by Anna Davies
The questions had started only once she got to school and realized what being an O’Rourke meant to other Whym islanders. And she’d never asked Eleanor about them. Instead, she distanced herself from her grandmother, preferring to spend time by herself or with Teddy. She’d never realized she was lonely, until she found herself being forced to sign up for a sport on her first day at Calhoun Academy in seventh grade. She’d chosen soccer, and had actually been good at it, which had been the catalyst that had caused the Ferries to befriend her. Before, they’d been friendly enough, but wary, as if they could sense she didn’t want to be on the island. But the fact that she could score a goal in the last thirty seconds of a game outweighed her outsider status. Slowly, despite any apprehensions, Miranda began getting invitations to sleepovers and birthday parties. Over the past five years, the Ferries had taught her everything she needed to know about the island, from how to build a fire on the beach, to how to sneak from one end of the island to the other without ever hitting the main roads. Now, heading into senior year, she was being watched by soccer scouts from around the country and had spent the past year dating Fletcher King, the most sought-after boy on the island. It was a Cinderella story come to life; a sign that fairy tales did come true. And yet . . .
“Aren’t tarot cards, like, dark magic?” Gray asked, taking a dainty sip from her Poland Spring bottle and interrupting Miranda’s thoughts. Because Gray was only a second-generation summer islander, and her grandparents still lived in a pink mansion on Charleston’s Battery, Gray had taken Miranda’s position as a Whym Island newbie, even though her family had moved to Whym full time five years ago. And even though she was always invited, she tended to treat impromptu bonfire evenings on the beach as ever so slightly beneath her, and often reminded everyone of her Charleston debutante ball coming up later in the season.
“Yeah, because we live in Salem in the seventeenth century and I’m forming my witch coven.” Genevieve rolled her eyes. “No, it’s just a fun way to figure out what might happen. I promise it’ll be fine. Way less risky than playing ‘Never Have I Ever,’” Gen picked up the deck of cards and shuffled them on her lap. “Now, who wants to go first?”
Lydia Banay shrugged and took a big swig of the cranberry juice and vodka mixture she’d concocted at home and smuggled into her water bottle. “I will. What the hell do I have to lose?” She asked rhetorically, as the rest of the girls murmured sympathetically. Lydia had just gone through a bad breakup with Brad Carmichael, the Calhoun Academy All-State soccer star who’d just started at Clemson University two weeks ago. On his first night there, she’d received a text at 2 a.m. that featured a photo of a skinny blonde girl in a halter top, along with a question from Brad: Would you hate me if I told you I’m about to cheat? The next day, he’d begged forgiveness, citing too much alcohol and “too many temptations,” but the damage had been done and Lydia had been devastated. Even tonight, Miranda could see her eyes were red and her face was puffy from crying.
“Okay, sugar,” Genevieve said, closing her eyes and shuffling the deck. She picked out a card from the deck. The card had a photo of a skeleton on it.
“Ew!” Gray shrieked.
“Am I going to die?” Lydia giggled, but her face looked terrified.
“Maybe it just means Brad’s hooking up with some Skeletor skank,” Darcy said, taking another large sip of her own vodka soda as she absentmindedly tightened her auburn ponytail at the crown of her head. Darcy was the youngest of four sisters, and always seemed slightly bored when discussing boy drama, most likely because she’d heard it all at home.
Genevieve turned the card over in her fingers. “It doesn’t mean that. It’s symbolic, no? It means a part of you is going to die.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Lydia asked nervously.
Genevieve sighed, as if she were a kindergarten teacher explaining the rules of addition to an exceptionally slow six-year-old. “It’s like, maybe the part of you that loves Brad will die, because you’ll meet someone new,” she said, enunciating each word.
“Okay . . . ,” Lydia trailed off. “Or maybe it means that if I do find out he’s hooking up with a skeletor skank, I’ll kill him. Do someone else. Get me out of my misery.”
“Anyone?” Genevieve glanced around the group of girls.
