The Islanders (9 page)

CHRISTOPHER WAITED UNTIL THEY WERE
all on board the homeward-bound ferry before he pulled Lucas aside on a pretext.

“Okay, what's the deal?” Christopher demanded.

“What do you mean?” Lucas stared at him blankly.

“I mean the way Aisha and Zoey have been treating me all night,” Christopher said, glancing across the darkened deck to see that Aisha and Zoey were still well out of range.

Lucas shrugged. “Zoey's been ragging me since yesterday about this dumb nomination thing. That's probably what you're picking up on. Has nothing to do with you, man.”

“No, that's not it. I've been going for lip and getting cheek all night from Aisha. She's pissed and I don't know why.”

“You could ask her,” Lucas pointed out.

“I don't think so,” Christopher said. He hunched his shoulders. “Zoey tell you where she went this afternoon?”

“I think she did,” Lucas said, scrunching his forehead pensively. “I mean, I guess she did, but I don't—”

“Did she go to the mall?”

“Actually, yeah. At least in last period she said she and Eesh and maybe Nina were going to head out to the mall. I remember now because she wanted to know if I wanted to go with them.”

“Damn,” Christopher said, slamming his hand back against the rail and instantly regretting it when a jolt of pain shot up his arm.

“Like I'd want to go shopping,” Lucas said, laughing at the thought. “I think she was just being polite. I don't think she really wanted me along. Unless maybe it would give her more time to make snide remarks about—” He fell silent, looking sideways at Christopher. “What's the matter?”

“I have a bad feeling Aisha saw something she wasn't supposed to see,” Christopher said in a low voice.

Lucas leaned closer. “Yeah? What?”

Christopher hesitated. Was Lucas the kind of guy who told his girlfriend everything? Lots of guys were that way, and whatever he told Zoey would go straight back to Aisha. Then he grinned wryly. Hell, Lucas had done time. He probably knew how to keep a secret. “There was this babe—”

“Uh-oh,” Lucas commented, glancing over his shoulder guiltily.

Christopher couldn't help but grin. “Blond hair down to
her ass,” he said. “I mean, major babe. Major, major stuff.”

“Oh. You think Aisha caught you looking?”

“I was looking, all right.”

Lucas shook his head. “Girls never understand that we
have
to look. We
have
to. It doesn't mean we're going to do anything about it. And the thing is, girls look, too; they're just quicker. They're subtle; just a glance and boom—they've memorized everything down to whether the guy has clean fingernails. Guys, it takes longer. We have to give it a good five- or six-second look.”

“See, you're right about that,” Christopher said, nodding his agreement.

“And then the girl gives the guy a hard time even though she's just doing the same exact thing, only faster.”

“Well, this girl definitely took more than a five-or six-second look,” Christopher said.

Lucas grinned wolfishly. “Uh-huh.”

“I got her phone number.”

The grin on Lucas's face evaporated. “You did what?”

“I got her phone number. I told her I'd call her sometime.”

“That's going a long way past looking,” Lucas said.

Was it just Christopher's imagination or was Lucas looking disapproving? More likely jealous. “She was into it; what was I supposed to do? Just walk on past and go buy my socks?”

Lucas made a
don't-ask-me
face.

“Give me a break,” Christopher said. “Are you telling me you wouldn't have done the same thing?”

“I might have wanted to,” Lucas admitted.

“Right.”

“But. . . Wait, it's not my business how you and Aisha work things out.”

“Look, I'm into Aisha; she's incredible. But you know, I'm not ready to let her nail my feet to the floor. I'm a man. A man is an animal who is made to roam. It's unnatural for a man to limit himself to one female.”

“How about one female at a time?” Lucas said dryly.

“Are you telling me you're not going to try and get a little extra on the side? You're going to be totally, one hundred percent faithful to Zoey?”

“That's the plan,” Lucas said.

Christopher looked at him in amazement. “The world is full of women, Lucas. Maybe you were in jail too long to remember, but they come in all types and varieties. Tall ones, short ones, small, medium, large and extra large, blond, brunette, redhead, black, white, Asian. I mean, it's like you're saying here you are—you're what, eighteen?—and you're never going to eat anything but the same old meal every day and never try something different?”

“How about if it's my favorite meal?”

“How would you know for sure?”

“I know,” Lucas said with a smug little smile that annoyed Christopher unreasonably.

“I guess we're different people,” Christopher said, giving Lucas a deprecating look.

“I guess so,” Lucas agreed. “I understand what you're saying, though. I do. The only thing is, does Aisha understand all this? I mean, shouldn't you be up front if you're not ready to make some big commitment?”

