by Ally Carter
Jamie is silent, and it feels like an admission. I start to wonder if maybe Spence did say those things. If maybe Jamie believed him.
But then Jamie puts his cup on the counter and leans back. “If you must know, I didn’t ask him about it.”
“Why? Does that go against some sort of West Point code or something?”
“No. I would have asked, but he didn’t come home last night.”
I think about Spence, in a foreign country and left on some island, and wonder if Jamie is worried about his friend or if he’s too mad at him to care. Spence is a grown-up, after all. A West Point man. He can take care of himself, and Jamie knows it.
He should have known better than to hit on the likes of me.
“Jamie, I —”
“There you are!” Ms. Chancellor’s voice has the singsong quality that it gets when she’s up to something. She practically floats into the room. “Good morning,” she says. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jamie replies. “It felt good to be home.”
This isn’t our home, but Jamie is good at this — this impressing-the-grown-ups thing. It is maybe what he does best. And that, of course, is saying something.
When Ms. Chancellor smiles at him it’s like he’s the sun and she’s basking in his glow. Then her smile fades.
“Alexei is here,” she says, and I can feel an undercurrent of tension in the words, as if she knows what happened on the beach. Then I realize that of course she knows. Ms. Chancellor knows everything. “He says he has been trying to call you all morning, James.”
Jamie busies himself, looking through a big basket of fruit.
“I can’t find my phone. I must have lost it.” For a second, I actually wonder if my brother, the saint, might actually be lying.
“Well, Alexei is here now. Waiting outside.”
“I don’t want to see him,” Jamie says, and Ms. Chancellor smiles and slowly shifts her gaze onto me.
“Well that works out nicely, then, since he is here to talk to Grace.”
I wait for Jamie to be insulted, to get upset because, for once, he’s the one being left behind. But Jamie isn’t hurt, I realize. He’s just angry.
I turn to look at Ms. Chancellor, who raises her eyebrows. “I don’t understand boys,” I say.
She pats me on the back. “It gets worse once they turn into men, dear. Now come along. Alexei is waiting for you outside.”
When I step outside the residence’s doors, I see Alexei standing on the other side of the fence. He’s staring straight at me, not blinking, not smiling. He doesn’t even say hello. I nod at the marine who opens the little gate and lets me out onto Adrian soil. Wordlessly, Alexei falls into step beside me.
His right eye is swollen and I know I’m in his blind spot, so I stare a little harder than I ordinarily would. His knuckles are bruised and red, like he tried — and failed — to wash the blood off. There is a cut at his hairline, a burn on his arm. I start to reach out and touch it, as if I have the power to soothe, but I don’t. So I pull my hand back and cross my arms.
“Don’t tell me,” I say when the silence is too much. “I should see the other guy.”
“I have no desire for you to see the other guy.”
I still can’t believe how much stronger Alexei’s accent is. Maybe that’s what happens when you return to your homeland and spend a few days speaking exclusively in your native tongue. Or maybe that is just something that happens when Alexei is angry or sad or deep in thought. I don’t know, I realize. And then it hits me: There is so much about Alexei I may never know.
“Then you will be happy to hear that the other guy didn’t come home after the party. At least that’s what Jamie said at breakfast.”
Alexei pauses for a moment, blinks, and looks back. It’s like he is expecting — or maybe just hoping — to see we aren’t alone.
“Jamie’s still mad,” I say, answering the unasked question.
“I had assumed as much.”
We walk in silence toward the city gates. There are cars and bicycles passing, a few pedestrians and tourists snapping pictures from atop the big red buses that seem to circle Embassy Row on a perpetual loop. I wonder if, to Alexei, it feels like he’s come home. Or maybe it feels like he’s just left.
“You came back.”
It’s not a question.
“I did.” He tries to slip his hand into his pocket, then winces like maybe he forgot about his bruised and bloody knuckles. “Moscow is concerned about … our situation. The ambassador is retiring. My father will assume the position.”
