“Do you really think Ivy might’ve come out here?” I say.
“No. Why would she? The night was over. We all know she got home in one piece. Of all the places she could’ve gone after a fight, she comes back here? It would’ve been pitch-black out, not to mention subzero.” Bree sinks, swearing as the cuffs of her jeans get dunked. “I think Landon’s lost it, personally.” She hesitates, looking up ahead of us, her tone softening. “Look at that bird.”
It’s the egret, or a close relative, standing like a monument to patience. One leg bent, the other a stilt.
I say, “Bree,” and, at my tone, she glances back. “Remember I said we needed to talk?” She turns, the embankment of pitch pines and brush providing a stark backdrop, and maybe there’s no better place for this, no better time, nowhere more solitary. “It’s about Kincaid.”
The topic seems to surprise her. “Yeah?”
I rub my eyes. “We kind of . . . he and I have been talking, and . . .” My stomach is acid, and my mouth suddenly tastes bad, metallic, like old pennies scraped off the bottom of a wishing fountain, and I spit out the last of it because there’s no other way: “He likes me back.”
The silence goes on. Her face, looking back at me, inscrutable, eyes a fraction wider than normal, taking me in. It’s Bree, so she’ll give me nothing, I know this, but it doesn’t stop me from babbling, cramming the silence full of words to the point where I’m begging to be put out of my misery: “I’m sorry, I never thought he would, but he says he does and—” A small, weak laugh escapes me, and I wish I could stomp it. “Is it okay?”
She stands in her spot as if rooted. I rush on, hating how I sound, like one of Those Girls, a whole different species from me, ones who would choose boys over their friends. But that’s what I’m doing, isn’t it? I could’ve broken it off with him after that first time in the woods, stopped things before we went too far, put Bree first. But I wanted Kincaid. Even now, trapped in this torturous moment, I still do. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to hurt you. I’d never do that. You know that, right?” You’re my friend—maybe my best—I’m pretty sure you’re my very best— “It just kind of happened, and I know that sounds like the biggest cliché ever, but it’s true.” I could slump to the ground right now, sink into the mud, be buried forever without complaint. “I’m just really sorry.”
I look back at her, wincing, bracing for an explosion, for her fist crashing into my face. I can almost see her internal adjustments, a pattern of slight movement from her throat, to her jaw, then her eyes, some fast blinks before her gaze settles on distant trees. Maybe the direction Kincaid went off in. “Why? I wouldn’t be.” Rough sound in her throat, signaling her sharp turn away from me. “He’s hot, so. Enjoy.”
She walks off, fast, and I follow because I don’t know what else to do. No chance that I’ve been forgiven, but I don’t want to make things worse by leaving. Ditching my partner.
We’re the only ones not calling Ivy’s name. Nothing here but the sound of our feet splashing through the shallows, and the heavy beat of the egret’s wings as he takes off in search of calmer waters.
She’s ditching me. Or trying.
I almost fall twice, following her up an embankment so steep that falling would mean rolling all the way back down to the flats in a battered heap. We clutch roots and clumps of bushes with our hands, reaching the top of the slope with our knees soaked through, our palms raw.
Bree pushes straight into the woods, letting branches snap back, one whipping my cheek so sharply that I stop, check for blood. “Will you slow down?”
“Why? We’re supposed to be looking.” The remoteness of her tone lands the punch that I was waiting for, forcing the air from me.
I watch her go, plowing a one-woman path through the undergrowth, then start after her again. Not sure where to draw the line—how many ravines should I fall down to pay penance? But if Bree fell, got lost, I’d never forgive myself. It’d be my fault, no matter how hard I’d tried to call her back.
We’re in unfamiliar woods, no sign of a trail, no sign of anything but the usual maze, and I wish I could call Kincaid. I could describe a tree, and he’d give me directions home. Bree’s breathing hard, I can hear it, and it’s not until we hit the next gully that she snags her shoulder on one of those jagged pitch-pine branches, catching her fleece on it and swearing, giving her no choice but to stop.
“Let’s turn around,” I say, breathless, supporting myself against a trunk behind her. “Come on. We don’t know where we’re going.”
She hesitates, looking ahead, shoulders moving as she breathes. “How long have you guys been hooking up?”
