The Lifeboat Clique (15 page)

And now he was gone.

I think each of us had assumed that we'd all stay together, living or dead, and there was a certain comfort
in that thought. But now we had realized that any of us could go at any time.

We huddled cross-legged in a circle around Hayley, barely able to move. An hour went by, maybe two. I glanced at Abigail and was startled to see a tear on her face, as miraculous as the bottle rocket or the boy who walked on water. Abigail, gazing off into the distance, didn't react when I reached over and gathered the tear on my fingertip, watching the tear quivering on its new perch, reflecting the world around us.

I knew that I was imagining things, but in that single tear I saw life, how it all went together, how it included all of us, a cafeteria where every table was in the center, and every person and bird and fish and plant and amoeba was invited.

I felt a tear on my own face, interrupting the reverie. It was a tear I did not remember crying. And then I felt another tear, and another, on my arm. I looked up at the sky, at the darkening clouds.

“Rain,” I whispered.

For a few moments we remained motionless. We were shocked to the bone that the narrative had suddenly reversed like some crazy current running eastward that decides to turn westward and change the climate of some country on the other side of the world. The clouds
overhead were heavy and dark and fat, and the rain fell, first in drops and then in sheets, as we turned our faces to the sky and let the water run down our throats.

Hayley stayed where she was, facedown on the deck as the splotches on her clothes bled together and she grew soaking wet, and I gently turned her over and prodded her until she opened her mouth and let herself live.

I wasn't going to let this surge of good fortune pass us by. After indulging in a few quick gulps of rainwater collected in my cupped hands, I got everyone right to finding every conceivable container—the Spam cans, Hayley's hastily emptied purse, Sienna's short boots. We even tore down the sunshade and stomped a dent in it large enough to collect more water until we had filled the jug.

We drank and drank and drank. It was the best drink in the world. It moved inside us, a beautiful flood turning our desiccated innards into Elysium again. Our lips filled, our wrinkly fingers swelled, and our tongues grew moist again. We drank too much, threw up, then drank more, relishing the act of gulping after the tortuous restraint of sipping. It was like a wild party where the liquor was water, and we could have wrecked that boat in our fervor, had there been anything to wreck.

Finally we stopped, and rested, and felt alive again as the boat bobbed in the short waves.

Hayley finally had the tears to cry over Trevor. “He died for us,” she sobbed.

We all nodded politely, assuming Hayley had elevated her dead boyfriend to Christ position.

“No,” she insisted. “You don't understand. He stopped drinking the water.”

“What water?” I asked, confused.

“The water from the jug. He would pretend to drink it, but he wouldn't really. He was saving it for us.”

“How do you know?” Abigail asked.

“He told me and I tried to argue with him, but he said, ‘No, I'm a man. And I want you to live.' He meant all of us. He wanted all of us to live.”

Hayley burst into tears again, and we all did too, even Abigail.

They poured from our eyes, and they meant we were devastated and lost and forlorn and human and vulnerable and that we had water again at last.

THAT NIGHT THE
rain finally stopped, and there was a sweet smell in the air, as though a honeysuckle bush were blooming nearby. Who knows where such aromas come from, but out here, where supplies were so scarce, any sensory gift was welcome.

I lay on the wet deck and looked up at the stars, thinking
about Trevor. There was more room on the boat without him, and no drumming; but there remained a deep sense of loss now that he was gone. And it was weird to know someone else who was now dead. I had shared a boat with him, shared hopes and dreams, and watched him fall for Hayley. I wasn't sure how to mourn him.

We had talked about him earlier, the four of us, because that is what tiny reemerging societies do. They bury their dead, unless the ocean does it for them, and they remember those dead friends and family. They must mourn before they can go on. Of course, the others knew him better and told stories from back on dry land: party stories, hallway stories, beach stories. I told the stories I had gathered from our days on the sea. I had misjudged him in the same way they had all misjudged me. Maybe he would have outgrown certain faults. Gotten better. Less douchey. Less dudey. Less drummy. And maybe Ranger Todd would have matured into a more thoughtful, wiser man part. An elder statesman. A poet laureate.