What situation? I want to know. I’m sick of people dancing around the facts, treating me like a child. I’m sick of all of it.
But that’s not what I say.
Instead I blurt, “What were you doing last night?”
“That man was touching you.” Alexei’s voice is almost like a roar.
Something about it makes me want to laugh.
“He’s not a man. He’s Jamie’s age.”
But when Alexei turns and glares at me I don’t feel like laughing anymore.
“Jamie is a man now. I am almost a man.”
“What were you doing, Alexei?” I can’t help but notice he never answered my question.
“I thought you needed help.”
“I don’t need any help,” I say, because it’s instinct now. Automatic. It was my reply when I was twelve years old and following the boys over the wall. And it is my answer now. It will be the answer until I die.
In fact, it is probably the answer that will kill me.
“Yes.” Alexei looks at me too closely; he sees too much. “You do.”
And I can’t help but stare at his swollen eye and bruised jaw. He looks like the god of war, damaged and scarred, but still standing. I’m not thinking as I reach up and gently run a finger across his battered face. Then I pull back, like I’ve felt a shock, and Alexei drops his gaze to the ground.
“I will make apologies to your friend if that is what you wish.”
“He is not my friend.”
Alexei nods. “To Jamie’s friend. To your grandfather. I have lived here long enough to know that there are repercussions for my actions. I knew better than to behave as I did. I am sorry, but …”
“But what, Alexei?” I throw my hands out, confused. “If you knew better then why did you do it?”
The wind blows behind me, pushing my hair around my face. I must look wild, crazy. Free. I would give anything to feel free.
“Are you mad that I fought with Jamie’s friend, Gracie? Are you mad that I interrupted the two of you? Or are you just mad that I left?”
“You don’t get it, Alexei. I’m mad because you came back.” I move away, just a step. Just enough to breathe. It’s hard to read the look that fills Alexei’s eyes. He has always been a little stoic, a little cool. He has a natural poker face, my father used to say. And now, with his black eye and bloody knuckles, it is hard to see past what happened last night. It’s almost impossible to reach the boy behind the bruises.
Wordlessly, we keep walking, through the gates and toward the beach that looks and feels so different in the light of day.
“Grace, I —”
I don’t know what he’s about to say, because then the wind picks up, carrying the clear salty air and the sounds of shouting.
“Over here!” someone yells in Adrian.
There are more cries and shouts, screams that are the same in every possible language. Grief and terror have a tongue of their own.
I don’t know what I’m going to see as I turn and look down the beach. There are men in the surf, swimming out against the tide. An older couple holds two children, pulling them away from the water and the cries.
Then someone yells for an ambulance and I see the thing that is floating in the water. It looks like a log or a tangle of seaweed that the tide keeps pushing toward the shore. But the men are swimming toward it. The tension builds and grows. And when they’ve ha
uled it to the beach, more cries go up as the crowd descends.
And then the yelling stops.
The silence is so much worse. There is nothing but the sound of the waves and the seagulls and the whispers of the people who gather on the shore.
Whispers that I can’t un-hear.
Body.
Police.
And then the sentence that changes everything.
This says his name is Blakely.
It feels like maybe someone else is screaming. I hear the bloodcurdling yell that causes people to turn. Panic is contagious; I learned that long ago. And the people in the crowd don’t know what to make of me, the wide-eyed girl who is screaming and clawing, fighting her way toward the body.
“Jamie!” I’m yelling. “Jamie, Jamie, Jamie, wake up. Wake —”
“Grace, wait.”
Strong arms are around me, pulling me back. Still, I fight against the bond. My arms are squeezed tightly to my sides as I try to claw and flail and kick.
“Jamie!” I yell again, but my voice is muffled as Alexei turns me, presses my cheek against his chest.
“I have to go help Jamie!”
“Shh. It’s okay.” Alexei takes my face in his hands and forces me to look into his eyes.
