by Abigail Haas
I take the sachet from my skirt pocket, considering it, but before I can open it, Tate calls to me. “Ready.” He beckons me to the bedroom door. I quickly tuck the pills away, take a deep breath, and step inside.
The room has been transformed. Instead of his sports trophies and sailing paraphernalia, the desk and mantle are lit with tiny candles, flickering golden in the dark. He’s playing a mix on low, a song I remember from one of our first dates, and there’s even a rose lying on the pillow of his freshly made bed.
“What do you think?” He takes my hands, looking almost nervous. “Is it okay? I want this to be perfect for you.”
My fear melts away. Not because of the props, the clichéd movie scene he’s made here, but because of the earnest look on his face, hopeful and true. This is just so Tate: to try his hardest to make everything perfect. He always wants to be the good guy, and although I don’t need this—the candles and the music—I love him for wanting to give them to me all the same.
He’ll always do the right thing by me. He’ll never let me down.
“It’s perfect,” I reassure him, feeling my blood start to sing. Desire and love and an unfamiliar sparkle in my veins. I’m done waiting. I want this.
I reach up to kiss his mouth, and give him everything.
WAITING
Lamar comes to visit me the week after I lose the bail hearing. We sit in the visitors’ room, with the scratched Plexiglass partition between us, speaking through the handsets like a sad, twisted version of kids playing telephone.
“How are you doing?” he asks me, concern clear on his face. I can’t think how I must look to him, with my unwashed hair and baggy orange jumpsuit. I won’t tell him the truth—about the unbearable wretchedness echoing through every minute of my days—so I don’t even try.
“Okay, I guess.” I’m glad he’s here, but surprised, too. I’ve been expecting Chelsea, even Mel. But Lamar has always been the solid one: quiet and true in his way.
“Don’t tell me they’ve got you running laps in the yard, and working sewing footballs or something.” He’s trying to sound casual, like we’re hanging out in a coffee shop or on the front lawn at school, and not in a prison block with two armed guards keeping watch over our every move.
I manage a weak smile for him. “Nope, just sitting around, waiting.”
“Same here,” he jokes, but his body is folded tensely onto the cheap plastic chair. “My mom’s already on me to do something constructive with my time. A project.”
“You mean a ‘What I Did on Spring Break’ essay?” I quip, but my words are hollow. “You should have deferred college for a year. You could write a killer application essay now.”
“Right,” Lamar agrees. “Killer.”
The word sits between us. My stomach drops. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know. It’s okay.” He looks away, his dark eyes darting nervously around the long room. There are two other visitors: a burly tattooed guy, murmuring through the handset, and a cluster of young kids, climbing over their grandmother and pressing their palms to the divider as their mother weeps on my side of the screen. The scene is depressing and bleak, and I wish with everything I am to be anywhere but here.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, trying to keep my voice from breaking. “For coming. I know you didn’t have to, and you’re the only one who’s been.”
Lamar looks away. “The others wanted to,” he says quickly, “but you know what our parents are like. And with the prison . . .”
“I know.”
“But they send their best. We’re all thinking about you.”
I nod. Maybe it’s true. I want to believe him, but I’ve had too much time in here, long, empty days to think about my friends, and all the reasons why they haven’t come—haven’t even sent letters, or called, even though I made sure my dad told them about the visiting hours and phone privileges.
I’m angry at them for it, hurt, too, but every time I try to muster some kind of sense of betrayal, I can’t help but wonder: Would I be any different, if the roles were reversed?
Lamar looks at me again, closer. “You are okay? I mean, you would tell me, if they did . . . If there was trouble, with any of the other girls in there.”
“I promise,” I tell him. “It’s no sleepover, but it’s not like a prison movie or anything. The guards keep a pretty close watch on me; I guess I’m high-profile or something.” I give him a wry smile. “Mostly the other girls just leave me alone.”
“Good.” Lamar’s dark eyes are wide and expressive. “It’ll be okay,” he says again, pressing him palm against the glass. “Just hang in there.”
