I’ll Never Tell

by Abigail Haas

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  The truth is rarely pure and never simple.

  —Oscar Wilde

  ARUBA EMERGENCY SERVICES 911 TRANSCRIPT—8:45 p.m.

  DISPATCHER: Hallo, hoe gaat het ermee?

  FEMALE 1: Hello? Hello?

  DISPATCHER: What is your emergency?

  FEMALE 1: We can’t find our friend. . . . We haven’t heard from her all day; she’s not picking up her phone.

  DISPATCHER: How long has she been missing?

  FEMALE 1: No, she’s not missing, but her door’s locked and—

  (background) FEMALE 2: Tell her . . . the blood.

  FEMALE 1: (muffled) . . . you shut up! (louder) We think . . . It looks like there’s blood on the floor. Can you send someone?

  DISPATCHER: I’ll have a patrol come by. What’s your address?

  FEMALE 1: We’re in one of the houses, on Paradise Beach. (muffled) AK, what’s the address?

  (background)

  MALE 1: (unintelligible)

  DISPATCHER: Miss? Are you there?

  FEMALE 1: Max says her balcony door’s smashed. . . . He’s going around the back. (muffled) Chels, try her phone again.

  FEMALE 2: She’s not picking up.

  MALE 1: Wait, I can hear . . . Can you . . . (unintelligible)

  DISPATCHER: Miss, tell me where you are.

  FEMALE 1: Max is climbing up. (muffled) Max? Is she there?

  (pause)

  FEMALE 2: (crying) I don’t like this. She wouldn’t just leave her phone. You know she . . .

  (scream)

  FEMALE 1: Oh my God, is that Max? What’s going on? Max, is she in there?

  MALE 1: Max, open the door! Max!

  (sound of movement)

  (screams)

  FEMALE 2: Oh my God!

  FEMALE 1: Elise! No, no . . .

  (more screams)

  DISPATCHER: Miss, tell me what you see.

  FEMALE 1: I can’t. . . . (sobbing) Blood. There’s blood everywhere!

  DISPATCHER: Who’s bleeding? Are they okay?

  MALE 2: She’s not breathing!

  FEMALE 1: (unintelligible) I can’t. . . . She won’t. . . .

  FEMALE 2: Help her!

  MALE 1: Tate, Get them out of here!

  (sounds of a struggle)

  FEMALE 1: No! Let me go!

  (pause)

  DISPATCHER: Miss? Are you there? Miss?

  FEMALE 1: (sobbing) She’s dead. There’s a knife, and . . . Oh God, I can’t. . . . She’s dead!

  THE BOSTON GLOBE

  An American teenager has been found dead in Aruba, authorities there have confirmed. The girl, who has yet to be named, was on a weeklong vacation with friends in the resort town of Oranjestad. The group contacted police Tuesday night after the victim failed to answer her cell phone. Investigators discovered the body that night at the luxury beach house owned by the father of one of the teens.

  Local police have refused to comment, but investigating judge Klaus Dekker confirmed to our reporter that the death was suspicious, and a murder investigation has been opened.

  BEFORE

  “Shots! Shots! Shots!”

  We yell it together, slamming our hands on the sticky wooden table. The dreadlocked waiter pours a row of something lurid, neon blue. It’s our first night on the island, and the music is almost too loud for me to think—some European dance-pop thing that shakes the crowded beach club, making the glasses quiver and the blood vibrate in my chest.

  “Aruba, bitches!” Elise raises her shot in a toast, lights splintering off the glass, golden in her hair.

  “Spring break!” The group whoops, and then I’m gulping down the drink, shuddering at the sickly bittersweet taste and the familiar burn that snakes down my throat. Melanie screws her face up, gagging; Max and AK pump the air and howl, but Elise is already reaching for another, plain tequila this time, with a side of salt and lime.

  “Easy, girl,” Tate says, and laughs to Elise, one arm slung around my shoulder.

  She ignores him, turning to me with a wicked smile. “Bottoms up, babe.” Elise grins, but instead of shaking the salt out on her hand, she sprinkles it on my neck, leaning in to lick up along my collarbone before downing the shot.

  I shiver at the touch and playfully shove her away. “You’re drunk.”

