Wild Blue Wonder

by Carlie Sorosiak

  And I . . .

  I don’t know what’s happening.

  Hana’s singing the chorus at the top of her lungs, Elliot’s swaying back and forth on his seat, and Alexander’s sporting a grin that could light up this whole damn ocean. I’m not sad. I am so far from sad that it startles me—surprises me even more when a few tears rush to the corners of my eyes, and they’re the type of tears that don’t hurt.

  But the biggest surprise is, through my thick wool mittens, feeling Alexander’s gloved hand brushing up against mine.

  He looks at me.

  I look at him: My superhero teammate. My friend. And . . . oh, wow . . . maybe something more than that? His cheeks are reddening and my heart’s out-of-control thumping and I am going to ruin this, I think. But I allow myself this extra moment of happiness: slipping off my mitten as he nervously tugs off his glove.

  When we press our hands together, it’s like my skin knows his skin.

  July

  Life Isn’t This Infinite Thing

  You and I boarded the Chris-Craft, the moon somehow looking more pockmarked than usual, like someone had carved it up with a teaspoon. I snatched the keys from the glove box and corralled my hair into a ponytail, humid air skimming the back of my neck. It could’ve been that cup of jungle juice ricocheting through me—or the fact that my heart was beating out of my bones—but that moment felt charged. The two of us, breaking away from the party, setting out on our own.

  If there was ever a moment to tell you how I felt, wasn’t it this?

  If I hold this thing in any longer, it will chew me right through.

  The engine sputtered when I turned the key—but otherwise, fine. No visible water in the hull. The boat handled poorly thanks to the bent shaft and too-small propeller, thanks to the dry rot soaking up the sea like a sponge, but no worse than a canoe. No worse than a canoe, I kept telling myself, because I was desperate to be out there, alone with you on the water, where I felt brave. Where I could say anything.

  “Any binoculars back here?” you asked as we traveled farther away from the dock, into the twenty-foot-deep water. It was a clear, bright night.

  “With the life jackets.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Salty air slapped my face, and I tried to steer us away from the edge of the cove, but the boat kept fighting back: sluggishly drifting to the left with the motion of the water, in the direction of the biggest seaweed blooms. Earlier that week, Dad had wandered down to the rocky coastline to collect samples. A potential new species, he’d said. Ultrastrong. Ultralong. Seaweed rope. Getting caught up in that would be a massive no-no for this boat, so I cut the engine for a second, hoping that would slow our progress.

  Crap, crap, crap. Maybe this was a bad idea?

  When I turned around to tell you about it, you were perched on the transom, your back to the sea. You motioned me over with a swoop of your hand.

  My fingers pianoed against my jean shorts. “I’ve got to deal with this for a second.”

  “Whatever it is, it can wait.”

  As a kid, I had a recurring dream where my mouth was packed with sand. I kept digging it out only to find more there, and no matter how long or how much I dug, I never found my mouth empty enough to speak. On that boat, I could feel the phantom sand between my teeth, and all I wanted was to spit it out: for my lips and my mouth and my words to work.

  Because this was the moment, right?

  I knew Reed and Fern’s feelings for you. I knew that thinking these thoughts—and worse, acting upon them—was a trust betrayal of the highest order. Completely traitorous. And the idea of it was enough to churn my stomach, but not enough to override everything else, not enough to stop me from joining you on the transom, not enough to brick off the dwindling space between us.

  I kissed you—the dizzy, desperate clash of my lips against yours.

  Your mouth was warm.

  You tasted of chocolate and jungle juice and salt.

  You broke away from me.

  “Sawyer, what are you . . . ?” I could see redness blooming up your neck. You said Sawyer like it burned your tongue.

  “I . . . I just thought . . .” My skin prickled. I didn’t know skin could feel like it didn’t belong on your body. An itchy, ill-fitting sweater. Thirty seconds of stabbing silence followed, each worse than the last. “What about . . . in the tree house? You held my hand.”

  “Yeah . . . but you’re my best friend, you know that? My best friend. Your family is my family. It’s . . . you’re . . .” You croaked out words that quickly dissipated.