I know I should smile and banter, pretend like I’m keeping my spirits up, but the truth is, I’ve been in a daze ever since the judge made her announcement, the words echoing in my head, so icy and detached.
The defendant is a flight risk, charged with a violent crime of the highest degree. . . .
Dad tried to reassure me, that the lawyer would be launching another appeal, but something in me seemed to switch off, there in the courtroom. I watched in shock as the guard went to release Tate. The handcuffs fell from his wrists, and he turned to embrace his parents, enfolded tight and safe in a circle of celebration while I was hustled out, unseen, through the back door. Away from them all.
The drive back to prison blurred to strips of sand and olive and dusty brown through my red, raw eyes. I didn’t even flinch when they strip-searched me, standing numb in a white-tiled room as a middle-aged female guard patted my body down, avoiding my gaze. I don’t know what she expected to find—as if I’d managed to duck away from my constant supervision in the crowded courtroom to slip something in my bra. Pills, a razor blade. I can’t imagine it, but I’ve only been locked up here four weeks. Some of the women in my wing have been stuck in here for years.
Years.
The thought of it is too much: like staring straight into the sun, blotting out everything with sheer panic. So I don’t. Every time it creeps into my mind, I look away and remind myself of everything my dad and the lawyers said. That this is all a big mistake. That it’s a witch hunt, a prosecutor gone crazy. That soon the charges would be dropped, and we could go home. I lie awake in the small, hot cell at night and repeat their words over and over again, wrapping myself in them like a security blanket on the hard, narrow bunk. But still, in the long dark of the night, surrounded by other people’s breathing and my own crushing fear, I can’t stop the first seeds of doubt from creeping in.
What if they’re wrong?
“Just stay positive,” Lamar tells me, as if my secret fear is written plain across my face. “This will all be over soon.”
I take a breath. “Have you seen him?”
Lamar doesn’t need to ask who. He nods. “We went over, after he made bail. They’re in a house over by the far point, this big gated place on the beach.”
“How is he?” My voice twists, “Did he say anything? Did he ask about me?”
Lamar looks uncomfortable. “We weren’t there for long. He didn’t really want to talk. He was having panic attacks,” he adds, “in prison, so they put him on a bunch of meds. He was pretty out of it.”
I exhale slowly. “So he didn’t say anything about me.”
Lamar shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”
He’s not the one who should be sorry. Anger flares in me, as fierce as my fear—and just as deadly. “It’s fine.” I swallow it back. “I’m sure he’d come if he could. The lawyers are probably keeping him away, and his parents . . .” I force another smile. “Like you said, I’ll be out of here soon, and then we’ll all go back to Boston, and everything will be okay.”
Lamar shifts in his seat. “That’s the thing I wanted to tell you.” He pauses, his voice heavy and reluctant. “We’re . . . going home.”
I stare.
“The police said they don’t need us anymore,” he says, stumbling over the words. “And with school starting, and our parents—”
&nb
sp; “No, I get it.” I push down the ache blossoming in my chest. “Right, of course. You can’t stay, sitting around on the beach all day.” I fake another smile. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Oh.”
“But I can call, and write, or whatever.” He adds, “Until this all gets cleared up.”
“Right. Sure.”
There’s silence as his words sink in, heavy and dark. Home. I never felt much for the word before—I didn’t get homesick the summer I spent camp, or feel the same sense of security and place other kids seemed to. For me, home was just a house we lived in, a place my parents picked, and decorated, and filled with the noise of endless renovations and upgrades to the things we didn’t need but somehow were necessary now that we were rich. In-room surround sound. Under-floor heating. New skylights, glittering across the back of the house. When they were both there, it was bad enough for me—closed doors, and rooms I wasn’t welcome in—but this past year, it was worse, a silent fortress I could never bring to life, not even with music playing through those brand-new speakers in every room. I spent all my time at Elise’s, in the end; even Tate’s disapproving parents were better than the emptiness of my own echoing hallways. But now, I ache for that house and all its dark memories with a fervor I didn’t know I could possess.
