by M. K. Krys
Cold wrapped around Beacon’s body like icy shackles.
She’s younger in the picture, her gray hair dark and smooth, and she was wearing a peaked cap and police uniform instead of an apron, but Beacon would recognize Donna’s pale eyes and cleft chin anywhere. He read the caption: “Driftwood Harbor Police Deputy Donalda Pound.”
Donna was Deputy Donalda Pound.
“What are you doing?”
Beacon gasped at the voice.
He whirled around.
Donna was standing in the doorway.
6
Beacon froze as Donna narrowed her eyes on him, paralyzed in the chair. She wore a tattered housecoat thrown haphazardly over a pair of satiny pajamas with fish all over them, and her steel-wool hair was up in curlers. Somehow, that made the whole thing more frightening than if she’d been wearing chain mail.
“I said what are you doing?” she asked, her voice pitched low and even. Sharp shadows played over her face.
Beacon swallowed. He fought to find a good excuse, but his brain seized up. “I was just, just—”
She started toward him. He quickly closed the browser with shaky fingers, but the computer reacted slowly to his commands. The page remained frozen on buried-truth.org, and the picture of Donna.
She crossed the room in two impossibly quick strides and leaned over Beacon’s shoulder, just as the window closed to the desktop home page.
“About to do some homework,” Beacon finished lamely.
“Homework,” she repeated.
Beacon instantly realized his mistake. He started at his new school tomorrow.
“From back home,” he amended. “An online assignment.”
Donna stared at him. She was so close that he could see the little dark hairs on her chin that older ladies sometimes got. His heart raced so hard, he could feel it in his ears. There was no way she didn’t hear it.
“It’s late,” Donna finally said. “Go to bed.”
Beacon scrambled up. He wanted to ask Donna—Donalda, whatever her real name was—what she’d really seen that night. He wanted to ask her why she no longer worked for the sheriff’s office, and why she owned this inn instead. He wanted to ask her so many things. But more than all that, he just wanted to get away.
He walked down the hall on gelatin legs, as if he’d been on a boat for days and now the ground ashore felt like the rolling sea. His muscles twitched with the impulse to run, though he knew that would only make him look guilty. But when he got to the second floor, he couldn’t take it anymore. He raced down the hall and up the accordion stairs. When he finally reached his room, he rolled the dresser over the trapdoor, then jumped onto his bed, climbed under the covers, and pulled them up to his chin, his heart banging against his rib cage like it was trying to escape.
* * *
...............................
Beacon was already awake when his alarm clock went off the next morning. He’d barely slept, jumping at every creak and groan of the old house. All he could think about was Donna, and why she’d changed her attitude about the UFO crash so drastically. She’d obviously thought it was real back in 1967, but now she was calling it all a bunch of hooey and accusing the other witnesses of being drunks. Why hadn’t she mentioned she’d seen the crash? Why wasn’t she a police deputy anymore? What was she hiding?
He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know the answers to his questions.
Beacon got ready for school. He spent an embarrassing amount of time styling his curls in an artful swoop before realizing he looked like a peacock and giving up. He ran his fingers messily through his hair until the locks sprung back into their usual soft curls.
He came downstairs wearing his brand-new jeans and a blue-and-white-striped sweatshirt that he’d gotten because it reminded him of his Habitat board.
One good thing about moving to a whole new city—scratch that, a whole new town—was that the twins’ dad had bought them entirely new wardrobes out of guilt. (Well, he’d said it was because the weather was different here by the water, but the twins knew better.)
Beacon hadn’t thought he would be this nervous for his first day of school. He wasn’t super popular back home, but he had friends, and the mean kids mostly left him alone. A middle-of-the-pack kind of guy. But now that the day was here, he felt like there was a giant squid swimming around in his stomach. It didn’t help that he knew word about him must have spread like wildfire already, thanks to the Gold Stars. Everyone would know him as the weird kid from LA before he even set foot inside the school. He couldn’t even eat the breakfast Donna had waiting for him that morning, even though it was French toast (his favorite) and one of the only meals he could rely on to not be made out of fish products. His food avoidance only partially was because he still wasn’t sure he could trust her. To be on the safe side, he’d decided to keep a good ten feet between them at all times. He nibbled his toast from the safety of the doorway, claiming that a backache from the new bed made it hard for him to sit.
“Everleigh, we’re going to be late!” his dad yelled upstairs. For the third time. “And don’t even think about pulling the sick card, because we’re not doing that here.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming.”
Everleigh trudged down the stairs, defiantly sporting her ratty jean overalls with the hole in the knee over a white T-shirt, despite having a whole slew of new clothes to choose from. Her brown hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail that Beacon couldn’t be entirely sure she hadn’t slept in. She obviously wasn’t the least bit worried about starting at a new school. Even before the accident, Everleigh never cared what anyone thought about her. Sometimes he wished he could be like his sister. Those were dark times.
Everleigh breezed into the kitchen, snatched up the brown paper bag marked Everleigh off the counter, and said, “Are we going, or what?”
