Shining Sea (25 page)

POEM

Yesterday the school was buzzing with the news of the two kayakers, and today is no different. The words “Summers Cove” echo in the halls. It doesn’t help me that Mary is absent.

Way less important, but still a problem, is the paper for O’Keefe’s class. At lunchtime I sit in the school library staring at a blank Word document but have to admit: James Joyce’s
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
has lost me.

Searching for inspiration, I open the book to a page I dog-eared days ago.

“He closed his eyes, surrendering himself to her, body and mind, conscious of nothing in the world but the dark pressure of her softly parting lips. They pressed upon his brain as upon his lips as though they were the vehicle of a vague speech . . .”

The passage makes me think of Bo’s . . . effect on me.

It also makes me think of Logan. I shut the book.
What’s wrong with me?

I’m putting the book in my backpack when the Moleskine slips out and falls to the floor.

Rifling through the pages, I stop at the second entry.

The string of complaints—the first entry—that’s a hundred percent Lilah. The bitching. The boredom. It’s her, the way she was. And the phrase that fills nearly all the rest of the pages in the little black book, well, I have an idea about that. The way Lilah wrote it over and over is unnerving, certainly, but if taken literally, is at least comprehensible: she was waiting for someone. Maybe I’ll never know who that someone was, but, okay, I get it. Even the tiny scrawl, the inked insistence, is my sister. I can feel her ever-present impatience, feel her anger at being kept waiting.

But the second entry—that’s the hardest for me to read. Because it’s there that I find a Lilah I don’t know.

Bare and broken open

we were both, when interrupted.

I would kill the man who did it

if it would bring us back together.

Wait by water, all you said

the words are branded in my head

and in between my shaking legs

How can I stand

this separation.

PORTRAIT

Stooped in front of my locker just after dismissal, Lilah’s words rolling songlike through my head, I startle as someone behind me says—

“No one’s going to be able to protect your friends this time.”

Logan.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, looking up at him.

“Oh, c’mon! You heard about the couple that drowned at Summers Cove—you think it’s going to be like it was with the
Lucky
? The story’s already all over the Internet. TV Twelve ran a feature last night. The major networks are gonna pick it up.”

Slowly, I stand. “Hey, did you ever stop to think that maybe the mayor, the Coast Guard, even my dad, were trying to protect
you
, not the Summers, when they kept the story of the
Lucky
under the radar? Did you ever think that maybe people in this town care about your family, and all the other folks who were hurt by—your brother’s death?”
A death that didn’t happen.

“Maybe no one wanted to rub salt in your wounds by splashing the story of four missing boys all over the place.” Willing myself to continue saying things I only half believe, I go on. “The
Lucky
was found near the Summers’ second home, true, but keeping the story away from the media wasn’t about protecting them; it was about protecting you, from memories, from pain.

“I know you have to—live through those memories again now, because of this, this whole thing, that poor couple who drowned, but . . .”

Logan stands very still. His eyes are the color of clouds on a day when rain threatens, but never quite falls. “Nice try, Arion. Tell me what you found out.”

“I—I mean it, Logan. What I just said. It’s true.” Trying to hold my ground, I’m pretty sure my eyes are begging. Begging him to stop trying to figure things out, begging him to understand something he never can, begging him to forgive me.

But his eyes hold no such look and they pierce me along with his words. “At least this time, they found the bodies.”

“The waters around here are dangerous,” I stammer, looking away.

“Yeah, well, you would know.”

“That was a low blow.”

“I’m not talking about your phobia, or your sister. I’m talking about Seal Cove, Airyhead, the way Summers set you up to think he was some kind of hero.”

Ignoring what he said about Bo is easy, but the nickname cuts me; I want things to be the way they were before. It hurts me too because there’s truth in it now. Lately there are times when it feels like a veil’s been drawn over my brain, like I don’t know my own mind. Still, I have enough clarity to know what I have to do.

“Logan,” I say softly. “Please. You’re being—paranoid. About Bo, and his family, about what happened to your brother.” Carefully, I close the locker.

He steps toward me—I back up quickly against the cool metal.