Tomorrow, a plane is taking off, and I won’t be on it.
“Do me a favor?” I ask, glancing at the clock on the wall. Time’s nearly up. “Keep an eye on him for me. I mean, you guys can talk, and I . . . I just want to know how he’s doing.”
Something flickers across Lamar’s face. He pauses for a moment, then leans closer. “Are you sure?”
I blink. “About what?”
“Tate.” Lamar pauses again, and I can see him weighing the words before he speaks. “You were really with him, all day?”
“Yes,” I insist. “We said, like, a million times—”
“I know that. But, I know you’d do anything to protect him.” Lamar’s eyes are watching me, careful.
I don’t say anything, and that must be enough, because he exhales sadly. “Anna—”
“Don’t.” I stop him, glancing around. “We’ll be fine. This is all going to be over soon.”
“Are you sure?” Lamar drums his fingertips nervously. “Because I’ve been thinking, about the way he was with Elise. I always wondered . . .”
He stops. I feel a shiver of unease.
“What?”
“It’s nothing.” He looks away. “Just be careful, that’s all. His family is loaded; you know they’ll do whatever it takes to get him back home.”
“And that’s a good thing,” I tell him as the buzzer sounds the end of visiting hours. “We have the best lawyers,” I add quickly. “They’re working round the clock. Everything’s going to be okay.”
A guard’s voice interrupts us, bored. “Everybody out!”
Lamar rises from his seat. “Take care of yourself,” he tells me softly, pressing his hand to the glass. I mirror it, matched but not touching, the closest thing to human contact I’ve had in days.
“I will. I’ll be fine, I promise.”
My voice wavers, but he’s already gone.
THE FIRST NIGHT
“This is Niklas.” Elise presents him like a game-show host displaying her prize. “His dad owns, like, half the island.”
We’re outside the bar in the cool two a.m. breeze, the music muffled and fading as we gather on the dusty street. Niklas is the guy from the VIP booth, the one Elise set her sights on: blond hair artfully mussed over ice-blue eyes, dressed in a preppy oxford shirt and jeans with an expensive watch on his wrist. He lights a cigarette for her with a silver block lighter, nodding a vague greeting to the rest of us.
“Where to next?” Chelsea asks, yawning.
“I’m tired.” Mel holds on to her for balance, easing off one heel to massage her foot. “Let’s just head home.”
“Baby”—Elise’s voice is only half-teasing—“the night is young.” She smiles flirtatiously up at Niklas. “What do you say, where’s a good place for an after-party?”
He shrugs. “Depends. I could show you. . . .”
“I’m sure you could.” Elise laughs and leans in closer to him, exhaling her cigarette smoke away in a long plume. She murmurs something in Niklas’s ear and he smirks, taking the cigarette from between her figures to suck down a drag of his own, his other hand drifting from her waist to rest on the curve of her ass.
It’s fast work, but I’m not surprised. Elise has seduction down to an art. After we started frequenting the bars and clubs with all the college boys, she woke up to her power; we both did. High school is a weird puritanical world of rules and standards, where your reputation matters way more than a sweaty, backroom kiss—where every slight and so-called indiscretion gets tallied and tracked. But outside those walls . . . We discovered the rules are different. Better. I could kiss a boy, breathless against the back wall of some club, and then just walk away, not even knowing his name. Or, like Elise, do more. Do whatever we wanted. No rules, no judging stares, or whispers come Monday morning. It’s just about us, and the low pull in our gut, the shiver in our bloodstream.
Desire.
Elise meets my eyes with a lazy smile, Niklas tracing idle circles on her half-naked back. I smile. Mel is scowling suspiciously at him, but I understand—every anonymous boy, every late-night touch. I would do it too, if I didn’t have Tate. And why not? We want, we take, we have. It’s simple.
The guys stumble out of the club behind us, Max already blurry-eyed and flushed. AK has a lipstick mark on his cheek, bright pink. I laugh, reaching over to wipe it off.
