The Lifeboat Clique (20 page)

“Anyway,” I told her, “I'm not telling you to shift the blame for what happened off me. I just thought you had a right to know.”

We were talking just like we used to talk. It felt so natural, even though we were on a deserted island together and that was the most unnatural thing in the world. I thought we might as well keep going, now that we were finally addressing the elephants on the beach.

“And I'm sorry for sending that clip to Quinn,” I added. “I honestly didn't think she'd pass it around, but I was dumb, dumb, dumb.”

“Well,” said Abigail. “The whole thing did give me a certain kind of notoriety, like Jesse James. Of course, it did get me thrown off the soccer team. . . .”

“I'm sorry,” I repeated.

“What does it matter now?” She moved her hand over the horizon. “You see any soccer fields out there?”

“I was jealous, Abigail,” I admitted. “You had all these new friends, and I only had you.”

“Can we stop talking for a minute?” Abigail said. “Got to rest my eyes.”

“Of course. Can I get you anything?”

“I'm good, Nurse Denver.”

She leaned back against the tree and closed her eyes, and I waited. Minutes passed. The wind blew strands of wild red hair into her face. I fought tears. I didn't want to remember this as the time I apologized to Abigail just before she died.

Finally she opened her eyes. “I'm sorry too,” she said. “I've been pretty mean to you. Blaming you for everything. Turning my back on you and taking up with the likes of Sienna. Turning into an asshole who trashed good people's property. Don't know what I thought I was doing.”

The long silence that followed wasn't even uncomfortable. A fish jumped out in the calm ocean, not a care in the world, and we watched it together. Then the fish disappeared and the water smoothed over. It was as though some god, half-sentimental, half-monstrous, had planned out this time for us, right here and now.

“Water under the bridge,” I said at last.

“Deal, then,” said Abigail.

“Our bridge-water deal,” I said.

“How's your hoof?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Not too bad, considering a spear went through it.” I had cleaned my foot with seawater and fashioned a crude bandage out of palm leaves and strands of rope.

The firelight was still burning high. Abigail looked away from my foot and stared into the flames.

“I missed you, cowgirl,” she said.

I couldn't help the tears now. My body had water and was ready to go.

“Me too.”

BY NIGHT I KEPT GETTING UP TO KEEP THE SIGNAL FIRE LIT. BY
day I brought water back from the cave for Abigail and me and dragged washed-up wood to make a giant
SOS
sign in the sand. And I watched the horizon.

Although I had learned to cook the eggs into a scramble with the Spam can and a stick, Abigail still wouldn't eat them. Out of desperation, I waded into the water with my spear and bad foot and managed to impale my first fish, cleaned it myself and threw the guts to the circling gulls, then roasted the fish on the fire.

“Here,” I said, giving the cooked fish to her on a palm leaf, “eat this. It's not eggs.”

Abigail stared at it and then sank back into her usual position against her tree. Every day she was slumping down a little farther.

“Come on, eat it,” I said.

“Can't,” she whispered.

Finally, realizing it was just going to go to waste, I ate it. But it didn't taste like fresh fish. It tasted like dying friend, and I was growing frantic. We could not have reconciled the world's most beautiful relationship on this island only to have her die on me. God, if there was one, couldn't possibly be that cruel.

I stopped sleeping at night, afraid of waking up next to her and finding her dead. I dozed off and on during the day in between my chores, but never for more than a few minutes. I was afraid—terrified—of losing Abigail. I somehow felt that I had been put in charge of our destiny—a task for which I was totally unprepared. Yet I was determined not to fail.

“You just wait, Abigail,” I told her. “We'll do all the things we wanted to do, just like we planned. And you can try out for the soccer team again, right? I mean, you'll get a chance before your senior year, won't you?” Abigail's eyes were closed, and I wondered if she was sleeping, but she opened her eyes and managed to whisper, “Sure.”

I was thin, and I could feel my own ribs, but at least I
was eating. I was so worried about Abigail. I couldn't stand the thought of being on this island without her. Burying her. Saying good-bye.

“Don't you die on me,” I whispered.

She didn't answer. That night I stayed up listening to her breathe.

IT WAS OUR
sixth day on the island when I saw it. I was spearfishing in the shallow water and looked up, and there it was. A small boat, bobbing on the waves, chugging slowly by in the distance.

I squinted. It was real.

I jumped up and down, waving my spear like a native, screaming at the top of my lungs.

“Help us! Help us!”

The boat kept moving by.

“No!” I screamed. “No!”

I could not let this happen. Abigail hadn't spoken a word since the night before. This was our last chance.

I had an idea. I ran to where our paltry supplies were piled up near Abigail's palm tree and snatched Hayley's compact mirror.