“Whoa, what do you think I’m gonna do?” He reaches down and holds up one of my trembling hands. “You’re afraid. Not of me? I’d never hurt you. Are you afraid of him, of Summers? Because you should be, and I think you know it. And I think, you know perfectly well I’m not being paranoid. C’mon, Arion, tell me what’s going on. What else do you know?”

Down the hall a student shouts and I jump.
How can I tell him?
A minute ticks by.

“I don’t know anything,” I finally say.

He spins away—

“Wait.” He turns back. “W-what was your brother like? I hardly know anything about him.”
And I’m having a hard time believing everything I’ve heard.

Logan gives me a quizzical look, then sighs and leans back against the row of lockers. “He was . . . Well, I think I told you, he liked to fight. But, hey, you’ll appreciate this. He liked music. He worked the raves down in Portland. He’s the one who got me going down there.”

“Raves? Do you still go?”

“Once in a while. Lot of fights these days, though, at the warehouses on the waterfront, especially.” He rolls one of his shoulders, reaches up and massages it.

“Ah. Another place to collect your cuts and bruises?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Fine, be that way. So your brother was a DJ?”

“Nah. Bouncer. Too young for the clubs, but the promoters used him at the warehouses.” Logan gives a snort of laughter. “He wanted to be a DJ, when we were like, thirteen, fourteen. He had a bunch of gear. First gig he had was in the basement of Saint Cecilia’s, in Portland. We were visiting our abuela—”

“Your what?”

“Our Grams.
¿Qué pasa? ¿No hablas español?
”

“What’s with the bilingual boys around here?” I mutter.

“Hey, if you’re talking about Summers, the only language he speaks is bullshit.”

“Right, well, I’m having a hard time picturing you in a church, speaking of bullshit.”

“Not me, my brother. Nick was . . . religious. We lived with our abuela for a while. She taught us how to pray. Took us to Mass on Sundays. Nick got into it. Communion, confession—all that Catholic crap. Think the idea of sin was the one he liked best. But the spiritual connection . . . that was real for him. Until he figured out he wasn’t gonna get an answer.”

“An answer to what?”

“To anything. But especially to why our mom—whatever.”

“Why your mom, what?”

“Why she left.”

“But I met your mom. Anita. She looks just like—”

“Me. I know. Or, I look like her. But she’s not my mom. She’s my aunt, my mom’s sister. Now you know the whole soap opera. Nick hated our mom for leaving. I didn’t. Dad can be a jerk. I get why she left; I knew she wasn’t leaving me. We keep in touch. We’re close. But Nick, he never forgave her. Never forgave our dad. So Dad used to pound on him. Fun stuff, huh?”

“Is that why he liked to fight, because he was pissed at your mom and dad?”

“That was one excuse. You enjoy what you’re good at, right?” Logan runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Then again he was good at everything. School. Sports. He was good with girls, but not good
to
them, you know? He was mean. They liked him anyway. Loved him.”

“Same way they love you?”

“Back it up, Rush, you need a couch for this, don’t you? And some letters after your name? I’ll settle for the couch, though, long as it’ll fit two. What do you say, pencil me in for nap time?”

I roll my eyes. “Definitely didn’t mean to get so sidetracked.”

“By my charm, I’m sure. You want to know about Nick? He was an asshole, okay? But I feel like that’s not cool to say, ’cause he’s not around. He was my best friend, but the truth is, he was a dick. Probably still is, wherever the hell he’s at.” Suddenly Logan closes the space between us, grabs the hem of my shirt. “Why do you want to know so much about him?”

“What the—no reason!” I try to pull away, but he grips the material, twists it.

“You swear?”

“I—swear.”

Logan ducks his head and I feel his breath, warm against my neck, as he whispers, “You can’t lie for shit, you know that, right?” He leans into me, his body pressing along the length of mine. “Not about anything.”

I stand there for a moment, mind spinning, my body responding to the crush of his. Betraying me. Then I tear my shirt from his grasp—

“Wait.” With a metallic clang, his hands slap the lockers on either side of me.

“Why should I?” I push at the cage of his arms.

“Please.”

The way he says that one word, with such . . . desperation, makes me go still.

