by Cyn Balog
She collapses on the bed next to me. “What’re you up to?”
I blush deeper, thinking of what I was up to. I don’t want to talk about it. So I say, “I’d rather find out what you were up to.”
She sits up and her eyes widen. “What do you mean?”
“Last night. I saw you and Hugo getting cozy.”
“Oh,” she says. “Nothing. He’s kind of annoying. And creepy.”
I cringe, thinking of him watching me through the open door. But Angela … Angela doesn’t think badly of anyone. “What makes you say that?”
“Well, he went through everyone’s stuff to get the vodka. Who in their right mind would do something like that?”
“I know. He read my journal,” I say, shuddering.
“Ew, he did? And he always seems to say the wrong thing. I just—he’s not my type, you know?”
Finally, she comes to her senses! “So, what is your type?” I ask, but the thing is, I know. She tells me this all the time. Someone more like her. Someone more like … my boyfriend.
This time, though, she doesn’t say it. She leans back and stares at the ceiling. She’s unusually thoughtful. Maybe being in the wilderness unleashes her quiet, pensive side. Maybe she is at one with nature. Then she opens her mouth and the last thing I’d expected comes out. “Prom’s tonight.”
“It is?” For the past couple of days, I haven’t thought of myself in ice-blue satin at all, but it’s always been in the back of my mind, despite all that has been going on.
She sits up and pinches my cheek like I’m three. “I know you wanted to go.”
“I never said I wanted to,” I say.
“You don’t have to,” she singsongs. “You’ve been one of my best friends for ten years. I know.”
I shrug. “But this is …” I’m searching for a word, but every one I can think of to describe the time up here is negative. The longer I pause, the less real I sound. Finally, I choke out, “Fun, too.”
She titters a little, back to the Angela I know and love. Still, there’s something wrong with her behavior, but I can’t tell what it is. She’s so jumpy, like a spring, yet guarded. She’s hiding something. She’s terrible at keeping secrets, almost as bad as Justin. “Sure it is. Anyway, The River Wild is all they ever play up here. I’ve seen it a hundred times. You’d think they could play something different for once.”
I shrug. “I’ve never seen it.”
“Well, it’s okay. But I just wanted to tell you, I think I’m staying in.”
Okay, there’s definitely something going on. Angela loves darkened movie theaters and big containers of popcorn. I raise my eyebrows. “You’re staying in? With Hugo?”
“Ew. He refuses to shower even though he smells,” she groans. “There’s a zombie movie marathon on tonight and a can of SpaghettiOs with my name on it in the pantry. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” I venture, studying her closely as if her expression will reveal something. But it doesn’t. She just smiles and tries to grab my cheek again, but I swat her hand away before she can.
“Have fun,” she says, leaving me alone.
I walk downstairs, hoping to avoid Hugo. Justin is standing in the living room, digging into the pockets of his oversized sweatshirt. There’s something in there, because I can see his fingers playing with it, but I can’t tell what. He has his Red Sox cap turned backward, which makes him look like an innocent little boy, but something about his expression is wrong. Justin can never hide anything; his face always gives him away. “What?” I ask when I’m standing in front of him.
He brings one corner of his mouth up in a smile. “Nothing. Let’s go.”
He grabs my hand and we walk out into the night. By now it’s dark, with charcoal-colored clouds obscuring the moon. An owl hoots in the distance and the river hums along, but it’s almost as if we’ve walked into a closet. I can’t see a thing. I cling to Justin, shivering. I know the dead probably won’t come to me with him around, but at the same time, I don’t want to test it. Justin leads the way, and in another couple of minutes I can see the orange light spilling from the Outfitters. There are no people outside, though, and the barbecue pit is empty. It looks kind of deserted. “Do a lot of people watch the movie?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Some.”
His voice is so cool, so aloof, that it startles me. I stop in my tracks before we cross the highway. “What is going on with you?”
He won’t look me in the eye. He just hitches his shoulders again. “Nothing. Come on. Let’s go.”
