The November Girl

by Lydia Kang

  But he doesn’t know. So why is he afraid?

  His pulse beats hard and fast under my finger. So much power and life there. So exquisite. My vision blurs a little.

  Push, Anda. Push a little harder. Make it stop.

  I shake my head and ignore her. My hunger is sated for now, but there is yet a need I can’t identify. What I want is to feel his short, scraggly beard and compare it to the stubbly moss that grows beneath paper birch trees. My finger rises against his throat to touch his jaw, rough with stubble, and he moves away abruptly. I’m left pointing at him, a needle turned north.

  I finally drop my arm to clasp my hands, wishing I could touch his pulse again. It was nice being close to that warm, living river under his skin.

  “I’m Hector,” he blurts out.

  His name is centuries old. I like this. It makes me feel like we’ve met before, that maybe our histories have a more distinct beginning.

  “Hector was the firstborn son of King Priam and Queen Hecuba, a descendant of Dardanus and Tros, the founder of Troy,” I inform him, happy to know something.

  He gives me a puzzled look again. I’m getting used to this expression of his. “You are like, the queen of Wikipedia.”

  I don’t know what that means. So I just keep talking. “Hector was slain by Achilles and his corpse mistreated for twelve days.”

  “Yes,” he says, a little impatiently. He won’t look at me anymore. He shifts his body from foot to foot. He’s antsy to leave. It’s better, really, for him to go away. I can’t stop imagining my fingers stretching across his neck, pushing on those tender points and damming those red rivers for eternity.

  Stop it, Anda.

  Oh, why is he here?

  He ought not to be here.

  “I…I should find some food,” he stammers.

  I stare at him.

  “I haven’t been able to get enough fish, and your kitchen is running low on stuff. I thought…well, it would be wrong…” he murmurs, scratching his sparse beard. I’ve a notion to cut it off, so I can unearth the planes and angles of his cheeks. Would he trust me to be close to him with a razor? Would I trust myself? He clears his throat, and I clear my head of thoughts of blades kissing skin. “But I don’t think we have a choice.”

  What is he talking about?

  “We need to break into the Windigo camp store.”

  “Oh!”

  Hector’s face is full of concern. “I’m sorry. I thought I brought enough food. I was so wrong. And then there was the fox. Even if I’m lucky enough to get a fish every day, it’s not enough for two people.” Hector bites his lip, and I’ve a notion to bite his rather than mine. “There’ll probably be a lock. Maybe I’ll need a piece of metal or something…”

  Breaking a door or taking objects means nothing to me. They are things easily fixed and replaced. Mother and I care little for the creations of men. They’ll get torn down by dust and time eventually. Sometimes we simply allow the performance to happen before time’s curtain rises.

  But Hector is troubled by this. For someone who’s living on an island he’s not allowed to be on, I find it odd that this would bother him. I hear him mutter things like, “Maybe I’ll pay them back later. I could mail it anonymously…”

  He heads toward the back door and shoves his feet into his boots. On goes a thick flannel shirt and his heavier coat, and he empties out his backpack. As he reaches for the door, I follow him, but he puts a hand out.

  “No. You should stay here. You haven’t been well. I’ll bring some food back soon, okay?”

  Father would say similar things, but his offerings didn’t help me. With Hector (and I like to say his name in my mind—Hector. Hector. It’s sharp and shiny, at the same time) it feels like we are on the same side of caring. Falling toward the same charred destination.

  Suddenly, I don’t want him to leave. It’s easy enough to bring a wind against the cabin, and when he opens the door, I shut it. Hard.

  “Ugh. This wind!” he says, pushing against the door.

  “I should like to come with you,” I say.

  Hector pushes the door, and it bobs open before the wind slams it shut again. “Jesus!”

  “I should like to come with you,” I say again.

  Hector lets go of the doorknob and stares at me, his face still and watching. He suspects something.

  He knows. Anda, don’t play. Just kill him.

  I push away her words. A dark shape hovers outside the window, but I ignore her. Hector stares at me like I’m a wild beast.