“She understands,” Christopher said uncertainly.

“Then why is she upset?”

“I don't know,” Christopher said in sudden frustration. “Look, I never said I was in love with her or anything. She never said she was in love with me, either. If that was how it was I might say, okay, I have to completely ignore other girls. Right?”

“Don't ask me, man,” Lucas said. “I deal with things my way; you do whatever you want. I'm no example for anyone to follow. I'm only saying you have to try not to hurt Aisha, because she's not someone you just dump on.”

“I'm not going to hurt her,” Christopher said, trying to sound confident. “I'll work up something very romantic for Aisha. She'll forget all about it.”

He stuck his hand in his pocket and felt the torn slip of paper where he had written the blond girl's number. Her name was Angela. If he called her and went out with her, he'd have to be very careful, because Lucas was right—he didn't want to hurt Aisha.

 

Dream number one is the worst.

Dream number one has no pictures and no story. It only has feelings. It only has pain and guilt and shame. Dream number one makes my skin crawl. It makes me feel like I'm choking, like I can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe no matter how I try I can't breathe, till I feel I may pass out or die, till my lungs are empty like flattened paper bags and my throat is convulsing and still I can't breathe.

Waking up is just as bad because I remember it so vividly, like it just happened, just then. Like he might still be there in the dark. I'm shaking. My insides are quivering. I feel like my entire body has been rubbed with sandpaper so that I'm tender, raw, even the sheets burn me.

The rest of the day after I have this dream I feel that way. On edge. Raw.

My friends just think of it as one of my occasional bitchy moods. They chalk it up to PMS. I tell them I've had too much coffee. All day long I feel like I have to gulp air, like I have to fill my lungs to bursting on every breath.

I know what this dream means, too. But it's not something I can talk about. Ever. Talking would only make it real, and I try very hard to convince myself that it is no longer anything but a dream.

ZOEY WAS OPENING THE GATE
to the Geigers' front yard when a movement high up caught her eye. She shielded her eyes from the morning sun and gazed up at the widow's walk, high atop the third story of the house. Claire was up there, wrapped in a heavy, sky-blue silk robe. Her long black hair rustled in the cool breeze and she was sipping a mug of something hot enough to steam.

“Claire!” she yelled up.

“What on earth are you doing already dressed and running around this early on a Saturday morning?” Claire asked, looking down from her Olympian height.

“I came to see if Nina—and you—wanted to do anything today.”

“Like what?”

“I have to get our car washed, and I'm supposed to pick up a package over at the main post office. Then I'm free to do whatever.”

“What would whatever be?”

Zoey realized her neck was cricked from looking up. “Shop. Go for a drive somewhere.”

“It sounds fascinating,” Claire said, grinning at her own sarcasm. “But I think I'll pass. Go ahead and come in. Don't knock; Janelle is baking and it would just make her cranky to answer the door.” She gave a little wave and backed out of sight.

Zoey climbed the porch stairs and opened the heavy front door. She was pretty sure Nina would still be asleep, so, feeling playful, she headed upstairs, intending to give Nina a nice, rude awakening.

She grabbed the handle of Nina's bedroom door, prepared to burst in screaming her head off and watch Nina flounder around. But the door resisted. She rattled the doorknob and gave it a push. It still wouldn't open.

“NO, NO, NO!”

The cry through the door was bloodcurdling. Nina's voice, only transformed into something inhuman.

“Nina, it's me, Zoey!” Zoey cried, pressing her ear to the door and rattling the handle again. “It's me, Zoey—are you all right?”

She heard a deep, profound sigh and a few low, muttered curses that sounded more relieved than angry. After a few seconds Zoey heard a metallic scraping through the door. It opened
on a rumpled, annoyed-looking Nina, hair sticking out in every direction, the waffle pattern of a blanket pressed into her left cheek. But Nina's eyes didn't match the rest of the look. They were wide, alert, like she had been scared.

“Are you aware that it's morning?” Nina asked gruffly.

“I came by to see if you wanted to do anything today.” Zoey peered closely at her friend. “Are you okay?”

“The next ferry's not for two hours,” Nina pointed out. “I could have slept for those two hours.” She backed away from the door and flopped backward on her bed.

Zoey followed her into the room. “I know. That's how long it usually takes to get you going on a Saturday
A.M
.” She ran her fingers over the lock on the door. “What's this for?”

“It's a vain attempt to keep people from waking me up too early,” Nina said hatefully.

“Ha-ha. No, seriously.”

Nina sat up and gave a little shrug. “What are we doing today?”

