Tragedy Girl

by Christine Hurley Deriso

  Woodbury, Minnesota

  Copyright Information

  Tragedy Girl © 2016 by Christine Hurley Deriso.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Flux, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover models used for illustrative purposes only and may not endorse or represent the book’s subject.

  First e-book edition © 2016

  E-book ISBN: 9780738747866

  Book design by Bob Gaul

  Cover design by Lisa Novak

  Cover image by iStockphoto.com/61823804/©AJ_Watt

  Flux is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Deriso, Christine Hurley, 1961– author.

  Title: Tragedy girl / Christine Hurley Deriso.

  Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota : Flux, [2016] |

  Summary: “Seventeen-year-old Anne, grieving the death of her parents,

  thinks she has found a soulmate in her classmate Blake, whose girlfriend

  has died, until she begins to sense that something about Blake is not what

  it seems”—Provided by publisher. | Description based on print version

  record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016002604 (print) | LCCN 2015045467 (ebook) |

  ISBN 9780738747033 | ISBN 9780738747866 ()

  Subjects: | CYAC: Grief—Fiction. | Secrets—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.D4427 (print) | LCC PZ7.D4427 Tr 2016

  (ebook) | DDC

  [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016002604

  Flux does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Flux

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  2143 Wooddale Drive

  Woodbury, MN 55125

  www.fluxnow.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  To my sweetie, the best of the good guys.

  I love you, Graham.

  One

  “Knock ’em dead, E. May I suggest the leopard-print leggings? ”

  I squint to read the text as blanched sunlight seeps through the blinds of my new bedroom.

  “No, you may not,” I murmur sleepily to myself with a smile. Leave it to Sawyer, my best friend from back home, to make sure I start even the least promising day with a smile.

  I lean up on an elbow and glance at the clock on my bedside table: 6:20 a.m. The first day of my senior year will start in approximately ninety minutes. Whoop.

  Sawyer never lets me forget the time I was sent home from school in tenth grade for a dress-code violation, prompting my impassioned Zola-esque speech about leggings fitting every criterion of pants, particularly when paired with a shirt that practically hit my knees. Sawyer rewarded me with a slow clap, but I still got sent home. “Leopard-print leggings” have been our most well-worn meme ever since.

  “Muah, Sawbones,” I text back, then sign off with my customary “E.” He’s called me that since I emphasized when we met in grade school that my name was Anne with an E. He actually called me that for a long time—Anne with an E—then switched it up for a while by calling me E with an Ann—then shortened it permanently to E. My parents’ joint funeral three months ago was the only time he ever called me just “Anne,” a formality that chillingly drove home the new identity foisted on someone associated with a Terrible Tragedy.

  That “Anne” seared my soul, made me realize I’d never be free of pity smiles or strained formality in my hometown ever again, even from Sawyer. It took a while to work out the details, but I decided then and there to accept my aunt and uncle’s offer and move three hundred and forty miles away to their home in the beach town of Hollis, South Carolina—on tiny Hollis Island—for my last year of high school.

  So here I am.

  Yet what have I really gained? Now, I get pity smiles and strained formality from my aunt and uncle rather than my friends back home. Not that I don’t appreciate their kindness. They’re just too earnest when they stress, for instance, that I should call this room my room rather than their spare bedroom, or that I should help myself to whatever I want in the kitchen because, hey, it’s my kitchen too! I miss the day when things just were. Let’s face it: when someone has to point out that a kitchen is your kitchen too, it’s not really your kitchen.

  I put the phone down, swallow hard, and head to the bathroom (my bathroom, Aunt Meg perkily insists) for one of my three-minute showers.

  Short showers and lightning-fast styling time are why I chopped off my auburn hair after Mom and Dad’s accident. I can’t stand the deafening hum of a blow dryer anymore. Who can afford to be lulled by the sound of white noise when god-knows-what can be unfolding just down the street? After all, I’d been in the shower that evening, deliciously oblivious as I massaged cucumber and sage-scented shampoo into my waist-length hair, when a drunk driver ran a stop sign and crashed into my parents’ car.

  I’m not superstitious; I know awful things can happen whether or not I happen to be in the shower, or whether or not I’m being lulled into complacency by the white noise of a blow dryer. Still … vigilance. That’s my new approach to life. Then, even if the unthinkable happens, at least I’ll be paying attention.

  I don’t know much anymore, but I know that I’ll never, ever let myself be blindsided again.

  “Your first day!”

  I smile weakly. Aunt Meg starts lots of conversations like this—blurting out a basic, obvious fact—but I know she means well.

  “Yep,” I say, standing at the kitchen counter pouring milk over my cereal.

  She tightens the sash around her pale-pink bathrobe, walks closer, and fingers my hair, still damp from the shower.

  “Your haircut’s so cute,” she says. “So sporty and spunky, but still really elegant. Your cheekbones look amazing with short hair.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Meg.”

