Wrecked

by Anna Davies

  She threw her shoulders back and headed into the royal blue doors of Calhoun Academy. “You’ve got this,” she muttered to herself. It was the mantra she always used, whether she was about to try an especially difficult shot in soccer, take a practice SAT exam, or head into an interview with a college rep. One step at a time. She was so busy concentrating on those steps that she didn’t notice Dr. Carlson striding from the guidance office into the sun-splashed atrium lobby until she stopped a foot away from Miranda.

  “Miranda O’Rourke,” Dr. Carlson said icily. Miranda stepped back in surprise. She’d never heard Dr. Carlson use that tone with anyone, but especially not with her.

  “Hi, Dr. Carlson,” Miranda said in a small voice she didn’t recognize as her own. She looked up at her guidance counselor. A freshly minted psychologist from the University of the South, Dr. Carlson had long ash-blond hair and wide-set blue eyes, and pretty much every male student from seventh grade on up had an enormous crush on her, while the majority of female students wanted to be her. She was the reason why guys jostled for guidance appointments as if they were invites for a hot party, and why girls tended to go to Dr. Carlson just as much to discuss guy drama as they did for academic advice. But now, Dr. Carlson didn’t seem anything like a big sister and Miranda felt slightly afraid.

  “You’re not in uniform,” she said sharply, her eyes resting on Miranda’s crutches. Miranda held them tighter to her body, like a shield.

  “I know you have the crutches, but we also can’t have students showing up without wearing any of their uniform. Tomorrow, you will wear your shirt, at least,” Dr. Carlson said. Miranda blinked in disbelief. Her friends had died, her boyfriend was in a coma, and all Dr. Carlson cared about was the fact she wasn’t wearing her uniform? It was the type of ridiculous statement Gen would immediately comment on, and Miranda felt her resolve begin to waver.

  “I’m sorry,” Miranda said helplessly. Kids were streaming around her on either side, and she could tell from the way they immediately stopped their conversations and slowed their walk to a shuffle that they were trying to listen in on her conversation with Dr. Carlson. She concentrated on a crack in the floor, just a few feet in front of her.

  “Well, there’s nothing to be done about it now,” Dr. Carlson said crisply. “Now, do you have the schedule that was mailed to you?” she asked, setting her hand on Miranda’s shoulder. It was a gesture that was less reassuring than restraining. Maybe that was the point, so that Miranda wouldn’t be tempted to run anywhere. As if she had anywhere to go.

  Miranda rummaged through her school satchel, trying to block out the whispered comments that she knew were about her. Every so often she could just make out the word murder or kill. “I think so,” she said, rooting through her lipglosses and notebooks, all untouched since last year, until her fingers touched thick cardstock. “Here,” she said, jamming the card into Dr. Carlson’s fingers.

  “Good.” Dr. Carlson nodded. “So we’ll have you jump right in, since that’s what your grandmother seems to believe is the best thing for you.”

  “Thanks,” Miranda said, taking the schedule back. But Dr. Carlson kept her hand on Miranda’s shoulder.

  “One more thing,” Dr. Carlson said. “You’re still under the same standards of excellence as all the other students. Your grandmother said that you were ready, and that you’d be up to speed in no time, and that’s what your teachers, Headmistress Wyar, and I expect. We want everyone to feel as normal as possible. Is that clear?” Dr. Carlson asked, turning the corners of her mouth up slightly to form an impossible-to-read expression.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Miranda said, relieved when Dr. Carlson released her grip. What Dr. Carlson clearly meant was that Eleanor had strong-armed Calhoun into allowing her back, but it wasn’t like they were doing it with open arms.

  Tentatively, she walked into the labyrinth-like hallways of the academy, on her way to her locker. The school smelled the same: floor polish, too much perfume, and fallen leaves. Ordinarily, she and Genevieve would come in together, both clutching thirty-two-ounce coffees from the Ugly Mug café at the other end of the dock. Now, Miranda was alone with ten minutes before first period. Kids were streaming around her, but she couldn’t focus on any particular faces. It was as if she were moving in slow motion, while everyone around her was speeding up.

  “She’s guilty. Look at her.”

  “I heard that they’re going to charge her with manslaughter. But I think they’re waiting until her boyfriend dies to do it.”

