Shining Sea (9 page)

REGISTRATION

From this vantage point on the peninsula, Wabanaki Bay (Forfeit Bay, the locals call it down here where it’s widest) looks just like the ocean. In fact, except for the outlines of a few distant islands between here and the mainland—which, although we face it, is invisible—it’s identical.

“Anyway, my dad’s taking it in . . .” My voice fades as I finish telling Logan the Jeep saga and stare at the rough waters of the Bay. Even though just below us the curve of the land shelters Seal Cove and its waters are clear and calm, I have no desire to leave the sanctuary of Logan’s parked truck.

He probably knows car trouble isn’t the real reason I chattered incessantly for the entire ride. Still, he hooks his hands behind his head and leans back, playing along.

“How long have you had the Jeep?”

“Forever. I learned to drive on that thing.”

“And that was when? Yesterday?”

“Ha-ha. Probably way before
you
learned to drive. Not that you’re a bad driver.”

“Gee, thanks. So you’ll
let me
continue to be your chauffeur?”

“Hmm. I don’t know. Don’t want you to work too hard.”

“I wouldn’t have to work too hard. You never go anywhere.”

I start to laugh, but he’s right. And he’s laughing too, as he reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. Suddenly he seems so close. As if my senses are on zoom, I smell his shirt—clean laundry—and notice the shine of his hair, the shape of his lips.

“I
could
drive you crazy,” he says now, his voice soft, resonating low in his chest in a way I haven’t heard before. “If you wanted.”

I look down at my hands.
If you wanted.
Do I want?

He turns to look out over the water, his hand dropping from my hair. I steal a glance at his shadowed jawline, the hollows beneath his cheekbones, his impossibly long lashes. But
he’s a friend—
and
a total flirt. At least he’s honest. Or maybe he’s playing. How can I tell?

Lilah told me most guys lie about what they really want. I hadn’t known what she meant at the time, but now I picture Bobby asking me if I want to “study.” I’m beginning to get it.

As I follow Logan’s gaze, the water catches my eyes, won’t let go. Still, I’m hyperaware of his body across the bench seat of the truck’s cab. Maybe I’m the liar.

But my palms aren’t lying, they’re sweating, and it’s not Logan’s offer that’s making them so damp. Leaving the truck—suddenly it seems like a very bad idea. Surreptitiously, I wipe my hands on my jeans.

“Ari.” Logan lifts his right arm so it lies along the back of the seat and gestures with his other hand. We look at each other for a moment, then I slide over and curl against him. He wraps both arms around me. “You’ll be fine,” he whispers into my hair.

Trapped sunlight fills the truck. If we don’t make a move soon, we’ll be late. My thin sweater is clinging to me, damp like my hands. Logan slowly takes his arms from around me as I strip it off. Draping the sweater over the seat, I notice that he’s staring at the cove now as fixed as I’d been staring just a few minutes ago.

“It’s time,” he says without taking his eyes off the water.

“Mm. Thanks for telling me.” Sweat beads along my hairline. I wipe it away with the back of my hand. Still, he doesn’t open his door. I don’t open mine.

When I asked him questions about the exam on the way over, he’d answered easily, so why is he so hesitant—

A flame of intuition blazes through my body.

Last night as we’d walked down the beach, Logan had grown quiet. I’d mostly carried the conversation. But by the time we sat down near the jetty, he’d gone completely silent. Then we’d talked about his brother.

Nick Delaine had drowned, and now I know where. Not this cove, but
a
cove.

Summers Cove.

That’s why Mary didn’t want to talk about Summers Cove, why Dad warned me away.

Logan wouldn’t say hi to Bo, wouldn’t shake his hand. My pulse pounds at my temples.

We open our doors at the exact same second. Our feet come down with an identical crunch on the broken clamshells that fill the parking lot, sun-bleached white as bones. Together we walk toward the water. My legs are shaking.