  She flicks a lock of blonde hair over her shoulder.

  “Maybe we can get pedicures this weekend,” she suggests, and I nod, biting my lower lip as I glance through the kitchen window at the pine trees swaying in the back yard. I feel so claustrophobic in this house sometimes. I imagine myself running at full speed into the woods, my arms pumping as my sneakers plow down the twigs and bracken in my path.

  “Of course, you’ll have friends to get pedicures with soon,” Aunt Meg say
s, seeming to intuit my lack of enthusiasm. Damn. I try hard not to tip my hand; she’s been so great to me, you know?

  Aunt Meg sips coffee from her mug, then adds, “I know you’ll make friends in no time.”

  I nod noncommittally.

  “And boyfriends! We’ll be shopping together soon for prom dresses!”

  I pinch my lips together. “Aunt Meg, I’m mostly just going to concentrate on my schoolwork this year. You know … try to keep my grades up so I can get a scholarship … ”

  “Of course, of course. But there’s always time for fun.”

  She rests a cool palm on my cheek and I will my eyes not to fill with tears.

  “Sure,” I say softly. “I’m sure I can squeeze in some fun. Aunt Meg, my cereal’s getting soggy … ”

  “Oh, of course, of course. Go eat, sweetie,” Aunt Meg says, sweeping her arm toward the kitchen table.

  I give her an apologetic look—I find myself giving her apologetic looks approximately forty times a day—and walk to the table. As I settle into my seat, Uncle Mark walks in, his dark hair tousled as he straightens a tie. He looks so much like my dad.

  “’Morning, sunshine,” he says, and I’m not sure who he’s talking to. I raise a hand awkwardly in response. He pecks Aunt Meg on the lips, then sits next to me at the table.

  “Gorgeous day outside,” he says, and I mmmmm my agreement. “It’s supposed to be nice all week. Maybe we can go to the beach this weekend.”

  Oh god. Are my aunt and uncle going to be tripping over each other for the rest of the year to try to fill my weekends with fun and otherwise overcompensate for my having two dead parents? I’m not sure how much faux cheer I can muster from one offer to the next.

  I yearn for the days when Uncle Mark and Aunt Meg were merely bit players in my life, perfectly nice people with cameo roles offering infusions of warm hugs and affable questions about how I was doing in school. They are no longer just the people who spend random weekends with me and bring me presents on special occasions. Now, their personalities, their quirks, their idiosyncrasies are the wallpaper of my daily existence. Even calling them Aunt and Uncle—I’d always dispensed with that formality before. They were just Mark and Meg. But now, being casual seems so … ungrateful. I feel dizzy as I contemplate the new normal of squelching annoyances and showing gratitude on a day-to-day, hour-to-hour, minute-to-minute basis.

  Still, a day at the beach doesn’t sound half bad. At least, it wouldn’t have sounded half bad … in my old world. I can’t help but feel nostalgic as I contemplate a carefree day wiggling my toes in the sand. I remember what a treat it used to be to visit Uncle Mark and Aunt Meg when I was younger—my beach relatives! My parents and I would sit right at this table eating fresh grapefruit for breakfast, then grab our beach towels and zoom out the door for the ten-minute drive to the shore. I’d surf with Dad and Uncle Mark, then shake the water from my ears as I joined Mom and Aunt Meg for a stroll on the beach. We’d read cheesy novels, snack on chips, push our beach chairs back from the tide periodically, and basically loll away the day, splashing in the surf at regular intervals.

  At the end of a long day, our cheeks rosy, we’d head back to the house—this house—for boiled shrimp and watermelon slices on the redwood deck, licking our fingers and laughing as Felix the Lab chased one tennis ball after another. Then we’d come to the sunroom and collapse on the cozy overstuffed furniture with ceiling fans whirring overhead, crickets chirping in the backyard pines.

  This house was a retreat back then, an oasis. Aunt Meg’s exuberance was a sunny punctuation mark on our lazy beach days—a stark contrast to my droll, witty mom—and Uncle Mark’s resemblance to my dad was nothing more than a fleeting, offhand observation, as opposed to a jolting stab of pain.

  Nothing about them, nothing about this house, feels the same any more. I wasn’t meant to live in this beautiful sunny home; I wasn’t meant to smile politely on a daily basis during well-meaning conversations about pedicures and prom dresses, particularly at 6:45 in the morning. I love Aunt Meg and Uncle Mark, but I want my house back. I want my wordless grumpy mornings back. I want my parents back. I want my life back.

  “Nervous about today?” Uncle Mark asks.

  I shake my head, averting my eyes from his hopeful gaze.

  “Nah,” I say, aiming for breezy. “Hey, I’m going to school with a bunch of beach bums. How challenging can it be?”

  He raises an eyebrow approvingly. “Cocky and over-confident, huh? I like it.”

  “That’s me, alright.”