“Washing my parents' car?” Zoey said. “And then I thought maybe we'd drive down to Portland. Experience a different mall for a change. Also I was going to hit the Braille bookstore there for Benjamin.”

“Is Benjamin coming?” Nina asked.

“No. Just us girls. I asked Claire, but she wasn't into it. I
tried Aisha, but she has to do some stuff for her mom. Get some rooms ready.”

Nina stood up, suddenly interested. “Hey, how much does Mrs. Gray charge for those rooms?”

“Lots, I think,” Zoey said. “They're very nice. Aisha said they may be in one of those magazines that do inns and bed-and-breakfasts.”

“Like hundreds of bucks, I wonder?”

“Why, you want to get away from it all for a night?” Zoey joked.

But Nina didn't smile. “Maybe.”

“You're serious. You want to rent a room at the Grays' inn for a night?”

“Maybe several nights,” Nina said seriously. Then she smiled. “We have some relatives coming to visit.”

“Oh.”

“My aunt and her husband.”

“You don't like them?”

“What is there to like?”

Zoey's attention was drawn back to the clumsily installed lock on Nina's door. What was going on with Nina? She'd been off for days, it now seemed to Zoey. More angry, more edgy than she usually was. Greater than usual annoyance with her sister, the scene in the lunchroom. Nothing big, really, nothing
you could put your finger on. “Hey, were you having a nightmare when I knocked?”

The look on Nina's face was telling. Her eyes narrowed, her face fell. Then, with what looked like a deliberate act of will, she reconstructed her usual cocky, ironic expression. “Yeah,” she said. “I had this terrible dream someone was waking me up too early. I'll go take a quick shower,” she added before Zoey could interrupt. She grabbed a few items of clothing from her closet and dresser and at least one from a pile on the floor and disappeared in the direction of the bathroom.

Zoey sat on the bed and looked up quizzically at Ed Sheeran on a wall poster. “Is she all right?” she asked Ed. “Of course, you're just the guy to ask.”

She glanced at her watch and looked around for something to read to pass the time. She slid open the drawer of Nina's nightstand and froze.

A small but wicked-looking knife lay on top of an aging picture of a ten- or twelve-year-old girl.

A nightmare? A lock? A knife? A semi-serious question about staying at Aisha's?

Zoey pulled out the photo and checked the back. “Nina, eleventh birthday,” she read. She replaced it under the knife, feeling deeply troubled.

Suddenly it was as if she could sense something terrible in
this familiar room. Something was the matter with Nina. It seemed impossible, but for some reason Nina, fearless, in-your-face Nina, was very afraid.

By early afternoon Zoey had picked up the package at the post office and run the car through the car wash, deftly putting off the flirtatious guy who vacuumed the interior, and made the drive down to Portland. Portland was not especially exciting, being basically just a larger Weymouth, which was in turn just a larger North Harbor. But it had a bookstore with a few shelves of books in Braille. And in any event, it wasn't quite the same old places and faces as home.

“Master and Commander,”
Nina read the printed title. “Sounds like something Benjamin might like. It's about ships and war.”

“Grab it,” Zoey said. “What do you think about
Winter's Tale?
”

“Never heard of it,” Nina said. “What's it about?”

Zoey pulled out the huge volume and read the blurb. “Mmm, a magic flying horse and a girl with tuberculosis.”

Nina laughed. “Benjamin doesn't like magic.”

Zoey made a face. “Now, how would you know whether Benjamin likes magic?”

“I do read to him,” Nina said.

“And you think he likes ships and war but not magic horses and wasting diseases?”

“He totally prefers war to illness,” Nina said confidently. “He's a guy, you know. Ships, planes, guns, wars, adventure, spies, detectives. No magic horses or girls with tuberculosis. Now,
I
might read a book about a magic horse with tuberculosis, but it's not a guy book.”

“Suddenly you're the big expert on guys?” Zoey said, teasing innocently. But she saw Nina's jaw clench up. “Nina, I was just teasing,” Zoey said placatingly.

“I know,” Nina said, paying close attention to the books and refusing eye contact.

They paid for two books, using Zoey's mother's Visa card, and walked in strained silence back to the spot where the car was parked. “Love that clean car smell,” Zoey said on opening the door.

Nina nodded distractedly.

Zoey shook her head and started the engine. They drove to the freeway and took the ramp heading back north. Zoey made several more attempts to engage Nina in conversation but gave up after the fifth or sixth uninterested grunt. She reached for the radio and turned it on loud.

Nina clicked it off.

