by Cyn Balog
He shakes his head and says, “It was nothing,” but I get the feeling that it was something, and that I ruined it. That if I hadn’t brought up the whole breaking-up idea, he might have told me.
We spend the next few hours barely talking. We catch fifteen crabs, which I let him have, since my family doesn’t eat them. On the way home, we pass the digital sign outside the 7-E that gives the time and the temperature. It’s almost noon. And it’s one hundred and ten degrees.
In September.
One hundred and ten? It’s never been that hot in Jersey before, even in the middle of July. No wonder I’m sweating like crazy. But when I look at Wish, I realize something. After three hours in the hot sun, in a black T-shirt, he doesn’t look beat or weary at all. There isn’t even a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He’s cool as can be.
30
“YOU DIDN’T ASK HIM, did you?” Christian says when I walk into the bakery smelling like salty bay water and sweat.
I would normally have avoided Christian like the bathing suit department at Macy’s. But the apartment is probably a sauna. The only place where we have air-conditioning is in the bakery. It helps a little, but the heat is so bad it’s not enough to make the place completely cool. The sugar rings in the donut case glisten with melted sugar and Christian’s cheeks and forehead are splotched red. I spend a few minutes draped over the ice machine, slurping down a carton of Nestea, trying to ignore him.
“Hello?” He waves at me. Then he laughs; it’s this annoying, loud honking noise. “Your silence tells me all I need to know. By the way, nice weather we’re having, huh?”
“Maybe I’m just not interested in talking to you,” I say, angry at myself for even beginning to like him last night.
“Then why are you here?”
“Not for you.” I bite my lip. “Okay. So he’s wearing black today and it’s really hot. And he has the mirrors tilted to his face. But—”
“That sounds about right,” he says.
“I couldn’t,” I say, grinding my teeth. “I tried to bring it up. But it … I just …”
“It’s a conversation killer. I know,” he says. “You’re thinking that if he isn’t Luminati, he’ll think you’re out of your mind. But he is Luminati. I’m sure of it.”
The thing is I’m sure of it, too. I don’t know why I can’t tell Wish that I know. Maybe it’s because best friends tell each other everything, and today I gave him the perfect opportunity to get it off his chest. If we are best friends, Wish should be telling me.
So maybe we’re not.
I sigh and head into the back room. A heavenly blast of cold air hits my ankles. Evie’s coming out of the freezer with a stack of puff pastry shells. She has a little hot pink bandanna on her head, which makes her look like a cross between Aunt Jemima and Barbie.
“Did you forget we’re supposed to clean the freezer today?” She makes a face at me.
Actually, cleaning the freezer sounds like fun compared to sweltering upstairs in the apartment. “I’m here.”
She sets the pastry shells out on the table and wipes her brow. “What time is it? I’ve got to jet at two.”
“Oh, yeah?” I wonder if her jetting away has anything to do with a certain egotistical jerk who’s recently been seen traipsing around the island with her best friend.
She shrugs. “Oh, I know he’s a jerk. But whatever. He has a Jet Ski.”
“Well, that makes it all worthwhile.”
She pulls the bandanna off her head. “No offense, but it’s not like your boyfriend is such the perfect angel,” she mutters.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask. Because that’s probably why I can’t believe anything Christian says. If I had to nominate anyone for Boy Scout of the Year, it would be Wish.
“Nothing.” Her eyes momentarily catch mine and there’s this weird look in them; she seems tired, peaked. Knowing that she’s not the type to engage in heavy labor, I’m surprised. Maybe she’s already done most of the work and I won’t have much to do after all. “I’ve got to go,” she huffs, walking off, looking almost … envious?
Could she really be jealous of Wish and me? She’s tiny, but her footsteps pound like a jackhammer on the staircase outside. The screen door upstairs slams forcefully. I pull open the heavy door to the freezer and flip the lights on. Seems like the only thing she did was move the pastry shells, because everything else is one big disorganized pile. I sigh and get to work, laughing a little to myself. Really. Jealous. Of me. Who’d ever see that one coming?