A crowd of kids is gathered around the teachers from the marine sciences department. Mr. Kraig is gesturing to the three boats moored in the quiet cove. We’ve spent hours over the last couple of weeks studying the boats, working in makeshift classroom labs that served to simulate the vessels as best they could. Today we’re supposed to be ready to experience the real thing and be tested on what we’ve learned.

This is a test of the emergency broadcast system. This is only a test.

I stare at the first boat, a Colgate 26 daysailer, a standard boat used by the Navy to teach basic sailing skills. The second boat is bigger, a forty-three-foot fishing boat. Donated by one of the local families, it’s been refurbished with the latest navigational gear. We’ll focus on the equipment once we’re aboard. The wooden fishing boat is a troller, the kind I’ve been on a million times with Dad. That doesn’t make me feel any better.

There are five dinghies, three with oars, two with outboards, waiting to ferry us out to the boats. Floating in the pale-green shallows, the dinghies look small and insubstantial.

A girl from lab hands out orange life jackets as I look at the last of the large boats, a forty-foot fiberglass motorboat. It’s an Alliaura Marine Jeantot Euphorie power catamaran. The name sounds like poetry, but that’s the only good thing about the boat, about any of the boats. Twenty feet wide, the gleaming white vessel is crammed with state-of-the-art navigational gear and can hold over thirty people. Nearly new, it must have cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out where the catamaran came from, or the daysailer. OZI.

The scene is nothing less than picturesque, a postcard.
Miss you. Wish you were here.
The backside of the granite cliffs tapers gently down toward the water. Softly swaying pines and puffy white clouds complete the idyllic setting. My stomach is acid.

“You can do this.” Logan reaches for me, his palms warm and dry against the clammy skin of my upper arms. The warmth of his hands makes me realize how cold I am.

“My sweater.” Is that my voice so far away? “I left it in your car.”

“I’ll get it.” As he jogs off, Mary approaches.

“Arion, you’re super pale. Do you feel okay?” Mutely, I gaze at the water. She squeezes my hand. “I’ll go make sure we’re in the same group.”

“Your sweater, if that’s what it is.” Logan reappears next to me with the limp cardigan. “Here, take this too.” He gives me a faded blue sweatshirt.

Fingers fumbling, I take the heavy shirt, put it on over the sweater. “Thanks, Logan.”

“Sure thing,” he says. Then he purses his lips, looks at the sweatshirt. It’s thick and soft. The lettering across the chest reads,
B
LAINE
. “Go ahead and keep it,” he says.

Before I can thank him, he ruffles my hair and turns away, heading over to the registration table. Mary gives me a little nudge, and, lifting the two anchors that are my feet, I tuck both hands into the kangaroo pocket of the sweatshirt and follow.

SWIM TEST

The morning actually passes. Mary stays by me the whole time.

At noon everyone gets a break. Seniors wearing name tags with the word
M
ENTOR
written in thick black letters bring out coolers filled with sodas and brown-bag lunches from the deli in town.

Immensely grateful to be back on land, I stretch out on a sunbaked rock. All around me other students are doing the same. Mary comes over with a sandwich, Logan with a soda. But after being out on two boats and two dinghies—the dinghies scared me the most for some reason—I feel like any food that goes down is going to come back up. No lunch for me.

“Check out our girl Alyssa,” Pete says, as he and Bobby join us on the rocks.

Alyssa’s wearing a bikini and standing in the water with Bonfire Boy, who’s rubbing sunblock on her back. Sarah is trying to talk her into taking a plunge.

“She ought to go in now, while it’s still her choice,” Bobby says. “Have your suit on?” he asks me. I shake my head vigorously. Rumor has it that quite a few people go swimming on rules-and-regs day, some voluntarily, some not. The mentors determine who gets tossed. I pray it won’t be me.

The lunch break isn’t nearly long enough, and soon it’s time for the last segment of the exam. Mary and I wait for a free dinghy to take us out to the Euphorie.

