Blood on the Beach

by Sarah N. Harvey

  “Making dinner,” Imogen said. “She and Chad were first on the schedule.”

  “Oh yeah. Right.” I was getting hungry. I hoped it was better than the afternoon snack. I had a bad feeling that Claire and Warren were vegetarian and we were all destined for a week of tofu and sprouts.

  A bell rang loudly, calling us to the mess hall. Apparently I was about to find out.

  * * *

  Dinner was salad, brown rice and some sort of bean stew. No one talked much, except Chad, who seemed to be unable to shut up. I tuned him out and focused on the food. Vegetarian, but edible.

  Tara was sitting beside me, but she disappeared into the washroom at the start of the meal, and Caleb slid into her empty chair. “Look, sorry if I offended you,” he said. “About the karate thing. I mean, I get it. I hate when people make assumptions.”

  “It’s okay.” I guessed I should probably apologize for being a complete bitch. I took off my glasses and rubbed them with the corner of my shirt. “I’ve been in a foul mood since I stepped on that Zodiac, to be honest.”

  “I hear you.” He nodded toward the washroom door. “Is she all right? Tara? Chad says she’s a mess. Kept crying while they were doing the food prep.”

  “I dunno.”

  “I doubt whether spending time with Chad helped any,” Caleb said. “Anyway, I guess I felt bad ’cause we said that thing about her being suicidal, you know?”

  “You said it. Not me.”

  “Yeah. But, uh, if you get a chance to talk to her, it might not be a bad thing to check in, you know?”

  “Nothing stopping you,” I said.

  “I thought maybe you’d have more luck. Being a girl, I mean.”

  “I doubt it.” I put my glasses back on and looked up at him. Even sitting down, he was way taller than me, and I’d bet he weighed double what I did. “I’m not so good at that kind of thing.”

  “Well, maybe she’ll talk to Rahim,” Caleb said.

  “Maybe. But if she isn’t depressed now, she will be after a week of this bullshit.” I folded my arms across my chest. “Why are you so concerned about her anyway?”

  He just shrugged, and as if on cue, Tara emerged from the bathroom and walked back toward us, her eyes bloodshot and swollen and her shoulders hunched forward. Rahim stood and rang a bell to get everyone’s attention.

  “I hope you all enjoyed your first dinner on the island,” he said. “We’re going to be doing one of my favorite things this evening. Expressive art therapy!”

  Caleb caught my eye and winked, and I looked away, my cheeks hot again. Not my type, I reminded myself. Too bad—a hookup would definitely be one way to make the week more bearable. Jason was good-looking in a bad-boy way—all flat planes and sharp angles and five-o’clock shadow—and the accent was dead sexy, but he seemed full of himself, which was a total turnoff. Nick was cute, but I had a feeling that any girl going after him was going to be disappointed.

  And then there was Imogen. I closed my eyes and pictured her putting on her lipstick. Totally hot. I didn’t think she was as messed up as she made herself sound—all her stories seemed to me like a way of keeping people at a distance. Yeah, she had some sharp edges, but underneath the prickles she seemed smart and funny. I wondered if she was straight, and if not, whether she assumed I was…

  “Earth to Alice,” Claire said. Was it my imagination, or was there a slight edge to her voice? Irritation or impatience hidden beneath the ever-present smile?

  I shook off the thoughts and realized I was alone at the table—everyone was moving into the circle area and sitting down on the floor. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. It’s a lot to take in, arriving here.” She lowered her voice. “It can be overwhelming, especially if you don’t much like group activities.”

  “Uh, was it that obvious?” I was startled. I mean, I’d hated the group stuff, but I thought I’d been covering that up pretty well.

  “Well, it’s my job, working with people. And a lot of what I do is group work.” She looked at me. “But I’m still nervous on the first day with each new group.”

  “Yeah?” Maybe that was what the phoniness was about. I still didn’t trust her though.

  “Yeah. Anyway, I have a confession to make. I’m not really that perceptive. I had inside information.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your mother. On the registration form, she said you weren’t much for groups, and she asked us to make sure you gave it a fair shot.”

  “Oh.” Thanks, Mom.