  Miranda whirled around. Two skinny girls were furiously whispering with each other. She didn’t know them, but from the way they’d rolled their Calhoun skirts so the hem hit mid-thigh and the way their matching blue eyeshadow extended all the way up to their brow bones, she had no doubt they were seventh graders. By the time kids had been in Calhoun for a few years, they stopped dressing up to try to impress their classmates.

  “Shh!” One of the girls hissed, and immediately, both turned to the Calhoun bulletin board. Miranda followed their gaze.

  REMEMBER THE FERRIES DANCE: BUY YOUR TICKETS THROUGH GRAY.MILLER@CALHOUN.EDU.

  LAXERS FOR FLETCHER. WEAR YOUR SCHOOL COLORS TO SUPPORT FLETCHER KING NEXT WEEK. QUESTIONS OR COMMENTS, CONTACT GRAY.MILLER@CALHOUN.EDU.

  REMEMBER THE FERRIES: ADOPT A PARKING SPOT! TO DISCUSS DONATIONS AND DECORATIONS, GET IN TOUCH WITH GRAY.MILLER@CALHOUN.EDU.

  Miranda sighed shakily. It was nice that Gray was doing all this, but why hadn’t she heard of it? And in a weird way, it almost seemed like Gray was too eager to help. Like she saw the accident as less of a tragedy and more as a way to finally feel accepted as a true Ferry.

  As if on cue, Gray sidled up to her. Gray’s blond wavy hair lay long and loose down her back, and she had a roll of masking tape on her wrist like an improvised bracelet. She was holding a large stack of flyers.

  “Miranda,” Gray nodded, appraising her with her large blue eyes.

  “Hi,” Miranda said tentatively, her heart hammering in her chest. “How are you?”

  “I’ve been better. We all have. I didn’t think you’d come back,” she said as she slid a flyer from the top of the pile and taped it onto the bulletin board.

  A SPECIAL CHAPEL TRIBUTE TO THE FERRIES TODAY. COME WITH YOUR FAVORITE MEMORIES. WANT TO SHARE? FIND GRAY MILLER OR SHOOT HER A MESSAGE: GRAY.MILLER@CALHOUN.EDU

  “There’s a tribute?” Miranda asked, scanning the text. What did that mean? Wasn’t this supposed to be “just a normal day,” according to Dr. Carlson?

  “Yes,” Gray said crisply, turning on her heel.

  “Can I help?” Miranda asked desperately. It was the last thing she wanted to do, but if she had to, she’d do it.

  Gray smiled tightly and shook her head. “I think you’ve done enough, don’t you?” she asked, her voice low.

  Miranda felt the color drain from her face. Had Gray meant what Miranda thought she meant? And if Gray felt that, that meant . . .

  “What do you mean?” Miranda said, willing herself to not back down. She hadn’t done anything wrong.

  “Look, we all know it was an accident, but you were driving the boat. You said you hadn’t even taken it out all summer . . . I just wish that you’d thought about that before you went out,” Gray said, her lips set in a firm line. “I mean, I guess it could happen to anyone, but I don’t know,” Gray shrugged. “I mean, I’m not blaming you . . .” Gray trailed off and shrugged. “I just wish things had happened differently. But they didn’t. But I’m glad you’re okay,” Gray said, nodding curtly.

  “Thanks,” Miranda said slowly, turning away. She felt like she’d been slapped.

  “I can’t believe she came back.”

  “I know. Especially since I heard they didn’t want her to.” Miranda whirled around, but she couldn’t see where the conversation she’d overheard had come from. She felt like she was going crazy, like everyone was looking at her but no one was acknowledging her. She was about to turn and run out to the ca
r to escape when she felt a hand clamp on her shoulder.

  “Hey!” Miranda yelped, but it was only Headmistress Wyar, wearing an impeccable slate-gray pantsuit. Her mouth was drawn in a firm line and her platinum blond bob was hooked back behind her ears. She was the bad cop to Dr. Carlson’s good cop. Even so, seeing Headmistress Wyar was a relief after her run-in with Gray.

  “You’re going to be late,” Headmistress Wyar said, seconds before the bell rang. Immediately, kids scurried out of the hallways and into the classrooms. “Off you go. Let’s try to make this day go smoothly,” she said. Miranda cringed. She hated it when teachers used words like let’s and we when they really meant that they didn’t think you were capable, were already assuming you’d fail, but wanted to make it sound like everyone was in it together. As if to back up that sentiment, Headmistress Wyar gave Miranda a firm shove on the back, as if she were a baby bird being pushed out of the nest.

