So Close to You (So Close to You - Trilogy) (2 page)

“But you’ll have to, eventually,” Hannah says. “He’ll gather up his courage and then you’ll break his little heart. He’ll have to listen to so much Death Cab to get over the pain.” She pats my shoulder, as though she’s pretending to comfort Grant. “Even if you did like him, you two would never work. You have nothing in common.”

I sigh. “I’m not going to date Grant. But it’s not like we have
nothing
in common. We both like to write.”

“He writes poetry that makes no sense and you want to be a serious journalist. Not the same thing.” She suddenly straightens and snaps her fingers, pointing at me. “Though you
are
both hipsters.”

I cross my arms and frown. “I am not a hipster!”

“Lydia, you’ve got bangs that hang in your eyes and you wear funky vintage dresses. I hate to break it to you, but that’s pretty hipster for the Hamptons.”

I look around the woods, at the girls in tight jeans and tank tops, in brightly colored jersey dresses. I do stand out in my red polka-dot dress, with its wide collar and pleated skirt. But I don’t care; I buy almost all of my clothes at thrift stores and vintage shops.

Hannah puts her hands on her hips. “You’re an Aries, Lydia. You’re fiery and independent. He’s a Cancer. A water sign. Sensitive. Meek. You’d squash his spirit.”

I laugh. “Seriously?”

“Say what you want, but we both know there’s truth to the signs.”

I roll my eyes. Hannah, though cynical and sarcastic ninety percent of the time, claims that astrology is her bible. I blame it on her mother, who insists that Hannah call her Jet, owns a used record shop in South Hampton, and does tarot card readings on the side. Hannah’s father is a Japanese artist who lives in Hawaii, where he’s working on becoming a world-class surfer. Hannah says her parents are children she’s sick of raising, and so she spends almost all her time at my house.

But even I can’t get her to shake the astrology.

Hannah waves her hand toward the keg, where Grant is talking to one of his friends. “So if it wasn’t for a boy, then why did you make me come to this stereotypical drunken grope-fest?”

I bite my lower lip, avoiding Hannah’s gaze. “I just wanted to.”

She leans forward and her hair spills over her shoulder. It’s so dark, it’s almost blue-black. “Out with it, Miss Bentley.”

I fidget with my skirt, but Hannah won’t stop staring at me, one eyebrow raised as she waits for my response. “Okay,
Miss Sasaki
,” I say, mimicking her tone. “It was because of Camp Hero.” I circle my finger in the air, pointing to the trees above our heads. “I heard they were throwing the party here, and I felt like I had to come.”

“But you hate Camp Hero.”

“I don’t hate it, I just have a complicated relationship with it. My grandfather has been bringing me here for years, feeding me his conspiracy theories. I guess I wanted to prove this place doesn’t have any power over me. That I can come here for something
normal
, like a party in the woods.”

“As long as you don’t start drinking the Kool-Aid …”

“Don’t worry. I will never believe in the Montauk Project.”

“Hey!” Grant exclaims as he joins us again, a beer clutched between his hands. “Who says the Montauk Project isn’t true?”

I sigh under my breath.

“Please. Like there’s some big, secret conspiracy happening out there.” Hannah gestures to the dark forest behind us. “It’s ridiculous. Montauk is too small a town to hide an underground government lab at one of the state parks. People would notice creepy army guys skulking around out here. There’s no way they could get away with it.”

“Secret. Government. Project,” Grant enunciates. “As in, it’s a secret. And this is the
government
we’re talking about. The people behind this are like the CIA, only more elite and more dangerous. They’re the most highly trained military personnel imaginable, partnered with the smartest scientists in the world, and they’ll do anything to keep this a secret. The president probably doesn’t even know what happens here.”

Wanting a distraction, I grab Grant’s drink from his hands and take a sip of beer. “Thanks.” I shove it back at him. He looks surprised as he takes it from me.

“How could you possibly know that?” Hannah is clearly unwilling to let the subject go. “You have no idea if the Montauk Project even exists.”

“Oh, it exists.” Grant takes a long drink of his beer, his thin face stark in the dim light. “Trust me. Too many weird things happen around here for it to be a coincidence.”

“Like what?”

“How about electronics suddenly not working for no apparent reason? Or fishermen seeing strange lights late at night?”

“That’s easy,” Hannah replies. “Everyone knows that the radar tower they built during the Cold War messes with communications sometimes. And those fishermen are drunk.”

“That’s what they want you to believe about the radar tower.” Grant shakes his head, his messy hair flying from side to side. “But it’s all part of the cover-up. To pretend that this place was just a harmless military base.”

“But Camp Hero hasn’t been used by the military in years. And it’s a state park now. Why would the government open it up to the public if there’s a secret research base out here?” Hannah steps closer to Grant. They’re so focused on their argument, they’ve forgotten I’m here.

I look around the clearing impatiently. We’ve all had this conversation a million times before. I’m usually willing to get into it, but not tonight. Not when we’re standing in the middle of Camp Hero, and I can practically feel my grandfather’s presence around me.

“What better way to hide something than by trying to erase public suspicions? Face it. The Montauk Project is the East Coast Area Fifty-one.” Grant’s face is lit up, his brown eyes wide, almost feverish.

“Area Fifty-one?” Hannah rolls her eyes. “There are no aliens here. And please don’t tell me you believe in those ‘reptoids.’ Alien creatures that look like giant lizards from another dimension are really coming down onto the beach to terrorize the surfers? Please.”