31
AFTER AN HOUR OF CLEANING, I head upstairs to take a shower. Since I’m positive I smell like a combination of seawater, sweat, and spoiled ricotta cheese, I really need one. But I find the bathroom door closed and locked. Evie’s probably in there, doing one of her marathon eyebrow waxing sessions so she won’t be furry for Rick.
My mom walks out of her bedroom, shaking a thermometer. “Found it!” she shouts to Evie.
Evie doesn’t answer.
My mom knocks on the door. “Hon?”
Evie moans a little.
I snort. “What, is she sick?”
She shrugs. “She looks terrible. And she just threw up her lunch.”
The toilet flushes, and a few minutes later, Evie appears in the doorway. She looks the dictionary definition of “terrible.” I never thought I’d ever be able to say that about Evie, but her skin looks almost purple and blotchy and her eyes are glassy and bulging. The glands on her neck are swollen like golf balls. I instinctively swallow. “Mom …,” Evie says miserably as my mother leads her to the couch.
My mother props a pillow under her head and feeds the thermometer between her pale lips. “She said some of the kids at school were sick?”
I nod. “Well, no, just one. It’s not like it’s an epidemic or anything.”
Mom’s already in the kitchen, pulling down a big mug from the shelf. “Hon, let me get you some tea.”
Evie takes out the thermometer and groans at me. “I need to call Becca.”
“Becca?” I ask. Oh, right. Her two-timing best friend.
“Yeah, she wanted to borrow my black top,” she says, her voice hoarse and weak. “The one with the ruffles. For tonight.”
I shake my head, take the thermometer from her, and push it back under her tongue. “Don’t even think about her.”
Evie spits it out. “She’s my friend. And I know you don’t know this, but friends look out for each other. No …” She starts to cough. It’s a horrible hacking noise that I didn’t think little perfect Evie was capable of.
“Offense, I got it,” I say, watching her drift off. “So you knew that she and Rick were … together yesterday?”
“What?” I’ve obviously caught her in the headlights. “Oh, yeah,” she finally whispers, in such a way I can’t tell if she’s telling the truth.
My mother punches a few buttons on the microwave. “Let her rest. And get away from her. The last thing I need is you catching it.”
“Don’t give me that look,” Evie says, though her eyes are so glazed I don’t know how she can see a foot in front of her.
“What look?” I really, really don’t have a look. I thought my face was completely blank.
“That ‘I told you so’ look,” she moans.
“I’m not,” I insist, though I am kind of feeling that way, but inside.
Her drooping eyes turn hateful. “Oh. Right. You were in the bathroom when Erica and your boyfriend were together.”
I don’t say anything, just shove the thermometer back in, so forcefully that she starts to gag, and walk away so she can’t have the satisfaction of seeing my confused expression. She’s delirious. Or jealous. Or maybe both. After all, Wish was in the bathroom with me the whole time. That’s what everyone said.
Or at least, that’s what Wish said.
I walk into my bedroom, trying to recall that night. All I can remember is flashes of the inside of a toilet bowl. I remember Wish saying, “I was in t
he bathroom with you for the last few hours.” And Erica, at the beach, saying, “Did you have fun in the bathroom?” Did she mean fun with Wish, or fun with my cheek pressed against the porcelain of the toilet? How vague can you get? There’s an IM from Wish on my computer, and in it, he sounds a lot cheerier. A lot more like the friend Wish than the boyfriend Wish I’d been crabbing with earlier: THANKS for today!!! Having steamed crabs tonight for dinner!!!
I mean, come on, it is not possible to get more angelic than Wish. Then I remember what Evie said. “Wish was in there, too. You guys were … doing it?” Right. So obviously, this stuff Evie’s sputtering in her delirium is pure nonsense. Still …
“Evie, where did you get the idea—” I stop when I’m standing over the couch. She’s asleep, breathing heavily, nostrils flaring, face half buried in a pillow. My mom’s still steeping her tea, so I reach over and pluck the thermometer out of her mouth, since it’s about to fall out, anyway, and read it:
One hundred and five.
