This is our SOS, our Summer of St. George.
Murphy and her cousin Poppy have been BFFs forever. They share everything- including a birthday.
When they make a pact to commit suicide after high school, they decide to have one last summer of fun with NO consequences and nothing holding them back.
As the Summer of St. George begins, things don’t go as planned. Murphy doesn’t expect to fall in love and she doesn’t expect to find a boy that makes her want to live. His name is Liam, and after spending two years in the Air Force living in Japan, he's trying to integrate back into American society. As a self-proclaimed "Jack-of-all-trades" he knows things about Murphy that she isn't quite ready to admit to herself. And he is determined to haunt her, peel back layer after layer of lies until she can't run from the truth anymore.
This is our SOS, this is our Summer of St. George.
(Note: This is a YA/NA dark romance/ suspense novel for ages 16 and up. It is loosely inspired by Pride and Prejudice, but is not a retelling of the original story.)
MURPHY
IT BEGINS AND ENDS WITH THE POP
Poppy Middlestone was one of those girls. Everyone wanted to be like her. In the third grade, when she bought a bright red bow and wore it like a tiara the next week everyone else bought the same bow and wore it the same way.
I bought a bow.
She turned heads. She made parents stop and comment with things like “I wish my daughter were as well behaved and polite as that Poppy.”
When Poppy decided to chop off her hair into a cute Peter Pan pixie cut, our entire sixth-grade class did the same.
I cut my hair, much to the grumbling of my mother.
I never felt like I lived in the shadows of my cousin. In fact, many times she took my hand and pulled me beside her. Our hands stayed clasped during big events like our first day of school and our first communion. Looking back, I realize we were each other’s strength. We’d grown accustomed to having the other near at all times. It’s hard to explain a bond like that, similar to a twin connection. From the moment we were born, we were like one. We shared a cradle sometimes, wrinkled hands clasped. Some say I even let Poppy suck my thumb when we were only hours old. I don't know if that's true or not, but I like to believe we were destined to be linked forever from an early age.
When Poppy’s parents got a divorce in the ninth grade, Poppy stopped being a leader. Instead, she started doing the opposite of what everyone told her. It was the biggest scandal of the town and fueled the rumor mill for weeks. She was caught in the middle of a multimillion-dollar custody battle that included two parents each trying to cause the other pain and using Poppy to do most of the dirty work. Her mother used her to spy on her father. In turn, her father tried to buy Poppy’s silence with lavish trips and gifts. He spent all his money on Poppy just to make sure his ex-wife didn’t get a penny. He even went all out and bought her a beach house. It was a beautiful lavish four-story home on the eastern side of St. George Island, just off the panhandle of Florida. He named it Poppy Manor, after his only daughter. We girls nicknamed it The Pop. That’s where my story begins and ends. The centrifuge of my life. If my life were a novel, The Pop would be the setting. The backdrop of my life.
Poppy took the present, but she emancipated herself. She took her trust fund and swore never to speak to them again. The court thought Poppy was an honor roll saint. They thought Poppy had a good head on her shoulders so it had been easy. Nobody knew her like I did. The real Poppy lived on the edge with her motorcycle driving boyfriends and taste for alcohol.
After that, Poppy spent most holidays with my family. We were happy, the four of us, and my parents loved her like their own. Sometimes it felt like they loved her more than me. She was the daughter they wished they had. Mother cooked dinner and father taught Poppy to drive and change a tire.
She was perfection. That’s why, when Poppy came to me the night before our eighteenth birthday, I listened to what she had to say.
“We made a pact last summer. Do you remember?”
I furrowed my brow, trying to recall that night. It was the night her boyfriend had left.
“Yeah. So?”
“You promised me that we'd always be together, and you'd always be with me no matter what.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“Let’s kill ourselves,” she begged me. “If I’m dead, maybe all this pain will stop.”
Poppy had a flair for being overly dramatic. “This isn’t funny, Poppy.”
Her wide-eyed stare told me she wasn’t kidding, so I tried to make it clear. “Don’t be silly. You're talking stupid.”
“Don’t act like you’re happy with your mundane life. You're a plain Jane. You live in this tiny house with parents who can't stand to look at you. They even put you in the garage apartment just to lock you away. How could anyone be happy living in such filth?”
That was the first time Poppy had ever been mean to me. Before, she’d never looked down at me because she was rich and I was poor. My mom married a starving artist while hers married a CEO. That day, something changed in me. I don’t remember what. I can’t pinpoint it exactly. It’s like when you think back to how you learned to drive. You study, you practice, but one day it just comes to you naturally. You don’t have to think about it every time you buckle up. The fluency is there, and you don’t know for how long. That's what depression is.
The next few days are kind of hazy, like a distant memory. It feels like so long ago, and when those horrible days begin to replay in my head when we had spent our eighteenth birthday at The Pop, I clutch my temple and groan in agony because of the pain. It radiates through me as if to remind me not to remember. After taking a nasty fall down the tiled stairs at The Pop that evening, I had spent most of my eighteenth birthday in the ER. I don’t like to think about it, so I don’t.