“No, I —”
“Grace, it’s okay! Jamie’s at the embassy, remember. Jamie’s at the embassy. Jamie is okay.”
Finally, I exhale.
“Jamie’s at the embassy. Jamie is okay.” I say it like a mantra, the words bringing calm.
But my blood still pounds inside me. The crowd has parted now, no one wanting to stand in the way of the crazy girl. They look at me like I’m something else to fear. The bystanders slowly fade away, a blurry, distant reminder that lingers on the outside of my vision as I stare at the boy in the surf. His West Point–issued jacket. His too-short hair and broad shoulders.
“That’s Spence,” I say, pulling away from Alexei, who surges to grab me again. “I’ve got to get him. I have to help him.”
“You can’t help him,” Alexei says, taking my face tightly in his hands. He’s not going to let me turn my head. He’s going to make me keep staring into his blue eyes — eyes that are bruised and swollen, yes. But eyes that are alive. I have seen too much death already in my short life, and I have no doubt Alexei knows it.
“I have to help him,” I say, numb.
But Alexei shakes his head.
“He’s Jamie’s friend,” I say, as if that changes things.
Alexei pulls me against him.
“He’s dead, Gracie. He’s dead.”
The embassy looks the same when we reach it — there’s no black wreath upon the door; the flag isn’t flying at half-mast. No, the US embassy isn’t mourning. Yet. I have to remember that Spence’s body is still lying on the beach, waiting to be identified. Tests will need to be run, calls will need to be made. It might be hours until someone tells my grandfather that a cadet from West Point has washed up on Adria’s shores. Until someone tells Jamie.
Someone is going to have to tell Jamie.
“Grace.” Alexei’s hand is on my arm, and that’s when I realize I’ve started to tremble. “It is okay.”
“No.” I’m shaking my head. “I thought it was him. I thought …”
“Jamie is safe.”
“I know. It’s just …”
The marine holds open the gate, waiting for me to make up my mind about whether or not I’m coming in, and I can’t help myself … I hesitate. I’m not used to being the bearer of bad news. Usually, I am the bad news. A part of me wants to keep walking, past the gates to Russia and China, all the way to Iran and the hills that climb high above the city. I look at the embassy that stands before me, currently at rest. Like a pebble thrown into a very still pond, I know the ripples are coming. A part of me fears they will make waves.
Spence is dead. Spence is dead. Spence is dead.
I know the words are true, and yet they have no meaning.
It’s not even ten a.m. yet. Twelve hours ago he was alive. Alive and standing on a beach. Talking. Fighting. Kissing.
He was the first boy I ever kissed. And in the deepest, darkest part of me I have to wonder if that’s what killed him.
It’s not as ludicrous as it sounds. After all, if Spence hadn’t kissed me then Alexei wouldn’t have hit him. If Alexei hadn’t hit him then they never would have fought on the beach. If they’d never fought on the beach then Jamie would never have left Spence on the island. And if Spence hadn’t been on that island then his body would have never washed ashore this morning.
I know it’s not rational. I know it’s not true. But knowing something and believing something are two totally different things, and right now I believe with all my soul that Spence is dead and I’m somehow to blame.
Spence is dead.
When I feel a hand on my arm I remember that Alexei’s still beside me. I’d give anything for him to be a thousand miles away.
“I’ll call you later,” I say as I step through the narrow gate and start to close it behind me.
“I’m not leaving you,” Alexei says, catching the metal latch before I can pull it closed. He sounds a little shocked I’d even think it.
“He won’t take the news well.”
Alexei steps closer, staring me down. “And that’s why I’m not leaving you.”
I could argue. I could fight. But it feels too good having him beside me, to know that, at least in this, I’m not alone. I step toward the doors and feel Alexei’s hand take mine. Wordlessly, he follows.