Slowly he lowers one hand. His face is inches from mine. Eyes watchful, he reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a wallet. Flicking it open, he nods toward the edge of a piece of paper that sticks out just slightly.

As if what he wants to show me is in his gray gaze rather than in the wallet, neither of us breaks eye contact as I take the paper.

Finally, though, after hesitantly unfolding it, I look down at the half page of blue-lined paper and see that someone else has done this very thing many times. The paper is deeply creased. It is also translucent along one side, as if something has been spilled on it, as if, at some point, it’s been wet.

EVIDENCE

LOGAN, SOMETHING HORRIBLE

COVE.

DON’T BELIEVE THE

CAN’T CONTROL

The word “control”
spills jerkily down the page, as if the writer truly had none.

Most of the words in the brief note are illegible. The capital
N
signed at the bottom is not. It’s clear. Strong.

“What is this?” I whisper.

“I think you know.” We stare at each other.

“Did you show it to anyone?”

“I showed it to everyone—I mean, obviously, not everyone. My parents. The police.”

“You showed it to Mary.” He nods. “What did the police say?”

“They said shit. They said it was someone’s idea of a joke.”

“But couldn’t they—couldn’t they test it or something? Trace it, or—”

“They did test it. And they found DNA. A small amount. They said it wasn’t Nick’s. They said—it was mine.”

“Of course it was,” I say. “You touched it, you had to! But that doesn’t mean—” But what exactly would it mean, if Logan could prove Nick had written the note? Even if the note is real, how can I possibly side with him about this? “Where did you get it?” I ask, stalling for time, trying to figure out what to say, what to do.

“My room. Found it on my desk one night. It was late. I’d been out. My father and Anita had gone to Portland for the weekend. One of my notebooks was lying open. Water was all over the place, like he’d just—” Logan breaks off, too upset to continue, but it doesn’t matter, because I know exactly what he was going to say.

Water was all over the place—

Like he’d just
come from the sea.

“When? When was this?”

“A couple days after he disappeared.”

Over a year ago.
It’s not fair that he doesn’t know the truth. I need to tell him.

But I don’t get a chance to say anything—because Logan does.

“Your boyfriend’s here.” He plucks the paper from my fingers and steps back from me.

Bo stands at the end of the hall, watching us. All at once I feel weightless. Clearly, this time, Bo hasn’t let school security stand in his way.

“Love note? Autograph? What is it you need so badly from Arion, Delaine?”

Logan carefully folds the scrap of paper, taking his time tucking it into his wallet, taking twice as long to replace the wallet in his pocket. “Just some answers.” He squints down the hall at Bo. “To a test. So don’t give her a hard time.” To me he says, “Maybe we can study later.”

“Maybe not.”

Logan’s light eyes ice over.

But I keep going. It’s the best thing, for all of us. “Because those answers you have? They’re not right. You should toss that sheet out.”

Turning, I walk toward Bo. It feels like . . . I’m walking away from myself.

USING

“You know Delaine’s just using you, right?” Bo says once we’re in the Jeep.

“
Using
me? For what?”

“To find out about me, about my family. Jordan’s caught him on our property more than once—he’s convinced we were involved with Nick’s death.”

“And he’s right,” I say angrily. “And he’s got proof. A note, one that Nick wrote.”

“Ah.” Bo tries and fails to repress a smile. “What does it say?”

“It doesn’t say Logan’s using me, that’s for sure.”

“Arion, I’m sorry, but you need to understand—”

“A real apology doesn’t have any other words attached to it.”

“Fine. Forget what I said, but know this: a note’s not proof of anything. Logan could’ve written it himself. If it’s real, it supports what we already know. Nick’s alive. Unfortunately, your buddy Logan’s alive as well. And it looks like, sooner or later, he’s going to be a problem.”

“So what are you going to do—turn
him
into a Siren too?”

Bo laughs. “He should be so lucky. No, I just need him to forget his suspicions, and to forget you, while he’s at it. Your ‘friendship’ with him needs to end. In fact, consider it over.”

“You can’t make that kind of choice for me!”

“Actually, I can.” We careen down the drive to Summers Cove. When we get to the bottom, Bo slams the gearshift into park.

And just like that, he’s the only friend I need . . .