I can only guess that I took a step back and realized maybe I wasn’t so happy after all. I didn’t have a car or a trust fund. I wasn’t going to any special college. I wasn’t smart or overly cute. I wasn’t going anywhere, and I didn’t really have anyone. My life was already a shambled mess, and the wall between my parents and me had grown substantially in the past few years. Poppy was the one everyone loved. In a cruel world, I was all alone. For no reason, in particular, that day I fell into an abyss of sadness. I’d always had those dark thoughts curl up from the depths of my mind, but mostly I’d been able to pull myself out of it. It was as if everything that used to be special about me had disappeared into nothing. In a moment of weakness, for some awful reason, I accepted Poppy’s deal. We shook on it, each spitting into our hands before clasping them together like we used to when we were in grade school. We would kill ourselves, rid ourselves of the evil and pain in this world. The world couldn't toss us aside.
“You can’t back out,” she insisted.
“I know.”
“You swear to it?”
“Bible,” I say, repeating the words we’d used as kids. Bible meant we couldn’t take it back. It was the highest of promises. Greater than swearing on your mother’s grave.
Poppy breathed a sigh of relief after we were done. “Good, I’m too afraid to do it by myself. I’m scared of being alone.”
“You’ll never be alone.” I promised her. Neither of us would be alone, not if we were together.
Here I am. Talking about that day like it is the end of my story like it was so long ago, but it’s only been a year.
Things today are pretty much the same. I still live at home, no job, no car, and no college. Just me and a thousand romance novels. Surprisingly, my parents didn’t hound me too much about not going to college. I explained to them that this was my gap year. My year off. Poppy is doing the same thing, halfway around the world.
I know, you’re wondering why I agreed to this pact. My job is to follow Poppy because, without her, I would be nothing. Then began the downfall of my very existence.
MURPHY
LIVE LIKE YOU’RE ON VACATION
>
There are three types of parents in this world. First off, there are the overachieving parents that are always inspiring and give up everything for their kids. Then there are the deadbeats, whose kids are better off without, and then there are the parents like mine. Parents that do the best they can with what they’ve been given. Not great, but not horrible. I don’t blame them. We live comfortably side by side, neither bothering the other.
This year they went on their first vacation since forever. I guess they’ve been saving up for a few years now, and the nonrefundable trip has been long booked and planned out. They’re spending a month on a cruise ship, stopping all over Eastern Europe. Mother tried to back out, but I wouldn’t let her. We aren’t that close anyway. I’ve lived in the apartment over our garage since I was fifteen, and I swear they pushed me into it. It was like they were happy to pretend they didn’t have a daughter. I’m such a disappointment to them. Yes, I just said that in a mocking voice. When I was younger, my mother could barely stand to drive me to school, but that’s a different story. What matters now is that she’ll get her wish, eventually.
“I’m going to the island,” I told her last week while packing. “I’ll be at The Pop all summer. I won’t be here, even if you decide to cancel. So just, go already. I’m 18. I can take care of myself.” I didn’t tell her Poppy was going to be there. Lately, she gets all upset every time I mention Poppy’s name, which I don’t understand because Poppy used to be like a second daughter to them. I suppose it’s because Poppy has become such a bad influence. I told her to stop acting so boy crazy. Boys are a huge waste of time. If they acted like they did in the movies or in books, things would be different.
Now here I am, in my car with one suitcase and the keys to The Pop dangling from my ignition. Poppy made me drive here alone. She arrived a few days ago, promising to get the place ready, but who knows what she’s done. I’ve hardly seen her since we graduated a year ago. She’s been off learning the ways of the world as she calls it, but she sends me postcards from all over.
Greetings from Africa
Aloha from Hawaii.
Morning, from China.
Gutentag from Germany.
All placed on my dresser by my mother at arrival. I hate it when my parents snoop through my mail, but they have become overbearingly nosy like that. Always snooping, always bothering. I’d move out on my own except that, I don’t really have anywhere to go. Getting myself dressed and out the door to find a job feels like a burden. The great thing about being lost in my own head, is that time flies by so fast.
In what feels like no time at all, I make it to the gated community. Ten houses, ten families, ten different summers that I hope will go better than mine. I punch in the secret code and drive to the last house on the right. Poppy has gone every summer since she was 15, and sometimes I would join her for a week or so, but not too often. My parents didn’t like me leaving the state on my own. The house isn’t wide, but stands so tall I have to crane my neck just to get a good look at the red roof. The whole island is quiet as if they knew us girls were coming. I can hear nothing but the distant caw of seagulls and the wind blowing in my ears. A moment of silence, a farewell, because this will be my last summer alive. All I have to do is breathe. Breathe and go inside.
“Is that you?” Poppy calls from the top of the stairs. I can’t see her, but I yell back.
“Yes.”
“Put your bags in the elevator, but don’t get in. That thing is ancient. You may get stuck.”
I stare at my duffle bag from Junior High and my old red carpet bag. It belonged to my mother and her mother and so on. I carefully drop them into the narrow elevator, and the entire metal cage begins shaking. I shut the accordion door grateful I wouldn’t be able to fit inside with my bags anyway. There’s only enough room for one. It reminds me of the Barbie Dream House elevator I had as a kid, the one where you use a pulley to guide her up through the house. This thing looks just as unstable. There’s a button on the wall with numbers ranging from one to four. I press three, and the thing slowly starts moving up. She’s right, the whole thing looks like it’s hanging by a thread as it creaks up the shaft.
