Sacred (8 page)

My anger boiled again. This was too much. First he’d stalked me on the trail; then he’d practically attacked me in the hallway; now he had infiltrated the only class I truly enjoyed, the one hour of the day I’d been looking forward to.

I stormed across the classroom, crossing in front of Mrs. B’s desk, and poked my finger at Will’s chest.

“You,” I said.

He looked up. “Me,” he said. His eyes traveled the length of my forearm, reminding me of earlier, when his finger had traced the same path.

I crossed my arms. The conversations that had been brewing all about me had died out.

“You’re in my seat,” I said quietly. Tears filled my eyes suddenly.

“I’m sorry.” He moved to stand. “I didn’t realize.”

“No,” I said. “Don’t. I’m sorry. My name’s not on it or anything.” I tried my best to smile as I walked to another seat, three rows over and two back. I could almost hear the swivel of heads as everyone watched me negotiate the aisle.

What was wrong with me? Of course he wasn’t stalking me; he was just a boy in my Drama class. He hadn’t done anything.

My anger was gone, drowned by a sea of sadness, and without a word I stood and left the room, Mrs. B smiling sympathetically after me.

FIVE

A
lice must have seen the answer on my face, because on our drive out to the stable, she didn’t ask me how the first day of school had been. Delilah, at least, was a known quantity. She awaited me patiently in her stall, and she nickered same as always when she saw the chunk of carrot I palmed for her.

As she chewed, I rubbed my cheek against her velvety forehead. It had been a couple of days since I’d ridden, so before I tacked her up I loosed her in the arena so she could get out her bucks. She tossed her head in pleasure as she picked up a trot. I chased her with a longe whip, snapping it at her heels.

Her back hoof shot out in a buck, and she broke into a canter. In the sand in the middle of the arena, I swung the long black whip in a series of waves, encouraging her to be wild.

“Come on, girl,” I urged. “You can do better than that.” Her ears rotated back at the sound of my voice and her run became more muscular and driven. Not far away, one of the gardeners started up a weed whacker. Its sharp growl spooked Delilah and her canter became a gallop. She careened around the arena, faster and faster, leaning slightly inward as she banked the turns.

Her red mane and tail sailed like a wind-fed fire; her hooves flashed and sand flew as they dug into the arena’s footing.

“Calm down, girl,” I soothed, the whip slack at my side. Her speed was beautiful, but dangerous, too; the last thing I wanted was for her to pull a tendon. “Shhh, shhh,” I called. “It’s all right, Delilah, easy.”

She tossed her head, eyes wild, before her run slowed a half pace, then another, until she’d found a trot and, finally, a walk. I clicked my tongue and dipped my hand into my pocket before holding it out in an invitation. Delilah altered her trajectory and headed toward me in the center of the arena. She dipped her mouth to my hand and took the sugar cube as gently as if it were a communion wafer.

I thumped her neck and clipped the lead rope to her halter. There was another sugar cube in my pocket. I withdrew it and hesitated before placing it on my tongue.

The sweetness burned as the sugar melted. It was grainy, and I held it against the roof of my mouth as it disintegrated. Twenty-five calories. It was nearly four o’clock. This was the first thing I’d eaten today, except for the one bite of mealy apple I’d had before school. So why should I feel shame, as
if I’d failed somehow? It was irrational, and yet this felt like the truth to me. In an instant, the sugar’s sweetness seemed bitter and I spit into the sand.

Delilah and I rode toward Two Harbors, the only other town on Catalina Island. With just a couple of restaurants, one little store, and one hotel, Two Harbors, on what we locals called the Isthmus, barely counts as a town. More a village, really, only a hundred and fifty or so people live there year-round. Apparently Professor Cohen had chosen the most remote, out-of-the-way spot he could find for himself and his son. I had to admit, I was curious. Who would
want
to live at the Isthmus?
It’s bad enough to live in Avalon
, I thought. I remembered what Connell had said about the Cohens moving out from the East Coast, kind of last-minute. I found myself wondering … what could have compelled Professor Cohen to drag his kid across the country right before he started his senior year? Maybe Will had been some kind of troublemaker, I mused. Maybe he was part of a big-city gang or something, and his father had decided to get him as far away as possible.

But the flash of Will’s intense green eyes came unheeded to my mind. He didn’t look like a troublemaker … though he did look
troubled
, definitely.

As I came down from the hills to the Isthmus, I surveyed the idyllic scene. Two Harbors got its name from its unique geography; in this spot, the Isthmus’s two harbors nipped in tightly like a lady’s corseted waist. You could walk from one harbor to the other in under fifteen minutes, a favorite activity of visitors.

The Isthmus attracted a different class of tourists than Avalon did. People who came to this part of the island came for the hiking, the wildlife, the atmosphere—not the shopping or the tourist attractions, like our famous glass-bottom boats.

And the few people who chose to live on this side of the island were different too; they were independent, mostly content to have taken an additional step away from society, and happily navigated their little village by bicycle or foot.

As if on cue, our island’s sole school bus pulled into town. My heart leaped as I watched the doors slide open and Will’s lanky figure descend the four steps, his backpack thrown over one shoulder. Again, he seemed to me from a distance to be much older than I now knew him to be. It was easier to believe that he was a teacher or a chaperone than a high school kid, even a senior.

He stiffened as he stepped off the bus, and I felt a shock of fear and embarrassment, terrified he’d think I was here to see him, though, of course, he
was
the reason I’d ridden Delilah in this direction today.

But then, without so much as a glance toward me, almost as if he was purposely
not
looking in my direction, Will walked toward the small country store and disappeared inside.

I didn’t wait to see him emerge. Turning Delilah sharply, I urged her with my heels back up the trail and disappeared from town.