It was nice to see Hayley's love for him out in the open, sad and ill-fated as it was. She even sang a song she'd written in her head for him the night before, and the song was surprisingly sweet and haunting and lovely and made us all cry again.

The stars came out, and the night deepened, and
Sienna and Hayley fell asleep. Their clothes were turning into rags. Their hair was tangled. Their lips were burned, and their faces thin. They did not look bitchy, or popular. They just looked like teenage girls who had been through something grim and were trying to restore themselves in sleep. I had almost a sisterly feeling for them, watching them. Not that I liked them, necessarily. Only that I was starting to know them up close, their little habits and expressions, many of which were annoying but some that were just human. Just ordinary.

Abigail was standing watch, her hands resting on the railing as she gazed out to sea. The wind was so calm that the rat's nest her hair had become didn't even move. I wondered if she hated being cooped up on this boat with all the things she'd tried to banish in this life: her freckles and her hair and me.

I studied the way her shoulders stayed so straight, and the slow, steady movement of her head as she looked right and left. Abigail would never fall asleep on her watch. It wasn't in her nature. She would have made a great prison guard. I wanted to tell her everything was going to be all right. But she didn't want to hear from me any more than she wanted to hear her freckles talk. I was probably just a part of the catastrophe, right along with the lack of water
and food and the blistering sun and the lonely days.

Maybe it was the late hour and the sentimentality brought on by my fading strength and the prospects of death, but I wondered if our old friendship still stood a chance despite all that had happened. And while Abigail had been so mean to me, so unfair, I couldn't help wondering if my old best friend still lingered there under the blistered skin and the sea of freckles.

It was hard to forget the things I knew about her. Those little details. Her habit of dividing her meals into three sections. Her disdain for Los Angeles rainstorms that came without thunder. Her favorite song, “The Eyes of Texas,” and her various nicknames for her little brother—Douche Face, Felon Boy, Maggot—and how they seemed to change with the seasons: Douche Face in the summer months, Felon Boy in fall and winter, Maggot in the spring. And the mantra she would mumble when she went in for a practice goal:
Toes-pointed-down hit-the-laces follow-through-with-power.

All details that stayed with me even when Abigail disappeared from my life.

It made me sad that these long, fearful days at sea had not made us any closer. Part of me—a small part—was willing to try and be friends again, or at least not enemies.
I got up and made my way over to her, stood next to her and gazed out at water so clean and flat it seemed to invite us to walk across it to the safety of some distant land. Starlight shone down on the water's surface, reflecting itself, the moment perfectly frozen.

Finally, Abigail spoke.

“Your cat still a dick?”

The sound of her voice startled me. I tried not to show it.

“As far as I know. I don't think he's mellowed over the last week or so. That is, if he's still alive. And I'm sure he is. My family”—I stumbled—“I mean, my mom and my cat are far enough inland, I think. And your family is too.”

“Well, ain't no doubt my little brother survived. He's like a cockroach.”

“Everyone would be pretty amazed to know we're together.”

She stiffened, and I thought it was in response to what I just said until I noticed she was peering intently at the horizon. Finally her shoulders slumped. “I thought it was a ship. But it was nothing. It's always nothing.”

“One of these times it might be something.”

“Well, that time better hurry.”

We stood in silence as the wind began to pick up. I felt
my own hair flying in my face. A strand of it went into a corner of my mouth, and I pulled it free.

“Wonder what my ma's doing,” Abigail said. “Probably gone loco. She ain't so great in a crisis.”

I didn't know what to say. Despite everything that had happened between us, I was glad to be addressed in this manner and was afraid I'd say something to make the spell disappear.

“My mother is probably losing her mind, too,” I said. “She didn't know I was sneaking out the night of the party.”

“Missing her, huh?”

For some reason, the question made my eyes water. Robert Pathway had failed her. I had, too.

“Yes,” I said.

Silence. Just the bobbing of the boat and the wind.

“You think we'll make it back?” Abigail said.

“Sure we will.” I wasn't actually so sure. “What do you think?”

“What difference does it make?” Her tone had shifted, turned mean. “Ain't got nothing to go back to. All thanks to you.”

“Bullshit,” I said, annoyed now. “You could try out for the soccer team again if you wanted to.”