  He speaks slowly and quietly. “All right. You need to get dressed. Wear warm clothes. It’s pretty cold. And we need to make sure the helicopters and boats don’t see us, so don’t wear anything bright.”

  I nod. My nightgown swooshes as I turn into the bedroom to search for clothes. The weather is the least of my worries now. I am the weather; I don’t need to shield myself from myself. But I should be cautious. The boats and the helicopter are searching. I’m more visible when people are looking in earnest, especially for pretty things, like corpses.

  I should wear something appropriate, only I’m not fully sure what that is. I take out everything from the drawer where my clothes are. There is underwear, and chemises, and tops. Jeans. Socks. Most of them have not been worn more than once.

  I shed my nightgown and pull on a pair of underwear, then a thin white cotton camisole with a satin band at the edges. Father bought these over a year ago, and they’re both a little too snug. Should I wear two pairs of pants? One? All my shirts at once? Hector said it would be cold. Cold to him and to me are disparate things. The idea of clothing layers confines me and I already miss the looseness of my gown. I gather up all the garments and bring them into the main room, where Hector is busy watching the search boats with the binoculars.

  “What should I wear?” I ask.

  Hector turns to look at me. I drop the armful of clothes onto the floor and his eyes go immediately to my bare legs, and then my breasts, stretching the camisole thin. Not the clothes piled on the floor. He nearly drops the binoculars, then clumsily places it on the windowsill. “Uh.”

  It’s the only word that issues from his mouth for several seconds, while he drops his eyes to the floor. He’s still not looking at my clothes. Finally, he seems to shake himself and walks over to dive his hands into the pile at my feet.

  “Uh. This shirt. And uh, this one, with this sweater on top. Wear these long johns beneath the jeans.” He won’t meet my eyes. I’ve done something wrong.

  The emotion is fleeting but familiar. Father is never disappointed in me; he understands what I am. But when I was smaller, when children came to the Isle with their parents, I longed for them to see me. My heart was partially a child’s, once, and it had its childish needs. But when other children’s eyes went through me, past me, I always knew I’d done something wrong. Just by being me, I was wrong. It was a flavor of hurt that only a child may know so keenly. It was a hurt I have been more than happy to forget. Except that I haven’t, because I feel it now. The fear of inadequacy, and being passed over for my allotted portion of kindness that all humans crave.

  As I start dressing, I say, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.”

  “I’ve upset you.”

  “Oh, you haven’t upset me.” He laughs, but it’s a tinny, artificial laugh.

  I’ve buttoned on two shirts and the sweater, but I pause before grabbing the pair of waffled long john pants. “What is it?”

  “Uh, nothing.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Hector’s brown eyes go wide with wonder at my accusation. A faint ruddiness suffuses his cheeks again. Perhaps he’s ill?

  “Anda. Look. I’m trying to…concentrate. And you’re standing there in your underwear.”

  “Yes.”

  “With me. I’m practically a stranger.”

  “Yes, practically. Technically, not really.”

  He runs his hand through his hair, exasperated.
“You’re beautiful, okay?”

  Beautiful. I have never been labeled as such. The tourists use words like this to talk of the sunset, and the water, and the sky. I’m so used to being unseen, much less complimented. For some reason, it makes my stomach growl, in a good way.

  Hector goes on. “It’s just…really distracting. And I don’t know what to do. You’re not quite…normal.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  He splays his hand in protest. “Oh, no. Take it as a compliment. Really. It’s kind of a relief.”

  “I see.” I let his words untangle themselves in my mind. So this is politeness. “Well, then. You’re the most abnormal boy I’ve ever met.”

  He laughs so loudly, it’s like bells chiming. The walls of the house smile. It’s not used to this much mirth in a whole season. Hector’s eyes go to mine, and his teeth gleam prettily in the dimmed light of the house. I’ve never seen him smile before. “I like you, Anda. You’re so uncomplicated.”

  I nod, but inside, I’m frowning.

  You have no idea, Hector.

  Chapter Nineteen

  HECTOR

  When Anda and I leave the little house, we set off on the mile toward Windigo.