  “And you need to loosen up!” Elise shimmies, blond hair flying out around her bare shoulders. “We’re on vacation. Time to party!”

  She grabs Mel and Chelsea and heads for the dance floor, her hips already moving to the thunder of bass. They dance and whirl, swallowed up into the tight press of sweaty bodies.

  I search for the rest of our group. Chelsea’s twin brother, Max, is already off bro-ing it up with AK by the bar, trying their luck with a pair of Swedish-looking blondes. Max’s fair hair and AK’s black curls are bent close, to hear the girls or check out their cleavage, I don’t even have to guess. Lamar sprawls on the other side of the booth, the lights hitting blue and deep indigo against his black skin. He peels the label from his beer bottle as Chelsea, who left the dance floor, tries to tempt him out. She grinds above him like a lap dancer, laughing, until he finally catches her around the waist and follows her into the dark, one hand draped possessively across her shoulder.

  I’m left alone in the corner with Tate. I slide closer, kissing him until I feel the tension in his shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” He shakes it off. “I guess I’m still stressed from finals. Everyone said Yale would get back to me before—”

  “They will,” I tell him firmly. His blond hair is mussed, so I reach up to push it out of his eyes. I let my hand stay there, resting against his cheek. “They have to take you.” I grin, teasing, “You’re the chosen one. I mean, if you don’t get in, what hope is there for the rest of us? I’ll be sweeping floors at community college.” I laugh, but Tate still looks distracted. “It’ll be fine,” I reassure him again. “And even if it’s not, there’s nothing you can do now. You might as well have fun.”

  Tate exhales, finally smiling. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He leans to drop a kiss on my forehead. “I guess I just need to de-stress.”

  “Lucky for you, we’re in the right place for that.” I lace my fingers in his. “A whole week, no parents, no rules . . .” I reach up to kiss him, and this time, there’s no tension, just a familiar low heat building, and Tate’s hands sliding along the edge of my shirt—

  Arms suddenly encircle me from behind, dragging me away. Elise. She squeezes tighter, kissing my cheek.

  “What are you sitting around for?” She yanks me to my feet. “Come! Dance!” Elise grabs Tate with her other hand; we exchange a look as she drags us deeper into the crowd.

  The music shifts to some dirty hip-hop beats, and soon I’m surrounded by skin and sweat and heat, a mass of bodies moving in a slow, grinding pulse. Elise keeps hold of me, dancing and posing, pulling me into it, until my self-consciousness drifts away and I’m as lost in the music as she is. Every party, every dance floor, every illegal warehouse rave is the same: once I’m past that first, awkward moment, once Elise has dragged me into it—out of myself—it’s like nothing else. I’m not Anna, I’m not me anymore; I’m something beyond, my heart racing as the songs melt into each other, and all that mat
ters is the beat and their bodies, and that bass, pounding on.

  Breathless, I let my body go, let it move and sway, caught up. Tate brings me tight against him, and then it’s the three of us, me and Elise dancing up close to him and spinning away; green strobe lights cutting through the dark. Tate laughs between us, his hands lingering on Elise’s waist as she grinds against him. The spotlights strobe across his face, the beautiful angles of his jaw, and suddenly I want him with a fierce ache in my chest. Mine. I grab his hand away from her, pulling him wordlessly to the edge of the dance floor, my back finding some solid surface, his hands finding the curve of my hips, his lips finding mine.

  He leans in to kiss me, pushing me hard up against the wall. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down, locking him against me as our mouths hungrily roam over lips and skin and shoulders. I wish I could stay like this forever—the tightrope wire between drunk and sober, between flesh-and-blood and free. Then the music changes again, something pulsating and euphoric, and we’re back on the floor, dancing. I don’t know how long we’ve been out there when Elise yanks me away. “Bathroom break!” she orders, collecting Chelsea and Mel from their spot by the DJ booth.

  We girls spill into the tiny bathroom, scattering lip gloss and mascara on the countertop, crowding around the cracked mirror. “So, who’s in for some skinny-dipping?” Elise hops up by the sink and swings her heels against the cabinet. She fixes me with a mischievous grin. “What do you say, like that time in Walden Pond?”

  I laugh. “Yeah, and we nearly died of hypothermia.”

