow me.
“Let’s drive around,” she says. “Maybe it will clear your head.”
I know where this is going.
“Fine.”
We drive to the abandoned baseball fields behind the paper mill. I park the car and turn toward the girl in the front seat. My girlfriend. She smiles. Her teeth are artificially perfect and white. In fact, she has no visible flaws. Her hair, her smile, her GPA, everything is perfect. A little too perfect, maybe.
Lucy’s ponytails are usually crooked or she’ll miss a few strands that curl around her neck or one side will be bumpy. And if you look closely, you can see that one of Lucy’s blue eyes is narrower at the outside corner than the other. Two of her bottom teeth are crooked, angled slightly, bowing to each other.
I’m sitting in my car with my girlfriend, thinking about Lucy Meadows.
I don’t want to think anymore.
So I don’t. I lean over to Dana.
That’s how it works with us. I do something to piss Dana off, we fight about it, we bail on our friends, we drive around, we fool around in my car.
And I feel nothing. Empty. The way I like it.
Dana wasn’t the first one. First there was Anna. Anna did that thing—put her hand on my arm, tilted her head, used that low voice—right after Trixie died. She cornered me during study hall on the first day of school. She said she was so sorry about Trixie and Trixie was a wonderful friend and we were all going to miss Trixie so very much.
She said my sister’s name so many times I wanted to twist her head right off her neck.
Anna wasn’t friends with Trix.
Then her voice got even lower and she said, “I’m worried about you. I want to make sure you’re okay.”
Anna lasted a couple of months. Then Jess after her. Now Dana. They all pulled that same shit.
It’s easy to get laid when people feel sorry for you.
7 · Lucy
When I get home from the movies, Mom’s at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. She glances at the clock on the stove and sighs.
“You’re late,” she says. “It’s 12:15.”
“Yeah,” I mumble, “it is.” I don’t tell her why I’m late. I don’t explain that we actually pulled into the driveway at 12:03, but I had to listen to Hannah go on and on about Dustin and how sweet he is and how they like the same music and even though he’s a little on the dumb side, it’s not like she’s looking to get married, so why not?
“I’m glad that you and Hannah have gotten so close in such a short period of time,” Mom says, but her lips pinch together. “That doesn’t mean you can miss curfew.”
“I didn’t mean to.” I turn to get a glass from the cabinet and flip on the tap. “I tried.”
“Try harder, sweetie. We worry about you, you know.”
I nod. I know. I know it was hard for them, too; that it’s hard for them to see how Trixie’s parents have had to deal with losing a daughter.
“Did you have fun? You missed a wonderful dinner with the Stanfords.”
I turn in surprise, glass in hand, water running in the sink behind me. “You made it home in time for dinner?” She usually closes on Saturday nights.
“It was important to Betty and Ron that I meet the people who will be living there all summer. I can only imagine how difficult it must be to leave your home in the hands of strangers, even though Shay is a friend of Betty’s niece.”
I turn back to the sink and fill my glass as she rehashes their conversations, tells me what Betty served, how Ron’s Great Dane, Oscar, sat with his head on Simon’s lap the entire time.
“Simon’s adorable,” Mom says as she gets up from the table, rinses out her cup, and puts it in the dishwasher. “He seemed very interested in you, Lucy. He asked a lot of questions.” She smiles and tugs at a loose strand of my hair.
Before I get a chance to ask her what kinds of questions, she turns to straighten a dish towel hanging on the handle of the oven door and says, “I’ve got to get to bed. Don’t stay up too late, okay, Luce?”
She goes upstairs, and I sit down at the table to finish my water.
My phone buzzes—Hannah always texts when she gets home so I know she’s made it safely. I flip the phone over, but it’s a number I don’t recognize.
Sorry so late. This is Simon. Hope u don’t mind ur mom gave me ur number. Can’t wait to spend the summer on ur beautiful lake.
As much as I’m not happy that my mom thinks she can freely give out my number, my mouth turns up in a small smile as I think of something to text back. I’m not good at this. Trixie was the one who always knew what to say, and Hannah is, too. I’ve always been the shy one, the one who thinks things through a hundred times before making a decision.
My fingers hover over the screen. See you soon, I finally type.
Maybe this summer won’t be so bad after all.
8 · Ben
I pull into Dana’s driveway, and she says, “I love you, Ben.”
I’ve told her that I love her a few times, but the words are hollow, untrue. Tonight I can’t bring myself to say it. I walk her to the door in silence, then kiss her.
“Good night,” I say, but I can’t look her in the eye and see her sympathy. I don’t deserve it.
I drive to Sullivan Street Park. It’s closed, but I duck through the metal bars of the gate, like we used to do when we were kids. This is the best swimming spot in Halcyon Lake. Always has been. Always will be, no matter what happened here. I pull off my T-shirt and jeans and wade into the water.
Shit. It’s cold.
I’ll swim out to the island and back. That’s it. One time. Three minutes out, three minutes back.
That’s all it would have taken Trixie. Probably less. She could kick my ass in the water; she was such a strong swimmer. But it wasn’t the water that took her, it was her heart. Abnormal electrical activity that caused sudden card
iac arrest. They said she’d probably had a heart condition her whole life and we never knew.
I’ve thought about that day a thousand times. How it might have been different.
If I’d raced with Trixie and Clayton to the island . . . If I’d already been in the water, I could have gotten to her sooner.
If they hadn’t raced at all. If she’d been on the float.
If Lucy hadn’t been there. If I’d been paying more attention.
If I hadn’t been so enamored by Lucy’s caramel-colored hair, tucked into a ponytail, strands of it loose and damp against the back of her soft, pale neck.
They tell me that nothing would have changed what happened. That nothing I would have done could have saved her.
That doesn’t stop me from thinking about it until all the ifs twist themselves into a tight knot and burrow deep into my skin.
I swim in the ice-cold water, out to the island and back, over and over, until my entire body is numb and my own heart feels like it might stop. When I can’t move another muscle, I lie on my back on a picnic table, reach up to the stars with one hand.
In this great, vast universe, I am nothing.
9 · Lucy
I wake up late Sunday morning, Mother’s Day, to a quiet house. Dad’s on the porch with a cup of coffee and the local paper.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask. “Aren’t we taking her out for lunch?”
He doesn’t look up. “Nope. She’s at the restaurant. Someone called in sick. She wants to know if you’ll go in early.”
I pinch my lips together. “I sort of had plans—uh, before my shift.”
He puts his index finger on the newspaper to hold his place and looks up at me. “What kind of plans?”
“Well, I thought I’d stop at the cemetery for a few minutes.”
He gives me a look that’s a cross between worried and resigned. “Why are you always going up there, Luce?” His voice is soft, so quiet I have to strain to hear.
“I go once a month, Dad, not always. I miss her, okay?” The words rush out of me.
I used to go always. I used to go every day. Sometimes twice a day those first few weeks.