She kept looking out in the distance.

“That's all over.”

“Right,” I said. “Because I ruined your life.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“So you had nothing to do with it? Nothing at all? It was all me?”

Abigail turned and looked at me. Her eyes were cold.

“Yes, ma'am.”

It was so unfair. If I thought that a tsunami would have smoothed out the blame shifting in Abigail's brain, I was wrong. I almost said, “No, Abigail. You did this to yourself.” But a slowly drifting boat in the middle of the ocean seemed to be a poor place to have an argument. I went back and sat in Trevor's old swivel chair, turning around and around and around.

GOT A GRAND IDEA
.

Those words still haunt me.

“What's your big plan?” I asked Abigail when we sat down to lunch. Her soccer friends hadn't yet arrived, and we were alone.

Abigail looked excited. There was a certain gleam in her eye. “Well, our cheating parents are gonna be out of town this weekend, and Douche Face is at some kind of spazz camp, so we got the house to ourselves.”

“Abigail,” I said. “You know I don't like going to your house anymore.”

“Well, guess what? I got to go there every damn day
and see your damn dad. I'll hide all his shit so you won't even know he lives there.”

I said nothing. Any idea of hers that took place in that house didn't sound like such a great idea to me. I speared a green bean off my plate and sniffed it, enjoying its cardboard bouquet.

“Anyway, I'm almost sixteen now, and my mom's dumb enough to think I can be on my own,” Abigail continued. “So I thought, Saturday night would be a fine time to throw a shindig. What do you think? Are ya with me?”

“My mom won't let me go over there if there's no adults around.”

“Well, your mom don't need to know that.”

I sampled a green bean, tasting fiber and water. Julia Child rolled over in her grave.

“Come on, cowgirl. I need you.”

I looked at her. She hadn't said those words in a long time. In fact, I'd been wondering lately if Abigail needed me at all.

“Bring your video camera,” she added. “Make a party film. Hit the highlights. We can pass it around later.”

A soccer player came over and put her tray down.

“What's up?” she said.

“Party,” Abigail said.

Her eyes brightened. “Party?” she said.

What could I do but climb on board?

“Party,” I said.

I TROLLED THE
big lie past my mom that night about having an innocent sleepover at Abigail's.

“I thought you weren't going over there anymore now that your father's living there,” she said.

“He won't be there,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I don't know.” She and my father didn't talk at all these days, unless it was absolutely necessary or involved me. I was counting on this fact to help me get away with my lie.

“Won't it be a little strange for you?” she asked.

“Sure. But I never get to see Abigail anymore. She's always with her soccer friends. I want to spend some time with her alone.”

Still, she looked doubtful.

“Her mother will be there,” I lied.

Her eyes darkened. Abigail's mother wasn't her favorite person, that was for sure.

“It's just one night,” I said. “It's not like I've been having a great deal of fun lately and there's a chance I'm going to get poisoned with fun intoxication and have to go to the hospital.”

“There's no need for sarcasm, Denver,” my mom said, sounding hurt. “I haven't been exactly having fun myself.”

“I know, Mom,” I said, feeling bad now. “I'm sorry.” I tried one more time. “But, please?”

She sighed. “Oh, I suppose it would be good for you to get out of this depressing house. But promise me you won't stay up all night.”

“I promise,” I lied.

ABIGAIL HAD VOLUNTEERED
to pick me up Saturday afternoon, but my mother didn't trust her learner's-permit skills, so she took me herself, dropping me off and getting out of there quickly lest she catch sight of the woman who had ruined her life.

Abigail answered the door. Her hair was combed and sprayed, her freckles were covered by makeup, and she was all dressed up in a terrible-taste kind of way, with a cute skirt matched with colored leggings and a plaid shirt and her cowboy boots. She looked like Texas was trying to go to a fancy club with the other states but got turned away by the bouncer. I myself had dressed plain so as not to attract my mother's suspicion. My favorite outfit—black jeans and a black top—was in my overnight bag.

“Is the coast clear?” I asked.

“Yep,” she said. “Come on in.”

I hesitated.

“Oh, come on,” she said. “The house is not gonna bite you.”