Miranda shifted in the sand and leaned back against her elbows, trying to pay attention, even though her mind kept wandering. Maybe it was just nerves for the soccer sectionals showcase on the mainland tomorrow. And even though Coach Devlin had told her not to worry, that the Stanford coach had seen enough videos of her that all Miranda had to do was get on the field and have fun, she knew it was only natural to be nervous. But it was more than that. It was a sense that no matter what the cards said, it felt like their destinies were already becoming more and more etched in stone with each passing day. Genevieve would move to New York. Miranda would play soccer at Stanford. Darcy and Lydia would most likely stay in South Carolina and get married to cute Carolina guys. None of these paths were bad exactly, it was just . . .
“Guys, this is ya’ll’s future. Don’t you care?” Genevieve called down to the guys who were hanging close to the tide-mark. Earlier, they had been hanging out around the fire as well, but obviously, they’d gotten bored with the girls’ sprawling conversations and had drifted off to do their own thing: Jeremiah Black was playing his guitar; the same four chords of “Free Fallin’” over and over and over again, while Alexa Madden watched adoringly from the edge of the circle. Alan Osten and Fletcher King were tossing a Frisbee back and forth. Occasionally, Alan would overshoot and the Frisbee would land in the water. Fletcher would eagerly run in to get it, reminding Miranda of an eager golden retriever.
“Miranda!” Genevieve snapped, and Miranda glanced away guiltily. Despite the independent vibe Genevieve projected, Miranda knew how much Gen wanted to be part of a couple, and she knew that in Genevieve’s mind, sharing a possibly-fictional kiss with a cute Columbia boy was nothing compared to the fact Miranda and Fletch were steadily dating. “I’m doing your tarot reading, in case you care,” Genevieve said, slapping the cards down on the piece of driftwood in front of her. The light from the fire flickered on the overturned card. It was a man and a woman, their arms intertwined in an embrace.
Genevieve rolled her eyes. “Of course, this figures,” she said, scooping the cards back up and shuffling the deck.
“Wait, what was that?” Miranda asked, genuinely curious. At least it hadn’t been the skeleton.
“The lovers. It means that you’re about to find the love of your life. Or you’ve already found it.” Genevieve laughed, but the hurt look spreading across her face made it clear how much Genevieve wished she was the one in the relationship.
“Lucky!” Darcy exhaled, smiling encouragingly at Miranda. Darcy loved the idea of being in love, and had already served as the bridesmaid at two of her sisters’ weddings. Her two older sisters had both met their now-husbands in high school, and Darcy was sure Miranda was on the same track.
“Yeah, you’re lucky. The question is, would Fletch agree?” Gray smiled so it seemed like she was teasing, but Miranda could read the subtext. It wasn’t so much that Gray liked Fletch, as that Gray liked to always have the best of everything. In her mind, Fletch was the ideal boyfriend, and Miranda sensed from the chilly way Gray had greeted her for the past few months, that Gray felt she, not Miranda, deserved him.
Miranda smiled, embarrassed for her relationship to be on display. Besides, it wasn’t exactly accurate. Sure, she liked Fletch a lot. Maybe she even loved him, a bit. She adored his sense of humor, the way he didn’t take himself too seriously, the way he’d always agree to split an enormous plate of disco fries at the Sand Witch Diner with her, even though she ended up eating most of them.
But was he the love of her life? She glanced dubiously at the water, where Fletcher was holding the Frisbee aloft over his head like a trophy. As soon as he spotted her staring at him, his face broke into a s
mile and he bounded over, throwing his wet arms around her shoulders and dripping onto her.
“Hey!” Miranda squealed as he leaned down and planted a kiss on the top of her dark hair. “Stop it!”
At that, Fletcher hugged her again. “Maybe I will. What will you give me if I stop?” He asked, wiggling his eyebrows manically.
Miranda grinned despite herself. Despite his showdog-like name (full name: Fletcher Adamson King, the third) he was pure Whym royalty: A sixth-generation resident whose family owned half the island and whose dad was the former mayor. Fletch was also undeniably hot: At six feet with shaggy brown hair and a muscular swimmer’s build, he was the type of guy who’d cause women at the Harris Teeter supermarket to poke each other and giggle as he walked by. But something else also drew people to him. It was his attitude, how he was so comfortable in his own skin, and never seemed to be at a loss for things to say. His confidence was sometimes overwhelming to Miranda, who couldn’t quite understand why Fletch had chosen her instead of someone like Gray or Lydia—born and bred South Carolina girls who’d no doubt be spending evenings ten years from now at dinner parties with each other, swapping tricks for how to get their kids to sleep through the night. While on the surface, Miranda—with her tall, athletic frame, long brown hair, wideset green eyes, and walk-in closet full of pastel tanks, cashmere cardigans, and Lilly Pulitzer sundresses—looked every inch an island girl, she wasn’t one of them.
