The Different Girl

by Gordon Dahlquist

  “I have to find Caroline, May.”

  I began to walk. I hadn’t even reached the driest sand when I heard May’s footsteps behind me, slapping wet, and then suddenly it hit me and I fell forward hard. I tried to extend my arms but there wasn’t time, and my face hit the sand with a smack.

  • • •

  I lay there, blinking, sand stuck to my face. I couldn’t get my arms underneath to push myself up. I couldn’t move.

  “May!” I called. “May!”

  But May didn’t answer.

  “Caroline!” But Caroline was too far away, too far to even see what had happened. Irene should have sent her to look after me. I angled my head to the water. A wave broke toward me, the foam rushing up the sand. It stopped well away, but I knew the waves would just get higher. In half an hour the foam would touch my feet. Would Caroline come back in half an hour? Would she come back the same way? What if May had run to Caroline instead of going back? What if they went home through the dunes and left me?

  I shook my head. I had been hit in two places on my back—two hands. What if May pushed Caroline down as well?

  I tried to raise my knee but only dug it deeper. I lifted with my arms but my hands were pinned too far back, and it only drove my face into the sand. I called again, for May, for Caroline, for anyone who could hear.

  The waves came closer, bit by bit, drawing back and tumbling forward. I realized I was staring and shut my eyes. How long had I stared? I turned away, blinking. The beach was a slope. I remembered May’s coral, landing at my feet and rolling back.

  I rocked my body up the hill and then toward the surf. Was I too heavy? What if I couldn’t stop and rolled right into the water? But I did it again and again. Each time I rolled a little more, even though each time also dug me deeper in the sand.

  At the height of the roll I stabbed my hand out, catching my body, just balanced with my back to the rising water. I pushed, just a little more, and dredged my knee from its trough of sand. I lifted with that arm and leg and rose enough to shift my other hand. I pushed again and got the other leg beneath me and then very carefully, sand sliding from my limbs, I managed to stand.

  May wasn’t anywhere I could see. I walked as quickly as I could to find Caroline.

  • • •

  Caroline stood in the dunes, watching the wind go through the grass. She looked up when I called, and watched for the time it took me to get near.

  “You’re all sandy,” she said. “Did you fall? Did May help you? Where is she?”

  “May pushed me down,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “May is unhappy.”

  Caroline studied me closely. “That was very dangerous!”

  “I thought she might have come here.”

  “To push me, too?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “But you’re the one who found her.”

  “I asked her what happened to Will and Cat.”

  “What did she say?”

  “That they were dead.”

  “That doesn’t mean what happened.”

  I nodded. “Robbert went to the aerial this morning, with the toolbox.”

  “Was it broken?”

  “She said Irene and Robbert don’t tell us things.”

  Caroline cocked her head. “They don’t.”

  I told Caroline about the number on Robbert’s notebook.

  “Do Robbert and Irene know?” she asked.

  “They must.”

  We stood without talking and then, even though we weren’t walking, Caroline reached out and took my hand.

  “You should tell me what you found on the beach,” I said.

  “I will,” Caroline said. “But May is coming.”

  • • •

  She walked to within five feet of where we stood and stopped. Caroline kept hold of my hand. The wind had pulled May’s hair completely loose, and it flew around her head in a cloud, but underneath I saw her face had changed and her eyes were red and wet. She crossed her arms and, ducking her face like a bird, wiped her nose on her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “What you did was extremely dangerous!” Caroline’s voice was a shout.

  “I know you’re unhappy, May,” I said.

  May sniffed and rubbed her eye. “I came back but you were gone. I’m sorry. Don’t tell them. Don’t tell or they’ll hate me even more.”

  “No one hates you, May.”

  “Unless you keep pushing people!” Caroline cried. “Because that is very serious!”

  “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

  May sank into a squat and hugged her knees.

  “Then why did you push Veronika? Veronika found you.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then you have to ask yourself very hard.” Caroline’s voice was more quiet. “You have to know. And not be scared. There’s nothing here to be scared of. We’re not scared.”

  May looked up, but her eyes were far away.

  “We need to help each other, May,” I said. “We won’t say anything to Irene.”

  “In exchange for what?” May’s words were hesitant, like she wasn’t sure if this was the answer—an answer we would understand—but hoped it was. But I understood her offer of an exchange to be an equation, a balance. “All right,” I agreed. “We won’t say anything, and then you will do something for us.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll tell us if anything happens when we’re asleep.”

  May stood and looked at me and then at Caroline, who nodded. May nodded, too, all three of us making a deal. I held out my other hand.

  “Just a minute.” May hiked up her shirt and balled it over her fingers. “You’re still covered in sand.”

  • • •

  When we got back to the beach path, Irene was crouched with Isobel and Eleanor over the grass. Irene saw us coming and stood, taking Isobel’s hand.

  “We found a bird!” Eleanor called.

  We gathered round: a dead gull, its feathers stuck together, stained and slick.

  “It’s a year old,” Caroline said to Irene, and Irene nodded to let Caroline know that she was correct and also that Isobel or Eleanor had already said this.