32
AFTER MY MOM LEAVES with Evie for the hospital, I go downstairs to the bakery. Christian is sitting there, reading Doctor Faustus, another literary epic I’d rather pull out my own fingernails than read. Of course nobody in this weather is thinking about eating baked items; they’re all inside, in their air-conditioning, sucking down iced drinks. “My mom wanted me to tell you she’ll pay you tomorrow,” I say.
He doesn’t look up from his book, as if Doctor Faustus is so riveting he can’t tear himself away from it. “All right.”
“And can you close up? I’ll help.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I saw her speeding away. What’s up?”
“She’s taking Evie to the hospital. She’s got a—”
“Fever,” he finishes, then smiles with satisfaction at my surprised face. “There’s been a lot of that mysterious illness going around, I bet.”
“Not a lot,” I say softly. “Just a couple of people. What? Don’t tell me you think this has to do with Wish, too.”
He nods smugly, getting on my nerves. Next he’ll be blaming Wish for his acne. “The ancient Italians believed that the stars were responsible for our health. The word ‘influenza’ comes from the belief that the stars influenced a person, making them feel ill.”
“But that’s crap,” I say, seething. “All right, I concede that maybe Wish is doing that Luminati stuff, worshipping the stars or whatever. But just because he is doesn’t mean he made my sister sick. It’s probably just heatstroke. It’s really hot out.”
“You’re right, it could be heatstroke. From the heat that your boyfriend caused. Just like the storm. Everything is connected,” he says.
“He …,” I start, my cheeks flaring. “But what about you? You did it last night, too. Maybe you caused this.”
“No. I didn’t do it for long enough. And I did it the right way.”
“So you’re the pro and Wish is a dabbler. Okay.”
“Basically. Are you afraid of losing him?”
“No, I’m—” I stop. I don’t know what I’m afraid of. Maybe it’s that if he went through all this trouble to make himself look good to others, it must be because he thinks looks are that important. “Maybe.”
“But don’t you get it? That’s a small price to pay, considering …”
Something catches in his face at that moment, as if a bad memory flashes through his mind. His jaw tenses and he exhales slowly, and then he shakes his head as if to shake away whatever was bothering him. I wait for him to complete his sentence but he just stands there, blank, the conversation forgotten.
“Considering …?” I prompt.
He blinks and looks around, as if he’s surprised by his surroundings. As if he’s been someplace else entirely. “Considering what you could lose,” he says softly, eyes trailing back to his book.
I stare at him for a moment. “You lost something?”
He doesn’t look up, doesn’t answer. And I don’t think it’s wise to press the issue, so I start to walk away.
“My girlfriend,” he mumbles, still not looking up.
“Your … what?” I ask, my mouth hanging open. The girlfriend who asked too many questions. The one who I reminded him of. The one who I thought dumped him. “Are you saying she … died?”
His eyes narrow. “Do you think I meant that I just misplaced her?” Then he sighs, and his voice is barely a whisper. “She had a fever, too.”
33
AT NIGHT, I’M ALL ALONE. I lie in bed, on top of the sheets, with all the windows open. There’s a little breeze from the ocean but it’s not enough. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and over the bay, lightning slashes the sky. Another storm. Another chapter in the most erratic week of weather this island has ever seen, which just happens to coincide with Wish’s return to Cellar Bay.
Every so often, my computer pings with an IM. I know they’re from Wish. Nobody else ever messages me. The first ones go something like this:
Crabs were gr8 2-nite!
Hey.
U there?
Hello?
U there? Msg me when you get in.
Did I do something wrong?