“You made it, Ari,” she says as we climb into one of the little boats. A senior I don’t know gives the dinghy a shove, then hops in after us, manning the motor. “Almost done.”

“Done?” We hit a small swell and I glare at the boy, grabbing the sides of the boat. “That’s one way to put it.” We draw up alongside the catamaran. “Later we’ll pay homage to the wind gods for taking a vacation day, make a sacrifice or something.” Mary looks at me like I have two heads. “Seriously, check it out. No wind. We can’t possibly sail anywhere.” She laughs, and the next hour passes in an almost pleasant blur.

But then the boat becomes crowded. The office made a mistake on the master schedule, and everyone’s running behind. By midafternoon, my forehead is home to a dull headache, and a lot of the girls are complaining about the heat, lifting their hair off their necks to catch a nonexistent breeze. I’m hot too, and thirsty, but at the same time, I’m nearly as cold as I was this morning. Goosebumps crawl along my arms, even though my skin is sticky with sweat.

Stranded on the deck of the catamaran, I idly watch the action back on the beach. People are shedding layers and shoes. Two boys kick water on a group of girls. And finally, the seniors go after Alyssa. Her screams travel out over the water as I squint into the glare of the sun, eyeing a dinghy that’s drawing up to the daysailer across the cove, this one empty of passengers, and powered by oars and a golden-haired boy—

The Euphorie lurches beneath my feet, and the mundane sounds of the day are subsumed in the low roaring that fills my ears. I stare at the back of the boy, at the long muscles of his tanned arms.
What is he doing here?

He turns the boat now, angling it until it disappears around the other side of the daysailer, but just before it does, I think he looks my way—think he sees me. A bead of moisture rolls down between my shoulder blades. The edges of objects turn bright, and the day takes on an unreal sheen. He’s out of sight now, but irrationally, I’m still trying to get another glimpse of him, looking in vain across the water.

I keep on glancing over at the daysailer, even as my teammates try to involve me, handing me a piece of paper, and then a pencil, a clipboard. I have no idea what they’re for.

The clouds hover way up in the sky, still and cottony . . . Then, they start moving.

No.
I
start moving.

I’m going ashore
.

The idea seems to come from somewhere else.

“Wait!” someone shouts.

The word is a buzzing insect in my ear as I hit the cold water with a splash—

My head goes under and immediately comes back up, the temperature of the water bringing me sharply to my senses.
What am I doing?

Even though the water is shoulder height, I don’t get the chance to stand.

As soon as my feet touch the sandy bottom, somebody grabs my legs—

And pulls me under.

Holding my breath, I kick, trying to understand—

A pair of iron arms lock around my waist—hold me down.

The water turns opaque with foam as I thrash frantically, I can’t see—

I kick wildly, lungs bursting. Salt water seeps between my lips . . .

Water, water, everywhere . . .

The roaring in my ears becomes a gong. Pressure builds inside my head.

Water rushes down my throat—

And reality

Shifts
.

I’m in San Francisco, clutching at Lilah—

Who’s lying on her bed—unconscious?

No!
I scream.
I won’t leave. I’ll never leave her!

People try to calm me. Mom, Dad, a doctor.
Somebody puts a hand on my arm. I throw it off.
Why was she on that boat? Dad took the charter today. He had a boatload of tourists!
Babbling, crying, I go on about the tourists. Lilah wasn’t supposed to be on an oceangoing fishing boat!
A swordfishing boat!
One mistake on a boat like that can cost your life.

Another second, a flood of memories—

And I remember it
all
.

My heels hit the sandy bottom, the hold on my waist releases—

And two strong arms sweep me off my feet. Heat. Skin. My body held against—

As my head clears the surface I gasp, the sound of my breathing jagged and raw as I fight for air. I have the strange sensation of watching myself in an old film—like a weird kind of déjà vu. I see each separate frame. I see Bo Summers, lifting me—out of the water.