Their dad pressed his lips into a line, but Everleigh was going to school mostly without a fight, and he knew when to pick his battles, so they just piled into the car.
The routine felt familiar, but all wrong. They’d never done a first day of school without Jasper before. It seemed dumb to just realize it now, but his brother would never get any older. They would turn thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, have birthday parties, and hit milestones. Who knew, maybe they’d even get married and have kids of their own one day. They would do it all without him, while Jasper stayed frozen in time, forever sixteen.
The school was a ten-minute drive along the highway that wrapped around the ocean. Beacon had been expecting a one-room shack, but the school turned out to be a normal, redbrick building with an American flag rippling on a grassy quad. A bunch of kids milled around out front. At first, Beacon thought they were in uniform, but then he realized that they were just dressed formally. The kids wore polo shirts and pleated skirts and pants. He suddenly felt underdressed in his new sweatshirt and jeans.
Their dad shifted the car into park in the big roundabout in front of the school and unbuckled his seat belt.
“Whoa, there, cowboy,” Everleigh said, putting out a hand. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m coming inside,” he said, as if it were obvious.
“Uh, no, you’re not,” Everleigh said.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Walking into school with your dad?” She raised her eyebrows so high, they got lost in her hairline.
“Sorry, Dad,” Beacon said, “but Everleigh has a point.”
“But what about your schedule?” their dad said. “You don’t even know who your teacher is yet.”
“We can find the principal’s office on our own,” Everleigh said.
“You sure?” he asked uncertainly.
“Sure,” they both said a little more forcefully than necessary.
“Well . . . okay,” he said after a pause. “Remember you’ll need to take
the bus home after school. I’ll be at work, and I don’t think I’ll be able to make it back on time. It’s Brown bus #33. Just ask a teacher if you can’t find it. And you know how to contact me if there are any issues. You have your cell phones, right?”
“Yes. We’ll be fine, Dad,” Everleigh said.
He looked to Beacon for confirmation, and he nodded.
“Okay, then . . . well, have a great day!”
Everleigh climbed out of the car and swung her backpack over her shoulder, and Beacon rushed to jump out after her. Their dad waved happily as he sputtered away, then honked the horn.
“Oh my god,” Everleigh muttered.
If they didn’t have an audience before, they definitely did now. Dozens of pairs of eyes followed them as they crossed the quad toward the school. Beacon felt his face flush with warmth.
“Why is everyone staring?” Everleigh said out of the side of her mouth. “And why is everyone so quiet?”
Beacon hadn’t noticed it before, but his sister was right—there were no peals of laughter, no gossipy throngs, no one tossing a football across the quad. Just kids standing in small groups, chatting politely with one another. Watching them.
“I don’t know,” Beacon whispered back. “But it’s weird.”
Inside the school was the same eerie quiet. The silence followed them through the halls, lingering in the air like a heavy blanket. Their sneakers squeaked loudly as they walked. Everywhere they went, heads turned at the sound.
“Um, this is creepy,” Everleigh said.
“Cosigned,” Beacon said.
The twins went straight to the office. The secretary handed them their welcome packages, and Beacon and Everleigh pulled out their schedules.
“Mrs. Miller,” Beacon said, at the same time as Everleigh said, “Mr. Pembroke.”
They weren’t in the same class.
Disappointment coursed through him. But Everleigh didn’t seem fazed.
The bell rang.
“Off to the races,” Everleigh sighed. She shrugged her backpack farther up her shoulders and set off down the hall as if she owned the place.
Beacon stood stalled in the middle of the hall, the map from his greeting packet hanging limply in his hand. He was kind of regretting not taking his dad up on his offer to show him into the school.
He pushed through the flood of kids like a fish swimming against the tide and eventually found his classroom right as the second bell was ringing.
“You must be Beckon McCullough,” the teacher said, bungling his name.
“Beacon,” he corrected.
“That’s right,” she said. “Welcome to Driftwood Harbor Academy. Here we have some of the finest faculty and students in the country, and we’re very pleased to have you join us.”
He very much doubted that. She didn’t sound pleased at all—she spoke as if she were reading from a script.
There were two types of teachers back in LA: the older ones, who wore unflattering clothes from the ’80s, and the young, hip twenty-somethings, who dressed embarrassingly like teenagers and tried to be cool. Mrs. Miller was neither of those. She looked young, but she dressed as if she were ready to go to a funeral. Black dress, black stockings, and shiny black heels that clicked loudly when she walked. Her nose was sharp and hooked, like a bird’s beak.
“This week we’re reading The Yearling by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings.” She handed Beacon an ancient-looking paperback with an illustration of a boy caressing a baby deer on the cover. It couldn’t have been published any more recently than the 1600s. “Seating is assigned alphabetically, and I’ve rearranged the students’ desks to accommodate you. You will be seated there for the remainder of the year.”
Beacon followed her finger to an empty desk by the window. Instantly, he recognized one of the Gold Stars seated in the spot next to his. The boy with the tightly coiled dark curls. Nixon.