This was Wednesday. And Wednesday meant a sit-down dinner with Mom and Daddy. I dreaded it the whole way back to the stable, the whole way home with Alice. By the
time I got to our house it was after seven, and I allowed myself to hope that maybe they hadn’t waited for me.

But when I climbed the stairs to our little kitchen, of course they were waiting. Daddy sat at the table, working on the newspaper’s daily crossword puzzle, and Mom was standing over the stove, stirring something. Her shoulders, even from behind, looked fraught with tension.

“Sorry I’m late,” I mumbled, flopping into my chair at the table.

Daddy looked up at me and smiled distractedly. “You have a nice ride?”

I shrugged. “It was okay.”

I could smell garlic, and onions, and cooked fish. Salmon, probably. Fish are chock-full of those essential fatty acids. Good for the heart.

Mom carried the pot she’d been stirring to the table and scooped a heavy ladle of rice onto each of our plates. Then came the fish, which she laid across the rice lumps, drizzling the whole mess with some kind of a sauce. My stomach did a slow flip, threatening to revolt.

Daddy set his puzzle aside and smiled at Mom widely. “This looks great. Just great. Doesn’t it look great, Scarlett?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Great, actually, would have been if the table would have spontaneously combusted.

Mom seemed to try her best to smile back at Daddy. “Do you want something to drink?”

“I’ll get the drinks.” Daddy practically jumped up. “You did all the slaving over a hot stove; I can get us a few drinks. Scar, you want a glass of milk?”

The idea of pouring a full glass of milk down my throat on top of a meal of overcooked fish and rice sounded absolutely horrifying. “Just water.”

“Liv?” He turned to my mom. She looked startled, as if it took her a moment to realize that he was saying her name—Liv, short for Olivia—and not asking her if she intended to continue her existence.

“Just water, John.” Her voice was tremulous.

“Three waters it is.” He was trying too hard. Sometimes I did that too, at these terrible dinners—sometimes I tried too hard, complimenting the food, telling stories about the barn, asking about business at the B&B—and sometimes I could barely manage to force myself to stay at the table. Either way, it didn’t seem to make much difference. The evenings always ended up much the same—the three of us pushed the food around on our plates for ten minutes or so, and then Mom would mumble something about finishing the laundry or paying the bills and she’d wander off to her bedroom while Daddy offered to help with the dishes and I’d refuse, and he’d go out to the porch to finish his crossword and I’d dump the largely uneaten food from the plates into the sink, the disposal masticating it better than we ever could.

When Daddy returned with our waters, we began the charade.

“So, how was the first day of school?” he asked me in a loud, enthusiastic voice.

Mom’s eyes, which had been gazing off into middle distance somewhere over my left ear, managed to focus on me.
After a moment she said, “Oh, that’s right. You started back up today. How did it go?”

I didn’t believe that either of them was really invested in hearing about the mundane details of my high school existence, but it was my turn now, and I wasn’t one to miss my cue.

“Fine. Lily showed up in this insane leather outfit. She and I have two classes together, which will be great because she
needs
my help if she thinks she’s going to pass French this year, and probably the best part is that I don’t have to take PE anymore, now that I’m an upperclassman.”

Somewhere in the middle of my monologue, Mom’s gaze had shifted again. I turned my head to see what she was looking at; her eyes seemed to be focused on a completely unremarkable section of cabinetry.

“Did you meet the new kid, the Cohen boy?”

Daddy’s question snapped my head back around. He seemed nonchalant enough; with more bravado than I could muster, he was scooping a large forkful of the salmon-rice mush and preparing to actually ingest it.

“Uh … yeah. Will, I think. He’s a senior. We have a class together, actually … Drama.”

Daddy nodded. “I’m sure you’ll help him to feel right at home. Aren’t you going to eat your dinner?”

My fork still lay next to my plate of untouched food. I picked it up and tried to separate out a mouthful of plain rice from the fish and the sauce.

“Will’s dad called over here while you were out at the stable,” Daddy went on, bravely stabbing a large flake of fish.

I coughed, shooting out half of the rice grains I had managed to salvage from the fish mess. “What did he want?” I choked out.

“Well, they live way over at the Isthmus, and the Cohen boy doesn’t have a car. His father—a professor, isn’t that nice—thought that maybe his son might want to rent a room from us here in town every now and again. You know, on nights when he might need to stay late for an activity or a study group or whatnot. That way he won’t always have to rush to catch the bus or have his dad pick him up.” Daddy coughed. “He made it pretty clear that he didn’t want his son to make a regular habit of staying over here. He said something pretty peculiar … that Will was
safer
over at the Isthmus, though when I pressed him he didn’t seem to want to say any more. I mean, can you imagine? As if Avalon isn’t safe enough! I guess when you’re coming from a big city like they did, you start to see danger on every corner.”

“Where are they from?” Even though I wanted to believe that I didn’t care anything about Will or his history, my curiosity compelled me to ask.

“Connecticut. Professor Cohen has tenure at Yale. His wife worked for the university too, before she died.”

As soon as death entered the conversation, Daddy’s eyes, and mine too, shot across the table at Mom. She had been moving her food around her plate like a child who’d spoiled her appetite with too much candy. At the mention of death her fork stopped moving, just for one long beat, before it continued to stir the food.

After a moment, she cleared her throat and set down
her fork. She blotted her lips with her napkin, though I doubted she’d eaten a bite, and then said, “Well, I am plumb worn-out. I hope you two won’t mind if I call it a night and tuck in?”

I looked at the clock over the stove: 7:42.

Without another word, Mom stood up and walked out of the kitchen. She walked slowly, slightly stooped, and if I hadn’t known who she was, I might have mistaken her for Miss Agnes, the eighty-two-year-old lady who lived up the street.