MENTOR

Bo carries me up the beach and sets me down on one of the rocks, which is exactly what I want—for him to put me down. And yet, as soon as our bodies are no longer touching, I—I—

Gagging and coughing, I sputter, “Where did you come from?” But inside my head I’m screaming,
Why did you let me go? Hold me—hold me!
My heart pounds with fear, adrenaline. “What are you
doing
here?” I demand.

“What are
you
doing? Since when is a swim test part of the rules-and-regulations exam?” The water has painted his golden hair black. His smile is the Devil’s.

“What do you know about the exam?” I practically shout. “You don’t even
go
to the high school.” Shaking, disoriented, I look down at my wet clothes. My gaze continues to travel downward to the sand, and I wish I could vanish into one of the small holes there. Maybe I can be reincarnated as a ghost crab—the tiny translucent creature can disappear from sight almost instantly. That would be perfect, because despite my absolute terror, I’m embarrassed.

Taking a deep breath in, I lift my gaze, my eyes drawn to the bright blue of Bo’s swim trunks. Just above his left thigh, a white, rectangular tag is stuck to his soaking suit. The label is identical to the ones all the seniors wear.
Mentor.
I release my breath with a disbelieving huff.

Bo’s eyes move to my mouth. His smile vanishes.

A group of students forms around us. Mary makes her way through the crowd.

“It’s okay—she’s all right. She just wanted to get off the boat. Back up, people.”

Logan pushes through the wall of bodies. “Bikini or one-piece?” His tone is joking, his eyes, furious. Even in my bedraggled state I can see that his hands are shaking. Clenching them tight now, he yells for Pete to get a towel.

Mr. Kraig hurries over. “Catch of the day, Mr. Summers!”

Glaring at Bo, I unbuckle my life jacket with trembling fingers. Sure, he’d pulled me out of the water, but the bastard had pulled me under first. What a sick joke.

“Are you all right, Miss Rush?” Mr. Kraig asks.

“I’m fine, really.” But everyone seems to be too close, too loud. “I was just . . . hot.”

Snickers rise from the back of the crowd. Bo smirks before turning to the teacher.

“Mr. Kraig, great to see you. Good thing you got in touch last night; you were right, short of hands today.” He looks around. “Seal Cove, perfect weather, I’m surprised you couldn’t get more seniors here on a day like this.”

“I know, I know.” Mr. Kraig shakes his head. “So many kids just don’t
get
community service. They’re missing out today, though, for sure.” He waves a hand at the clear blue sky.

Bo continues to smooth-talk the teacher like nothing’s happened, his gaze sweeping over me occasionally. He waves an arm at Pete, who’s appeared with an armload of towels. Pete tosses a towel—Bo deftly catches it.

Logan takes a step closer to me. Glowering at Bo, he says, “Thanks, cabana boy, I’ll take it from here.” He holds out a hand for the towel.

“Sorry,” Bo says lightly, cutting in front of Logan. His arms encircle me as he wraps the towel around my shoulders.

“Yeah, you will be,” Logan mutters from behind him.

Let me sink to the bottom of the ocean next time,
I fume inwardly as I scowl up at Bo, who gives the towel a little tug so that it tightens around me, and draws me closer to him at the same time. I make a small startled sound and his lips curve, his blue-green gaze holding mine for just a second, before he steps back and instructs Mary to help me out of my wet clothes.

“There’s a T-shirt and trunks in my car if she doesn’t have anything dry.” He points to the red Jeep Wrangler with mud-splattered tires I noticed driving into the lot a lifetime ago.

“That’s okay,” Alyssa purrs, coming up behind him. “I’ve got an entire wardrobe in the back of the Mustang, because, you never know.”

Is she actually batting her eyelashes? But she’s also looking down at her hands, not quite as bold as usual. Maybe that’s why Bo doesn’t seem to notice her. He melts into the crowd, which is starting to disperse, everyone probably deciding I either jumped into the water for kicks or was clumsy and fell in.

Logan stands with his hands fisted looking like he’s about to say something, or maybe hit someone, until Mary passes the drenched Blaine sweatshirt to him and gives him a little push.