  I don’t know how long we sat there in screaming silence, the air growing colder and wetter. Enough time for me to rewind the whole summer—a summer of wishing and dreaming and . . . misreading signals?

  My voice was not my voice. It was smaller, soft as the spongy bits on this boat. “So . . . you don’t like me.”

  You let out a long breath. “Of course I do.”

  “But you don’t like me.”

  “It’s . . . it’s not even that.”

  Exasperation replaced the sponge. “Then what is it?”

  “I don’t have a lot of family, okay? You are my family. It’s . . . I can’t . . .” Again with the word mist. Unfinished sentences.

  And I couldn’t deal, couldn’t stay on the boat in this silence with all these words left unsaid, and these feelings left unanswered, and— Oh God, Fern and Reed will find out, and they’ll know I’ve betrayed them—

  “We should . . . we should get back to the party,” I stammered.

  “Yeah,” you said quietly. “Maybe that’s a good idea.”

  So I stumbled toward the steering wheel and turned the key, hearing the engine thrum to life, but the propeller . . . No. Oh no. The propeller sounded like a blender in the water: a whizzing, churning whir.

  Seaweed.

  We’d drifted farther in those moments, and that darn too-small propeller had gotten tangled up in slimy green bands.

  “Is that—?” you said, throat tight.

  “Yep.”

  We were too high up to reach down and yank the seaweed. You knew that, so you started to draw off your shirt, about to jump in the water: “I’ll get it.”

  “No,” I said, because honestly, that was the last thing I wanted, you all shirtless and wet, glimmering like some stupid sexy merman. Stupid sexy merman? I was losing it.

  Still in my jean shorts and midnight-blue T-shirt, I cut the engine, removed my sandals, and slid off the end of the Chris-Craft, into the chilly water. Immediately, the seaweed sliminess grasped at my legs. Thick. Heavy. It was like running the lower half of my body through an upside-down car wash. Heebie-jeebies times a million. With the rippling waves, salt water flicked into my eyes.

  “You sure you don’t want me to do it?” you said tentatively.

  In response, I just shoved my hand under the boat, tugging the first wad of seaweed off the propeller with my fist. “I’m fine.”

  It was less than fifteen seconds later when you saw it.

  In the distance.

  A monstrous thing.

  “Sawyer,” you said slowly, only the faintest tinge of panic trickling into your voice. “Get out of the water.”

  “I’m almost done,” I said, not picking up on that fear, wiping salt out of my eyes.

  “Sawyer-get-out-of-the-water-now!”

  A sweep of terror wrapped its tendrils around me, because when I squinted, I saw it, too: a long black ridge about two hundred meters away. Sleek. Hunching out of the flat plane of sea, and—moving toward us. I always said that if we caught a glimpse of the sea monster, I wouldn’t be scared, but in the water, in the dark, I was.

  I tried to bolt.

  And when I tried to bolt, I thrashed.

  And when I thrashed, the ropes of seaweed curled around my ankles, held tight. I pulled. It pulled harder. The water was black and blue beneath me—no visibility after several inches.

  “Come on, come on,” you shouted, reaching i
nto the water and grabbing my wet hands. You pulled. The seaweed pulled harder. And the monster— Is it moving closer? Oh God oh God oh—

  “I’m stuck. Dylan, I’m stuck. The seaweed, it’s—” But you didn’t wait for the rest of my words. Understanding perfectly, you dove into the water as I screeched, “Dylan, no!” and under you went, holding your breath and holding it, holding it, and your hands were on my ankles, I could feel your fingers working the seaweed loose as I’d done with the propeller, and after fifteen terrifying seconds I was free, I was free, and I clambered inside the boat, expecting you to follow me.

  You didn’t follow me.

  The water churned. White-hot terror.

  “Dylan?”

  But you were nowhere.

  You were nowhere.

