by Natalie Lund
She steps back into the house, allowing the screen to slam between us, but she pauses before shutting the front door. “If you loved him so much, why did you cheat on him?” she asks, as though she’s heard my thoughts.
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t have.”
Instead of the fury I’m expecting, she looks weary—a weariness I’ve seen on the faces of old commercial fisherman who’ve long ago accepted the dwindling populations of their fish, the dwindling value of their work on this island. Without another word, she closes the door. The lock clicks.
I can’t blame drugs or alcohol or coercion. Even if I hadn’t fully admitted it to myself, I was starting to realize that Shane wouldn’t be going to college near me, if at all, and that that distance might be too difficult. But he and I didn’t have a fight. We didn’t fall out of love. I stayed at UT for an off-season volleyball tournament. I met Kendall, an athlete on one of the Austin boys’ teams. He was tall and Nigerian, and when he smiled, it felt like the world cracked open and sunlight poured through to the mantle. We flirted in the hotel hallways, lingering as long as our chaperones allowed. And on the last night, long after the coaches had finished room checks, I lay in bed burning with—desire? Curiosity? Self-destructiveness? It was easy enough to sneak out of my room and down the hall to his. His roommate pushed his headphones into his ears. Kendall lifted the covers on his bed for me, as though he were a gentleman opening a door, and smiled the whole time.
I didn’t love Shane any less afterward. I didn’t want him any less. And strangely, I didn’t feel much guilt. I had simply made a small tick on the ruler of my life. As in, there, that tiny line is Kendall, who taught me about light and impulses.
I may not have even told Shane if it weren’t for Karen, my tournament roommate, who is terrible with secrets and wasn’t going to keep quiet about my disappearance. He’d have found out eventually. And so, as soon as I got home, I told him. Maybe it was naive, but I thought it would be okay—that he wouldn’t think I didn’t love him anymore, and we could go on to have a senior year filled with trips, prom, graduation parties.
Obviously, I was wrong.
My phone buzzes as I walk back to my car. Izzy, finally, responding:
We gotta get a boat. Meet me at the movie theater. Janie’s working.
Oh God. Is this about the dolphins again?
It’s Janie’s Whack-A-Mole script that got Izzy into this, convinced that her brother—that all of them—are still alive in the bodies of fucking dolphins.
When Janie first moved to the island years ago, it was like she’d been raised by alligators and had never been in public before. In high school she traded the growling and snapping for awkwardness. She swings between confidence and self-consciousness with an energy that makes me jumpy. In class you’re never sure if she’s going to argue with the teacher or sit silently with her eyes on the ceiling.
I don’t know if that’s a good idea, I type back—a response that’s as much about the implausibility of dolphins as it is about keeping Janie at arm’s length.
I want you there just in case. Please. I need you.
Just in case what? I wonder. But I don’t ask. I get into the car and head for the movie theater.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
JANIE
Two days after
I GO INTO work today, even though I still feel hungover—not as much from Sunday’s alcohol binge as from the long crying jags, the kind that make you feel scraped out inside. It was Dad’s idea that I go to work. He stayed home yesterday with me, but he had a surgery today, and he said I’d be less alone—read: less of a danger to myself—at work.
So here I am, sticky-handed from the soda syrup, filling popcorn bags and trying not to listen to the voices of people in line.
It was that Foster boy flying it, you know Tammy Foster’s kid?
She won’t be so full of herself now.
How’d they get the plane?
Stole it from some flight instructor on the mainland.
So irresponsible of those parents, if you ask me. I heard they didn’t even know the boys were taking lessons.
That poor twin sister. I can’t even imagine.
Nate Herschel. Wasn’t he that kid in the paper all the time for soccer?
At his name, my mind flutters, mothlike and hovering, over memories of him. The tight knots of his shoulders under my fingers as he pedaled me to the ocean the first day we met. His shirt damp with sweat and clinging to his skin. That gleam of fondness? Appreciation? Inspiration? As we looked at the ocean. His smile—as impish and quick as his jokes. His long hair curtaining my face, brushing against my ears and neck, the night we finally kissed.