Mostly, it was her legacy. She knew her parents’ death had cast an aura of tragedy around her. She knew that her friends’ parents privately and not-so-privately wondered about her well-being. After all, they knew that although Eleanor was graceful and impeccably polite, she wasn’t warm and nurturing. They knew Miranda’s own mother had had a wild streak. And Miranda was almost positive that Fletch’s mother would have preferred if he’d begun dating Lydia or Gray, girls who didn’t have so much baggage. And sometimes, like now, when she forced herself to switch into full-on flirt mode because she knew it made Fletch happy, she wondered if it wouldn’t have been easier for him if he’d never fallen for her.
“Well, a kiss is all you’re going to get. Take it or leave it,” she said as she allowed her lips to graze his. Miranda wrapped her arms around him, inhaling his familiar sunblock-and-Old Spice scent.
Then she pulled away and turned toward Genevieve. “What were you saying?” she asked, not wanting Genevieve to think she was ignoring her.
“Never mind, just keep on making out with your boyfriend. I was just talking about your future, but it seems you guys are set for life,” Gen said, rolling her eyes.
“Are we?” Fletcher asked, perching on the driftwood next to Miranda. His bare leg touched hers, sending another shiver up her spine. She edged closer to the fire.
“I drew the lovers’ card for Miranda. It’s obviously you, no?” Gen shrugged. “Y’all’re about to be Alexa and Jeremiah,” she said, knowingly jutting her chin over to the water’s edge, where Jeremiah and Alexa were standing. Jeremiah’s fingers were snaking under Alexa’s pink-striped bikini strap, and both were oblivious to anyone around them. They’d been dating for five years, and still acted like they couldn’t get enough of each other, even going so far as to full-on suck face before Chapel at Calhoun. Miranda and Genevieve both agreed it was gross.
“Please,” Miranda rolled her eyes. She had no doubt Alexa and Jeremiah would get married in the next few years. That was the way it was with island kids—if they found each other early, they felt no reason to wait or explore other options. And that was her whole problem with Fletch. Even if she did love him, a bit, was that the same as wanting to be with him forever?
“Aw, that’s so cute for y’all,” Gray cooed. Miranda stiffened. Even though she knew Gray would never really do anything, she still didn’t make it a secret that she’d always liked Fletch, and that she didn’t quite understand what Fletch saw in Miranda. One time, right after they started dating, Gray had mentioned to Miranda that she was a prime example of the ish factor in a relationship.
“It?” Miranda had asked, thoroughly confused. It had been one of the first days of summer, and Gray had been lying on the beach, surrounded by magazines.
“Not it. Ish,” Gray clarified. “Apparently, guys like girls who are pretty-ish, smart-ish, athletic-ish . . . like, they’re the whole package, but they don’t especially stand out. Like you!” She smiled encouragingly, as if to disguise her critique as a compliment.
“Thanks,” Miranda had said, smiling tightly. Gray may have thought that she was passive-aggressively insulting her, but it wasn’t anything that Miranda hadn’t known herself. She was ish. And she liked it. It was better than standing out.
“What’s so wrong with being lovers?” Fletch demanded as he leaned toward Miranda and kissed her hard.
“Fletch!” She murmured, pushing away on his strong chest. “We’re in public.”
“You know that talk turns me on,” Fletch joked. Miranda blushed.
“Do your reading, Gen. I want to know what your future is, even though I’m sure it’s full of scandal. Just the way you like it,” she said, leaning over and feigning extreme interest in the cards. She didn’t want to talk about whether or not they were lovers in front of all their friends. “And Fletch, remember, gentlemen don’t kiss and tell.”
“Who said I was a gentleman?” Fletch asked, but obediently walked over to the cooler.
