“Sorry,” Eddy says, all sarcastic.
Eight minutes to go. How will I escape?
The head secretary’s voice comes over the PA: “Mr. Bernstein?”
“Yes?”
“Could you please send Sabiri to the office? Mr. McGregor would like a word with him.”
Mr. Bernstein frowns. “Certainly.”
Eddy leans in to my ear. “Thanks for getting me in shit. I’ll be here, when you come for your books. You, me, and my boys, we’ll have a little ‘talk’ in back of the field house.”
Mr. Bernstein’s eyes flicker, like he’s heard. “You can take your things with you, Sabiri,” he says casually.
Thank you, thank you. I get my knapsack from under my chair. I try not to sweat as I walk up the aisle, Eddy giving me the Evil Eye the whole way. I exit into the corridor. The office is to the left. I turn to the right. No way am I getting killed. Not now, before the weekend.
I run upstairs to my locker. Grab my duffel bag. Race down the hall to the far end, trip down the stairs, charge through the side door.
I loop around the building, turn at the statue, and cross the circular driveway onto Roosevelt Trail.
“Sabiri!”
It’s Vice Principal McGregor. He’s on the front steps. He must have seen me through the office window.
“Sabiri! Stop!”
I keep running.
“Sabiri! I said, ‘Stop!’”
But I can’t. I’m in too much trouble already.
I see the Johnsons’ Camry speeding up Roosevelt Trail. Andy’s at the wheel, Marty beside him. We pass each other. Andy squeals the brakes, pulls a one eighty, and catches up to me in a flash.
I jump into the back seat.
“What the hell?” Andy says.
“Drive!”
Seven
We’re a mile down Valley Park Road before I catch my breath enough to tell Andy and Marty what happened.
Andy whistles. “What’s your dad gonna do when he finds out you blew off a trip to the V.P.?”
“Don’t ask. Between Eddy, McGregor, and Dad, I am dead, deader, deadest. So could we please not talk about it? I want a weekend to breathe before I die, okay?”
I pull jeans and a Sabres hoodie from my duffel bag, and change out of my Academy uniform as we cruise toward Inner Loop East and the New York State Thruway. Then it hits me. Somebody’s missing.
“Uh, Andy,” I say, “where’s your dad?”
“Can’t hear you.” He laughs. “Music’s too loud.” Marty finds this majorly funny.
“No, really. Is he already at the cottage? Will he boat over to pick us up?”
Marty turns around in his seat and mouths, “What?” like we’re in front of speakers at a rock concert.
I reach between the front seats and yank Andy’s iPod out of its dock. “Cut it out. Why isn’t your dad here?”
Andy squinches his nose. “Why should he be?”
“On the webcam, you said he hates camping, but he’d let us take the boat to Hermit Island. I thought that meant he’d be coming.”
“Assume nothing,” Marty says in this robot voice. “Your ways are not our ways, Earthling.”
“Stuff the kiddie crap, Marty. What’s up?”
“My folks are gone all week,” Andy grins. “We’ll be at the cottage on our own.”
My eyes pop. “Do they know?”
“I didn’t tell them, if that’s what you mean.” He winks into the rearview. “The way I figure, if they think I’m at home, they’ll relax. It’s my contribution to their trip.”
“What if they try to reach you?”
“They’ll call my cell. I’ll be like, ‘Oh, I’m so bored in Meadowvale.’ Meanwhile, I’ll be cracking a cold one on the beach.”
I look out the back window. Meadowvale’s disappearing. I press my forehead against the upholstery and think about Mom. We were keeping this trip a secret from Dad. Now I’ll be keeping a secret from her too. What if she finds out? I am so beyond worm meat.
Andy’s free foot taps like Thumper. “It’s no big deal, Sammy. A couple of times this summer, my folks left me and Marty alone for a day.”
“Yeah, but not for the whole trip. And for sure not over to Canada solo.”
“So what? I can pilot the boat, and we have our papers, which we won’t even need.”
“I told you he’d want to bail,” Marty mutters.
My cheeks burn. “Who said anything about bailing? It’s just, Mom thinks your parents will be there. That’s how I got permission.”