I walked in slowly, glancing around. The place looked exactly the same. And yet it no longer felt welcoming. “This is creepy,” I said.

“Ah, stop it with the creepy talk,” Abigail answered. “We got a shindig to get ready for. Everyone's bringing food over, and we're going to have music, and it's gonna be a barn burner. Now help me go through my playlist.”

We sat together on the couch and went through her songs. “Oh, my God,” I said, a row of country and bluegrass songs staring back at me, “no one wants to listen to your shit-kicking music. What are you gonna do next, spread a little sawdust on the floor and have a mechanical bull?”

“Fine,” she said, handing me the laptop. “You're in charge of music, Miss Mainstream America. I'm gonna go open up some chips and nut mixes.”

We spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning and vacuuming my adulterous father's new love nest. I enjoyed the feeling of scrubbing out every trace of him from this place, my once-sanctuary. I wanted to write a bestselling book called
Cheating Ruins Your Best Friend's House
. But now that I was here, I was determined that I could be a fun party
person like the rest of Abigail's new friends.

As night fell and Abigail was scurrying around with last-minute preparations, I began to film her.

“I'm thinking about maybe doing a before-and-after motif,” I said. “Might be interesting.”

“Okay,” she said. “Whatever. Just make me look good.”

When everything was ready, I went upstairs to change and put on makeup. “Wow, you are all gussied up,” Abigail said admiringly when I came downstairs. “Maybe you'll hook up with some feller tonight.”

“That would be fine with me,” I said. I was actually looking forward to this party. Kind of a big FU to my father. I too could cause mayhem in this house. I too could break social rules. Besides, my mascara was perfect, and my video camera was ready to go.

Nine o'clock came and went, and we were still sitting there on the couch, waiting for our first guest.

“Are you sure anyone is coming?” I asked.

Abigail snorted and gave me a look. “Of course they're coming. The team wouldn't let me down. I hear even some senior varsity people are showing up.”

“I didn't mean anything by it,” I said, although I kind of did. Historically, neither Abigail nor I could drum up enough friends to have a party. What if she was wrong, and we ended up sitting in the dark with just each other? Not
that I would have minded some Abigail time to myself. But she'd be crushed.

“Just hold your horses,” she said. “You'll see.”

Five minutes later the doorbell rang, and it kept ringing for the next thirty minutes, with more and more people piling in until a party was in full swing. Loud music played. Beer and drinks were passed around. But I made myself useful, tearing open chip bags and answering the doorbell as it rang and rang and rang.

“Hey, Denver,” Abigail called to me from the den. “Don't forget to film.”

I began answering the door with one hand and filming with the other.

“Come on in,” I'd say. “It's Abigail and Denver's Party Event! Wave at the camera!”

Everyone was really cool about it until I opened the door and there, standing in front of me, was the stick-beast, Sienna Martin, and her idiot shadow, Hayley. They were both dressed to the nines. Their hair was arranged in geometric patterns that would have puzzled the really smart kid in
Good Will Hunting
. Sienna's eye makeup looked like a peacock had gotten hit by a drone.

I pointed the camera at them. “Hey,” I said unenthusiastically, “welcome to our party.”

Sienna shoved the camera aside. “Get that camera out
of my face,” she snarled, her lip curled in a French bob. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Abigail and I are throwing this party together. What are you doing here?”

Hayley gave a great sigh. “You know I know you're not popular or anything so it probably doesn't matter, and you probably wore your best thing, but black pants and black top are so Party 101, you know? You could have tried just a little bit harder, I'm just saying.”

I didn't bother to answer. I just left the door open and turned around and plunged back into the crowd, taking refuge in the chaos of things while Hayley was busy sucking in enough breath for her next idiotic statement. I wasn't sure if Abigail had invited them or if they'd come on their own, or if sometime over the last several months Abigail had suddenly made friends with her tormentor and her dopey sidekick and I didn't know about it.

It troubled me, this not knowing Abigail, after years of knowing her every move and thought. But I quickly shook off the bad mood Hayley and Sienna had brought into the house. After all, I was cohosting the party by default, and maybe this was my chance to show Abigail I could make friends and hang out with her soccer pals too.