I don’t like that she called it that—“hooking up”—even though everybody does; Kincaid just said it last night. But it’s like saying that he and I aren’t real, like what we’ve done in private is some cheap, disposable thing. “Only a couple days.”
“Have you had sex with him yet?”
Another internal objection, this one stronger. My voice sharpens. “No. I just said, it’s only been a couple days.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend.”
I press my lips together, trying to absorb it, the snark, remembering that I’ve got a lot to make up for. You can’t say, Oh, hey, by the way, I stole your dream date, and then get pissed when the person acts upset about it. “We should find the trail. I’m sure everybody’s back at the park by now.”
“Go, if you want.” She’s starting down the bank, sliding on mud and dead leaves, grabbing anything for a handhold, still showing me only her back.
I breathe out through my nose, going as far as the edge to watch her descend to another muddy cove, my sense of responsibility dulled by exhaustion. I could go back alone. Secure my spot in the Worst Friend Hall of Fame now and quit screwing around.
Instead, I follow. I’m not letting myself walk out on this. I’m part of the way down, eyes on where I’m stepping, when I hear her call my name. Just “Clara,” no “belle.” I’d think she was punishing me, but her tone is all wrong. Faint, disbelieving.
She’s standing at the edge of the flats, looking down. It’s low tide, the water receded far beyond my line of sight. “Yeah?” She doesn’t answer, doesn’t turn. It strikes a cold note. I start to hurry, skidding on my heels, falling on my ass at one point, smearing mud up the back of my coat, wet and cursing and miserable by the time I reach her. “What?”
When I see what she’s looking at, I stop, staring, transfixed, just like Bree.
It’s caked in mud, the denim jacket, like it’s been submerged for some time and was only recently dislodged by the tide. Stiff, the embroidered band patches barely legible, one sleeve up, the other down, both bent at the elbows like there could be arms inside, like that’s how she fell, and was swept away.
Eighteen
IT ISN’T UNTIL after, long after, when I’m in bed, Ma down in the kitchen making me undeserved hot chocolate and peanut butter crackers, like she used to when I was little and played outside in the cold too long—that I realize Kincaid managed to disappear himself again.
I can’t say exactly when. Sometime after Bree and I raced back, panic calling a truce between us as she led the way to the trail—turned out I was the only one who was lost—and told everyone what we found. Landon got hysterical, the girlfriends actually surrendering their bench so she could huddle there, weeping, her head in her hands while Sage rubbed her back, murmuring comfort as we waited on the cops to answer our call. By the time they arrived, Kincaid was gone.
“You good?” Ma’s in the doorway, watching me.
“Yeah.” I sit up. “Just reading.” A Clockwork Orange lies open on my lap. Alex is being strapped to a chair in the screening room, eyelids forced open, ready to begin his treatment.
She nudges the origami jack-o’-lantern aside with the mug and plate, not sparing it more than a glance. Part of me wants her to see the message on the back, ask who wrote it, who would be giving me October gifts, while the other par
t of me doesn’t have the first clue how to begin the subject of Kincaid. I won’t kid myself that he’s the kind of guy my parents would love seeing me with. His brand is anti-school, anti-authority, and that would get Ma’s back up about as far as it can go. I’d never get her to believe that anarchy isn’t contagious. She checks out the cover of Clockwork. Flames, a screaming mouth. “Looks fun.”
“Caught me. I was trying to throw you off. I’ve got a stash of your Harlequins under my mattress.”
“Now that’s what I’m talking about. Finally showing some taste.” We smile a little, but the moment fades fast. “They’re sure it was this girl’s jacket? It couldn’t be a mistake?”
I shake my head. “It was hers. One of a kind.” After the chaos and the crying and the general evacuation of the skate park precipitated by the word “cops,” Bree and I led the officers back to Ivy’s jacket. It seemed to take no time at all, as if the doom creature carried me there, releasing its talons and dropping me back to earth like a flailing fish not worth the trouble. Then questions, a million of them, and a call to Ma, who has the night off and came to pick me up.
Ma reaches out, squeezing my hand. “I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t really know her.” But that’s a cop-out, an easy trapdoor to avoid all these awful feelings, to avoid thinking about how Ivy seemed like a really cool person, somebody I would’ve liked to get to know better. “She seemed nice. And funny.”