He doesn’t wait for me; he starts jogging so that I’m trailing two steps behind him. We cross the highway and find the path toward the Outfitters. When we’re near the door, I inspect the wipe-off board that talks about the daily activities. It says:
TODAY the RIVER is at 7,500 CFS
Dinner at 6 p.m. will be franks and burgers
Be SAFE out THERE!
Thank You for Choosing Northeast Outfitters
But nowhere at all does it say that tonight is Movie Night on the terrace. I’m about to ask Justin how he knows that there’ll be a movie when I’ve never seen it posted anywhere, when he turns to me and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out this kind of crushed, but still very pretty, red rose, surrounded by a little baby’s breath. The petals are black and wilting around the edges, and some of them fall off in his hands. “Crap,” he mutters.
I stare at it, openmouthed. “What is that?”
He lets the loose petals fall to the ground and holds it up for me. “It used to be a flower. I think.”
I just stare at it. “It’s a corsage? For, like, prom? Where did you—”
He nods. “I bought it Wednesday.”
“I don’t get it,” I say as I take it from him and affix it to my shirt. I look kind of silly wearing a corsage on this ensemble, especially since we’re just going to watch a movie. He opens the door to the Outfitters, and when I walk in, Spiffy is giving Justin the eye. They communicate soundlessly, and I do a tennis match head-swivel to see what each of them is trying to say, but it’s just raised eyebrows, winks, and nods.
“This way,” Justin says, pulling me into a room. A sign on the door says it’s the KENNEBEC ROOM, which I think must be on the way to the terrace. It’s dark inside, like a movie theater.
But suddenly a speaker begins to crackle, and music begins to pour out of it. It’s some cheesy slow song I’ve never heard before. Disco lights begin to flash white circles around the room. I strain in the dizzying moving pattern of darkness and light but don’t see a movie screen or chairs. It’s just a big, empty room with lacquered wood floors, like a gymnasium. In the corner is a banner, painted with big black lettering: WAYVIEW HIGH SCHOOL SENIOR PROM. I turn to Justin. He’s looking at it, scratching his head, which is what he always does when he’s embarrassed. “Justin, what is going on?” I ask.
His shoulders sag. “This was way better in my mind.”
“No, it’s … nice!” I say brightly, relieved.
So this is why he was acting so strange. He never could keep secrets from me. Justin is just too simple, too honest for something like that. I’m relieved it wasn’t anything bad, like … well, I don’t know what.
“You said you didn’t care about prom, but I know you did,” he says softly. “You’re a good person for going along with us. And I know it’s missing all the best things about being at prom, like getting all dressed up and seeing all your friends, but—”
I smile and pull him to the center of the room. I draw him to me, lean my head against his chest so I can hear the thumping of his heart, and we begin to sway. “You’re wrong,” I whisper into his neck. “The best thing about prom would be going with you, the best boyfriend in the world.”
I close my eyes to lose myself in the music, but he’s stopped moving. He’s standing there, stiff. I pull away and look into his eyes. The lights flash in rhythm on the deep ridges of his frown. And I know there is something else.
He will not loo
k me in the eye; instead, his focus is somewhere over my head. He opens his mouth to speak. At first nothing comes out. Then finally the words come. “I kissed her. I kissed Angela.”
My breath hitches. “What?”
He doesn’t repeat it. He doesn’t have to, and I don’t want him to. I heard him perfectly the first time, and I don’t want those words scraping my eardrums again. But I just don’t want to believe it. He swallows. “It was a mistake. It meant nothing.”
I shake my head. “Kisses always mean something,” I say softly.
“Well, this one didn’t mean anything. Really,” he says. “We came back from the hike and we were setting up the streamers here, and …”
He keeps speaking but I’m not really listening because I’m looking at the streamers. I didn’t notice them before, but the entire room is decked out in our school colors, with bright red and yellow streamers everywhere. Angela helped him with this. It must have taken hours. I realize that he kissed her here. Right where we’re standing. Something thick is building in the back of my throat, making it hard to swallow, hard even to breathe. My boyfriend. And my best friend.
