by Trish Doller
They return to a lower, less-intense deck to have a look at the results. The image is hazy around the edges from the mist and speckled with water droplets. Their hair is dripping, their ponchos are molded to their bodies, and Willa is actually doing the fierce thing with her teeth. But what stands out most is that behind them, shimmering softly in the spray, is a rainbow.
Taylor’s eyes squeeze closed and she draws in a shuddering breath. She is so wet that no one would be able to distinguish tears from water, except Willa. There on the deck, surrounded by the constant rush of the falls and people yelling above it, she slips an arm around Taylor’s shoulder. “It’s okay.”
“I miss her so much,” Taylor sobs. “She should be here.”
Willa has no faith left in the God who took away her best friend, but she touches her finger to the rainbow on the screen. “She’s right here, Taylor. See?”
“It’s not the same.”
“Yeah.” Willa sighs. “I know.”
Taylor turns to Willa and wraps her arms around her. She’s still crying and Willa gently pats her back. It has been years since they’ve shown each other any kind of real emotion, any true affection, and she doesn’t know how to make Taylor—or herself—feel better. Finley should be here. It’s not fair that she’s gone.
“Do you want to skip the rest of the tours?” Willa says. “We could go back to St. Catharines or maybe take a walk.”
“No.” Taylor scrubs her eyes with the heels of her hands, sniffling. “We should stay and see all the things Finley would want us to see.”
They ride the Maid of the Mist boat to get up close to the falls, watch a film about the history of Niagara, eat lunch at the top of Horseshoe Falls, and stand in a tunnel behind the falls, watching the water rush past in a solid wall of white. None of it compares to the Hurricane Deck, but Willa can imagine Finley geeking out over everything. She’d want to keep the ineffectual ponchos and buy something in one of the gift shops.
Taylor has withdrawn since her breakdown on the Cave of the Winds tour, more focused on taking pictures than talking, and Willa gives her wide latitude. When they reach the Journey Behind the Falls gift shop, Taylor excuses herself to the ladies’ room. Willa is revolving the rack of key chains, looking for her name, when she notices the snow globe display.
The big glass domes come with fancy white snow and high prices, but Willa finds a plastic novelty shaker that has the Niagara Falls inside, along with a tour boat and a rainbow that stretches from one side to the other. Willa pays for the globe and thrusts the shopping bag at Taylor when she comes out of the bathroom.
“Here. I bought you a present.”
The bag rustles as Taylor reaches in and pulls out the snow globe. She laughs and gives it a shake, setting off a snowstorm of silver glitter. “This is so cheesy.”
“I know, right?”
“Thanks,” Taylor says. “For, um—you know.”
Willa nods. “Sure.”
They just look at each other for a couple of beats, and Willa is unable to pinpoint why it’s so hard to talk to Taylor, why it’s so hard for them to be friends. Finley picked them both. Why can’t they pick each other?
“Do you want to stay to see the fireworks?” Taylor asks.
“Um . . . yeah. Except the last bus leaves right after the fireworks start.”
“We could spend the night.” Taylor pulls her phone from her pocket. “I’ll pay for it.”
Spending the night in a hotel in Niagara Falls can’t be cheap, but Taylor seems really determined. “Are you sure?” Willa asks.
Taylor nods. “Definitely.”
Taylor books a room at a hotel overlooking the American side of the falls. Willa doesn’t ask how much it costs, but the sheets have a just-laundered scent and the air-conditioning hums quietly in the background. The shower stall is bigger than Willa’s entire bathroom at home, and she steams up the mirrors as she washes away several days’ worth of sink baths. She hasn’t felt this clean since they left home. After Taylor takes a shower, they head to the taproom of a local brewery just down the street.
“Can I get you some drinks?” the bartender asks as they claim a couple of barstools. “And our guacamole is amazing.”
“Guacamole sounds great,” Taylor says.
“Definitely,” Willa says. “And I’ll have a Niagara Lager.”
Taylor nods. “Same.”
“I’ll just need to see your IDs.”