  Miranda didn’t have a choice. She made her way to AP English, all the way at the other end of the school.

  BY THE TIME SHE GOT TO CLASS ALMOST TEN MINUTES LATER, she was sweaty and her arms were aching from the crutches. Calhoun was a sprawling building that had begun as a large family mansion back in the nineteenth century and had been added onto ever since the structure had been turned into a school in the early twentieth century. Now, the school was a hodgepodge of different architectural styles: part southern Gothic, part seventies modern, with a futuristic glass and metal science center tacked on almost as an afterthought. Humanities classes were held in the oldest, creakiest part of the school and the uneven floorboards made the already annoying task of maneuvering with crutches even more complicated. Thankfully, her first class was Mr. Devlin’s AP English class. Mr. Devlin had been her soccer coach since ninth grade. If anyone could help her feel less weird, it was him.

  Miranda opened the door and made a beeline for the back of the room, where, as in all Calhoun classrooms, there were cozy couches instead of desks. They did that because the teachers at Calhoun unanimously felt everyone had to feel comfortable and at home to learn properly. Of course, at this point, those seats were already filled and the only place to sit was a desk at the front of the classroom, next to Heather Mackenzie, a ninth-grade prodigy who took all senior-level classes. Great.

  Coach Devlin turned and smiled a tight smile as whispers rippled through the class. Miranda kept her gaze focused on the whiteboard at the front of the room. Genevieve and Fletch would have most likely been assigned this class. They always had English classes together.

  “Welcome back, Miss O’Rourke,” Coach Devlin said formally, as if she were a new exchange student rather than his star varsity soccer player. But maybe that was just how he acted with all students—after all, she’d never had him as an actual teacher. Miranda knew, even as she thought it, that that was most likely not the case. Coach Devlin was also uncomfortable around her. Just like Gray Miller. Just like Headmistress Wyar.

  “Thanks,” Miranda said, the disappointment obvious in her voice as she slid into her seat, not bothering to take out a pen or a notebook.

  “We’re discussing Shakespeare’s sonnets. You can look on with Heather,” Coach said, before perching on the edge of the desk and picking up his own text.

  ‘Since brass, nor stone, nor boundless sea / but sad mortality alone o’ersways thy power,’ Mr. Devlin quoted, in a baritone voice. “It’s a good first line,” he said, as he slipped off the desk and began pacing back and forth. It was something he always used to do on the soccer field, and it was clear it was a habit he hadn’t broken in the classroom. But really? That sonnet? It seemed a little too apropos to Miranda’s own situation. Couldn’t Coach have chosen a poem that referred to a jungle or a desert or anything but a shipwreck?

  “Maybe one of Shakespeare’s best, in the sonnets. Much better than ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day,’ at any rate. And it’s a great example of iambic pentameter. Can someone map it out on the board?” Coach continued, waving a black marker.

  No one volunteered, and Miranda knew it was because no one was listening: they were all staring at her. She didn’t blame them.

  Miranda stared down at the pockmarked desk and pulled her tangled brown bangs over her eyes. Her ends were badly split. It was weird how she could even think about split ends after the accident, but she couldn’t help but notice them, and then feel guilty for doing so. She glanced at the clock, realizing that she’d only been in class for three minutes. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Heather’s hand shoot up.

  “I think the water’s a liminal space. You know, neither here nor there, and a place where transformation can occur,” Heather babbled in her squeaky voice, not bothering to be called on. She smugly pushed her glasses farther up her nose. Miranda kind of wanted to hug her, relieved that someone was actually talking about something other than her.

  “Liminal space,” Mr. Devlin said. “Good work, Heather. But we’re talking about iambic pentameter. But since you brought it up . . .” He wrote the words on the board and the students scribbled them down. Miranda didn’t need to. She was living in a freaking liminal space. She leaned back in her rickety chair and snuck another glance at the clock. Thirty-two minutes left. She stifled a scream. Seriously? This was torture. She could sense twelve pairs of eyes staring at her, and she felt like she couldn’t even shift position or scrape her chair back without using it as an excuse to cough out the word killer. But the worst thing was, the murmurs were so quiet she couldn’t figure out whether they were coming from the people surrounding her or from inside her head—and she wasn’t sure which prospect was more frightening.