It’s been awhile since I’ve been here, but I don’t remember everything looking so…worn down. I make my way up the tiled steps. I slipped and fell down these stairs last summer, a memory I don't want to repeat. Even though the wound has long healed, it still throbs when I think about it. I suffered a minor concussion, but the ache is still there. It’s like those people who say they can feel it in their broken bone when it rain. I feel something in that spot on my head. I just don’t know what.
I climb carefully, two whole floors until I reach the open living area. Poppy is sitting on the kitchen counter eating something slimy out of a bowl. She looks different from the last time I saw her. Her skin is a pasty white that looks to be glued tightly across her thin bones. Her dirty blonde hair is pulled into a tight ballet bun on the top of her head, and she’s wearing a pale pink sundress. She looks sick, but she is. We both are. We don’t claim to have the greatest clarity. We’re just two girls trying to find a way to happiness.
“We should shoot ourselves,” Poppy says. I jump, almost forgetting that she’s here. A chill runs down my spine as my eyes dart to the tiled kitchen floor.
“We won’t shoot ourselves. That is like the most painful way to go,” I tell her, rummaging through the kitchen for some food. The entire pantry is empty except for a few old cans of soup and a half-empty bag of rice. Poppy promised to get the house ready, but the place doesn’t look livable. It looks bare. Sheets still drape the couch and chair, and a plastic film covers a brand new wooden table.
“You’ve redecorated a bit,” I say as I pull off the sheets and throw them in the corner of the room.
“Something like that.”
I attempt to change the subject, not really wanting to think about summer’s end. I open a few cupboards and stick my head inside the pantry.
“What have you been eating for the past few days? There’s nothing in here.”
She waves her hand at me like I’m overreacting. “Every morning, I go into town and buy a sack of oysters.”
“You’ve been living off of raw oysters for the past few days?” My stomach churns thinking about it. I open the fridge, wishing something sustainable would appear in front of me.
“Yes, and they were delicious.”
“I need cooked food,” I tell her. I pull my bags out of the elevator and push it against the door to move it out of the way. Going out feels like a chore worse than doing laundry, but I need to do it.
“I’m going into town. I saw a small market back on the inland. You wanna come?”
She sits up and smooths out her pink dress. “No, thanks. I don’t really feel like going out today.”
I purse my lips together, mad that she's gonna make me go alone. “What the hell, Poppy? I thought we were gonna have fun this summer.”
She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “We will make memories, Murphy. I promise.”
MURPHY
THE RULES
When Poppy and I were twelve, we spent the entire summer perfecting the art of eyeliner so we could return to school with different faces. We spent one week at her house—remember, this was pre-divorce— and the following week at mine. We never left each other’s side. We were all innocence and laughter, laid bare for the world to see.
Poppy liked to be a risk taker, a game player. She loved to see how far she could push people. This particular year, Poppy decided to see how far her looks could take her. She pierced her nose, got a high school boyfriend, and began cursing.
Some things never change.
That’s how we came up with rule number one for our Summer of St. George.
#1: Take risks.
These rules will guide us to the end and make sure we follow the limitations we set. We need to do this the right way which ideally is quiet, alone, and as painless as possible. As if there really is a ri
ght way.
We've been on the island for a few days now, just long enough to catch up. We spend our days on the beach reading books and our nights watching TV. Poppy has spent the past twenty minutes telling me all about her adventures in Paris. As she drones on and on about the food and the fashion, I find myself a little jealous of her experiences. I always wanted to leave the country, but now it looks like I'll never have the chance. Rome, Greece, Ireland. These are all the places I wanted to go. Places I wanted to study the culture and food. Wanted. I’m not sure I want these things anymore.
“When did you first realize that the darkness was taking over?” I ask Poppy over dinner. Cooking is my favorite thing to do. It can be done for one, alone, and in the comfort of my own home, which has been the basis of my life for the past year. She pushes around her shrimp with her fork, but I notice she doesn’t take a bite. Maybe she’s on a diet. Her frame is already so thin and fragile. A diet is the last thing she needs. When was the last time she had a decent meal? Did she live off protein bars while abroad?
“When did you realize?” she shoots back. Her question takes me by surprise. It’s not something I can readily answer. It was a sort of slow descent. Maybe if I can understand what she's thinking, I can figure out what drove us into this dark hole. How did we get this far? Why does it feel too late to turn around?
“When did it become unbearable?” I probe. “Are you afraid?”
I’m afraid. So terrified, but I won’t admit it first. Sometimes I feel like backing out, but I can’t leave this fate to Poppy alone. I made a pact to be with her. I don’t want that agreement to break.
“I don’t know. I just woke up one morning and the pain was too much.” She drops her fork and looks up at me from underneath long dark lashes. Her face brightens into a rare smile. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Can we go do something fun?”
Fun sounds good. In our few days here, we haven't done much but lay out by the water.
My Life in Reverse Page 11