  “Warren told me he knows her,” she said. “Diane, right? I must have met her—he said she was at our wedding, but you know how it is when you meet a lot of people all at once.” One corner of her mouth quirked up. “It’s a bit of a blur.”

  “Yeah. They worked together,” I said. “Years ago. She’s a police officer. Detective now, actually. Major Crimes Unit.”

  “Can’t be easy. I mean, it’s a pretty male-dominated profession, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. I guess.” A line from the INTRO website flashed into my mind. Our highly trained staff will establish trust and rapport as a basis for growth and change. Well, too bad for Claire. I wasn’t interested in bonding. “Uh, I should join…” I nodded to the group.

  “Yes. Try to relax, Alice. Rahim’s an excellent therapist, and I think you’ll enjoy the art exercises.” She met my eyes. “If you let yourself.”

  I doubted it, but I headed over to the group and took my seat in the circle. We each chose a large sheet of Bristol board (red, blue, green, yellow or pink), and Rahim handed out glue sticks, markers, scissors and stacks of magazines.

  “This is going to be a silent exercise,” he told us. “I want you to be together, in this group, in community. Connected and supporting each other, but silently. Each of you on your own individual journey. So no talking, all right?”

  Good. Silence suited me fine.

  “I’m going to start you off with a visualization.” He smiled. “Close your eyes and relax and just listen to my voice. You are lost at sea on a stormy night…”

  “SERIOUSLY?” Imogen yelped. “Should they visualize me puking?”

  I snorted a laugh. Good one, Imogen.

  “Shhhh,” Rahim said. “You are lost at sea, and you are cold and wet…but you see a glimmer of light. You know there is land not far off. If you row hard, you can make it. And there, onshore or maybe in a lighthouse, someone waits for you. There might be a hot meal or dry clothes. Perhaps there is a cozy fire crackling in the hearth. A steaming bath. A soft bed.”

  “With a hot chick in it?” Chad asked hopefully.

  “Oh my god. Do you have to be such a pig?” I said.

  Imogen gave a nod of agreement.

  Rahim ignored us both. “Now I want you to look at the paper in front of you. You can draw, color, use the collage materials—whatever you like—to create an image of that shore or that lighthouse. That source of guidance and comfort and safety in your life. Make sure you include yourself somewhere in the image, in a boat on the water, in the lighthouse…it’s up to you.”

  Chad flipped through a magazine, no doubt looking for someone to put in his imaginary bed. The rest of us just sat there. Imogen caught my eye, grinned and stuck out her pierced tongue.

  Was she flirting with me? I was always so bad at telling.

  * * *

  In bed, after lights-out, I thought about what Caleb had said. I couldn’t help wondering why he was so worried about Tara. I mean, sure, she seemed depressed, but it was unusual for a guy to be so…concerned. Maybe he knew someone who’d attempted suicide or something. Maybe he was scared she was going to do something to hurt herself. I sighed and sat up in bed. Good luck going to sleep now that I had that thought in my head.

  Tara’s bed and mine were on one wall of the cabin, Imogen’s and Mandy’s on the other. The cabin was inky dark, so I couldn’t see the others, but someone was snoring softly.

  “Tara,” I whispered. “Are you awake?”

&nbs
p; “Yeah,” she whispered back. “You too? Obviously. Duh.”

  I sat up, swung my legs over the edge of my bed and, bringing my blanket with me for warmth, shuffled over to her bed. “Mind if I sit?”

  “No. I don’t think I’ll ever get to sleep anyway.” A pause. “I wouldn’t mind company.”

  I perched on the end of her bed, not sure what to say. “Dinner was pretty good, wasn’t it? I have to admit, I was worried it’d be mashed tofu with kale or something, but it wasn’t bad at all.”

  “I like cooking.” She sounded guilty, like she was admitting to some dark secret.

  I was dying to ask her how she’d gotten herself sent here—hash brownies?—but I didn’t want to sound nosy. “You were paired up with Chad, right?”

  “Uh-huh.” She didn’t sound too enthusiastic.

  “Seems like a dick.”

  “I guess.” I could hear the shrug in her voice. “He’s a pothead. I think he got arrested for dealing or something. I’m not into that stuff. Um. No offense, I mean, like if you’re here for something like that. I just don’t—”

  “No, no. I mean, I know what you mean. And I’m—I guess we aren’t supposed to talk about this?”