“Abigail,” I said. “There's a boat!”

Abigail lay with her eyes closed. She didn't answer me, but there was no time to waste—the boat was moving past
us. I ran down the beach and found the tallest palm tree I could find.

And I began to climb.

My arms and legs felt weak, and the tree was smooth of branches. Nothing, really, to hold on to. My foot was still hurt, but I gritted my teeth and kept going, huffing and puffing, inching up that skinny tree.

I almost lost my balance and fell. My foot slid, and I tightened my grip and hugged the tree. Slowly I began to slide back down despite my frantic efforts to keep my footing.

The healing wound on the bottom of my hurt foot tore open. I felt sticky blood on the trunk as I battled gravity.

My legs were killing me. My foot pain was agonizing. I was running out of energy.

“FUHHHHHH!”

I could not believe my ears.

“FUHHHHH!”

I looked up the tree and there was Mr. Shriek, looking down at me. I blinked. This was clearly an illusion brought on by my desperate circumstance. . . .

“FUHHHH!”

Yet somehow this ghost parrot gave me strength. I recovered my footing and inched up, up, up, until I was
thirty feet above the ground. I pulled the compact out of my pocket, opened it, and began signaling with the mirror. Although I didn't know the language of signaling, I knew that the intensity of light just might attract the people on the boat.

I moved the compact back and forth, letting the light from the setting sun hit the glass.

The boat slowed, then stopped.

I wasn't going to wait and see if the people in that boat changed their mind. I slid down the trunk and ran down the beach and dove into the water, swimming hard for me, hard for Abigail, hard for the future that was ours if we could just survive. I kicked my legs so hard and stretched my arms way out to move myself through the sea. As I swam, I went back in time to the Palisades, swimming across pools with Abigail, all those shades of chlorine, the lives around us . . . it was still a mystery, but we were going to live. . . .

I inhaled some water and didn't stop to cough. Kept going, harder, faster, the ocean water turning gray and peaceful around me. I wasn't moving anymore, and try as I might, I was drifting off to sleep. It was peaceful and dark.

I sank.

I woke up sputtering water, flat on my back. I was on
the boat. Four dark-skinned fishermen, three dry and one soaking wet, stared down at me. I sat up, coughing more water.

“You've got to help my friend!” I gasped.

They looked bewildered, speaking to one another in rapid Spanish. I coughed out more water and drew in my breath. I pointed to the beach.

“MI AMIGA ESTA EN LA PLAYA!”

AND SO, NEARLY THREE WEEKS AFTER BEING WASHED OUT TO
sea, Abigail and I were rescued. We were both taken by helicopter to the UCLA Medical Center: Abigail to the intensive-care unit and myself to a noncritical-care floor for observation and treatment of my wounded foot. The sight of my parents in the doorway is something I'll never forget. They looked so terrified and relieved and drained. They rushed forward to hug me, and I hugged my dad just as hard as I hugged my mom. After all that had happened, I finally realized I not only could forgive my dad, but had already forgiven him. I told him so, much to his gratitude and relief. My mother had read enough Robert Pathway
to forgive him too. And in that hospital room, we became not a big happy family again, but a broken, forgiven family, and that was enough for the time being.

After two days I was discharged from the hospital, and my mom drove me home in a car she had bought off Craigslist, since the Subaru I'd driven to the party in Malibu had never been found. I was never so happy to be in my own home again. Everything seemed so calm and clean and stable—no more rocking on the ocean waves.

I climbed the stairs and entered my room, and there was Sonny Boy asleep on my pillow, the afternoon light streaming in on his handsome pelt. I had to say I missed him.

“Sonny Boy,” I whispered.

He opened his golden eyes and peered up at me. I thought I detected a glimmer of recognition—fondness, even. I bent down closer to him, nose to nose. He purred softly and licked me between the eyebrows.

“Sonny Boy!” I gasped. “You care!”

He looked at me a moment longer, closed his eyes, and laid his head back down on my pillow.

I ran to the top of the stairs. “Mom!” I shouted. “Sonny Boy licked me!”

She came to the stairway and peered up at me. “Oh,
honey,” she said worriedly, “are you sure you're feeling okay?”

“No, Mom, I swear. He showed me affection!” I pointed. “Feel the saliva drying between my eyebrows!”