  “Look.” Isobel gently flipped the gull to its other side, the soft neck lolling. “We found it high up, almost to the grass.”

  The other side of the gull was burned, feathers blackened and curled, the stubbled skin beneath blistered red.

  “With the flotsam from the storm,” said Eleanor, looking at May, as if she might have something to add.

  But May only said, “Poor bird.”

  “How can a bird get burned?” I asked. “What can be on fire in a storm?”

  We waited for Irene to explain. She stood with her hands in the pockets of her skirt. She took a deep breath, which she sometimes did standing in the wind—because of the fresh air, then she would let it all out with a smile. This time it came out through her nose.

  “Who can answer Veronika’s question? What burns?”

  “Everything burns,” said Eleanor. “But not in water. Not in rain.”

  “Something could burn and go into the rain afterward,” said Isobel. “Something set on fire inside, where it’s dry, and then thrown outside.”

  “The gull flew inside and then flew out again,” suggested Eleanor.

  “Inside where?” asked Caroline. “There’s no fire here to burn a bird.”

  “Maybe it floated here on the tide,” said Eleanor.

  “But when?” asked Irene.

  “During the storm,” said Isobel. “This is the high-water mark.”

  “It could have been burned somewhere else,” said Eleanor, “and during the storm it came here.”

  “How long has it been dead?” said Irene, in the way that meant this was a clue.

  We saw things being dead all the time, mainly crabs and insects, but also birds and eggs and jellyfish. The gull hadn’t begun to fall apart o
r even smell, and its feathers were still intact. I flipped it back to the side we’d first seen.

  “What is that, all over its feathers?”

  “Oil.” Everyone looked at May. “Probably diesel.”

  “What is diesel?” asked Eleanor.

  “It’s fuel for the engine of a boat,” said Irene, when May didn’t answer.

  “Uncle Will’s boat?” asked Eleanor. “But May didn’t say anything about a fire. Was there a fire, May? Was there a bird inside your boat?”

  “Of course not,” said May. She stood up and stepped away. “I don’t know. I didn’t see any fire. I don’t know what happened to a stupid bird.”

  I stood up, too, wanting her to come back.

  “I doubt a seagull was inside the boat,” said Irene.

  “Then how did it burn in the rain?” asked Isobel. “Was it inside another boat?”

  “Seagulls aren’t like parrots,” said Irene. “You know that. Think again. May, what do you remember about when you woke up.”

  May turned to her, the wind whipping her hair across her eyes. “I don’t remember anything.”

  “Did you see anyone?”

  May shook her head.

  “You called out for your uncle. For Cat. Didn’t you? But they didn’t answer.”

  “I wasn’t loud enough.”

  “What woke you up, May? Was it a crash? A big bang?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Irene turned to the rest of us. “What do you think?” Her voice was impatient, but also something else. We almost never heard it—and only when Irene forgot we were awake or thought we couldn’t hear—and that was her being sad, wanting something that she couldn’t name. “What do you think, Caroline?”

  Caroline blinked and cocked her head. “The oil.”

  “The oil caught fire!” said Eleanor quickly. “And the oil got all over the bird.”

  “And the rain put it out,” said Isobel. “But by then the bird couldn’t fly.”

  “And what started the fire,” Eleanor pointed with her hand, “is what woke up May.”

  Everyone looked at May, but this time she looked back. She pulled the hair from her face and put it behind one ear. “When I woke up, the Mary was sinking. It was dark. I didn’t see any fire. I didn’t see anything. And you don’t know. All of you, from a bird, you don’t know. You don’t know why anything!”

  I went to May, close enough to see her lip shaking. I wondered if this was how she’d looked when she decided to push me down. Would she push me again, in front of everyone? I didn’t think so, but I realized how little I understood her. If one of us had done what she had, pushing me, and then admitted it was wrong and made a deal, like with Caroline and me, that would be how we behaved from then on—but already May was back where she had been, feeling too many things at once and every agreement forgotten.

  “What happened already did,” I said to her. “Robbert says that if we understand the first accident, it stops a second one. If we know what happened to the Mary then it will help you when you get your own boat later on.”

  “We want to help you, May,” said Eleanor.

  “And we need you to help us.” Irene’s voice was the same mix of sharp and sad, but louder because of the wind, almost a call. “Won’t you, please?”

  Irene held a hand out to May, and May came forward. Instead of taking May’s hand, Irene nodded to Isobel and Eleanor, because it was their turn to hold hands with May since Caroline and I had been with her on the walk. The three of them went first, with Irene falling in step between Caroline and me, taking Caroline’s hand, but resting her palm on my shoulder instead.

  “Are you all right, Veronika?”

  “Yes, Irene.”

  “How was your walk?”

  I began to describe where we’d gone and the distance between the waves, all to answer her original question about time. Irene brushed at the back of my smock, and I wondered if we hadn’t got rid of all the sand.

  “That’s very good,” she said, interrupting me and turning to Caroline. “And that was very good with the bird. It was just what you were supposed to do.”

  “Thank you, Irene.”