  “Just not supposed to ask, I think.”

  “Whatever.” I lowered my voice in case Imogen and Mandy were listening in. “I don’t really care anyway. But I’m here for drinking too much at a party. Seriously, that’s it.”

  “Uh-huh.” She sounded like she didn’t believe me.

  “Honestly,” I said. “My mom overreacted.”

  There was a long silence, and the darkness between us began to feel even darker. We started to speak at the same time.

  “So you—” I began.

  “And you’re with Caleb, right?” she asked.

  “Caleb? Me?” Then I realized what she meant. “Oh, for meal prep. Yeah.”

  “He’s pretty cute,” she said.

  “Yeah, I guess.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “I’m waiting for Mandy to realize that Warren isn’t available. She’s going to be all over Caleb, don’t you think?”

  “I hope not. I mean, not because I’m interested.”

  I laughed. “Oh, of course not.”

  “No, seriously. I…I’m not looking for anything like that. But he seems really nice. He was nice to me anyway. He went out of his way to talk to me a couple of times. And…well, he seems really genuine and sincere, you know. And his art was really good.”

  “You think?” Caleb had looked pissed off about having to share his work, but the boy clearly had talent. Rahim had guided the discussion, and he’d asked us to share our own feelings and not comment on each other’s art. He said it was about emotional expression, not artistic skill. Still, I had to admit I’d been impressed. Had to admit to myself, that is—I didn’t see any reason to say so out loud. Not to Tara, and definitely not to Caleb.

  I heard her yawn. “I’m gonna crash, okay?” she said. “Will you be able to sleep?”

  “I’ve got a book,” I said. “And a flashlight. I’m good.”

  I dragged myself and my blanket back over to my bed. The novel I’d brought along was beside my pillow, but my mind was all over the place, and there was no way I could read. Besides, who needed dystopian fiction when the current reality was INTRO? This place was more than dystopian enough.

  I curled up on my side and tried hard not to think about anything at all.

  SUNDAY

  FIVE

  Caleb

  I woke up in a foul mood. The wooden beds were tiny, and I’m six foot four. I hadn’t slept in a bed this small since I was, like, ten. Mom gave me her queen-size mattress when Barry moved in and insisted on a king-size bed. I don’t know why—he’s only about five foot eight. I think that’s one of the reasons I piss him off—I’ve got eight inches on him.

  I’ve never really had to share a room with anyone either—no brothers or sister; my mom says I’m a limited-issue model—and I couldn’t believe the amount of farting, belching and snoring those guys produced. We’d stayed up late after the art session the night before. Well, Chad stayed up and kept me and Jason and Nick awake. There was no set time for lights-out at INTRO. We were trusted to, as Rahim said, monitor and regulate our own behavior. I wondered if Rahim had ever actually spent any time with guys our age. Monitor and regulate were not words that sprang to mind.

  Chad had smuggled some weed onto the island. Butt-crack baggie, he’d announced, pulling it out from under his mattress. I figured they’d search our bags but probably not our butts. He giggled. Although that Rahim dude looks like he might enjoy that sort of thing. You guys in?

  That’s disgusting, Nick said.

  Nah, I’m knackered. Jason shook his head. Feckin’ thick, bringing that here.

  Weed gives me a wicked headache, so I said, I pulled breakfast duty. I’m gonna turn in.

  Nick had turned away and started lining stuff up on the shelf beside his bed. Toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, floss, comb, sunscreen, mosquito repellent, deodorant. His shoulders were hunched, and it looked as if his hands might be shaking a bit. I’d wondered what was freaking him out—the weed or the fact that Chad was a Grade A douche. Maybe both.

  Jason climbed into bed and turned his back on all of us.

  Soon Chad was cackling and playing air guitar and generally acting like a total jackass. The whole cabin stank of dope—Chad blew the smoke out the window, and the breeze blew it straight back in. I used the bathroom, stripped down to my T-shirt and boxers and climbed into my toddler bed. Nick disappeared into the bathroom for so long I got worried about him—a suicide on our first night would not be a good thing—but he eventually emerged and flopped into bed.