Ma squeezes tighter, her eyes glistening a little. “God. Her parents. I can’t even imagine.” Sighing, she puts the mug in my hands. “Here. Drink. Pretend it’s got marshmallows, because we don’t have any.” She sits forward, as if to stand, then stops with her hands spread on her thighs, gaze on the carpet. “Promise me you and your friends won’t go out there. To that marsh. It sounds dangerous as hell, and if one kid drowned . . .”
This may not be the time to mention Ricky Sartain and Dabney Kirk. “We won’t go.” Tiptoeing around so many lies with careful word choice, and hating myself for it—not actually saying promise, because I can’t swear I won’t go back into the woods. Like it or not, the woods are Kincaid.
Ma’s sharp. She fixes me with a hard look, and thank God Dad chooses that moment to come down the hall and look in on me. “How’re you doing? Need anything?”
I lift the mug. “Got it covered. Thanks.” Though I don’t think I can touch these snacks. Ten-year-old Clara earned them; the current version has spent this day hurting people and telling half-truths. I watch as Ma gets up and goes over to him, the way his arm finds its way around her shoulders like it belongs there. She doesn’t push me for more answers, not now, but she lets her gaze linger on me as they go.
I read for a while, soothed by the sound of my parents’ quiet conversation from behind their bedroom door, even though they’re most likely talking about how worried they are, how next time, it could be our family, their kid.
I go down the hall, take Ma’s phone from the counter, bring it back to my room, and shut the door softly behind me, sending Kincaid a text to my phone. I can always delete the conversation from Ma’s phone after we’re done. Sneaking around is getting old fast, but I hope now that I’ve spilled to Bree, I can get back to being a basically honest person again.
Hey. He’s seeing Ma’s name on the screen right now. It’s me, the unknown quantity.
Wait, wait. Bloop—quote bubble. Hey I still have your phone.
I muffle a snort; uh, yeah, I know. Where’d you go today?
Not a big fan of cops.
I consider typing who is? It would’ve been nice having him around, is all, after the showdown with Bree, and seeing Ivy’s jacket hardened in the mud like that. I wonder if it ever occurred to him that I might’ve needed him. They think Ivy’s dead. Cops didn’t say so but you could tell.
Wait, wait. A jacket’s not a body.
I straighten, watching the cursor blink. Do you think she’s alive?
Not really
The words, unanchored by a period, seem to hover and sink, like some forecast seen in the haze of a crystal ball. He has an odd, tilting way of coming at a subject, even in writing. Try a different topic. Are you at home?
Where’s home.
A pause, exasperated. Are you drunk?
FUBAR.
Is this a game—I take one step forward, he takes one step back? Should I let you go throw up in peace?
Lol miss your face.
I want to say something about Bree, but I’m pretty sure that was his way of signing off, and I hate the thought of the message I told her about us waiting on the screen for him tomorrow morning. Was he serious about being drunk? Does he ever go home? Wonder about his family. Wonder how hard he’s going to make me work for these details, if it should have to be work at all. If that’s a warning sign of a hookup.
Friday motif: strange sense of unfulfillment.
Everybody’s heard the news about Ivy, but the general mood is quiet, charged, discussion kept to close-knit groups of three or four, comparing facts, trading tragedy. Lips move in near-silent formation: Mumbler’s Marsh. Mumbler’s Marsh. Linking Ivy and Gavin Cotswold together, too coincidental—two kids who went missing only to turn up dead, out there, in the wilderness. The Mumbler’s MO.
It doesn’t matter if people really believe or not—it’s an affirmation of superstitious dread that does nothing to improve the gloom of Spille’s bourbon-clouded lecture, or distract from the misery-guts drama queens rushing out of classrooms to Guidance, where they can gasp about how much they miss Ivy already and how it really makes you think—at least until they’ve killed most of the school day and get to go home. In my last school, two seniors died in a car accident; these same people were there, behaving the same way. Different faces, different names, same opportunistic bullshit.
Not like Landon, who’s broken. Her absence isn’t mentioned. Who knows when she’ll be back?
And everybody’s seen the pics, courtesy of some Raging Elk whose ass must be suspension-bound for uploading them to his social media and tagging half the school before telling his coach what he found on yesterday’s practice run.