THREE THOUSAND PEOPLE
had been lost in the tsunami—among them fifteen kids from Avondale High—thirteen of the popular kids and two other kids, Evan Drisland and his girlfriend, Rachel Sinclair, who had been driving down the Pacific Coast Highway on their way back from a movie when the wave struck. There were other survivors from that ill-fated party—but none so famous as Abigail and myself, once our story hit the news. Everywhere I went I had to wade past news cameras, not just at the hospital but at my house and at school, where wreaths had been hung on certain lockers and no one got any learning done because all the talk was about the tsunami, and Mrs. Paltos taught the class mourning words:
triste
and
desconsolado
and
la perd
ída
. News people called my house around the clock, pleading for an interview. Everyone wanted to hear what I had to say. I couldn't even turn on the TV without running into a
Dateline
special about the kids from Avondale High, featuring a clip of Ms. Hanson, our old gym teacher, in front of the camera again at last, going on about how she always knew
Abigail and I were special, even back in seventh grade. It was an acting performance worthy of that world fame she'd always craved. Sadly, James Cameron still didn't call.

Abigail was moved out of the ICU after the third day and spent another week in the hospital recovering.

“I can't believe this,” I told her when I visited her. “It's kind of gross. Everyone's going on about us like we're rock stars or something.”

Abigail was looking better. Her coloring was better, and she'd been able to eat some food. “Crazy, ain't it?” she agreed. She waved a hand at her room, which was full of balloons and roses and cookies and chocolate-covered strawberries. “Look at all this crap. Even my brother is being nice to me. But what the hell did we do besides getting washed out to sea and then drying out?”

“We survived.”

“Yeah, well, big whoop.”

“That makes us newsworthy.”

Abigail looked somber. “I don't feel all that damn newsworthy. After all, it was my shindig that got so many Avondale kids wiped out.”

“No one thinks that.”

“Sure they do.” Abigail shook her head. “I feel so guilty.”

“You don't have anything to be guilty over. But I know
a way we can maybe give something back.”

“Oh yeah?” she raised an eyebrow. “And what would that be?”

“Neither one of us has said a word to the press,” I said. “Just like we agreed.”

She nodded. “None of their business.”

“But if we gave an exclusive interview about what we learned? Since people are so interested in what we have to say, maybe we can make the world a little better.”

“I kind of like it,” she said. “Now, what did we learn again?”

“Come on, you know. ‘Sometimes it takes losing it all to learn what's really important.'”

“Sounds like you already thought that up and practiced it.”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“I agree, though. And we sure lost it all.”

“And when are we ever going to have everyone's attention again? I mean, maybe we're just teenagers, but we have something to say! We lived through more in three weeks than most people live in a lifetime.”

“Hmmm,” Abigail said, “I'm not really the type to get all teary-eyed on national TV. But if you think we got something to say, I guess we can try.”

WE HAD THE
press conference set up in Abigail's hospital room. A reporter from NBC, blond and tall and efficient, talked to us from a chair they'd crammed into the room. We were miked up, Abigail was propped into a sitting position by pillows on her cot while I perched on a stool next to her.

The reporter spoke into the camera. “I'm here with Abigail Kenner and Denver Reynolds, the only survivors from what is being called the Lifeboat Clique, a group of Avondale High School students washed out to sea after the devastating tsunami that hit the coast of California last month.”

She looked at us. “Well, you girls have certainly been through a lot, to say the least.”

I nodded.

Abigail said: “That's for sure.”

“How did you survive such incredible odds?” the reporter asked.

“We didn't have any other choice,” I said. “We had to find out a way to live. It's not that we were anything special. The others on that boat were special, too. And we think about them every day.”

“Denver and I were best buddies for a long time,” Abigail added. “Then we had a falling out. Pretty much hated each other. It took a disaster for us to be friends again. She
needed me and I needed her if we were gonna make it. But honestly, she saved my life. I would have been a goner if it wasn't for her.”

“And do you have a message for all the people out there listening?” asked the reporter.

Abigail and I exchanged glances. We'd rehearsed this, and since I had the best use of grammar, Abigail had told me I should speak.

“The tsunami was a terrible thing to happen,” I began. “Our high school suffered a huge loss of life. But as awful as the tsunami was, good things actually came of it. We learned that out there on the ocean, there's no such thing as popular kids and unpopular kids. We were all equal and all valuable.”

I paused. Deep down, I still thought Sienna and Hayley had been fairly useless from a survival perspective. But I was here to make a point about humanity, and I kept that particular point under my hat. “When you don't know whether you're going to live or die, you figure out what's important. Generosity, friendship, forgiveness, hope, and faith.” My eyes were watering a little by now. “Let's all use this tragedy to be better people. Let's all be equal. And all be friends.”

“Right,” said Abigail. “Nothing like a big-ass wave to teach you how to cut the bullshit.”

The reporter looked at Abigail severely. “We can't use that,” she said.