“So let her think that. How’ll she find out anything different?” Marty asks.
“Come on,” Andy coaxes. “It’ll be fun. You’ll get to make up for the summer.”
“I guess.” I say glumly.
Andy hunches over the wheel. “Don’t wreck our weekend, okay? If you wanna wimp out, I’ll drive you back, drop you off at your place.”
“Sure, we’ll only have wasted half an hour,” Marty crabs.
Andy slows down. “So what do you want me to do?”
I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know.
“Fine,” Andy sighs into the silence. “I’ll take you home.”
Marty slumps in his seat. “Waydego, Sabiri. You’ve turned into a real douchebag, you know that?”
My stomach heaves. After the past summer, this is it. My last chance. If I’m out today, I’m out forever. I won’t see the guys again. Not as best friends anyway. I’ll have nothing left but Academy hell.
I fake a laugh, bat Andy’s headrest. “Okay, I’m in.”
Andy brightens. “That’s our Sammy!” He high-fives me over the back of his seat. “If there’s a problem with your mom, blame me. Tell her you thought my folks were at the cottage till you arrived, and I wouldn’t take you back. Yeah, that’s it, say you were kidnapped!”
“Kidnapped to Canada. By space aliens,” Marty adds in his robot voice.
“It’s what would’ve happened too, if you hadn’t gone and asked about my dad,” Andy continues. “We tried to protect you, Sammy. Honest. But you wouldn’t let us. You made us tell. Some things, it’s better not to know.”
I have a flash of Dad at the kitchen table, looking haunted. Hunted. Sami, there’s things I can’t talk about. Things I can’t explain.
“Andy,” I say, “turn up the music as loud as you can.”
PART TWO
Eight
Thanks to Andy’s heavy foot, we get to Alexandria Bay ahead of schedule. Still, it’s six P.M.—only a couple hours of light left. We go to the drive-thru at McDonald’s and stuff our faces with Quarter Pounders and fries on the way to the marina.
Outside the parking lot, kids are selling bait: earthworms in old Styrofoam containers scrounged from a local Chinese takeout joint. One container should do us, but Andy insists we get three.
The lot’s almost full. Fathers and sons are getting back from a few hours’ fishing, couples are heading out for a sunset cruise, and people like us are going to their cottages. Most everyone’s white. I stay glued to Andy and Marty, hands in my pockets, hoodie up, face down, trying my best to be invisible.
“What’s with you?” Andy asks.
“Nothing. Just don’t want to get hassled.”
“Don’t be so paranoid.”
“Easy for you to say.”
The Johnsons’ boat is moored on Pier 4, Well 122. It’s a Chris-Craft Catalina, twenty-three feet long, eight feet wide, with a deep-V hull. Mr. J wanted to call it My Jolly Johnson, but Mrs. J said that was crude. She wanted something lame like Windsong or Serendipity; in the end, she let him get away with Cirrhosis of the River.
We stash our duffel bags, knapsacks, and bait in the dry compartment of the bow. The Catalina rides waves well, so we shouldn’t get wet unless Andy decides to set a speed record. Just in case, Marty and I zip nylon windbreakers over our hoodies.
I have to admit, Andy knows his stuff. His directions are crisp and clear. We loosen the ropes an
d cast off, slipping on life jackets from the storage bins under the rear seats.
Andy recognizes an old man down the pier and gives a wave. The man waves back.
I turn away. “Who’s that?”
“Dunno. But I’ve been waving to him since I was six,” Andy reassures. “Just chill, okay? Nobody gives a damn who we are or what we’re doing. Look normal and you won’t draw attention.”
Right. For lots of guys like me, normal would be rolling out a prayer rug about now. Then watch that old man give us a friendly wave. He’d be waving for Homeland Security is more like it.
Andy steers us out of the marina to the St. Lawrence River. The breeze puffs up my windbreaker. I lean over the side of the boat and let the cold spray sting my cheeks. Somewhere out here in the water, there’s an invisible east–west line: The border between us and Canada. Andy navigates through clusters of craggy rock islands dotted with trees and cottages.
“Are we in Canada yet?” I holler over the roar of the motor.