“Okay, ready?” Genevieve asked, pleased that all the attention was back on her. She shuffled the cards and laid them out facedown in a cross pattern, before flipping over the center card.
Miranda gasped. Gazing up at them was the same smiling, dancing skeleton Gen had drawn for Lydia.
“Weird,” Genevieve frowned. “Usually people don’t get the same thing. But I guess it’s because we’re all heading into senior year, so it makes sense. We’re all changing, no?”
“This game is stupid,” Gray said, wrinkling her nose. “Let’s do something else. Ladies?” She stood up and brushed off the back of her white linen shorts as she walked over to the alcohol-stocked cooler that Alan had brought along.
“Do you promise the skeleton doesn’t mean death? Because it kinda looks that way from here.” Lydia yanked the card from Genevieve’s hand and squinted at it.
“Yeah, it’s just symbolism. Not everything needs to be literal. It just means change,” Genevieve said testily. But she scooped up the cards and threw them in her bag.
Miranda shivered again. It was only getting colder and later. And even if Coach Devlin said her performance tomorrow didn’t matter since it was so early in the season, she wanted to be at the top of her game.
As she was about to tell everyone to head home, Fletcher loped up to her, a beer bottle in one hand, keys in the other.
“Hey,” Miranda said suspiciously, eyeing his hand.
“It’s a great night. Let’s take Star Gazer out for a spin.”
Miranda shook her head, annoyed. Star Gazer was the meticulously kept twenty-five-foot bowrider she’d gotten for her sixteenth birthday. She hadn’t even wanted it, but her grandmother had insisted. Miranda later realized it was more for Eleanor than for her; a way to prove that even though she didn’t know how to connect to Miranda, she did care about her. Unlike the other island kids, though, who were more likely to drive their boat than their car, Miranda barely used hers, and she’d certainly never brought so many people on board. Would they even fit?
“I don’t know,” Miranda hedged. “Isn’t it kind of thundering?” Miranda cocked her head. She thought she could hear rumbling in the distance, but that sound could well be a far-off boat, or fireworks on the mainland.
“It’s the sea witch,” Alan hiccupped.
“Stop,” Darcy said nervously, glancing around. Miranda followed her gaze, but of course, there was nothing except the crackling of the fire and the lapping of waves on the shore. Whym Islanders took legends seriously, especially the one about the sea witch. According to the stories, her name wa
s Sephie, and legend had it that you were never supposed to say her name on board a ship, in case you invoked her wrath, a sort of nautical superstition in the same vein as the one that actors were never supposed to say “Macbeth” in a theater, in case they invoked the curse of the play.
Sephie could whip up storms in an instant, cause a low tide to rush inward, or make ships collide with each other. Every accident that had ever occurred on Whym, including the carwreck that claimed Miranda’s parents, was blamed on her. Before her parent’s accident, Eleanor would tell Miranda the sea witch would come get her if she didn’t finish her dinner, or if she made a fuss during her bath. When she was little, Miranda had always been slightly frightened of the sea witch. And when her parents died, of course she thought the sea witch was responsible. But then she grew up and faced the reality that sometimes bad things happen for no good reason and no one is responsible. It was something the rest of the islanders needed to learn.
“What? I want to see the witch. Sephie!” Alan drunkenly called, stumbling down the beach.
“Alan, stop!” Darcy said, even more firmly.
“Let’s go. Alan, if I were you, I’d be more afraid of Darcy in bitch mode than the sea witch,” Gen said. “Besides, the sooner we get on the boat, the sooner we can leave Miranda alone so you can get your beauty sleep before your soccer tournament. Or—” Genevieve grinned wickedly “—have Fletch warm you up.”
“Shut up!” Miranda thwacked Genevieve’s arm and glanced at her friends’ faces. Genevieve had a point. Obviously, not about the Fletch part, but if she brought them on the boat, she could do a spin around the island in less than half an hour, and she could even drop off Genevieve and Gray at the dock by Witch’s Knee, on the other side of the island. She hadn’t been drinking, but they had, and were in no shape to drive home. Besides, there were about two minutes in between rumbles of thunder, which meant the storm was miles away.