  Elise shrugs, unconcerned. “So it’s a good thing we’re in the Caribbean now.”

  “You’re not serious?” Mel blinks from under her blunt-cut black bangs. “It’s pitch-black out there; you’d drown.”

  “Maybe I’ll find a cute Aruba lifeguard to come protect me.” Elise carefully pouts, applying another layer of pink lip stain.

  “Or cut you into tiny pieces and feed you to the sharks,” Mel mutters. She tugs at the hem of the skirt we had to talk her into, trying in vain to yank it an extra inch down over her pale thighs. I feel a stab of irritation at her whining. Typical Mel—always acting like a chaperone even when the rest of us are having fun. Straight A’s, future med student: she wants everything to run on a strict plan. Her plan.

  “Lighten up.” I sigh. “You’re not still pissed about the room thing?”

  “It’s not a room,” Mel complains. “It’s, like, a closet with a pullout bed.”

  “You could share with AK and my brother,” Chelsea calls from inside the tiny cubicle. There’s a flush, and she emerges, finger-combing her long, salt-bleached hair. She barely glances at her reflection, barefaced with her dusting of freckles. But then, she doesn’t need to. Chelsea has that whole natural, beach beauty thing down cold. Even during icy Boston winters, she always manages to look like she just strolled in from a surfing session in the sun. “Although,” she adds with a smirk, “you’ll have to deal with all their gross boy underwear lying around.”

  “That’s not the only thing they’re trying to lay,” I quip. Elise laughs, and high-fives me.

  “Maybe they’ll let you watch,” she adds to Mel. “You might learn something.”

  “La, la, la!” Chelsea protests, covering her ears. “What’s the rule?”

  “No talking about your brother and his sex life.” Elise sighs.

  “Or his lack of one.” I grin, but Mel is still sulking. She turns to Elise.

  “I don’t know why I can’t just share with you.”

  “Because I plan on having fun.” Elise smiles. “Like with that blond guy, the one in the VIP booth.”

  “They have a VIP booth here?” Chelsea laughs, trying to rinse her hands under the sputtering tap. Her wrists are full of knotted yarn bracelets and exotic beads, fraying until they’re barely hanging on. “They don’t even have running water.”

  Elise just applies a coat of gloss red lip balm. “He’s cute, I’m telling you. I think I’ll have him come back to see the house. The view from my bedroom . . .” She winks.

  “Elise!” Mel protests, like clockwork, “You don’t even know him. He could be a rapist, or murderer, or—”

  “Stop with all the buzzkill,” I interrupt.

  “You need a drink,” Elise agrees. She hops down and links her arm with Mel’s, giving me an exasperated look over her head. “Two drinks. And a hot, sweaty local guy.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Interested, we know.” Elise steers her out, back into the club.

  We chorus in unison, “You’re not that kind of girl.”

  Melanie pouts. “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

  Elise rolls her eyes. “No, we say it like it’s a dull thing.”

  Back on the floor, Elise points out her target for the night. He’s lounging with some buddies in the corner: he’s handsome, in his early twenties maybe, with a bored nonchalance that just screams rich kid.

  “Cute, right?” She grinds against me, flashing flirtatious looks over at the guy, pulling me in to nuzzle at my neck.

  I laugh. “He looks like trouble.”

  She grins back. “Just the way I like them.” And then she’s gone, ducking through the crowd toward the guy. I watch her go. Within seconds, she’s smiling and laughing with the group, that one guy giving her an approving grin.

  Tate reappears next to me. “Where’s Elise?” he yells to be heard.

  I shrug vaguely, but Tate looks across the floor to where she’s already angled, cross-legged in the booth with them, leaning in to talk to her prospective conquest. Her hair glows purple and red under the lights, tanned legs long and bare under her skirt. I smile, watching her at work. She’s gorgeous; no man would stand a chance of resisting.

  “I don’t like this. We should stick together,” he yells again, frowning.

  “Relax!” I slide my arms around him, pulling his lips down to mine. “Elise is a big girl. She can take care of herself.”

  THE HEARING

  “I didn’t do it!”

  I leap up, the words flying from my lips the moment the lawyer steps into the holding room. “I didn’t do it,” I say again, gripping my hands together as if I can save myself from drowning. “This is all a mistake.”