He was proud that he’d grown his hair to his shoulders—not that he ever wore it down. He seemed to be cultivating an image with the bun and the light dusting of stubble, with the slim jeans and graphic-print button-downs. Something more Euro than Gulf Coast, and it suited him—especially when his dream was the British Premier League and backup was the MLS. Before the knee injury, that is. After, he’d simply pointed at the stars.
I look up from sliding Junior Mints across the counter and see Cass and Izzy outside the theater. I can tell they’re having an intense conversation by the way Cass is gesturing, waving to the ocean and then pressing her hand to her chest. Izzy, who you’d expect to be the emotive one, seems calm, like she’s waiting it out rather than listening. Cass crosses her arms, and her shoulders bob up and down. Crying for sure. Izzy pulls her into a hug.
I have to turn around to pump butter into popcorn and when I turn back, Cass and Izzy are inside. Standing in my line like when they want me to sneak them a free treat before a show. Cass isn’t crying anymore, but she hasn’t bothered to wipe the tear streaks off her cheeks, either. Her hair is tied back tight, drawing her eyebrows high and emphasizing the puffs under her eyes.
Izzy, on the other hand, appears surprisingly well-rested—bright-eyed and almost perky. She’s scanning the theater with interest, clearly unbothered by their fight.
“You never answered my texts,” Izzy says as soon as the person in front of her steps out of line.
“I lost my phone when it—when the plane—”
Cass flinches, so I don’t finish the sentence.
“You have a boat, right?” Izzy asks. Cass gives a slight disapproving shake of her head, but I can’t tell if it’s a signal to me or if she’s just irritated at Izzy.
I say nothing.
“Come on—you don’t know if you have a boat or not?” Izzy asks.
I look at Cass again, but she sighs and avoids my eyes, staring at the candy case instead. A few preteens have lined up behind them. One whines, “Hurry up,” and Izzy shoots them a look.
“My dad has a boat,” I finally say.
“Can we borrow it?”
“Um, I don’t know if he’ll let you.”
“Not me, us,” she says, nodding toward me. “You’ll be there too.” Izzy’s attention always makes me feel like I’m about to become prey or a predator myself. It’s unsettling.
“What do you want a boat for?” I ask.
Cass bites her lip like she’s stopping herself from saying something.
“I need to see where it went down,” Izzy says. “The plane. To say goodbye.”
It wouldn’t take a genius to detect from Izzy’s urgency and Cass’s annoyance that there’s something else going on here. What is she hoping to find? Does she know something about the crash? About why it happened?
If there’s anything I’ve learned from spending time with Cass and Izzy over the past several months, it’s that I need to make myself valuable to them if I want something in return. In this case: answers about why Nate was in that plane.
“Okay. I’ll try,” I say, though there’s no way my dad is going to let us borrow his boat.
Izzy narrows her eyes at me. Trying isn’t enough for her.
“I’ll get it. I promise,” I say with fake confidence.
“When?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know.”
“How? You don’t have a phone.”
“Jesus, Izzy,” Cass murmurs. “She probably has a laptop or something.”
I nod, grateful to briefly have Cass on my side.
“Okay,” Izzy says firmly, like we’ve just shaken on a deal, though I’m not sure I completely understand what I’m agreeing to.
* * *
• • •
I wait with Mickey for a movie to finish so we can sweep up the scattered kernels and M&M’s before the next showing. He’s a rising junior and football-player huge, but he prefers the company of the old bridge ladies on the island.
“Have you seen this?” he asks, leaning close to show me something on his phone.
I haven’t gone on social media since the crash. Unlike most people at school, I only have one account—something I opened because Izzy once asked me in film class, Don’t you want to be normal? with her lip drawn in a sneer. I do, but I rarely post because I don’t like the idea of people looking at me any more than they already do.