“She needs to change, Logan.”

He turns and strides angrily toward the water. Throwing the soaking sweatshirt on the sand, he strips down to his swim trunks and dives in. Mary sighs. “The Delaine temper. He likes to say it’s his hot Latino blood, but I don’t know.”

“Plus ‘Delaine’ is Irish,” I say with a wobbly laugh. Angry as I am, anxiety is still creeping through me like a feral cat.

“Guess he gets a double dose,” she says softly, still watching Logan.

Alyssa grabs my hand and drags me over to the Mustang. She hadn’t been exaggerating. The backseat is stacked with what looks like the remains of several shopping trips.

“Normally I’d never lend my clothes.” She puts the top of the convertible up. “But since it’s you.” Her curling smile is saccharine. “Change in the back. I do it all the time.”

Bet you do.
A few minutes later I emerge swathed in layers, and Mary oohs enthusiastically over the fuzzy apricot-colored sweater that covers the two shirts I’ve borrowed. Alyssa just scowls and looks down at the jeans I’ve chosen. They’re several sizes too big. Who knew? She rolls her eyes and walks away.

An almost inaudible melody sounds near my ear. I whirl around.

“Do you need a ride?” Bo asks. The song fades into the light breeze, and I shiver despite the extra clothes. “Because Mr. Kraig said it’s fine for you to leave.”

Is this his way of trying to make up for his bizarre stunt? Lifting a hand to my eyes I look out over the water. Logan’s just climbing aboard the daysailer. He hadn’t taken a dinghy and, instead, had swum all the way out to the boats. He’ll be at least an hour.

“Sure. I’ll take a ride.” We walk across the shell-strewn parking lot to the red Jeep.

Bo opens the door for me, eyeing my multiple layers. “Guess we don’t need the heater.”

“Yes,” I say, climbing inside, “we do.”

He starts the car and the air warms up fast, but I swear some of the heat is coming from him. And as shaken as I am, I feel something else as well, that fairly unused mental muscle.
Hope.
What, exactly, is it doing here? Why now, when my memory is bursting with Lilah’s harrowing story? The story I’d shut away, the story that I’ll never know completely, because Lilah can’t tell it.

“Other than the contusions, there’s no damage.”

One of the police officers actually said that to my mother.
No damage.

Oh, Lilah! I was supposed to go with you to the café!

“Her brain’s not injured,” the neurologist said. “It’s simply doing what it needs to do. Protecting her. It’s in a different mode, a primitive one, supporting only the necessary functions. In the process of blocking out one ghastly night, she’s barred everything. No, we can’t say if she’ll speak again.”

Did I meet the doctor? Did he come to our house? No, but I heard my mother convey his pronouncement, heard my father’s fist strike their bedroom wall.

The silence inside the warm car is suddenly nerve racking—I can’t get my thoughts in order.

Bo. I have a million questions for him. I just can’t seem to
think straight
.

Finally, I say something, just to crack the quiet.

“Community service?”

A million questions, and in my confusion I ask one that’s meaningless.

“Yeah, my father’s big on that kind of thing.”

“Oh.” I’ve never done anything in service of another person in my life, unless fetching and carrying for Lilah counts, which it doesn’t. She’s family. And I bet if anybody had ever talked to
her
about service, she would have said,
Serve yourself, and first too.

Now, she can’t say anything. She was wounded in a manner so grievous her mind has hidden away, leaving her literally speechless. And this disconnect—some days it seems to affect her body as well. She doesn’t move for hours, just sits by her window, seeing but not seeing. Her muscles—her very being—wasting away.

“The trauma,” the psychiatrist said, “most likely set in the moment she went over the side.”

Yes, but—what happened
before
that? Why was she even on that boat?

The police officer shook his head. “We’re not positive, but we have our theories.”

Only, their “theories” were bullshit. Lilah wouldn’t run away from home, she wouldn’t steal a boat! I remember now, the way I shouted at Mom.
You don’t know her!