  A few times, we have to duck underneath the fir trees to escape the helicopter that flies a little too close. I keep stealing peeks at her, because she looks so ordinary. With her jacket, jeans, boots, and backpack, she could be just any other hiker around here. Except there are none, of course. But even with the trappings of normalcy, something will always poke its way out to remind me—she isn’t. She’ll stoop to pick up an interesting rock, but instead of looking at it, she’ll taste it. Or she’ll pick up a nugget of soil and smear it between her palms for a sniff.

  The thing is, I’m so damn curious to know why she’s here. Why she left herself isolated. Where her father is, and why she’s so freaking odd about…about everything. She eats food like she’s never eaten anything but rocks and dirt her whole life. Sometimes she seems so innocent and clueless, and other times she’s almost unhinged and dangerous. I haven’t even had a chance to ask her about where she’s gone to school, or what grade she’s in, even. Assuming she’s a teenager, which I think she is.

  She’s a huge mess of inconsistencies and conflicting pieces. Just when I get a good view of her, like a kaleidoscope, she turns and the image transforms into something completely different.

  I open my mouth to ask one question. One piece of truth, or history. She tips her head toward me, eyebrows up. There is fear behind her wintry eyes. Somehow I know, if I ask, I’m going to lose anything we’ve gained in the last few days. Is it worth it? Should I try?

  In a low voice, she asks, “What is it, Hector?”

  I want to know, but I don’t, because everything is so much easier this way. Ignorance wins out, at least for now. But I know we can’t pretend for much longer.

  “Oh, nothing.” I smile. I can wait a little longer.

  And Anda smiles back—so brightly that you’d think the sun just rose on Isle Royale for the first time ever. She reaches out to my face but pulls her hand back before she touches me.

  “I like your mouth,” she says. It’s such an odd comment that I smile wider. “That,” she says, pointing for a split second. “I mean, your smile.”

  Then I grin even harder. Never got a compliment like that before. “Well, I like yours, too. A lot.”

  Anda touches her lips and looks down. I think I actually made her blush.

  When we get to Windigo, we head straight to the camp store up the hill. It doesn’t take long to break into the building. With a big rock, I bash the old doorknob over and over until the screws loosen, then force the door open. It’s dark inside, but my eyes adjust quickly. The whole store is small. A cash register greets me, sitting on a table along with bowls of Isle Royale magnets. To the right, there’s an empty refrigerator that probably held sandwiches and cold pop.

  On the left of the cash register is…heaven. A whole display of Snickers bars, Crunch bars, Almond Joys. The boxes aren’t full, but luckily they’re not all empty. Past the rows of sweatshirts and tees are a wall with cans of soup and crackers, along with some freeze-dried meal packets and MREs. My brain gathers the inventory and I frown. There’s no way these will last me until May, much less the both of us. I explore a back storeroom, but it’s only got empty boxes. I don’t care for the Isle Royale knickknacks, but my heart races over the few camping items still lining the walls. But before I touch the camping gear, my hand shoots out for the candy.

  I immediately grab a slim, flat Hershey’s bar and tear off the wrapper, cramming bite after bite into my mouth. The chocolate collapses between my teeth and melts into gooey syrup on my taste buds. I wolf it down in thirty seconds flat.

  “God, this is the best chocolate bar I’ve ever had in my whole life,” I say through the last mouthful. Anda’s watching me, as if waiting for her turn, so I hand her one. She carefully peels back a corner of the bar, the plastic wrapper crinkling in her fingers. She takes a large bite.

  Her eyes roam all over as she rolls the bite around in her mouth. She doesn’t look like she’s enjoying it at all. Her eyebrows pinch together, her jaw shifting from left to right, and finally she swallows. For almost a minute, she just stands there and stares at her bitten bar, like there’s something wrong with it.

  “You don’t have to eat it,” I say, reaching to take it away. Anda immediately pulls it close to her chest.

  “Oh. It’s fine,” she says, her eyes wide. She turns from me and walks toward the back of the small store, but I can tell she’s cramming down bites like I just did. Maybe she didn’t want to look like a pig. I want to laugh but stifle it.