They hand over their fake driver’s licenses, and Willa holds her breath. The drinking age on the Canadian side of the falls is nineteen, but Willa wouldn’t be surprised if the bartender threw them out on the street. Instead, she hands back the cards without question. “Thanks. I’ll get that guacamole order in right away and be back shortly with your beers.”
As she walks away, Willa leans over and whispers, “Oh my God! I can’t believe that worked. My first beer in a foreign country.”
Taylor laughs. “Calm down, Marco Polo, it’s only Canada.”
Willa watches the bartender fill two pint glasses from the tap near the middle of the bar. She brings them down, along with a pair of menus. “The guac should be up shortly.”
Willa takes a sip of her illegally acquired beer. It’s yeasty and a little tart, just like every other beer she’s ever had.
“Well? Does it taste foreign?” Taylor teases.
Willa laughs. “Shut up.”
Taylor takes a drink and crinkles her nose as she swallows. She’s never really liked beer all that much. “I was hoping it might taste like maple syrup.”
“Way to stereotype Canada.”
“I could have said hockey.”
“Hockey-flavored beer?” Willa says. “What would that even taste like?”
Taylor shrugs. “I don’t know, but it would be served on ice.”
Willa laughs. “Did you steal that joke from your dad?”
They plan their next move as they munch on chips and guacamole. Willa wants to go a little more slowly on Lake Ontario, but Taylor is still skeptical about sailing. Willa hates to compromise, but she agrees that they’ll get to Oswego as fast as they can, then take a slower pace through the New York canal system. Before they leave the taproom, she buys a growler of beer to take back to the hotel, where they sit on the balcony, drinking from plastic cups and watching the falls. At night, the water is illuminated, and tonight the colors alternate from blue to purple to red.
“This was definitely worth staying for,” Taylor says.
Willa only smiles and bites the rim of her cup to keep from saying I told you so.
At ten, a rocket whizzes up into the night sky, and the first of the fireworks bursts, huge and sparkly red, before shimmering into smoke. Willa’s memories dip back to all the Fourth of Julys she spent at Finley’s house.
Every year the people who live along Cedar Point Road throw beach parties and build bonfires. As little girls, Taylor, Finley, and Willa would swim in the lake until dusk. Then, while the adults drank and shot off bottle rockets, Mrs. Donoghue would light sparklers for the kids. Willa loved writing her name in the air or pretending her sparkler was a magic wand. As they got older, the girls would walk the long stretch of beach, sneaking beers from other people’s coolers until the Cedar Point fireworks began. But Willa’s favorite part was how you could see the other fireworks displays in the distance—Put-in-Bay, Kelleys Island, Lakeside, Huron, even as far east as Lorain and sometimes Avon Point. From now until forever, Willa could go to the beach for the fireworks, but without Finley it just won’t be the same.
Willa glances at Taylor. A tear tracks down Taylor’s cheek, lit up by the glow from the city lights, and Willa knows she’s caught up in her own memories. Willa opens her mouth to speak but changes her mind. Sometimes you need to be alone with your grief. Sometimes the only way around is through. Willa takes a sip of beer, turns back to the Niagara Falls fireworks, and pushes away everything else.
Taylor
THE SKY IS SO BLUE it almost hurts to lo
ok at, and Lake Ontario is calm as they sail away from Niagara Falls. Willa takes first watch at the tiller, so Taylor goes below to upload their photos from her cameras to their Instagram account. Since she created it, their followers have increased a little every day. Most are family and friends from back home—even Brady is following—but many are strangers, which is kind of exciting.
“There’s a comment from your mom on the Coast Guard picture,” Taylor calls up to Willa. “She wants you to call home.”
“Sure. I’ll get right on that.”
Willa’s mom is younger than Taylor’s parents, so they’ve always seemed more like sisters than mother and daughter. More like friends. Taylor doesn’t understand why Willa refuses to call home—and she still hasn’t explained why she threw her phone in the lake.
“You can borrow my phone, if you want,” Taylor offers again.
“I sent her a postcard from the hotel this morning,” Willa says. “And she can see from your pictures that I’m perfectly fine. Better than fine. I’m picking up cute boys in the middle of lakes.”