After a while, I stop checking. I just don’t feel like it. Soon the phone starts ringing. He’s finally given up on the computer and is now trying to call me. Persistent little bugger. I lie in bed, staring at the shadows moving across the boot on the ceiling. The storms … the heat … now Evie … If what Christian said is true, if he lost his girlfriend because of the fever, then Evie is in serious trouble. If Wish is responsible for it … How selfish can a person be?
No, no, he’s not some all-powerful being. He’s just Wish. Wish the Boy Scout. He’s just human.
And all humans make mistakes. I think about what Evie said. Sure, she was delirious, but it made sense. Erica was practically foaming at the mouth over Wish. Of course if I was out of the way and alcohol was involved, she’d try something. And Wish is a Boy Scout, but he has hormones, like any other guy.
He never would have gotten involved with the Luminati if he hadn’t at some point become as looks-obsessed as everyone else in the world. And he still must be, if he’s still practicing their rituals. Any way you slice it, he’s not the guy I knew all those years ago. He’s different. And maybe a whole lot worse.
Something hits the side of my window. At first I think that it’s my imagination, that I’m so distraught over losing the old days I’m hallucinating that Wish is at my window, but then I hear it again. And when I scoot to the end of my bed and look out, there he is, standing in the old flower bed, between two azalea bushes. He winds up like a baseball pitcher, then launches another pebble at the side of the house and whispers, “How long has it been since I’ve done this?”
I can’t help smiling. There are a thousand little dings in the white paint of the shutters outside my bedroom. The stretch of yard between my house and Melinda’s is nothing but tiny white pebbles that glisten in the moonlight, so I imagine he’d have enough ammunition to last him the next hundred years. “I’m the only one home. You can come up.”
“Nah. You come down.”
I look down. I’m wearing a hot pink T-shirt that says “Cutie” across the front. Perfect, if I were three. My mom got it for me on clearance at Wal-Mart and was so proud of it; she’s probably the only person in the world who still believes that word describes me. But it’s dark, and I don’t feel like changing.
When I get down there, he smacks his leg. “Your house still has the most vicious mosquitoes.”
“Thanks for inviting me to be a part of their next meal,” I say as something skirts across my neck, giving me the shivers. Or maybe that’s because he’s looking at me, and in the yellow glow of the streetlight, he’s breathtaking. It’s moments like this that lead me to believe that Christian is telling the truth. Is it possible for anyone to look this beautiful naturally?
“I was messaging you,” he says as we sit side by side on the ledge outside the bakery’s display window. “I didn�
��t know if you were home.”
“Then why’d you come over here?”
“You looked pretty weird when I dropped you off today. I thought you were mad at me.”
“I don’t know. Should I be? Is it true about you and Erica?”
I’ve caught him off guard. “What?”
“Evie told me that while I was passed out, you and Erica …”
“We … what?” He rakes his hands through his hair. “Oh, God. Really?” Then he mutters, “This is such a mess. I’m a walking train wreck. It follows me everywhere I go. I can’t escape it.”
“Um … what are we talking about?”
He rubs his eyes tiredly. His laugh is bitter. “Erica’s always been a spotlight stealer. Remember those horrible dances at the country club my parents belonged to?”
I nod, remembering the one I went to. The one during which I was locked in the dark bathroom and he had to rescue me.
“She’d always try to create some sort of drama. And she doesn’t care who she hurts in the process. Spiking the punch, locking you in the bathroom, she—”
“She did that?” I ask, incredulous.
“Of course. She and her friends. I knew right away that it was them. And you know that reputation she has? It’s all made up. All the guys she’s supposedly been with … none of them can actually admit to being with her. Sure, they’d like to, but it’s all a bunch of crap.”
“You mean, that rumor about her making out with that guy … with her shirt off …”
He nods. “I think she started that one herself. Also, she’s one of those people who talks just to hear the sound of their voice, whether or not she has anything important to say. And she usually doesn’t.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, come on, have you ever visited her Facebook page? She updates her status so much because she’s so high on herself, she actually thinks people care what she had for lunch. I was so upset that day to think that she was rubbing off on you. Don’t let her. Okay?”