  I’m stuffing the few granola bars and soup packets into our bags when she returns to my side. The Hershey’s wrapper is empty in her hands, and telltale smears of chocolate decorate the corners of her mouth.

  “I think I should try this one. Just to see if it’s okay,” she says, reaching for an Almond Joy.

  “Suit yourself.”

  She does this three times, taking a bar and walking around the tiny store, returning with an empty wrapper and a nonchalance over the fact that she’s inhaling candy bars faster than a kid on Halloween. At this rate, she’ll outeat the entire candy supply on all of Isle Royale in no time.

  “I guess your dad never let you have candy?” I ask.

  “No. Well, I never wanted it.”

  “Oh. And now?”

  She eyeballs our bags, which I’ve stuffed full with a small portable stove with a cooking can, several containers of white fuel, a handheld water purifier with extra cartridges, plus extra-large water bottles with an Isle Royale logo stamped on the side. Eyeing the wealth with a critical eye, she grabs a few more Hershey bars and tries to hand them to me.

  “Anda, I don’t have room. We can come back again.”

  She frowns and puts the Hershey’s bars into the pockets of her jacket anyway, until there are no more left on the bottom shelf. Then she leans over and shoves several Mr. Goodbars, M&M’s, and Twix bars into the large pockets of my coat, as if the real estate there belongs to her. I don’t mind. It’s kind of nice, having her feel like I’m some extension of her. When she’s done, all the food in the camp store is gone. Plus, we look like we’ve sprouted candy from our hips and chests.

  She smiles. “I think we’re ready now.”

  I grin. I really, really like this girl.

  “You have chocolate on your mouth,” I tell her, pointing. Anda wipes her lips with her fingertip, then licks off the candy. She looks at me and points right back.

  “You do, too.”

  I lift my hand to wipe my face, when she steps forward and grabs the shoulders of my jacket, pulling me closer. Her face inches away, she scans my face and zeroes in on my lips hungrily. She looks like she’s going to bite my face off. I freeze, and she hovers, so close, with her eyes cast downward. She carefully licks the edges of my mouth.

  Oh. My. God
.

  The silky tip of her tongue travels from the corners of my mouth to the full part of my lips, tasting me and finding the tiny islands of chocolate I’d unknowingly left behind. I can’t breathe. Her lips barely touch mine as I inhale her sweet breath. I don’t even know what I’m doing when my hand slips behind her neck and pulls her that half inch closer to melt her mouth fully against mine.

  Anda freezes. Our lips fit together seamlessly, and hers are warm and soft beneath mine, open just a little. I realize I’ve stepped over a line, and that maybe, just maybe, I should backpedal. I start to pull away when Anda’s fists squeeze my jacket lapels, preventing my retreat.

  Her tongue tastes mine, and I go dizzy. I let mine explore a little, not knowing exactly what I’m doing. She tilts her head, and then our lips slip together, fitting as if this is where they’ve always belonged.

  I’ve kissed girls before. But kissing Anda is like starting over. I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do all of a sudden and it’s just…amazing. All I know is God, I better not screw this up. Finally, she pushes me gently away, blinking like a sleepy cat.

  My heart is hammering faster than anything. Anda touches her lips and smiles down at her fingertips.

  “You taste much better than rocks,” she says before exiting the store and walking into the sunshine.

  Thank God for that.

  Chapter Twenty

  ANDA

  I’ve done something wrong.

  Hector doesn’t speak to me all the way back to the cottage. I catch him touching his lips, as if I’d somehow burned them with my touch. These things shouldn’t bother me. I have other concerns, like the St. Anne’s lost crew. They aren’t lost to me—in fact, I know that James Johnston’s bones are already beginning to show from the ravages of hungry lake creatures, and I know that Casey Merrick is partially buried in sediment churned up by the storm. Both are confused by the disengagement of life from their selves. Usually, I let their dreams intermingle with mine as their bodies fade, but I am not there in the lake, as I should be.

  I am with Hector.

  A stiff wind blows hard against me, making me list off the path home.