In my corner, I’m drawing a swirling cypress tree. Branches curl and lift as I sift through the details. Some things fall between categories, like what happened to me with the assistant swim coach when I was twelve. Boston raises her hand.
“Was Lark raped?” she asks.
“Detectives aren’t saying,” says Kate Battle.
“Why not?” says Alyssa.
“Sometimes police keep evidence secret until it’s been verified by a lab so it can be used in questioning the suspect.”
“Why?” asks Jess.
“Usually when there’s a murder, the only living witness is the murderer. If we tell the press we’ve found scraps of fabric or lint on the victim or at the scene of the crime, the killer might read it. Then, if we pick him up for questioning, he will have had the chance to get rid of something that might link him to the crime.”
“And then, of course, there’s sperm,” announces Alyssa. “You can tell a guy’s blood type from sperm.”
Girls groan in disgust, me included. Boston shows Beth something she’s written on her hand and they both giggle.
“And there’s something else,” says the grief counselor, “that all of you in this room should know. It’s about how you dress and how you move and how you walk. You’re young women now, and how you conduct yourself gives off signals, whether you like it or not.”
Alyssa jerks up her head and rolls her eyes at Kate. “Yeah, right,” she says. “As if Lark wore a tank top to gymnastics because she wanted to be killed.”
For once I agree with Alyssa. I put down my pen and listen to Kate Battle’s response.
“No, of course not,” counters Kate, “but at the same time, it’s important to be aware that you are not just powerless victims. There are things you can do to prevent things like this.”
I don’t know about that. I’m starting to believe in luck as the ruling power.
Outside, the world goes on in its usual way. From where I’m sitting, I can look out the window onto the street. A bus goes by, then a truck carrying huge spools of wire. People run to a store or get coffee or take a package to the post office. Kate Battle urges us to keep talking and processing. Then she asks Boston to help her pass out a flyer for the girls-only self-defense class she teaches on Saturdays.
Suddenly, I realize why I’ve been angry all period. None of this is about Lark. People have stopped thinking about her. They’re taking the lessons they need and moving on. And the grief counselor, who came to help us process our feelings, is trying to drum up a little business for herself.
“No, thank you,” I tell Boston when she offers me the flyer.
Boston smiles at me and snaps her gum.
Chapter 12
Lark
His hands clawed at my clothes, pulling them off with the hooks of his fingers. He pinned my arms with his knees and took off his pants. I begged him to stop. I told him I was a virgin, but he didn’t care.
He forced himself into me, and that’s when I stopped feeling what was happening. I willed myself far away so it was almost like sleeping.
He couldn’t stay hard, so he slapped me and called me a slut and said that he should have known what I was. Not a girl he could love but a slut like the others. Then he tried again but he couldn’t stay inside, so he yelled at me again, then he came on my leg.
He lay on top of me for a long time before he pushed himself off.
“Get up,” he said, but I couldn’t move. I lay there with the snow falling on my face, looking up to the sky.
“Get up!” he yelled. He saw the blood on his hands and started to cry. “You made me do this. I never wanted to hurt you! Oh, no! Oh, no!”
He kept saying he was so sorry, that he could tell I was a good girl after all and that he would help me. He said he’d come right back, but that he couldn’t trust me, so he dragged me to a tree and tied my arms behind my back with plastic ties. They cut into my wrists. I was too weak to stand. When I fell, the bark scraped my skin. My bad knee twisted and I heard the ligament tear. It sounded like fabric when you rip it in half.
I heard him run through the snow and his car start. Wind whooshed through the trees but couldn’t lift my hair because it was starting to freeze. Each breath seemed to open the wound in my side a little bit more. I was so cold, I decided to die. It was easy. Like stepping out of your clothes when they fall to the floor.
I hovered over my body, watching the snow fall on my neck, studying the horrible bend in my knee.
Then the dead girls spoke to me.
Don’t look, said one.
Turn away, said another.
Come over here, said the third.
Their bodies were trapped in their trees. I saw faces under the bark.
It’s almost over . . . , said the one keeping watch. Now.
She closed her eyes and began to cry. Snow turned to sleet and covered the branches in ice.
Off in the distance I died.
Chapter 13
Nyetta
My therapist, Dr. Blake, has an office filled with toys that are way too young for me. She wears glasses and a gypsy skirt and a huge sweater that must belong to her husband. I think she’s been a hippie most of her life. I’m supposed to call her April, not Dr. Blake.
“Can you tell me about your friend who died?” asks April. She adjusts her glasses and smiles.
I’m fiddling with the clay she gave me, pushing it into a pot, then flattening it out and starting over again. I don’t really like talking about Lark, but she keeps trying to force me.
“How did you know her?” she tries again.
“She lived down the street,” I say.
“What was she like?” she asks.
She’s persistent; I’ll say that for her. She’s not about to stop asking me questions. My mom says I’ve got to try to say what I’m feeling, only I’m not feeling anything, except sort of jumpy at night when I think Lark might be coming.