Mickey plays a video message from one of his senior friends, a girl named Layla who hangs out with Cass and Izzy sometimes. He has it muted, so I can’t hear what she’s saying to the camera, but it’s clear she posted it from the party. The video filter gives her a pair of round purple sunglasses. Behind her is the beach volleyball court and Shane handing out hot dogs. Nate would have been nearby—maybe at the keg or seated on the coolers. I almost slap the phone out of Mickey’s hand before the camera pans to him, but I catch myself.
“I don’t want to see,” I manage.
“Wait, were you there?” he asks.
I nod.
“You were?” His eyes widen. “Damn. All right, party girl. Tell me everything.”
“Everything?”
“Yeah, like from the beach. Everyone is saying it was some prank that went wrong. So were they showing off? Or was it”—his voice drops—“a suicide pact?”
Suicide? The word stalks through me—huge and stark. It’s the first I’ve allowed myself to think the word. I shake my head so hard I see stars. I’ve heard about plenty of their pranks from Nate—like the time he and Shane turned the soccer team’s backpacks inside out, replaced their contents, and zipped them back up from the inside using a bent paper clip. Or the time Shane took over the AV system before a school assembly and played goat scream videos. A prank—a stupid fucking prank—seems far more likely.
But.
In the weeks since the soccer accident, Nate had been different. He lost his sport, the thing that made him strong and popular and fast, the thing he’d tied his future to. There were days I’d find him collapsed into the couch, greasy-haired and watching the weather through half-lidded eyes. He seemed far, far away.
Mickey is staring at me, and I realize I’m hugging the broom to my chest and crying.
“God, I’m so sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know you were close with any of them.”
“Nate was my best friend.” I’ve never said it aloud before, but the words spring out easily.
Mickey, though, looks doubtful—like I invented the friendship. To him, of course, I have. “You should go home,” he says softly, resting his large hand on my shoulder. His kindness only makes me cry harder. I have to find out what happened.
I tell Neil that I’m sick and ask to call my dad with the theater’s phone. I punch in the extension for one of my dad’s nurses. “Candy, it’s Janie,” I say.
“Oh, hon, how are you doing? I heard your neighbor friend was one of the boys. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through. I’m so sorry.”
My dad told her?
“Yeah,” I say, aware that I’ve paused too long, and it isn’t quite the right response. Is there a right response?
“How can I help you, doll?”
“Can you tell me when he’s in surgeries this week?”
“Let’s see. He has something on the schedule tomorrow, Thursday, and Friday.” Friday is perfect; it will give me a few days to figure out how to get the boat from the marina without him knowing.
“Okay. Great. Thanks.”
I hang up, realizing too late that I probably should have waited for her to say you’re welcome and said goodbye. Fortunately, I have enough sense to know it would be even more awkward to call back and say it now.
* * *
• • •
In the late-afternoon heat, the marina is a ghost town. No deep-sea fishing tours or boat renters clogging the docks. The waves throw quick glints of sun, and everything else is hazy, the heat and pollution hanging low and yellow. Seeing the tree where I passed out on Sunday—was it only two days ago?—makes me feel queasy all over again.
Dad and I take the boat out once a month, usually when he sees the marina’s invoice and remembers it exists. He’s talked about selling it, but I think he’s fond of it. It probably reminds him of the family we were supposed to be.
I get seasick, so I have to take an anti-nausea pill before we go out, which makes me drowsy. I spend the hours on the boat half dozing, rocked out of consciousness by the waves, the coconut scent of my sunscreen, the soft scree sound as my dad casts. Despite a few lessons with Nate’s dad, he’s a terrible fisherman and rarely catches anything. I think he does it so that his hands don’t feel so empty.
Generally, he calls ahead and they get the boat ready, but you have to pass through the marina’s bait and tackle shop to access the dock. They’re bound to notice three high school girls marching through to take a boat.