  I did the only thing I could think of: I jumped back in. Even with the monster, which was . . . I didn’t know where. It disappeared beneath the blue as I dove under, too, and it was dark and there was nothing and then I felt you, and you were moving, and there was seaweed everywhere, and I couldn’t see you even when I opened my eyes, and it was blackness-blackness-blackness and how long could I hold my breath? You were tied up like I was, but I couldn’t find where, because everything was dark and slippery— Wrist! Around your right wrist, a tight circle of seaweed, and your left hand was working at it, pick, pick, pick, pull, and I tried and then your wrist was free but you still weren’t charging for the surface and how long have we been down here and where is the monster? And I tried scooping my arms underneath yours and kicking up as hard as I could, as hard as I could—I promise you, it was hard as I could.

  Twenty-two minutes.

  Twenty-two minutes is the longest anyone’s ever held their breath underwater, and I don’t know how long I lasted—five? Six? But when I finally broke the surface to gulp for air, I screamed and my throat was raw and raw so raw, and then I went back under and pulled, and surfaced and screamed, and I don’t know who heard me screaming or who called 911, but you have to believe me, please, you have to believe me, I tried to save you, I did everything I could to save you.

  But it was my fault. It was my selfish fault. The boat was sluggish and unsafe and I took it out anyway, and I kissed you anyway, and you died anyway.

  As a first responder lifted me from the water and into her arms, she said I was in a state of shock and my body was locking up and don’t worry, don’t worry, it’s going to be okay. What I remember is landing on a memory: you and me as little kids, playing tag in the meadow with Reed and Fern, dirt between our toes.

  Life isn’t this infinite thing.

  December

  Ain’t No Mountain

  I managed to keep my shit together for the rest of the boat ride with my superhero team, but that night I lay in bed and stared up at the zebra fish on my ceiling, sadness and anger and confusion bubbling up like bile. It was just a handhold, I try to tell myself. But really, there’s no just about it.

  I think Alexander likes me, and I think I like him, too.

  I think I’ve liked him since the Laundromat, since that stupid, amazing cape in the trunk of his car. Since our talk outside the cryptozoology museum. But what makes me believe—even for a second—that someone like me deserves someone like him? And how can I even consider having feelings for a boy in the present when I’m still trying to make amends for the past?

  The next morning as I’m brushing my teeth, Hana texts me a GIF of Carlton from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air happy-dancing, which is ostensibly still excitement from yesterday. We launched the boat! It ran well! Success! And I should tell her that it doesn’t feel like a success, that I’ve accomplished one thing while possibly screwing up another . . . but I can’t seem to put that into words. Instead, I decide to pretend like nothing happened between Alexander and me. If I don’t mention it, if I don’t further it, then everything will be fine.

  Nope.

  The next morning, the fifth before winter break, the teachers surprise us with a living Nativity scene in the courtyard. I sense they live for this kind of stuff. Principal Stevens is one of the three kings (naturally); our history teacher, Mrs. Baker, looks rather glam in Virgin Mary blue; and Coach Miller is a shepherd. No offense to the teachers, but the real show stealers are the live sheep that they’ve shipped in from baby Jesus knows where.

  “Am I possibly imagining it,” Alexander whispers, stepping up next to me out of the freaking blue, “or is Mr. Banks dressed as a lion? I’m not sure about the historical accuracy. Would the wise men allow a lion around their newly born lord and savior?”

  He’s acting normal. I should, too. “The mane is spectacular,” I say. “Maybe he didn’t want a costume like that to go to waste?”

  When the bell rings, everyone claps for the teachers and disperses.

  Alexander walks by my side all the way to my locker. “So Hana says that you’re . . . er . . . not going to the Winter Wonderland dance this Friday?”

  I swallow. “Yeah. The committee rejected my proposal to have actual polar bears. Without them I just feel like it won’t be much of a wonderland.”

  “Right, I see. Paper snowflakes don’t do it for you?”

  “Been there, done that.”

  “Well, if you change your mind—”

  I don’t let him finish. “I won’t. But you have fun, okay? Take pictures. Lots of practice for awkward American prom photos.”

  “Okay, yes, I will,” he says a little too quickly.

  And I feel good that, for once, I’ve done the right thing.

  Friday is a half day. I put the finishing touches on my Moby-Dick essay on the way to school, using the dashboard of Hana’s minivan as a desk. I stop myself from writing: This had a really crappy ending, as the damn whale doesn’t even appear until the last few pages, but I don’t hold back in my thinking that Captain Ahab is—to borrow a phrase from Nana’s vocabulary—a total nincompoop.