  Somehow, the class ended, even though Miranda had no idea what they’d discussed, why it was important, or what the homework was.

  “Miss O’Rourke, a moment?” Mr. Devlin asked.

  “I need to get to Chapel,” she muttered, even though she didn’t stand up from her seat. She hoped he’d stop giving her the cold shoulder. Besides, the idea of going to Chapel today terrified her. Once an honest-to-God, no-pun-intended service, now Chapel, always held after first period so people were less inclined to attempt to ditch it, was officially a time for announcements or assemblies, but unofficially the best time to cheat on calc homework or gossip about the weekend. And, apparently, a time for Gray to host a Remember the Ferries memorial presentation. As if Miranda could forget.

  Maybe that was what Coach was doing: saving her from an event that was going to be awkward at best and devastating at worst. She slid back into the chair and gazed up at Coach. He was only thirty, and sort of looked like a youngish Brad Pitt, with golden blond shaggy hair, blue eyes, and just a hint of stubble on his chin. Gen had always had a crush on Coach Devlin, and even went so far as to try out for the soccer team in sophomore year, until she realized that soccer required a whole lot of running and team spirit, which were two of Gen’s least favorite things. Still, she stared at him from the bleachers, and Miranda knew Gen would have died to take a class with him. Miranda shook her head angrily at the phrase. Gen was dead.

  The bell rang, signaling the start of Chapel.

  “Coach?” Miranda asked.

  “I think it’s better if you call me Mr. Devlin. I like to keep the coaching and teaching things separate. I explained on the first day of class.”

  “Of course.” Miranda nodded, her face burning. “I’m sorry.”

  “No need to be sorry,” he said shortly. “I wanted to bring you up to speed on how I handle my classroom. It’s different than the field. Basically, I know you’ve been dealing with a lot, and I can imagine that there’s a lot on your mind, but in here, it’s about English lit. Got it?”

  Miranda nodded, a huge lump in her throat. Coach used to take the ferry to come to after-game cookouts on the beach at Lydia’s house. He used to call Miranda “Champ.” He used to spend hours explaining the college sports recruitment process to her, and she knew he put in a good word at dozens of schools. Now, he was treating her like a tot
al stranger.

  “Coach? I mean, Mr. Devlin?” Miranda said tentatively. “I know the roster’s probably been set, but I’m actually all right,” she said in a rush of words, her heart feeling like it was going to leap out of her mouth. “The stitches are out, so by states in November, I’m sure I could at least play some . . .” She trailed off, gazing up at him hopefully.

  Mr. Devlin shook his head. “The bench is pretty full. I think we’re going to have to do without you this year.”

  “Of course, but . . .”

  “No buts. Just one more thing,” he said, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “I don’t know what happened that night, and I don’t want to know. I won’t ask questions. But you should know that the college recruiters are asking me. And I know you guys were partying . . .” Coach trailed off.

  “We weren’t,” Miranda said, slightly hysterical. “I didn’t drink that night. They have proof. I wasn’t doing anything.”

  “Bottles on the beach, late at night . . . I’m not accusing you of drinking. I know they did tests, and I know you have a good head on your shoulders. But I want to warn you, you’ll have a lot to explain to scouts. They might see you as a liability if they still decide to offer you a spot at their school.”

  “I need to go,” Miranda gasped as she stood up so suddenly the wooden chair behind her toppled over.

  “Of course.” Coach stood up and took a few steps away from her. “And I only wanted you to know what other people are saying. I’m not thinking that.”

  “But everyone else is,” Miranda said. Not waiting for a response, she opened the door and hobbled out, her crutches making a squeaking sound against the polished oak floors. She slowly made her way to Chapel. It wasn’t as if she had a choice: It seemed like everyone was watching her, waiting for her to make a mistake, and she wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.

  She made her way painstakingly into the assembly. Miranda squinted in the darkened auditorium, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the light. Then she blinked at what she saw on the screen: Lydia and Genevieve, manning the Varsity Soccer car wash, wearing matching plaid bikini tops and Folly Beach shorts, painted-on Cougar paws on their faces and ear-to-ear grins. Darcy, Alan, and Gray, sticking out their tongues at an unseen yearbook photographer as they boarded the outbound ferry. Gen, hunched over an AP Euro test, her red hair fanning over her shoulder blades, oblivious to the fact she was being photographed. The images kept coming, back when the group was happy and whole. When they were alive.