“She used to babysit me. After my father left. But then she stopped and then she died.”
I’ve formed the clay into a perfect little pinch pot. If I had a bird, I’d put the bowl in its cage for water.
“Tell me about your father,” she says.
“My father doesn’t live with us anymore,” I answer. “He lives with Hallie.”
It’s much easier to talk about my father than Lark, so I tell April the whole story—how Hallie used to work for my dad at the museum, how they fell in love, how my dad left my mom and moved in with Hallie and her sons. Their names are Anders and Zeke. They’re twins. Age eight. Noisy. Sometimes I run into my dad and the twins when I’m out with my mom. They play football in the park and buy rockets at the hobby store. Zeke’s hair is so curly, it bounces.
“And how does it make you feel?” asks April. “Seeing your dad playing with the boys? Knowing he left to go live with another family?”
I smash the bowl with my fingers.
“Well . . . ,” I start. I decide to speak with long pauses between all the important words, which is what some grown-ups do when they’re angry. April leans forward to encourage me. Her big hippie skirt has spread to a half circle on the floor.
“I used . . . to feel . . . sad. But now . . . I don’t . . . care.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s better if people are happy. If Hallie makes my dad happy, then he should be with her. Then he will be a better father for me.”
“That sounds like a thought, not a feeling.”
“I like thoughts. They’re better than feelings.”
This ends up being a stupid thing to admit. April takes a few notes on her yellow pad, which is a sign that she’s about to zero in on something.
She puts her pencil down. “All right then. Thoughts it is. I want to get back to Lark before we have to go. Where do you think she is?”
“She’s not really anywhere,” I answer. “She’s dead.”
“Your mom tells me you talk to her sometimes.”
I’m pee
ring down at my clay, studying how it captures my fingerprints. I’m going to let this one pass.
“Do you believe in an afterlife?” April asks.
I believe in trees, I think. But I would never say this out loud. I promised myself I wouldn’t tell April about trees unless she specifically asks, which she never will. How many people know about dead girls and trees?
I decide not to talk for the rest of the session. Instead I play with the clay.
The clock ticks. Dr. Blake watches me but doesn’t ask any more questions.
“All right then,” she says finally. “See you next week.”
Chapter 14
Eve
His name was Trevor; he was the son of my father’s partner, although I didn’t know him before he was my swim coach. When Mr. Landis announced that he was going to be his assistant coach, Alyssa and the other kids who knew him broke out in cheers. His trophies gleamed behind a glass cabinet on the Dolphin Wall of Champions. At sixteen, he set a county record for the 100-meter butterfly. Two years later he won a swimming scholarship to the University of Virginia. His family owned a big piece of land next to the pool with a two-hundred-year-old house that looked like something out of Gone with the Wind. It was set back from the road, framed by old trees with tall twisting branches. My dad said the McCalls used to own all the land in our neighborhood.
“I’m just happy to help out the team I grew up on,” Trevor said at the ice cream social opening the season. During practice he stomped around with his stopwatch and clipboard, watching our strokes and taking notes. When we were in the water, he was all business. When practice was over, he was more like a camp counselor, teaching us water-fight techniques, like how to disable your opponent with a thin, hard splash to the eyes.
“You’re lucky,” said Lark. “I wish he coached the diving team. I can’t stand Mary-Kate.”
“She’s way too serious,” I agreed. “She already has worry lines in her forehead.”
Mary-Kate ran her team like a school of monks. While Trevor yelled at us until he was hoarse, she had the divers sit in a circle and practice visualization techniques. She walked slowly around the perimeter, saying, “Imagine yourself in perfect pike position. How does it feel in your arms? In your legs? In your shoulders? How does it feel to release the position at the end of one and a half flips?”
The fireflies were out when Lark and I walked home. They hovered above tall grasses and under dogwood trees, pulsing with light. We cupped our hands around them, careful not to touch their abdomens so they wouldn’t die.
Trevor noticed Lark right away. When swim practice was over, he hung around watching the divers, but it was obvious he had his eye on her. When she wasn’t up, he chatted with the swimmers crowded around him. He shushed them when it was Lark’s turn.
Trevor was there the day she nailed her hardest dive. She paused at the very end of the board, her heels over the water, back to the pool, staring past the fence and the woods. Seconds later, she swooped her arms up and threw herself forward into a one and a half flip. Her body fell into the water like a knife.
Trevor whooped. “Now there’s a future Division One athlete,” he called out.
Mary-Kate scowled at him. She didn’t believe in feedback until the end of practice. But Trevor didn’t care. He clapped and cheered for Lark when she bobbed out of the water.
“He’s so much nicer than Mary-Kate,” she complained in a whisper. She was out of the water between dives, stuffing strands of hair under her cap.