  Even as I say it, I can hear how cliché it sounds, like I’m stuck in the nightmare of one of those trashy soaps I would watch with my mom as a kid. I swallow back the hysterics, try to sound calm and collected. “You believe me, don’t you? You have to make them see.”

  The lawyer’s name is Ellingham, and he’s all jowls and receding hairline, an international law specialist Tate’s dad flew in from New York. He doesn’t speak until the guard closes the door behind him and we’re alone in the small room. Then he places his briefcase on the table they’ve bolted to the floor and finally looks at me.

  “That doesn’t matter, not today.”

  I stare back in disbelief. “Of course it matters! They’re saying . . . They say . . .” My voice breaks.

  “Today is a simple bail hearing,” he explains, unclicking the stays on the briefcase. It’s leather, expensive. Everything about him is expensive: the crisp shirt, the designer linen suit, the heavy fountain pen he uses to sign the top sheet of the papers. In the prison, they have me wearing an itchy canvas jumpsuit, but my dad brought clean clothes for the hearing. I’ve never been so happy to wear a simple white tank top in my life: the cotton soft against my skin, smelling like our old detergent. Like home.

  “This hearing isn’t to argue your case,” Ellingham warns me. “You’ll go sit, state your name, and then enter your plea. Sign here.” He offers the pen.

  I sign, awkward in handcuffs. “Can you get them to take these off ?” I ask hopefully. My wrists are ringed with red and bruises now, but I’m lucky: the first court appearances had me in leg shackles too, and I flushed with shame to stumble across the room like a drunk freshman trying to walk in heels.

  He shakes his head. “Not right n
ow, but once the judge grants bail, you’ll be released.”

  “Then we can go home.” I feel a sob of sheer relief at the prospect, and fight to swallow it back. I can’t be the girl weeping in the courtroom, I know. I have to be strong.

  “You mustn’t leave the island.” Ellingham looks at me as if I should know all this already. “It’ll be a term of your bail. You have to stay until the trial.”

  I nod eagerly. Anything to get me out of jail. They’ve kept me in isolation since the arrest, five long days when I’ve seen nobody but unfriendly guards and the distant sight of other prisoners as they march me between the exercise pen and my cell. It’s too hot to sleep, and I spend every night huddled on my bunk on the thin wool blanket, counting cracks on the ceiling and waiting to wake up and find this is all a dream.

  But it isn’t.

  The guard knocks, then enters, gesturing for us to go.

  “Is Tate okay?” I demand, following Ellingham down the windowless hallway. The guard matches me, step for step, as if I’m about to break free and run. “Will he be there?”

  “You’ll be processed together.” He’s already checking his phone, done with me. “Don’t speak to him, or anyone, until you’re out of there. Just your name and plea.”

  I nod again. I used to give the lawyer messages to pass along, words of love, little in-jokes, but he never brought any word back from Tate, so I quit even trying. I was so used to texting back and forth with him every hour I was awake, I still hear phantom rings; a low buzz that makes me leap up, searching around the cell for the phone. But of course, there are none in there, even if Tate were free to call. He’s been locked up, like me, somewhere on the other side of this sprawling compound. The longest we’ve been apart in five months.

  It’s the longest I’ve been apart from Elise, too, but I can’t think about that.

  * * *

  They transport me in the back of an unmarked van, with another two guards sitting on each side as if I’m still planning an escape. I want to laugh and tell them I can’t even make it through cross-country trials in phys ed, let alone flee police custody. Besides, where would I go? The island is less than seventy square miles: nothing but beaches and high-rise hotels and cacti growing wild in the dusty swathes of land not overtaken by fast-food outlets and Caribbean beach bars. Paradise, all the tourism websites called it. Ellingham is traveling separately in his rented luxury sedan. The driver up front in the van plays a local Aruba radio station, the DJ babbling in Dutch between American pop and rap hits. I remember that first night on the island. Elise and Melanie and Chelsea and me, dancing together in the club. We took photos on our cell phones, uploading them to all our profiles right away with the title “Best Spring Break Ever.” We tagged and commented and reposted, just to make sure everybody back home would see it and know what a fabulous time we were all having. Know that they weren’t invited.