“Yeah,” Andy hollers back.
So, I smile to myself, we’ve crossed the line without seeing it coming. I seem to be doing a lot of that lately.
Another twenty minutes and I spot Andy’s cottage in a cove on the far mainland. Actually, it’s more like a second home, winterized, with a car in the garage.
Other cottages dot the cove, each with fifty yards or so of shoreline. Most are dark, some already boarded up for the winter, but a few have families out in sweaters enjoying barbecues, playing catch, tossing Frisbees, or throwing sticks in the water for their dogs to fetch.
Andy guides the Catalina in to his dock; it’s lined with tires to cushion arrivals. All the same, Marty sticks the butt of an oar off the side to ensure a soft landing. We hop off and help Andy moor.
“It’s almost sunset,” I say. “Maybe we should go to Hermit Island tomorrow.”
Andy bugs out: “We haven’t come this far not to camp out!” He marches us into the kitchen, where we fill a cooler with junk food, plus frozen burgers and ice packs from the freezer. “You have your list for me, son?” he teases, in imitation of his dad.
“Shut up,” I grin.
Every time I’ve gone to the Johnsons’ cottage, Dad’s given Mr. J a list of my prayer times, food restrictions, and movies I’m not supposed to watch. And each trip, Mr. J’s nodded seriously and put the list in his pocket. “You’ll remember all this stuff, won’t you, Sammy?” Mr. J’s asked me on the boat to the cottage. “Sure,” I’ve said, and then forgotten about it. Back home, Dad always asks Mr. J if I’ve followed the rules, and Mr. J always says yes. Dad never believes him. He grills me, especially about our meals. “Are you calling Mr. Johnson a liar?” I say. That shuts him up.
But why go nuts about that now? Dad isn’t here to wreck things. I can relax.
We collect sleeping bags and air mattresses from the blanket boxes in the bedrooms and stash them in the Catalina’s stern. Then we get the fishing rods from the umbrella stand by the side door and secure them in the fiberglass rod boxes. Andy checks the locked tackle box next to the console where Mr. J stores the flashlights. We have four, plus extra batteries.
Andy shifts from one foot to the other. “Hey, can the two of you finish up? There’s something I gotta do.” He runs inside.
Marty leads me to the woodbox near the compost heap, where we get the beer that he and Andy hid this summer, under a pile of kindling. Mr. J’s let Andy drink since he turned fourteen, but Andy didn’t want him to know they were boozing in the boat.
I fill the burlap sack with firewood.
Marty rolls his eyes. “We’ll find loads of driftwood on the beach.”
“What if it’s too dark to see by the time we get there?”
“That’s why we have flashlights.”
“But what if it’s wet? Like, what if it got rained on this week?”
“Fine,” Marty grumps, “if you’re gonna be a girl about it.”
“This way’s easy is all,” I explain. “We can get our fire pit going right away without wearing down our batteries.”
“I got it, Mom.”
Our final trip is to the garage, where we rummage around for Andy’s old tent. It’s on a shelf, folded up inside a thick plastic sheet draped with cement dust, spider webs, and bits of dead leaves. It stinks of mildew.
“Whew!” I stick my nose to the side, as we carry it to the boat. “Marty, between this stench and your farts, we’ll be dead by morning.”
“Don’t worry.” He laughs proudly, “I brought matches.”
“Great. We won’t suffocate. We’ll explode!”
We throw a tarp over everything in open storage and wait for Andy to finish whatever he’s doing. I go sit at the end of the dock and dangle my legs over the side, watching the sun sink behind the cluster of islands to the southwest. Marty plunks himself down in back of the Catalina’s engine. He bounces his chubby calves off the rubber tires along the side and starts to work out a splinter in his thumb, chewing at it with his teeth.
“So…,” he says, after what feels like forever.
“So.”
He spits out the sliver. “Sammy…”
“Yeah?”
“Is there something I should know about?”
“Like what?”
“Are you pissed with me or something?”
“No,” I lie. “Why?”
“Dunno. It’s just, I’ve been getting this vibe.” (He’s been getting a vibe?) “So anyway, we’re okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.”