“Trevor’s the best,” I agreed, although I didn’t mean it. I was beginning to notice how he stirred up the energy in a group, keeping us laughing and guessing about what he would say next. Alyssa was one of his favorites because she laughed at his jokes or came back fast with one of her own. I was too shy, too slow with words to do either. Plus, I was only an average member of the team. I couldn’t win his respect as an athlete. I wasn’t talented like Alyssa. He lowered his voice when he talked to her and was always correcting her on her arms. With me, he was pleasant and vague. My times were good enough to get some cheery encouragement, but not much else.
I didn’t really care. I loved swimming. I liked the underwater sounds and the shattered light in the blue water. It was the summer between sixth grade and seventh, and my breasts had grown overnight. I stopped taking dance class because I couldn’t stand how they bounced. Swimming was the only sport where they didn’t get in my way. Still, I didn’t always notice when they fell out the side of my suit. “Put your girls in,” Lark whispered as she passed by. She turned back to smile as she skipped off to the diving boards. She was a year older than me, but still straight up and down, muscled and fast, like a boy.
At home in my house or in my backyard, I walked around practicing my stroke, pulling the air with my arms, imagining it was water. I could feel myself getting stronger by thinking about my stroke. There was something to Mary-Kate’s meditation techniques. In some ways she was a better coach than Trevor.
But then, something confusing happened, something like being erased. I got better, only Trevor didn’t say anything. I saw him look at me from the corner of his eye. I felt his eyes on me when I turned away, and I was sure he was about to say something like “Good job, Mackenzie.” But he never did. He moved me to the starter position on the 100-meter relay, but he didn’t tell me why, and then he started yelling at me more in practice, like I was one of the lazy kids who didn’t put in enough effort.
In our meet against Donaldson Run, I set out a huge lead in the relay that secured our win. I won my heat in the 25-meter butterfly. I climbed out of the pool and saw Trevor walking toward me with a huge smile on his face. He grabbed me around the shoulder and ran his knuckles over my head, his standard way of congratulating us.
That’s when it happened.
“Way to go, Mackenzie!” he said, squeezing me tightly with one arm. His hand started out between my ribs and my arm. Then it slipped under my suit and cupped the curve of my breast. At first I didn’t know what was happening. I thought his stopwatch must be digging into me, but it lasted too long. Then it started feeling more like what it was. I stiffened my upper arm against him to push him away, and his hand eased out. Then he was off to congratulate the other swimmers.
We won the meet. Everyone was cheering up the hill to the clubhouse, but I didn’t join in. I dove back into the pool, swimming underwater, skimming the bottom until I burst through the surface gasping for air. The lifeguards were gone. I shouldn’t have been in the water, but I didn’t care. Trevor stood outside the locker rooms, joking with his fans, flicking a wet towel so it cracked like a whip. Laughter ricocheted off the clubhouse walls to the tennis courts. Girls ran in and out of the locker room, daring him to snap the towel. I watched, wondering if I was being overly sensitive. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe for a split second he thought I was his girlfriend. Maybe he didn’t mean it and I was taking it too seriously.
I stopped swimming well. After a shower, I’d stare at myself in the mirror, disgusted with what I saw. I was so round for my age. The tops of my thighs were soft, no muscle tone at all. I would never look sleek or athletic like Lark unless I made staying thin and in shape my entire life. I was way too young to look like this.
The progress I had made evaporated. In the middle of a flip turn, I’d say to myself, You’ll never be any good. Not really. Why don’t you just quit?
“What’s the matter with you, Eve?” yelled Coach Landis. “Trevor, work on her arms. Her legs are fine. It’s her arms.”
Trevor made me get out of the pool and show him my stroke like he did with the younger kids. I got nervous and couldn’t coordinate when to rotate for a breath. He made me do it again and again like I was a beginner. Then kids popped out of the water to watch. One even jumped out to practice alongside me, and Trevor complimented him for taking the opportunity to review the basics. Undistracted, the divers practiced. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lark set herself up for her inward one and a half. I wanted so
badly to disappear.
“Okay, Mackenzie,” he said, giving me a pinch on the outside of my arm. “Get back in the water.” He turned to watch Lark.
I wanted to leave. I didn’t want to get back in the pool. But leaving in front of everyone seemed even worse. I jumped back in, and the water erased me.
Finally practice was over. Kids jumped out of the water and grabbed their towels. Boys took off their caps and shook their hair. The divers gathered around Mary-Kate for final comments and notes. Kids seemed especially giddy. Laughter floated through the club. Some of the boys ran to the diving boards to show off their jackknives.
I lingered in a far corner of the pool, swimming along the bottom. I pulled at the water with all of my strength, kicking my legs until my thighs ached, wondering if this was what I had to do every moment of practice to finally get strong.
“Come on,” said Lark, annoyed I wasn’t out of the water yet.
“Oh, yeah . . . ,” I started to lie. “I forgot to tell you. My mom’s picking me up. She’s gotta take me somewhere.”
“Where?” she asked.
“For a fitting. I’m getting a dress made. I’m in a wedding.”
“Whose?”
“My cousin’s. The one in South Carolina.”
“Oh,” said Lark, then she scampered upstairs to the changing rooms.
Lark Page 3