Nixon stared at him through heavy-lidded eyes. If Nixon hadn’t already hated him after the encounter in the street with Jane yesterday, Beacon guessed he did now after the new seating arrangement.
That was just great.
He took his seat next to Nixon.
“We will begin,” Mrs. Miller said.
Beacon was used to how things worked at his school in LA, where the teacher would have to call for order several times while clapping her hands and looking extremely harassed as someone flew a paper airplane past her head. But he could see there would be none of that here. When she spoke, the entire class fell instantly silent. All the students sat perfectly upright with their hands clasped neatly on the desks, as if they were actually eager to learn.
Beacon never thought he’d find himself longing for someone to make a loud fart sound with their mouth, but here he was.
“Please open your books to page sixty-one,” Mrs. Miller said.
Beacon looked at the side of Nixon’s head. Maybe the seating arrangement would be a good thing. He could clear things up with the Gold Stars and get back on a good footing.
“Hey,” Beacon whispered to Nixon.
The boy slid a glance his way, and Beacon gave a little salute that Nixon didn’t return.
“I met you the other day. In the junkyard, after our car broke down?”
Beacon left out the part about their second meeting in front of the junkyard. No need to remind anyone about that.
Nixon looked at him for a solid thirty seconds before responding.
“I remember,” he said flatly.
“Oh. Okay. Cool.”
Of course he did, Beacon thought. He was probably the first new person in Driftwood Harbor in the last decade. Great job, idiot.
He should have let it go, but for some reason, Nixon’s cool attitude only made him want to try harder to make him like him.
“Boring, am I right?” Beacon whispered, gesturing at the paperback Mrs. Miller was reading from as if she were reciting a grocery list.
The kid frowned at Beacon.
“The Yearling is a classic,” he said.
Strike two.
“Oh. Yeah, I know that. We were just reading The Hunger Games in LA is all.”
“Well, you’re not in LA anymore,” Nixon said.
As if he needed to be reminded of that.
“Look, I’m sorry about the new seats,” Beacon said. “I didn’t know she was going to do that. I can ask to move if it bothers you that much.”
“Would you like to share something with the class, Beacon?” Mrs. Miller said. Everyone in the class swiveled to look at him.
“No,” he said, sinking in his chair.
The teacher returned to her lesson. Beacon sighed and peered out the window. The clouds sat low and threatening, the air still like a held breath. The occasional rivulet of rain burst through and spit across the window.
A beep overheard jolted him from his thoughts. Static filled the classroom before a clear female voice spoke from a speaker in the corner of the room.
“Would Beacon and Everleigh McCullough please report to the principal’s office?”
The students once again swiveled to face him. If this were back home, they would have been oohing and snickering under their breath, but the students here just looked at him with unreadable, wooden expressions. Beacon shoved back his chair and grabbed the hall pass dangling from Mrs. Miller’s fingers. He set off down the empty corridor.
After a moment, a set of sneakers squeaked behind him.
“Beaks!”
Everleigh jogged over.
“What do you think this is about?” she asked.
“No idea,” Beacon said.
“What if it’s about Dad?”
Beacon hadn’t even thought of that. He frowned.
The secretary took a long moment to finish clacking away at her computer before she finally looked up.
“Beacon and Everleigh?” she asked.
They nodded. She led the twins to an office behind the desk. The name plaque on the door read “Nurse Allen.” Beacon could see the silhouettes of two people moving inside the room.
When the door swung open, Beacon was surprised to see Jane. She did a double take at the twins, then quickly pasted on a smile and smoothed a hand over the front of her button-down shirt. That’s when Beacon noticed a quarter-size bloodstain on the white fabric.
“Thank you, Nurse Allen,” Jane said, turning back to the other person in the room. “I feel better already.”
“Great. We’ll see you in church on Sunday,” the woman said. “Give my regards to your mothers.”
Beacon frowned at Jane’s retreating body. Why was her shirt bloody? But the question disappeared as Nurse Allen beckoned the twins into the room.
The woman was as tall as a basketball player, her wide-set shoulders testing the limits of her scrub top. She wore her shiny dark hair curled crisply around her pointed chin and sprayed with enough product that it looked as if she could walk through a hurricane and come out looking exactly the same. She was smiling, her veiny hands clasped around a big key ring.
“Thank you for coming down,” she said. “Sorry to interrupt you in the middle of class.”
The nurse began talking about the gloomy northern climate and low vitamin D levels as she flipped through the key ring, then jabbed a small gold key into a lockbox behind her desk.
“Is my dad okay?” Everleigh interrupted.
The nurse squinted at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted a second head.
“Why wouldn’t he be?” she said. She had a syringe in her hand.
Everleigh blinked at her.
“You’re here for a vitamin injection,” the nurse said. “Mandated by the school board. Every child in the district receives one.”
“A vitamin injection,” Everleigh repeated slowly. Beacon could practically see the wave of relief wash over his sister. Meanwhile, panic ignited in his belly like kindling.