I couldn't believe there were so many people at this party. I worried a bit about the police coming but then I
figured that was Abigail's problem. I looked around for her and found her in the kitchen, surrounded by a bunch of the junior varsity soccer players. She was laughing and drinking out of a red cup.

I was not stupid. I knew a Red Cup often was filled with an Alcoholic Drink. And something about her laughter—just slightly manic and high-pitched—concerned me a little. But I decided to play it cool.

“Great party, Abigail, I must admit,” I said.

“Told ya,” she said. “Keep filming! Everyone, lift up your cups and say ‘Avondale!'”

“Avondale!” they screamed, and I got it all on tape.

“You'd make a great journalist,” said Samantha, whom everyone called Quinn. I liked Quinn. She was one of the few people who talked to me at the lunch table and was always upbeat and fun to be around. And from attending all the junior varsity soccer games, I knew Quinn was a killer on the field.

“I'm glad you're here, Denver,” Quinn added. “Have a drink.”

“What are you drinking?” I asked her.

“Punch. Try it.”

She handed me the red cup, and I put my recorder down and took a slug of something that tasted like orange juice mixed with grape juice and pulverized embalmed
frog. It went down my mouth and burned my throat.

I handed it back. “It tastes like pulverized embalmed frog,” I said.

Quinn laughed. “You're so funny. I'll get you a cup.”

I looked at Abigail while Quinn was gone. “Be careful, Abigail,” I said. “That stuff is strong.”

“Hey,” she said. “Less talking, more filming.”

I was a bit put off by her bossy tone, but I picked up the camera and started filming again. I was starting to wonder if Abigail had just asked me to come over to her party because she knew I had a video camera and liked to make movies. Was this my role at the party? Was Abigail the star, and was I just a member of the crew?

Quinn came back with a cup for me and tried to hand it to me, but I pointed to the counter. “Set it down there,” I said, “so I can keep filming.”

“Come on,” Quinn said. “Have some fun! You don't have to film all night.”

“Yes, she does!” said Abigail. “It's her job.” She waved at me, not to say hi but to direct me. “Go on,” she said. “Circulate a little. Find out what's going on in the other rooms.”

“Yes, Master,” I said. “I'm glad to serve you.”

She took another swig out of her cup. “What bee's got under your saddle?” she asked.

I glared at her through the viewfinder. “Don't worry,”
I said. “I won't even go to the bathroom. I'll just film where I stand and pee down my own legs.”

Quinn began to laugh. “You're so funny, Denver,” she said.

I picked up the drink and left the kitchen, wandering around the party, drinking, filming. My anger was rising in me. I thought of all the times Abigail had blown me off lately to be with her other friends. She'd texted me on my birthday. Texted me.
Happy Birthday Cowgirl!

Nice.

I wasn't doing a good job of multitasking. The hand holding the drink was shaking, and the fluid was dropping on the floor and burning through it all the way to China and some illegal house party there. I headed upstairs, padding up that familiar carpeting, and made my way to Abigail's room, where I closed and locked the door behind me and sat down on her bed to drink alone in the darkness.

No one at this stupid party knew her stairs better than me, or her kitchen, or her living room. We'd sat on this very bed so many times, looking out her window into her yard below and the shimmering pool, remarking on the neighbors and the damnable ten-foot fence that had kept her high-strung mother bouncing in and out of sweat lodges. I had come to think of this house as my house too, and Abigail as my sister.

Now it was no longer my house. And she wasn't acting very much like my sister anymore, either.

I took a drink of the vile liquid, and it tasted awful in a way that promised mood enhancement, so I took another swig and another, wrinkling up my face, the music and noise of the party rising through the floor and the bed vibrating against my legs. I kept taking sips of the punch, which didn't taste so horrible anymore. The bitter aftertaste had receded, leaving only a sickening sweetness that my throat continued to swallow despite its best interests.

I was feeling good. Looking good. I was going to go downstairs and show Abigail that this wallflower, this loser, this sad friend she'd been stuck with all these years and was finally learning how to ditch could be the life of the party. I headed back down into the noise and laughter, no longer filming but holding the camera loose at my side. I was not here to lurk behind the scenes, filming everyone else having fun. I was here to be Denver Reynolds, party maniac.