“Why not? It’s possible. The scientists study all kinds of stuff … like time tunnels. Which are really wormholes. Those holes could connect to anywhere. Even other planets.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hannah scoffs.

“Let’s just drop it,” I cut in, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s like I’m hanging out with my grandpa or something.”

The joke falls flat. “You shouldn’t discount him.” Grant reaches his arm out toward me, as if he can physically press his words, his belief, into me. “There are whole online message forums of people with evidence that the Montauk Project exists.”

“Oh right”—Hannah laughs mockingly—“because conspiracy theorists on the
internet
are always trustworthy.”

“Laugh all you want, Hannah. But this could be real. There are even reports that they kidnap people to use in their experiments. They especially like to snatch children. Easier to brainwash.”

“If you believe that, then why are you even here right now?” I snap, starting to get fed up with both of them. “Aren’t you afraid that men in lab coats are going to drag you down into their secret lair?”

“The government wouldn’t risk that kind of exposure.” Grant seems unaware of my growing annoyance. “That’s why they usually kidnap orphans, or people with no family ties. Can you imagine what would happen if people knew about what went on here? People would protest; it could even topple the government. Only a select few can know, and they’re under the ground right now.”

I stare down at my feet. The grass in the clearing has been worn away, and there’s mud clinging to my sandals. I try not to think about people down there, in tunnels or tubes or hallways or whatever it is secret government projects are made out of.

I look back at Grant. “You know, I’m really sick of talking about the Montauk Project. I get enough of this conspiracy garbage at home.” Grant opens his mouth, but I put my hand out to stop him from saying anything. “It’s getting cold, and I left my sweater in the car. I’ll be back in a while.”

“Wait, I’ll come with you,” Grant says. Hannah is finally quiet, her gaze shifting between the two of us.

“No, don’t. I just need some air.”

Hannah’s car is parked on one of the roads that winds through Camp Hero, almost a quarter of a mile away from the party. I walk through the dark, weaving slowly between the tree trunks, stubbing my toes on rocks and feeling the sharp sting of branches grab at my skin. Though I can still hear the music and the laughter behind me, the moon isn’t very bright, and the trees cast deep shadows across my path.

A branch snaps in the wind, and I jerk my head up, straining to see into the darkness around me. Even though I know the Montauk Project isn’t real, there’s still something eerie about being here late at night. I can’t help but think of the countless times I’ve walked through these woods with my grandfather, and worse, all of the years I spent believing in his theories.

I was seven years old when my grandfather brought me here for the first time. Camp Hero had only just been turned into a state park, and parts of it were still closed to the public. Before that it had been an abandoned military base with
NO TRESPASSING
signs scattered around the woods. Of course that never stopped my grandfather from exploring. He’d sneak in through holes in the fence and run whenever he heard dogs barking or the sound of a patrol car.

But by my first visit most of the fences were gone, and a parking lot sat near the cliffs. It was late July, and the air was heavy with the promise of a storm. As we parked the car, the sky already looked like a new bruise—blotches of purple, blue, and black. The trail leading to the bluffs was empty, the tourists scared off by the rising wind and the water crashing against the rocks below. Grandpa led me right to the edge of the cliffs, ignoring the signs that warned visitors to stay back at least twenty-five feet. Below us, rough waves broke against the sharp gray rocks. The Atlantic Ocean stretched out in front of us on all sides, so that the whole world seemed made of water.

That day, deterred by the rain, we didn’t get past the parking lot, but it wasn’t long before we came back again, and then again and again. In the early mornings we would leave my parents sleeping and drive through the small downtown center of Montauk, past the Fort Hill Cemetery, the Deep Hollow Ranch. When we were almost at the farthest eastern point of Long Island, we would make the turn into Camp Hero.

We’d spend the day hiking together looking for signs of the Montauk Project. My grandfather would point out manhole covers in the ground and tell me how they led to the underground facilities. We would inspect the concrete bunkers that were stuck into the sides of every hill—though they weren’t natural hills, according to my grandfather, but top-secret government labs.

He told me about Nikola Tesla, a famous scientist he believed had faked his death to develop new psychological warfare tactics for the American government during World War II. The army base on Montauk Point became a cover for the experiments under the ground.

For years I believed all of his stories and theories about Camp Hero. Sometimes I’d even think I felt eyes on us, watching as we prowled the grounds of the camp, looking for proof that the underground lab was still active.

One cold day when I was ten, my grandfather took me to his favorite spot at Hero—a bunker hidden deep in the woods. It was late autumn, and the leaves were changing. The bright reds and yellows obscured the concrete bunker as it receded into the side of a manmade hill. There was a cement door blocking the entrance, with a sign that read
DO NOT ENTER
. My grandfather told me that before they turned Camp Hero into a park, there was an apple-sized hole in the cement. If you looked through it at the right angle, you could see a large room filled with debris and a line of doors.

“Why would they have all of those doors if it was just for storage?” he asked. “Think about that.” I did, but had no answers, so I stayed quiet, sitting on the damp grass. My grandfather is a tall man with a full head of steel-gray hair that was almost the same color as the concrete door of the bunker. “There are just too many questions. Not enough answers.” He was mumbling to himself. Talking under his breath. “This is where they took my father,” he whispered finally, so softly I could barely make out the words. He ran his hands almost reverently across the cement, tracing the grooves in the rough surface.

“What are you talking about, Grandpa?” I asked.

He turned to face me. He looked different, wide-eyed and manic, and I shrunk away from him as he came forward. He pulled something from his pocket and shoved it into my hands. It was an old leather-bound journal. I carefully opened it, not sure what I was looking at.