The bell clatters as I walk into the shop. “Can I help you, miss?” It’s an older man I’ve seen before—short and lemon-shaped. I take a deep breath, channeling Izzy’s confidence.
“I’m looking for someone from school. I think he works here.”
“Theo?” the man asks.
“Theo,” I repeat, relieved he supplied a name. There’s only one Theo in school, a rising senior like me. We were lab partners in geology class together last year. We aren’t friends, but he was nice enough to me. Was he at the party? I picture the beach, the fire, trying to scan the faces in my memory. But I can only see Nate—his cheeks chapped from the wind and bonfire, his eyes locked on something in the distance as Shane told a story with wild gestures. It was after our argument, and I was downing a terrible cocktail I’d mixed without really knowing what I was doing.
The man looks at his watch. “He should be in soon. He took off the morning because—well, I’m sure you know.”
I nod, but my face must be doing something on its own again, communicating my pain without my knowledge.
“You knew those kids too?” he says. “The ones who stole the plane?”
I nod again, and his face pinches. “You can’t just fly.” He’s indignant, like I’m trying to sprout wings right before his eyes. I nod again.
The man’s face softens. “I’m real sorry,” he says. “Sometimes there aren’t any answers.”
That’s what my dad said when my mom left.
“You’re wrong,” I snap, and the man’s eyes widen in surprise. “There are answers.”
My mom left because she wanted a different life. She didn’t want the boat or the island or my dad or me.
There’s a reason Nate barely acknowledged me at school. A reason he was in that plane. There’s a reason it fell from the sky, too. And I need to know the real reasons—no matter how much they hurt.
I wait on the bench outside the marina until a black SUV parks at the back of the lot. Theo climbs out, his forehead shiny with sweat and a flare of eczema across his cheeks. He was at the party. I remember him now, slinging his arm around Cass’s shoulders and ru
nning a hand through his prematurely thinning hair while she was tapping the keg. She had shrugged him off.
“Theo! Hey!” I call, practically jogging to meet him.
“Janie?” He’s puzzled, I can tell. I’m eager to ask about the boat, but there are formalities now. Grief calls for it.
“How are you?” I ask a little impatiently.
He squints at the bay. “I’m okay, I guess. How are you?”
I ignore the question. I’m sure my red eyes and tearstained face tell enough of the story. “Listen, I have a favor to ask. I need to get my dad’s boat out in a few days. It’s a surprise, so I can’t tell him about it.”
“You’re surprising him with his own boat?”
He’s right. It doesn’t make any sense. I’ve heard he doesn’t like Izzy because of something that happened in kindergarten, so I go for a half-truth instead. “It’s actually for Cass,” I say. “She’s clearly having a hard time. She needs to go to where it happened, you know?”
He nods as though he understands, and I feel a wash of relief and shame.
“How about Friday?” I ask.
“Nate’s funeral is that day.”
His funeral? I hadn’t heard anything about it, and the thought makes me feel as though I’m collapsing inward, folding into myself, until I am a dot of concentrated, inky sadness. I’m making a sound, I realize, mewing like a kitten.
“Okay,” Theo says. “Okay. It’s fine. Friday, after the funeral. I’ll make sure the boat is ready.”
I turn to leave without saying thank you or goodbye, but I have no idea where to go.
VIDEO
SHANE FOSTER TRIBUTE PAGE
Meg: My brother—you know him as Shane, but I called him Sandy—he wasn’t like other people. If you’re on this page, you know this already. He loved you. He loved everyone. I’m not even kidding. When we were little and my mom tried to run errands with us, he’d smile and talk to everyone. The mailperson. The woman checking us out at the grocery store. Any salesperson. Once my mom thought she’d lost him in this clothing store, so we did one of those announcement things. Turns out, he’d found his way into the dressing room and was, like, giving advice to this old woman on her outfit choices. He was probably flattering her shamelessly. It got to be so my mom would hire a babysitter just so she could get shit done faster without him.