“Good.” Pause. “Cuz you’d tell me if there was a problem, right?”
“Marty, quit it, will you?”
“But you would, right? Sometimes I do things, say things—I can piss people off. I don’t mean to.”
“I know.”
Silence.
We listen to the boats in the water. Laughter from up the beach. A dog barking.
I look to the cottage. “I wonder what’s keeping Andy?”
“Guess.” Marty whispers it like I should know, but I don’t. “He’s been this way since he found out. Clowning around like nothing’s the matter. Then bam. It hits him. He leaves class, holes up in the can till he’s normal again.”
What does Marty mean, since he found out? What does he mean, normal again?
Marty sighs. “He hides stuff pretty well.”
Hides what? I’m dying to know, but I can’t ask. If I do, Marty’ll know that Andy hasn’t told me. And why hasn’t he, if we’re best friends? My skin goes clammy. If I don’t know Andy, who do I know?
“Yeah,” I cover. “He hides stuff real well.”
Marty scratches himself. “I’d be shaken up too, if I was him. Andy’s always looked up to his dad. You know his mom’s taking pills?”
“Sad,” I say, like it’s old news.
Andy bursts out of the cottage. “We’re good to go.”
Marty and I jump up. “Great!” But I’m thinking, What’s going on, pal? What’s wrong with your parents?
The sun’s down. The sky’s filled with a gray light, stray clouds lit from beneath in dull oranges, pinks, and purples.
Andy takes his place behind the wheel. Marty hops aboard and takes the seat beside him, as the key turns in the ignition. I push off and take a seat behind.
“Hermit Island, here we come,” Andy whoops.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Marty echoes.
We edge into the dark.
Nine
The guys make jokes as we skim through the water. I don’t catch much over the noise of the engine, but I make sure to smile and give a thumbs-up whenever they turn around to see how I’m doing.
The breeze bites my skin. I huddle into myself, and watch the lights glimmering in the dark river air: Twinkles from roads and towns along the mainland, from cottages dotting the shore and ringing the maze of islands that swallow us up. Beams from boat lamps, too, navigating the channels: Sailboats, fishing boats, cabin cruisers, each with its own horn, i
ts own bell, its own jumble of laughter, music, and engines.
I’m lost in the feel and the night of it. But Andy has a map in his head from a lifetime of Thousand Island summers. “We’re back in American waters,” he says. Most of the cottages here are dark, boarded up. “These ones are owned by millionaires from the deep South who only come up for a week or two each summer to beat the heat.”
We near a patch of tree-lined cliffs. Andy slows down and steers us between two walls of rock. We follow the wall on the right, then turn left and enter a stretch of water surrounded by five large islands. Andy cuts the engine. We drift forward with the current. It’s quiet here, only the sound of distant echoes, and the light waves that lap against our boat and the islands’ shores. Dark, too. No lights except our boat lamp, the stars, and the moon, which shimmer over the rippling water.
“This circle of islands belongs to the Stillman family,” Andy says. “They’re from Tennessee, I think. Each island has a master cottage, more like a mansion, with guest houses and outbuildings, all facing the outer river. A few years ago, old Mr. Stillman blew his brains out. His kids and grandkids have stayed away ever since.”
I shiver. Is it the breeze?
Andy raises his arm and points. “There she is,” he whispers. “Straight ahead, middle of the circle.”
Hermit Island floats toward us out of the dark.
At first, it’s hard to make out, dwarfed by the Stillmans’ islands surrounding it. But as we near, I see the shape of a bank of pine trees a couple of hundred yards long. Nearer still, the boat lamp lights up a ghostly dock wobbling out from the shore, the rotten end collapsed into the water. There’s a patch of sand to the right, with a large weathered sign:
PRIVATE PROPERTY! NO TRESPASSING!
“Are you sure it’s okay to be here?” I ask.
“You mean the sign?” Andy chuckles. “Like anyone’s around to care.”
Which doesn’t exactly answer my question.
Andy guides the boat to the dock. “Holler if you see Stillman’s ghost,” Marty jokes. “I picture bits of brain, maybe an eyeball, floating around what’s left of his skull.”
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