  Irene took my hand, too, then, and we were quiet the rest of the way. At the crest of the path we saw the kitchen windows with a light already on. At one point Caroline stumbled, kicking sand. Irene held tight, steadying her as if nothing had happened, and I looked to find Caroline staring at me. Then she nodded past me at a break in the dune grass, and started blinking. I almost turned to look in the same place but knew enough not to. No one stumbled the rest of the way.

  • • •

  After dinner we watched Robbert change the bandages on May’s feet and sat outside to see the stars. May fell asleep on the steps, leaning against the rail, and Robbert carried her to bed. He came back a few minutes later and stood listening to the rest of us sing about clouds.

  Fluffy and puffy so high in the air,

  We drift on the wind with nary a care.

  Tall as a castle and white as the snow,

  Where the wind takes us, that’s where we go.

  Robbert said he felt like walking to the beach, and that he would see us in the morning. We waved good night and then Irene stood with her teacup, and we all went to get ready for bed. When we were on our cots with our smocks off and folded, Irene turned out the light and leaned back against the counter. She pulled out her clip and shook her head so her hair came loose around her face.

  “You know that before sleep I sometimes tell you something—something to think about and wake up to. Tonight, I’m going to tell you all a story. It’s a real story, something that really happened, a long time ago, that I think you ought to know. Something you can think about.”

  “Is tonight different?” asked Eleanor.

  “Tonight is tonight,” replied Irene, “and not last night.”

  “And not tomorrow,” said Isobel. “But tomorrow we’ll be able to think of the story.”

  “That’s right. Lay back now.”

  Irene poured herself a cup of water from the filter. We all got settled. Irene finished her water and put the cup in the sink. I could hear the night outside. I could hear Irene breathe.

  “Once there was a girl—”

  I wanted to know how old the girl was and what color her hair and if she had a name, but once we lay down interruptions weren’t allowed.

  “—and she lived in the part of the world where people knew things. Now, everyone knows something, but in this part of the world some people knew more. Invisible things, secrets a person couldn’t see without learning, without school. Like your school. The people who went to those schools mixed together with the people who didn’t, the people who believed—well, who just believed. Sometimes that worked out but other times, and eventually most of the time, the school people had to keep themselves as hidden as the secret things they knew.”

  Irene stopped talking for long enough that I wondered if it was the end, but finally she kept going.

  “Eventually people didn’t know who knew things and who didn’t, because those people were hiding, because those people who didn’t learn became frightened of what they couldn’t see, frightened about what was real—what was possible. And people who get frightened become angry. So the girl who knew things also knew she had to stay hidden. Because if anyone saw her, they would hurt her for the things she knew. So she left her home to find another. She sailed away. She even flew in an airplane. Just to make sure. But you can never be sure. You can never be sure. And that’s what the girl learned, and she never forgot it, no matter how old she got, or how happy she was.”

  Irene sighed, and pushed herself up from the counter. The story was finished, even though I still had all my questions. She came to Isobel, then Caroline, then Eleanor. Her shadow passed over my face, and I felt her hand behind my ear. Irene dropped to a crouch and whispered.

  “I watched you, Veronika. I saw you stand. You did so well, honey. You didn’t need me
at all.”

  I wanted to tell her it wasn’t true, that I needed her forever, but by then I was already gone.

  7.

  It was three days until I could visit Caroline’s spot in the dune grass. The days in between went almost like always, with smocks and breakfast, and walks and class and naps and more class and dinner and the porch and finally sleep. The difference was May, whether she was at breakfast or still sleeping, whether she sat with us on the porch, or whether she went walking alone to the woods. Most of all, the four of us felt May’s presence from Robbert and Irene.

  They would go in the other room or walk outside and close the door, but sometimes the words came without warning, unexpected even to them. Irene would give Robbert a look and he would snap, just like he’d burned his finger on a wire.

  “Look, I haven’t heard anything.”

  “But what does that mean?”

  “Irene—it could still be the storm. It could be their receiver—”

  “You’re sure about ours.” All four of us remembered where Robbert had been with the tools.

  “I am.”

  “And what if it’s something else?”

  And that was when Irene’s gaze went through the window to the classroom where May lay still asleep.

  We spent that morning talking about words and how May’s words didn’t sound like Robbert’s or Irene’s, or ours. It wasn’t anything we had noticed, because we’d been able to understand her perfectly well, but today Irene focused on all the variations. One example was how May didn’t pronounce the g in words that had “ing” at the end. Another was how her letter s was spoken with an invisible t in front of it, so “sad” became “tsad.” Irene explained where May’s tongue was placed inside her mouth to make each sound, and showed us with her own mouth how it happened. Robbert’s questions were about how our hearing turned a wrong sound into a right one. He made up sentences as if May were saying them to test our making sense.

  Irene explained that ways of speaking came from different places, and that each way was like a sign announcing who a person was and what their life was mostly like and what they were most likely to believe. Isobel asked what May’s way said about May, but before Irene could answer, Eleanor asked what Irene’s way said about Irene, and then Caroline asked why, if there was an agreed upon best way—the way we spoke, for example—anyone spoke a different way at all?