WE WERE PRETTY
proud of ourselves after that interview aired. We envisioned a post-tsunami LA where people let each other into traffic and didn't quarrel about ten-foot fences; and everyone forgave everyone; and band geeks were just as important as cheerleaders; and overweight, studious girls walked hand-in-hand with small-waisted skanks down the hallway. Our message went all over the web, and people made memes out of some of the quotes and passed them around, and we thought we'd done some good in the world.

Another bit of news also made us happy: the day after the tsunami, a distracted custodian had accidentally left the window open while cleaning the cage of Mr. Shriek and his mate. The two parrots had flown out into the sky and were never heard from again.

“Ah,” said Abigail when I told her about it, “good for them.”

“You know,” I said, “Mr. Shriek would have actually been a better name for Trevor's Man Part.”

A HUGE MEMORIAL
service for all the lost kids of Avondale High was held on a Sunday evening at a church in
downtown Los Angeles. Before the service, Abigail and I met with the parents of the kids from that fateful party and told them what we knew of their last hours. The whole thing was pretty awkward, but I suppose it gave them closure. Trevor's dad had on a Hawaiian shirt and wore an earring. He had the same habit of drumming on things. The entire story of Trevor's time at sea and his heroic sacrifice was scored by the tapping of his father's fingers, and I told my mind not to go to Ranger Todd Senior, which of course it did.

Special seats had been reserved near the front of the church for Abigail and me and our families. Just before the service began, Abigail elbowed me in the ribs. “You notice something?” she asked.

“What?”

“Look behind you.”

I looked and saw what she meant. “Oh, my God,” I said. The popular kids were all in the first rows, and then the next popular kids, and then the next popular kids, all the way to the back. It was like a version of our cafeteria.

“How did they manage that?” I whispered.

“What a bunch of idiots,” Abigail whispered back in disgust.

A senior kid—Chris Something—from the drama department walked across the stage. He was wearing a suit
and tennis shoes. His long hair was back in a ponytail. He was kind of known for publishing weird poems in the school paper. Now he proceeded to read another one:

“When the water rushes in

We will stay strong

And the earth will have a new dawn

And we will meet in the corridor

And sing together

Yes, together we will sing

For we are birds whose beaks were left in drawers . . .”

“What the hell is he talking about?” Abigail whispered to me.

“I don't know. Something about water.”

He went on and on. Finally he stopped in what seemed like midsentence and bowed his head dramatically. People didn't really know what to do. Someone clapped, but it didn't catch on. Finally the school principal came out and kind of tapped him on the arm, and he came to life and slunk away.

“Students of Avondale, friends and parents,” the principal began. “Blah blah blah blah blah . . .”

Or at least that's how it sounded to me. I was afraid I'd get too emotional at this service and cry in front of
everyone. But this was just a canned speech that sounded more political than sad.

“This is actually boring,” I whispered to Abigail.

“An embarrassment,” she whispered back.

The principal finally finished his dumb speech, the lights lowered, and the memorial video began. It was a slickly produced homage to all the kids who had lost their lives, done up to the soundtrack of “In the Arms of the Angel” by Sarah McLachlan, with tons of shots of Sienna zooming down the soccer field and Matthew scoring touchdowns, of Audrey singing in the church choir and Croix acting lead in
Oklahoma!
and Madison and Trevor and all the other cool kids. An editor had been hard at work on different effects: slow motion and close-ups and fades.

“Holy cow,” Abigail muttered. “This is so Hollywood.”

The popular kids in the audience clapped and whooped and cheered at the sight of their favorites. When the video came to Rachel and Evan, the two non-popular kids who died on the Pacific Coast Highway, it just showed their yearbook photos to brief and scattered applause.

My heart sank. This was terrible. I thought this was going to be a celebration of life. Little did I know that some lives were still apparently more important than
others. Nothing we imagined for post-tsunami LA was coming true. Everything was exactly the same.

“Let's go,” I said, and Abigail and I got up from our seats and crept out through the dark church, into the hard light of LA. Our parents and Maxwell came trailing after us.

“What's wrong? Why did you run out?” asked Abigail's mother, who was dolled up for the event in a black mini dress and smoky eye shadow.

“It's disgusting, Ma,” Abigail said. “A popularity contest, even in death.”

My mother put her arm around me. She had on her best dress and was holding a new clutch purse. “Maybe you weren't ready for a public event so soon.”

“Let's go home,” I said miserably.

Abigail was going to spend the night with us, so she rode with my mother and me back to our house, her bag already packed for the night. We hardly spoke on the way home, although my mother helpfully put on a radio station with some kind of elevator music that was meant to soothe and inspire but instead made me gently claw my face.

When we arrived at our house, Abigail and I looked at each other, exchanging a glance that said everything.

“Can we borrow the car, Mom?” I said.

“For what?” she asked.

“We just need to drive.”