The lights are off in the foyer. I stand for a moment on the black and white tiles, watching. Listening. Light streams through the narrow windows on either side of the door, slicing through the shadows. I look up the stairs, listening for the sound of Ms. Chancellor’s high heels, ringing phones, and worried whispers, but the US embassy is business as usual. For now.
Should I find Ms. Chancellor or my grandfather first? Ms. Chancellor, I decide. She’ll know what to do, who to call, what —
“What’s he doing here?”
Jamie is standing on the stairs, looking down on us. His hair is still wet from the shower, but he doesn’t look refreshed. He’s looking at Alexei in a way I never thought I’d see. They were inseparable every summer of my childhood. They came home with scraped knees and knowing grins and secrets — so many secrets. But now I know something Jamie doesn’t know, and it doesn’t feel the way I always thought it would, being on the inside. I’d give anything not to know.
“There’s something we need to talk about.” Alexei glances at me, and, if possible, Jamie grows more distant.
“I’m not giving you my blessing,” he snaps.
“What?” I ask, then shake my head. “Never mind. Come on down, Jamie. We need to talk to you.”
“If you’ve come to say you’re sorry about last night, you can save your breath,” he says, passing us and glaring at Alexei. “You don’t owe me an apology. You owe one to Spence, and he’s not here. But as soon as he gets back —”
“Spence is dead.”
I didn’t mean to say it. Not so quickly. Not like that. But the words have been on a perpetual loop inside my mind and now they’re out, tumbling free. I know I should have broken the news gently, eased Jamie off the cliff. But eventually, he had to fall. And I have never been one to fall when I can jump.
“What are you talking about, Gracie?”
He thinks I’m lying.
Or maybe he’s just wishing, pretending he didn’t hear or trust my opinion on this — or anything, really. Never before has anyone wanted me to be so wrong. I can see it in his eyes.
“Spence’s body just washed ashore. I’m so sorry. He died.”
“I don’t know what you think you’re saying, but —”
“Jamie. It’s true,” Alexei says, and I know that this confuses my brother.
“No.” Jamie shakes his head. “Spence is nineteen. He’s not dead.”
“He is.” I grab
hold of my brother’s shirt. It’s an old one from before West Point and it’s a little too tight across the chest. Buttons pull and gap. With the tiniest tug, he might break free. “We were on the beach and …”
I can hear the breaking of the waves, the screams.
This says his name is Blakely.
“Blakely,” I whisper as my vision narrows, filling with spots. It’s like the world is running out of air.
“It’s okay.” Alexei’s hands are on my shoulders, gripping tight. “Breathe, Gracie. Breathe.”
“Why is she saying that?” I hear Jamie ask. He sounds so confused. Stunned. This is a bad dream. It has to be.
“Your friend must have been wearing your jacket. For a moment, she believed it was you.”
I hear my brother cuss. And then he takes Alexei’s place beside me.
I can hear him, see him, feel him. And yet I can’t stop hearing the voice on the beach.
This says his name is Blakely.
“Gracie —”
“I’m okay.” I force the words out. This is no time for me to fall apart. “I’m fine.”
“Gracie, why would you say that Spence is dead?”
“Because he is. We were on the beach and … Jamie, his body washed ashore.”
“I don’t believe it.” Jamie steps back. “He’s a US citizen. They would have told Grandpa. You have to be wrong.”
“They haven’t identified him yet. We just came from the beach. We were just there.”
“No. No. You’re wrong.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“Did you see his face?” my brother shouts.
“He was wearing your jacket. That’s why they thought his name was … It was him.”
“It wasn’t.” Jamie’s acting like denial can make something true. But it can’t. And no one knows that better than me. “It can’t be —”
“James.” At the sound of Grandpa’s voice, my brother’s face goes white. Slowly, he turns, and just that quickly Jamie knows. Grandpa doesn’t have to say that someone called the embassy — that it’s official. That it’s true. And there is nothing anyone can say to change it.
It takes a long time to fall asleep, and when I do, I dream of bodies.