Taylor would laugh if Willa didn’t sound like she wanted to bite someone. Taylor can’t imagine cutting herself off from her mom that way, but she can’t force Willa to call home. Instead, Taylor turns her attention back to the Internet. One of the comments is a question: “What made you decide to do take this trip?”
There isn’t enough room to answer the question in the profile, so Taylor creates a free blog. She makes a page for Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, uploading the before and after pictures of the boat. On the next page Taylor adds some bio information about herself and Willa—but nothing too personal—along with links to their individual Instagram accounts and e-mail addresses. And, finally, Taylor makes a page for Finley’s video. When she’s finished tweaking the design and colors, Taylor adds the link to their Instagram. Now she has an answer for the question.
“Hey,” Willa calls down. “It’s your turn to drive.”
“Be right there.” Taylor closes her laptop and stows away her photo equipment, except for the cameras. As she steps up into the cockpit, she uses her phone to take a shot of Willa, sitting under the beach umbrella with Pumpkin on her lap. Thirty seconds later, the photo is winging its way through cyberspace.
Taylor sits and takes over the tiller. “Can I ask you something?”
“Um . . .” Willa’s expression is guarded. “Okay.”
“Why did you throw your phone in the lake?”
Willa sighs. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“Does your mom even know why you’re mad at her?”
Willa goes down into the cabin, and Taylor thinks the conversation is over until Willa comes back with a bottle of water and a cookie. She trims in the jib a little bit, then says, “So my mom’s been sort of seeing this guy—”
“Uncle Rico, right?”
“Wait. What?”
“That Steve guy,” Taylor says. “Finley called him Uncle Rico like in Napoleon Dynamite.”
“That’s what I called him when I was confiding in her. At least I thought I was confiding in her.” Willa shakes her head. “I can’t believe she told you.”
“What’s the big deal?”
“I asked her not to tell anyone.”
“You could have told me,” Taylor says.
“Could I, though?”
Sometimes when she can’t sleep, Taylor’s mind will play a highlight reel of all the crappy things she’s done in her life. Invariably, it snags on the memory of embarrassing Willa in front of the entire junior race team. Taylor will lie in the dark, her cheeks burning with shame, and try to justify the rage she felt that day. Except the rift between them is entirely Taylor’s own making. She supposes she could apologize, but words don’t seem adequate. Maybe that’s why she used her mom’s emergency credit card to book an expensive hotel room overlooking Niagara Falls, even if Willa doesn’t know it was an apology. Taylor’s face is warm as she says, “Maybe not.”
She waits for Willa to continue the story of her mom’s boyfriend, but after a few minutes of silence, it feels pretty clear that this time the conversation truly is over.
After three days of bouncing along the New York shoreline, they arrive in Oswego, where Campbell’s old green pickup truck is a sight for Taylor’s sore eyes. He is standing at the dock as Willa steers the boat into the slip and Taylor tosses him a dock line.
“You’re both alive,” he says. “That’s a good sign.”
Taylor and Willa filled their time reading and binge-watching bad movies on Netflix. They didn’t talk about anything serious—they barely talked at all—but they didn’t argue, either. Taylor considers it a small victory. “It’s been . . . fun.”
Cam’s eyebrows hitch up. “Really?”
“Even the sailing part hasn’t been too bad. The weather was good.”
“Okay, where’s my real sister?” Cam steps aboard, and Taylor playfully punches his shoulder, making him laugh. “Hit me again and I’ll keep the care package from Mom.”
“Did I mention you’re my favorite brother?”
“Like I didn’t already know that.” He winks at Willa. “How’s it going, little Willa? I like your outfit.”
Taylor and Willa have worn their swimsuits almost nonstop since leaving Niagara Falls. The days have been too hot to wear much more. But Taylor hates the way Campbell looks at Willa like it’s Christmas and she’s a present he’d like to unwrap. Thankfully, Willa just rolls her eyes at him.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “I was thinking we could get some food, then maybe hit up a party I heard about.”