“And we were just joking around, dancing, and I lost my mind for a second because the next thing I knew I was kissing her. It’s not Ange’s fault. It’s mine. It was just …”
He says “stupid” at the same time I say “what you’ve always wanted.”
I don’t know why I say it, maybe because, deep down, I’ve always thought that. He’s shaking his head, only shaking his head, back and forth, like some stupid dog trying to dry its fur. Maybe if he’d say the word, actually say “No, never, I never wanted that, God, Ki, it’s you I’ve always loved,” maybe if he fell to my feet and covered the room with apologies, I could believe him. But he’s just standing there, shaking his head, mute. I fight back the tears with everything I can but they’re spilling over my cheeks as he grabs me by my elbows, pulling me toward him. I rip myself away from him and shove against his chest as hard as I can. Usually it’s like trying to move a mountain, but this time, he steps backward, stricken.
I tear the corsage off my T-shirt, not paying attention to the hole that it leaves in the fabric, revealing my lacy black bra. He’s still standing there, frozen. He opens his mouth to speak, but again no words come out. Why does he have no words for me? He’s supposed to know me better than anyone! We’re supposed to be able to talk about things! I hurl the corsage at him and fly out the door, into the cold air, down to the river.
“Trey!” I scream into the blue night. “Trey! I’m ready! Take me across.”
The wind picks up and the tips of the tall pines are swaying, almost bowing to me. Bowing to the newest Mistress of the Waters. Because that is what I was destined to be. And right now, that is what I want to become. I race through blackness, unsure if I’m headed toward the river, but the rocky embankment is growing steeper and steeper as my legs fly beneath me. Too fast. Soon I am sliding, and as I reach out to steady myself the toe of my boot slams against something hard, sending me stumbling forward. All at once I am flying through the air. The last thing I remember is the crushing pain in my chest, and maybe, probably, it’s the breaking of my heart.
Chapter Seventeen
My nightmares are worse than they have ever been. Justin and Angela, walking away from me as I slide down the muddy embankment toward the river. I’m screaming for help, but they are too enamored of one another to hear me. I claw at the earth, but my fingers just rake through mud. The girl in the pink party dress is standing over me. She spews more mud from her mouth, then reaches toward me. At first I think she is going to help me. Instead, she entwines her fingers in the hair at the top of my head and pushes my face into the soft earth. I can’t breathe; all I can do is taste the thick, gritty stuff as it spreads into my mouth and nostrils. Now even screaming isn’t possible. Someone is chanting something. You’re a stupid girl, a female voice whispers in my ear. Stupid, stupid.
My throat is so dry it burns, which is ironic considering the background noise is the rushing water, so close I can probably touch it. I smell tree sap. Wisps of hair fly in my face, tickling me. I try to sweep them away with my hand, but I can’t lift my arm. I take inventory and realize I can’t lift either arm, or my legs. My limbs ache numbly, as if they’re bound so tightly that my feet and hands tingle. I’m afraid to open my eyes, because I know that what I’ll see won’t be good.
When I will my eyes open, it’s so dark that all I see are the faint outlines of the pine trees. I twist my head either way, looking for the source of the voice. Was it just my imagination again? Have I been left here to die, alone, at the base of this tree?
Then I hear footsteps. A face shockingly pale and ghostlike appears just inches from mine. The voice is the same as the one I heard in my dream. “She’s awake! Get her some water.”
My eyes ache as I try to open them, as if the lids are weighted down. When I force them open, I see only blackness. Water should be the last thing I need, but when a cup reaches my lips I lap at it savagely, like a dog, feeling it spill down my chin and into my throat. It’s strangely thick and oily and smells of mold and earth, but I don’t care. I swallow and the pain subsides, and when I open my eyes again, things come into focus.
I stare at her. Everything about her is familiar. It’s Lannie. My imaginary best friend from long ago. She holds up a lantern between us to look into my eyes. Hers are pretty and round, like pearls, with concern. She’s not imaginary. She’s real.