Zoey turned on her, ready to lash out angrily at Nina's
sullen mood. But Nina was staring grimly straight ahead, and Zoey subsided.

“Look,” Nina said at last, “I'm not a lesbian, all right?”

“I didn't say you were,” Zoey said. “Not that it would matter to me.”

“Well, I'm not,” Nina said. She turned the radio back on and dug a cigarette out of her purse.

This time Zoey turned the radio down. “Listen, Nina, we're best friends, aren't we?”

“That depends on whether you're getting ready to bug me,” Nina said through clenched teeth. She was twisting her fingers together and biting the end of the unlit cigarette.

“Why did you put a lock on your door?”

“I just felt like it.”

Now Nina had begun to rock, just slightly, forward and back, like a person impatient to get away.

“You have a knife in your nightstand.”

“What the hell were you doing in my nightstand?” Nina shouted, horrified.

“Nina, something is scaring you.”

“You're
scaring me, Zo, going through my stuff.”

“What's going on?”

“Will you shut up and just drive?” Nina snapped viciously.

Zoey recoiled. She had known Nina nearly all her life and
had seen every mood she had. This was not part of any normal mood. Nina's anger had always been weary, or ironic. This was fresh and violently intense.

They drove in silence for a while longer, Nina still twisting her fingers together, still nearly bouncing up and down in her seat. Zoey went over every clue in her mind—the lock, the nightmarish cry, the knife, the photo of Nina five years earlier.

Five years? That was when Nina's mother had died. Was it about that somehow?

Ahead she saw the off-ramp for a rest area. She veered onto it.

“What are we doing?” Nina demanded.

Zoey didn't answer. She slowed and pulled the car into a parking space and turned off the engine. She turned sideways in her seat. “Nina, you are my best friend in the world. I think you—”

“Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Goddamn it, you think you know everything? Just stay out of it!” Nina was shouting, a deafening noise in the enclosed car.

“I can't stay out of it!” Zoey yelled back, fueled by fear and frustration.

Nina's face suddenly twisted, like some huge wrenching sob was working its way through her features. Her eyes were wide, helpless. “Look,” she said, mastering herself with difficulty. “I know you're trying to be nice.” Nina seemed to be gasping for
breath, pausing to suck in several deep, straining lungfuls of air. “Just . . . just leave it alone. There's nothing you can do.”

Zoey took Nina's hand. Nina shook it off. “If you are my friend, Zoey, drop it,” Nina pleaded.

Zoey hesitated. This wasn't even Nina. Not as she had ever known Nina to be. This was someone new. Someone deformed by terror. A thrill of fear tingled up Zoey's spine.

Zoey bit her lip and reached out, deliberately taking Nina's hand again. Again Nina shook it off. Zoey could see tears welling up in Nina's eyes. Nina flung open the door and ran.

Zoey ran after her, across the grass, past the brick rest rooms and the glass-covered maps of Maine, and on to the edge of the woods. There Nina collapsed, coming to a stop by a picnic table.

Zoey approached quietly, like she would a frightened deer.

Nina laughed, a sad, faint sob. “I can't exactly walk home from here, can I?”

Zoey sat down beside her, and for a third time took her friend's hand. This time Nina didn't resist.

Nina sighed shakily. “I told you my aunt and uncle were coming, right?”

“You mentioned it.”

Nina nodded. “Yeah. Well, you remember back when my mom . . . back . . .”

“When your mom died?” Zoey finished softly.

Nina nodded mutely. “Yeah. Well, remember my dad said I should go stay with my aunt and uncle for a while?”

“I never understood that,” Zoey said regretfully.

“I was real close to my mom,” Nina said in a voice drenched in sadness. “He . . . my dad . . . he thought I needed to get away. Stay with my aunt and uncle. Change of scene and all.”

Zoey said nothing. Facts were coming together slowly in her mind, coalescing to form the rough outlines of a picture.

“This has to be a secret,” Nina said, her tone now more solid, almost devoid of emotion, flat. “I mean, you have to swear. It doesn't matter if you don't believe me, because I know you won't. But you can't tell anyone.”

Zoey felt trapped. She had the awful feeling that what Nina was preparing to tell her should never be kept secret. But she had to honor Nina's wishes, too. “I'll never tell anyone.”

“You swear.”

“Yes. I swear. And I will believe you.”

Nina nodded slowly for a long time. When at last she spoke, it was in a voice Zoey had never heard.

“I was at my aunt and uncle's house for two months. I was eleven. My uncle, he started off just kissing me. Then it was more.”

Zoey felt her heart stop.

“Almost every night, for two months . . . He would come into my room. Into my . . . into my bed.”