“What can I say?” AK grins. “I’m irresistible.”
“Sure you are,” I agree, linking my arm through his. “Or maybe it was those free drinks you kept offering.”
“A guy’s got to work with what he’s got.”
We start wandering back down the street toward the beach house. I meander slowly between the guys, but Elise and Niklas hang back.
“I’ll see you guys later,” Elise calls, Niklas’s arm draped around her shoulder. We stop.
“You’re leaving?” Mel’s eyes widen. “But Elise—”
“Nik’s going to give me a tour of the island.” Elise grins suggestively. “He knows a great Thai spot. See you later!”
I raise my hand to wave good-bye, but Tate speaks up. “I could get some food.” He looks around for agreement. “Guys?”
“Fuck yeah.” Lamar nods. Max murmurs something, slurring.
Elise gives me an exasperated look, but I just shrug. “I’m kind of hungry too,” I say, an apologetic note in my voice.
“Fine,” Elise sighs. “Group trip. Yay.”
We meander through the town center, still bright and full of activity. The bars spill tourists out onto the street, pop music and cheesy reggae drifting in snatches as we pass. The air is full of celebration, and even though we’re all tired, we feel it too: Lamar pulling Chelsea in to dance to a familiar song, Mel and Elise singing along until we reach the takeout spot Niklas mentioned. It’s just a run-down shack on the beachfront, but the scent of ginger and hot chilis drifts in the air, and the benches out front are packed with locals.
“So what do you do?” Mel quizzes Niklas as we order a feast of pad Thai and noodles.
“Do?” He gives her an arrogant smile.
“I mean, are you in school?” Mel presses. “Do you have a job?”
“Mel!” Elise protests.
“What? I’m just asking.”
Niklas shrugs. “My father has several businesses.” His accent is American, but edged with that lilting Dutch tone. “Real estate, import-export. I help out sometimes.”
Elise laughs. “Admit it,” she says, teasing, “you just sit around on the beach all day and party all night.”
Niklas stares at her a moment, his eyes cool. Then his lips crease into a grin. “You got me,” he agrees. “And what’s so
wrong with that?”
“Absolutely nothing, my friend.” AK slaps him on the back, sloppy. “Fucking paradise, you’ve got here.”
“And you?” Niklas asks, turning to include me and Elise in the question. “What do you do? Go to school? Do your homework?” His voice is laced with amusement. “Are you good girls?”
“What do you think?” Elise flirts back with a wicked grin.
“I think you like trouble.” Niklas reaches out, tracing his index finger down the side of her face, her neck, along her collarbone. Elise doesn’t flinch.
“Promises, promises,” she coos. The look in her eyes is so intimate, I turn away.
• • •
We claim our food in Styrofoam cartons and plastic bags and begin walking back along the beach. I slip off my shoes and sink my toes into the cool sand, listening to the distant rhythm of the waves. My buzz has faded now to a sleepy satisfaction, and I snuggle against Tate, yawning. The ocean is an inky-black shadow to our left, with the lights of the hotels and beach houses string together in a line of glittering neon, snaking out around the bay.
“I don’t like him.”
Tate’s voice startles me from my reverie. I pause for a moment, then look ahead to where Niklas and Elise are a dark shadow, indistinguishable in the dim light. “He seems fine to me. He’s into her.”
“He’s an asshole,” Tate replies, curt.
I laugh. “Maybe. But that’s her type, right?”
Tate doesn’t reply for a minute, but I can feel him, tense beneath his thin shirt. “She can’t keep doing this,” he says at last.
“What?”
“Picking up strange guys.” Tate doesn’t let it drop. “It’s not safe.”
“Come on.” I sigh. “She does it all the time.”
“Right.” He doesn’t sound placated. “And it’s bad enough back home, when one of us is around, but this is just stupid. She was going to just go off with him? He could be dangerous.”
“Sure, he’s a real criminal.” I laugh. “Come on, Tate. I told you, Elise can take care of herself. And she’s not going off on her own,” I add. “We’re all going back to the house.”