“Lannie?” I ask, struggling to rise. “What are you—”
She pushes me down and gently relaxes me on a bed of pine needles. “Shhh. You should rest.”
“Well, who do we have here?” a male voice calls from a distance. I strain in the darkness and see him sauntering toward me. Jack. Immediately I catch my breath, and despite the pain everywhere in my body, I feel warm. Despite all the warnings Trey gave me, I know I am blushing. Why does Jack do this to me?
He gives me a seductive half smile, like he knows what I’m thinking. I look away, at Lannie, in time to see her glare at him. Jack, all six-feet-and-change of him, seems to fold in under the stare of the barely five-foot girl. He lowers his head and silently steps back.
I begin to sit up. “I need to go home. I need to—” Suddenly I remember dancing with Justin under the disco lights at the Outfitters. The expression on his face. His confession reverberates in my ears. I kissed Angela. I can’t go back to him. I don’t want to see him now, and maybe not ever. I slump back to the ground.
Jack steps closer to me. This near, his eyes threaten to set me afire, so I look away, to his knees. He whispers, “Can I get you anything?”
My heart skips at his words, as if he has offered me the world. I think about what Trey said. About Jack being the enemy. About how nothing Jack tells me is true. And so a small part of me wants to push him away, say no thank you, and be on my way. But the larger part of me is screaming, Get closer! It’s not that I’ve forgotten how to say no. It’s just that with Jack, the word has ceased to exist in my vocabulary. I find myself nodding in agreement, whispering, “Anything.”
He laughs, breaking me out of my trance. Whoa. I’m a total goofball. What is happening to me?
“Something to eat?” He holds out a granola bar, the kind they sell at the Outfitters. “Now you cannot accuse me of ignoring the unique needs of the living.”
I take the bar from him. It’s crushed like a pancake but I hold it like it’s a precious gem. Lannie watches us intently, her expression lost between amusement and questioning. She sweeps her dark, pretty hair over her shoulder and scratches her neck. For the first time I see there are horrible bruises there, as if someone choked her. I recall how we used to play hide-and-seek on the river in New Jersey, and how I’d run in and out among the trees, lost and confused, only to find her hanging from a tree by her neck. She always did things like that, shocking things. She said it was only in fun, because everything else was so boring. I start to say something,
but she notices me looking and brings her hair forward quickly and anxiously, concealing the bruises once more.
A little girl steps out from among the trees, smoothing the skirt of her pink party dress, despite the fact that it’s covered in mud. As is her entire chin. Mud is oozing from her mouth. She’s staring at me curiously. When she is only an arm’s length away, she stoops, reaches out, and tugs on a lock of my hair. She pulls again and again, like she’s ringing a bell, her head tilted in question. Her expression, inquisitive yet forlorn, does not change.
“Um, hi,” I say to her.
Jack looks at her and rolls his eyes. He explains, “Vi doesn’t talk. She’s Lannie’s sister.”
Lannie puts a protective arm around her sister and begins to massage her small shoulder as the three of them beam at me like I’m a long-lost relative, here for a visit. “It’s so nice to have you here,” Lannie says. “I’ve missed you, Kiandra. I’ve missed our talks. Where have you been all this time?”
I nod. I’ve missed her, too. Even though I only saw her in the visions I had during those two years I lived on the river, I feel close to her, like she grew up with me. Actually, no, she was always older, always more mature, and she never changed. Her hair was always long, and chestnut brown, and she was never in anything other than that white dress. From what I remember, the last time we’d talked, it was about normal seven-year-old things. She liked tubing, fishing, and hopscotch, and all the things I liked, yet she always looked older. “My mother died, and we moved away,” I say.
She makes a tsk-tsk noise. “Shame. But you know your mother is here, yes?”
I nod. “So I’ve heard.”
“You were very fond of her?”
I shrug. “I was seven. Seven-year-old girls are always fond of their mothers, aren’t they?”
“I suppose. But now you’re not?”