  By two o’clock, I’m out in Isabella Cogsworth III with Nana, scouting the ocean for a glimpse of the sea monster, which I still desperately want to believe in—because the alternative’s way, way worse. The alternative is I’m the only monster in this story. We search for three hours and are home in time for Friday-night grilled cheese, a tradition I’m happy to hold on to. I’m in my room by eight o’clock—the start of the dance; Hana immediately sends me two selfies. One’s of her wrapping an arm around the air: I’m just going to pretend that this blank space is you, and we’ll slay all night anyway. She’s dressed in emerald-green tulle, a black ribbon around her waist. The second picture is of her and Elliot; his shirt perfectly color-coordinates with her dress, and they’re huddled close to the lens, smiling these out-of-control grins, and I wonder if maybe the night would’ve been a little less horror film, a little more cups of sparkling pink punch, streamers and paper snowflakes swaying above the basketball court, twirling Hana as she giggles, dancing with my hands in the air to a song I actually like. Reed’s there as a chaperone, and Fern went with Harper—and maybe the three of us could’ve existed like that for one night, under those same streamers, and everything would’ve been okay. I’m still mostly glad that I didn’t go—but I’m also coming to realize that loneliness can feel like a disease. It can hollow you out. And there’s a sliver of me that wants back into the world.

  Dad taps on my door at precisely 9:07. “You up?”

  Although I’m pretending to read about sea dragons in bed—not exactly up—I say, “Dad. It’s nine o’clock on a Friday night. I may be a social outcast, but I’m not dead.”

  He does an awkward cough, like he’s not sure whether to laugh. “You have a visitor.”

  “Really?”

  “Go see.”

  And sure enough, as I round the corner into the foyer, there’s Alexander, dressed in his parka and a midnight-blue suit, his polished black loafers silted with snow. One might say that my gray Adidas sweatpants/sweatshirt combo pales in combination.

  I freeze.

  Mom is in the middle of clutc
hing both of his shoulders and gushing at him. “My goodness, Alexander, don’t you look dashing.” Sensing my presence, she spins around and nunchucks me with: “Quinn, doesn’t Alexander look dashing?”

  Well, yes. I would’ve gone for sexy, if I were being unflinchingly honest. His cheeks are flushed red like he’s just stepped from a hot, hot shower. An army of snowflakes scatters through his hair.

  “What . . . what are you doing here?” I ask.

  He’s sheepish, shrugging his shoulders. “You weren’t at the dance.”

  “I did tell you I wasn’t going.”

  Mom throws me a look, like I should be nicer to our guest.

  Alexander says, “I thought that we could possibly hang out instead?”

  “That seems like an excellent idea,” Mom says, obviously very excited that I’ve made a new friend. “Would you like some hibiscus tea? I just made a fresh pot, and my mother’s baked this excellent pie that—”

  “No,” I burst out, thinking about the cat hair, and everyone looks at me. “That pie is . . . We’ll just go out instead.” Grabbing my parka from the coatrack, I quickly shove on boots and tell Mom and Dad, “I won’t be back late.” And then we’re on the porch, my breath tangling with Alexander’s in the nippy air.

  “Anything you . . . uh . . . particularly want to do?”

  I shrug, spinning through options. What is the least date-like thing? “Do you want to see the rest of the camp? Besides the barn, you really didn’t see inside anything at Thanksgiving.”

  “Sure, yes, sounds good.”

  Trudging silently through the snow, we follow the wooded trail for a few acres until reaching the mess hall. I find the spare key hidden underneath a snow-covered plastic turtle—my Christmas gift to Mom when I was twelve. I love this building, with its colossal doorway decorated with wood carvings of moose, wolves, and pine trees. The door unlocks and opens with a great whoosh, some cobwebs fluttering. I switch on the lights; they fizzle but stay lit. In the back near the kitchens, there’s something warbling in the light—a cloud with a sheen to it that quickly disappears. It’s odd. Nana swears half these buildings are haunted, but . . . I don’t know what I believe.