  He glances at my cereal bowl and says, “Wheaties again? That was always your dad’s favorite, you know.”

  I raise my spoon gamely. “The breakfast of champions.”

  Lots of this goes on at my new home, too: references to my parents—comparisons, reminiscences, offhand comments. The references come so fast and seem so forced, I can’t help but get the feeling my aunt and uncle consulted with a therapist who recommended this strategy. I’m touched by the gesture, and sure, it helps to weave my parents into the conversation, but nothing seems natural anymore. I wonder what it would be like to have a conversation that doesn’t seem guided by the invisible hand of a professional.

  Uncle Mark smiles at me as I take a bite, then leans into his elbows and says softly, “You know we’ve got your back … right?”

  I lock eyes with him for a long moment. “Yes,” I say, and return Aunt Meg’s smile as she looks over her shoulder at me from the kitchen sink. “I know you do.”

  “Good,” Uncle Mark tells me, rising from his chair and kissing my cheek. “Don’t ever forget that.”

  Two

  “Forget it.”

  I shut my locker door and turn toward the sound of a voice inexplicably addressing me.

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  The girl swirls her index finger through a lock of long dark hair and flashes a conciliatory smile. “Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it. Just … I mean, I heard you’re new, and I thought you’d want a heads-up that he’s definitely unavailable.”

  Truly, I have no clue what she’s talking about.

  “Blake,” she clarifies.

  My mind zips through its database for context but comes up dry. What the hell is she talking about?

  “You were just checking out Blake Fields,” she says.

  Aaaaaahhh. I still have no idea what she’s talking about, but I’m catching on that cattiness is alive and well at Hollis Island High School. I’m tempted to peer cryptically at this presumptuous twit, as if trying to glean the depths of her audacity—

  that definitely would have been my MO back home in Dixonville—but even though my first day at Hollis Island High is almost over, I’m still dutifully in new-girl mode.

  I flick my bangs from my eyes. “Blake Fields … ?” I venture, in as unthreatening a tone as I can manage.

  She points at the locker next to mine. “The guy you were just checking out,” she says, sounding a little irked at my obtuseness.

  And really, what’s the point in trying to convince her that the only thing I was checking out was my calculus book. “Right,” I say instead. “Unavailable. Got it. Thanks for the tip.”

  A look of exasperation clouds her face. “I mean it,” she insists petulantly. “Didn’t you hear what happened?”

  “Didn’t get the memo.”

  I toss a wave and walk away. So much for my new-girl congeniality. I’m still clueless about what this twit is insinuating, but however much she’s enjoying trying to bait me, I have got to cut her playtime short.

  A girl I’ve seen in my morning classes approaches me with a subtle smile and a single raised eyebrow. “Getting to know Natalie?” she asks.

  “I’m apparently not supposed to notice some guy I’ve never noticed,” I say as we walk down the hall. “She put me on notice.”

  The girl l
aughs. “Headed for Calculus?” she asks me.

  I nod.

  “Me too. I’m Melanie.”

  “Hi. I’m Anne. I think I’ve seen you in a couple of my classes?”

  Melanie nods. “So, who aren’t you supposed to notice?”

  “Um … sorry, I’ve forgotten his name.”

  “Clearly, you’re obsessed,” Melanie says, and we laugh lightly, moving with the flow of traffic down the hall.

  “Good thing what’s-her-name nipped that in the bud,” I say dryly.

  Melanie nods her head to signal me to take a left, and we flow into the math wing of the school. “Natalie’s insecurities go into overdrive when she sees somebody new,” Melanie says. “She’s like, Whoa, new-girl alert! Better teach her the pecking order really fast so she doesn’t go around thinking she owns the place.”

  “So I don’t own Hollis Island High? Bummer.”

  Melanie snaps a finger. “Oh, I bet I know who she was talking about. Blake Fields?”

  “Yeah, I think.”

  “Oh, don’t even,” Melanie teases as I follow her into our Calculus class, lightly brushing shoulders with people leaving. “He’s not only gorgeous, he’s tragic. Now, that’s some serious cachet.”

  I follow her to the far end of the room, Melanie giving fluttery waves to classmates as she passes them. I settle into the seat beside her.

  “What’s tragic about him?” I ask as we put our books on our desktops.

  “His girlfriend died over the summer,” Melanie says, then glances at me for a sensitivity check. “Which, of course, really is sad.”

  “How did she die?”

  Melanie pushes a lock of dark blonde hair behind her ear. “Drowned. In the ocean.”

  I mouth Wow. “Did you know her?”

  Melanie shakes her head. “She went to Cloverville High—the school in the next town over. Plus, she was younger than us … she’d be a junior this year, I think.”

  The sixth-period bell rings and a teacher in shirt sleeves and a bow tie tells us to settle down.

  “Mr. Loring,” Melanie whispers conspiratorially. “We call him Mr. Boring.”