  Then I lay awake, trying to find a way to get comfortable. The choices were limited. Eventually I dragged the mattress onto the floor and sprawled across it diagonally. My feet still hung off the end, but at least I wasn’t bumping up against the headboard and footboard. A week of this and I’d probably a) become homicidal and b) need some serious physio.

  We had been told to bring an alarm clock, since we weren’t allowed to have phones, and mine (a Darth Vader digital I bought at a dollar store) woke me up at six. The other guys swore and threw stuff at me—a pillow, a pair of rank socks, a sleep mask—but by the time I was dressed, they had all gone back to sleep. The breakfast gong (which turned out to be an actual Chinese gong that hung outside the mess hall) would be rung at seven. One of the perks of being the chef, Warren had told us, was that you got to strike the gong. Otherwise, it was off-limits. Staff only. Infractions would be punished by unspecified physical torment. Warren grinned when he told us that, as if he knew that at least one person wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation. I’d put my money on Chad being the one to make Warren’s day.

  If you didn’t make your way to the dining room when the meal bell rang, you would be SOL until the next meal. Water and energy bars were available throughout the day, they told us, but everything else was on lockdown. If the gong sounded three times, it was time for a meeting. Five times meant there was an emergency, and we were to gather in the mess hall. Very military. I bet Warren would like it if we saluted him too. I could totally see the cop in him—eyes flicking from face to face, assessing, judging. I’d have to be careful around him. Wary. If he thought I was going to challenge him, he was wrong.

  When I got to the kitchen, Alice was already there, cracking eggs into a huge bowl. She didn’t look super happy to see me, but then, I probably looked the same. At least egg-white omelets and kale juice didn’t seem to be on the menu.

  “Scrambled eggs and bacon,” she said. “That’s what the menu says.”

  “Want me to start the bacon?” I asked. I actually like cooking. Mom hates it. Her idea of gourmet is Lean Cuisine instead of Hungry-Man. I started cooking long before it was safe for me to use the stove. Now Barry has taken over, and we eat like it’s the 1950s. Meat and potatoes. No salads, no fish, no chicken. All red meat all the time
. Almost makes me want to become a vegetarian.

  The bacon was sitting on the counter, and I started laying it out on the grill. “Eleven people, right?” I said. “Three strips each? Four?”

  “Whatever.” She grabbed a whisk and started beating the bejesus out of the eggs. I wanted to tell her to stop—eggs get tough if you overbeat them—but I kept my mouth shut and watched the bacon cook.

  “Where’s the toaster?” I asked.

  “Isn’t one. I looked. I guess you have to use the grill.”

  We worked side by side in silence. I bit my tongue when she started to scramble the eggs over high heat. There were no paper towels, so I drained the bacon on a dishtowel, wiped down the grill and then started on the toast while Alice put out cutlery and dishes in the dining room. In a weird way, it was kind of okay—not talking, just doing what had to be done. I’m never big on chitchat, and I’m not an early-morning person. Seemed like Alice was the same. Or she really hated me. Either way, we worked together pretty well.

  “Do you want to ring the gong?” I said when I had put the last of the bread on the grill. “Then we can get everything out onto the table while we wait for people to come.”

  She nodded and went outside. The gong sounded, deep and melodious in the morning stillness. Warren appeared in the dining room almost immediately, rubbing his meaty hands together and saying, “You can never go wrong with bacon!”

  “Unless you’re vegan,” Alice said. I laughed, and Warren stopped shoveling eggs onto his plate and gave us both a beady stare. Maybe backtalk was banned on Therapy Island.

  Within ten minutes, everyone else was there, slathering peanut butter on toast, guzzling juice, laughing when the plastic ketchup bottle made a fart noise (Chad again). When everyone was finished, Claire stood up and said, “How about a round of applause for our chefs, Alice and Caleb? Great job, guys.” She started clapping, and everyone else joined in halfheartedly.

  “You’ve got half an hour before we meet back here for our first group session. You might want to find somewhere to be alone—somewhere you can get in touch with your true self before we start the work we came here to do. Group work is hard. If you’re going to get anything out of it, you’re going to have to make yourselves vulnerable. Expose aspects of yourself that no one ever gets to see.”