“You’ve been in Oswego for what . . . a couple of hours?” Taylor says. “How did you already hear about a party?”
She shouldn’t be surprised. Campbell has always been like a bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out parties. He shrugged. “I stopped at Starbucks.”
“And?”
“Girls go to Starbucks,” he says. “And where there are girls, there is information. Can I help it if they want to tell me all their intimate secrets?”
Taylor grimaces. “Ew.”
“A party sounds good,” Willa says, going down into the cabin. “I’m ready to get off this boat for a while.”
Willa
WILLA GLANCES UP FROM THE Captain Norm book as Campbell comes walking up the dock from the showers. He’s wearing black jeans—the ones he wears almost constantly—but he’s traded a baggy skateboarder T-shirt for a black button-down. His hair is slicked back from his face, and he is so beautiful that Willa has to force herself to look away so she can catch her breath.
“You even shaved,” she teases as he steps aboard the boat. “The girls at the party don’t stand a chance now.”
The corner of his mouth hitches up. “Does that include you?”
“I’m not your type.”
He drops onto the cockpit bench beside her. He smells good, like Castile soap and waxy pomade and just . . . him. “I think you’re exactly my type. Just not sure why you’re afraid to admit it.”
“I am not afraid.”
His breath is warm against her ear as he whispers, “Then say it, Willa. Admit you want me as much as I want you.”
“That’s not true,” she says, though he is right about everything. She aches with wanting him, but Campbell Nicholson is the human equivalent of a bug zapper. Girls are lured in by his beautiful face, then burned when he gets bored with them. Willa doesn’t want to be that kind of girl, but whenever he is near—when all she can hear is the rush of blood in her ears—it would be so easy to let him incinerate her.
He laughs as he stands. “Whatever you say.”
Taylor returns from the showers wearing a navy-and-white-striped T-shirt dress with her flip-flops. Her toenails and fingernails are all painted turquoise.
“You look super cute,” Willa says as three of them walk through the marina parking lot to the main road.
“Same.”
Willa’s multicolored off-the
-shoulder top is one that Finley had bought for herself but never got around to wearing. The tags were still attached when Finley gifted it to Willa. This is the first time she’s worn the top, pairing it with a dusty pink corduroy overall skirt she found at Goodwill. “Thanks.”
Oswego reminds Willa of Sandusky, the streets lined with the same kinds of houses, the same kinds of trees. Nothing special, but at the same time, a good place to live. They turn onto a smaller side street where cars are parked bumper to bumper all the way down the block.
“This party is definitely going to get busted,” Cam says. “If we get separated, meet at the big park we passed on our way.”
The party house is a two-story affair with vinyl siding and an enclosed front porch. It looks like a normal house, but the Greek letters over the front door scream fraternity party. Campbell doesn’t look like a frat boy, but he strides up to the house as though he belongs. He’s a chameleon like that, fitting wherever he needs to fit. Willa wishes she had that ability, but she’s not white enough to blend in comfortably at a frat party in Upstate New York.
The crowd inside is a mix of college students and high school kids, and no one seems to notice they don’t belong. A couple of guys make eye contact with Willa over the tops of their Solo cups, but it’s Campbell who gets the lion’s share of attention from the girls, who stare as he leads Willa and Taylor to the keg.
As Cam fills their red cups with beer, two girls approach him. They both have long shiny hair—one brunette, one blonde—and pretty smiles, and Willa wants to punch their adorable noses.
“Go. Have a good time.” The way he says it feels dismissive, like he’s trying to get rid of Willa. Like the whole you-want-me-as-much-as-I-want-you conversation never happened. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Willa and Taylor find a corner of the dining room, where they sip their beers and watch a beer pong match between two guys wearing Greek letters on their T-shirts. The living room couch is filled with guys playing—or watching—a video game. One couple is making out on a chair, while another couple is fighting just inside the front door. It’s just like every other party Willa has ever been to, but at home she knew everyone. Including the police officers who’d break up the party if there were noise complaints from the neighbors. Across the room, Campbell is talking to a different girl.