Crackenback’s tan 1971 VW Beetle, parked blocking the cross-country trail, bookended between two trees so tightly that the front bumper cut a visible gash into the bark.
Then, the money shot: the driver’s-side door hanging open for a close-up of the stick shift, sheathed in a giant orange condom with a perky black tip.
Seventh-period assembly. Wish I could close myself up in my locker, in the peaceful dark, and wait it out.
The bus stop was worse than awkward this morning. Whatever anger Bree felt yesterday seems to have cooled into a barren, icy wasteland between us, with her barely acknowledging my presence, and me too emotionally sapped to argue my case, if I even wanted to. Sage, stuck in the middle, eventually gave up on conversation and looked at her phone instead. I don’t want it to be like this, and I have no idea how to make it better. Hazel knows something’s happened, and spent her time studying me, like the answer might be obvious on my face, some freakish overnight transformation into her sister’s worst enemy.
Now, as I reach the gym, I don’t look for anyone to sit with, just troop up the bleachers, watching for Kincaid, trying not to compare myself to my memory of Landon up here, toe tracing the air as she waited for the girl she might never see alive again. Wonder if this is my future here. Life without friends, because I botched it. And a boyfriend who may or may not exist.
I glance over as a stack of pamphlets printed on slick paper are placed in my hand. Mr. Mac stands over me, today’s casual Friday ensemble consisting of relaxed-fit jeans, a tucked-in polo in a shade of chick-fuzz yellow. “Do me a favor and pass them down, please?” The title reads You Are Not Alone, and there’s a photo of a hoodie-wearing girl with her face pressed against her bent knees. As I hand them on to the next person and the stack works its way down the line, most of them waft to the floor and are ground beneath shifting sneakers.
So
mebody taps my shoulder. I turn to see Trace lower himself into the space beside me, never mind that there isn’t enough room and he almost sits on somebody’s hand. I don’t see Sage—she must be with Bree, somewhere. “What up.” He passes me my phone.
“Why do you have this?” I look back, scanning the rows. “Is he here?”
“Was. For like a minute.”
Unease is stealthy, spreading through my body with slow deliberation. “Why didn’t he give it to me himself?”
“Probably because he wanted to get out of this shithole ASAP before they start the your-friend-is-dead-but-that’s-no-reason-not-to-learn-about-the-hypotenuse-of-a-triangle speech.” Raises his voice: “Today should be canceled,” making heads turn. Hyde glares, but stays at parade rest between Klatts and Tourneau, cutting us that much slack to act out our grief and inner turmoil. “Seriously. Like Ivy didn’t rate an early dismissal.” Trace stays quiet a second, head and knee bobbing to some internal beat. “You and Kincaid, huh.”
I nod slowly, wonder if I’ll ever not feel that stab of guilt, like we’ve been caught. “So it would seem.”
“You and Bree have your little talk? Thought I felt a cold front coming down.” Lower: “She’s had a lady boner for Kincaid for pretty much ever.”
“I wasn’t trying to steal him.”
“Hey. You can’t make a play, hang up your jock, that’s what I say.”
I glance at him, curious to know what Kincaid said to him about me, but struggling not to ask because, considering what’s happened to Ivy, it shouldn’t matter. “I guess. Thanks.” Trace gives a chuff of laughter, rubbing his face with his hands, and there’s something comforting about him, bigger and more substantial than anything in our surroundings on this strange awful day, and I’m okay with the fact that he’s sitting too close and his dirty untied bootlace is lying on my foot.
Crackenback begins, Mrs. Mac standing nearby, her eyes moist and glittering behind her glasses. Crackenback delivers a brief, no-frills summary of what we all know about Ivy—presumed drowned, police searching the salt marsh—then pauses a moment, as if, somewhere inside that dry husk, a tear has formed. None of us blinks; we’re riveted by him, a museum exhibit in tweed and a red carnation, giving this single drop of precious, genuine emotion time to evaporate before saying, “If you’d like to share your thoughts and prayers with Ivy’s family, Mrs. Mac asks that you write them down and hand them on to her, and she’ll see that they get them. The Thayers should be given privacy at this time.”
The Missing Season Page 14