But did I know her? When Lilah came back from the trip to Maine, she was—different. She was curt to me. Cold. Although Lilah had always been cool, even when she took me on her adventures.

But her
new
adventures, they lasted all night. I had no idea where she went, what she did. I only knew she’d sneak in around dawn—

And write in that book when she thought no one was looking.

Lilah. She always told me everything, even things I didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to know. I was part of everything she did, even when I didn’t want to be. I was her audience. Sometimes more.

And then, she was gone.

She left the house in the morning to go to the café with the red geraniums out front where we liked to eat pastries on special occasions—only she never got there.

And she never came home.

That evening, Mom reported her missing. And then there was that long dark night.

I’d stayed behind with a summer cold—
I should have been with her.

Later that same night, when Dad discovered one of the boats had been stolen, he tried to put things together.

“I’ve known the men on those docks for years—I know my crews! There’s not a man among them who would do something like this. Take a boat. Take my daughter! But who else had access? A theft like this—it’s impossible!”

From the start my father knew the two things were related—even before our lives turned nightmarish. Even before it became clear: Lilah wasn’t the only one missing.

There were two men—fishermen. We learned later they’d vanished as well that night.

My father raged at my mother—I’d never seen him get so angry before, nobody had. His easy way was part of the reason his crews loved their captain. Their captain
 . . .

“You’re a ship’s captain!” Mom screamed those words over and over again, as if it made a difference, as if he had control. Dad was captain, like all of us, only of his own ship.

It’s almost hot inside the car by now, but I’m shivering as I lean my head back against the seat, close my eyes—

And I see him.

Not Bo; another boy. I see his flayed jeans, his T-shirt so worn you could easily watch his muscles move beneath it. And I had watched—

Just as suddenly, the image spins away, replaced by the faces of the two fishermen—

I
knew
them. They worked for Dad.

Their families came forward around the same time Lilah was found. But they—were never found.

A baseball cap—the image jars me now. A baseball cap over dark hair—I think it’s dark, or maybe just wet. Younger than the fishermen who disappeared, I think, but—his face, I can’t see it, it’s hidden by the brim of the baseball cap. Did I ever see his face?

He was there, and then not there. Down on the docks. A stranger—I thought.

But Lilah—the way she bounced on her toes with excitement. The shine on her the day she disappeared—I remember it now. That shimmer—was it for him?

And why is he a blur, when the rest of my memories are suddenly so clear?

I am waiting.

She could have met him here in Maine, just like I imagined—it’s possible. He could have traveled to San Francisco to see her. Boys. They fell hard for Lilah—she
made
them fall hard. She could have bewitched him. He could have flown out to see her. Moved out. It’s possible.

But not probable. Some guy from the docks, some fisherman? Not probable.

“I knew it would happen!” Mom cried to Dad. “Your damn docks—those men! Out for weeks at a time, months even, with nothing to look at but the sea. My Delilah . . .”

I put my pillow over my head that night, and so many others, not wanting to hear, not wanting to be there. I wanted to disappear, but I couldn’t.

So I forgot.

A distress signal from the ship came in—one of several the Coast Guard received once the storm hit—but by then it was too late, too late for Lilah, and too late for the two men, who must have been washed over the side.

A dinghy—they found her in a dinghy. Bruises on her shoulders and her wrists and her ribs—she couldn’t have managed to climb in herself. Someone cared enough to help her.

Or maybe someone just didn’t want to be a murderer.

No one knew who sent the Mayday call. Thank God, the Coast Guard heard it.

What I heard was my parents—fighting. I heard the doctors, and I heard the police. I heard everyone trying to piece together a patchwork picture of twenty-four terrible hours.

Then I shut it all out
.

So that up until today, the only things I’d allowed myself to know for sure, were that my sister had almost been killed, when a boat was lost, on a day that started out as deceptively beautiful as this one.

And one more thing.

I hate water.