The Survivors (12 page)

“We're lucky there's any rice left,” Miles says. “Keep going.”

They work back and forth through the river bend for an hour, until the bottom of the canoe is furry and thick: a shaggy carpet of raw, green rice.

“Can we go home now?” Sarah whines.

“Okay, okay,” Miles says. As they leave, a flock of mallards wheels high overhead, then banks to make a tight circle above the rice bed. “Thanks,” Miles murmurs.

“You're welcome,” Sarah says, clanking her paddle.

He doesn't explain.

As they paddle downstream, there is brown motion in the undergrowth. “There's that dog!” Miles says suddenly. On the shore, he lurks from tree to tree, following them home.

“Brush!” Sarah calls. “Hey, Brush!”

“Don't encourage him! And never feed him,” Miles says. “That's why he hangs around—he knows we have food.”

“Maybe he used to live here,” Sarah said. “Maybe he was Mr. Kurz's dog.”

Miles spits sideways into the water and keeps paddling. “He would have to be, like, a hundred dog years old. He's just a stray dog who's not going to make it through the winter.”

“He could live with us and be our watchdog,” Sarah says.

“He only has three good legs. Great watchdog.”

“What will happen to him?”

“Don't ask me,” Miles says as they head on a straight course downriver.

AT SCHOOL SHE STAYS INVISIBLE
except on the tennis court. The coach lets her play—red-shirt status, which means she's “unofficially” on the team—and today she is panting and sweaty after beating Carolyn 6–3 and 6–1. As she tilts up her water bottle, Ray approaches the chain-link fence. She pretends not to notice him until the last second.

“Hey,” he says.

“Oh—hi, Ray.”

They pause to watch the green tennis balls fly back and forth.

“Haven't see you around much lately,” Ray says.

“You either.”

They are silent. Then Ray says, “Remember that football game?”

“Yes.”

“You said you'd talk to me in school.”

“I do talk to you!” Sarah says, turning.

“But not talk-talk. You know, like ‘quality time.'”

Sarah giggles. “It's not like we're going steady.”

Ray's face reddens slightly. “You know what I mean.”

She is silent. “Sort of.”

They watch Mackenzie, who is also watching them—and because of it misses the ball.

“Lucky shot,” Mackenzie snaps, and slams a serve straight at Rachel, who ducks. To the side is Mackenzie's dad; he often comes to watch practice.

“Hey, Sarah, want to step in?” Rachel calls. She is limping slightly.

Sarah glances at the coach.

“Why not?” the coach says.

On the court, Sarah bounces the ball twice, then lobs a nice serve to Mackenzie's forehand. Slowly they volley back and forth; and from the rhythm, and the sunlight on the clean and tidy court, her mind starts to drift. Back home. Home-home to the suburbs, where the biggest problem she had was going over her cell phone minutes. Back then, she and her mother had their I've-had-a-really-really-bad-day signal: holding two rackets. It required the other—no questions asked—to stop everything and come hit tennis balls.

Only now does Sarah understand how cool that was—how she and her mother didn't have to say anything; they would just volley back and forth. She and her mother with their tennis rackets and the furry green balls that they hammered back and forth until one of them called “Enough!” One time they played until they could barely walk back to the house and were laughing and bumping into each other as they scarfed down leftovers and then just lay on the soft carpet by the big fireplace. They left the television off and for two hours talked about things. About Sarah's friends. About her mother's clients. About life. Things like that didn't happen too often back then. But Sarah now had to admit one thing: If she had to live in a small cabin with someone's mother, hers wasn't all that bad.

“Hey!” Mackenzie calls as Sarah's hard serve skips past her.

“Come on, Mac!” her father calls. “Pay attention out there!”

“Sorry!” Sarah says; she sneaks a glance toward Mackenzie's father, who stands, watching. She has to get a grip, remember where she is. Who she is. But Ray is watching; she goes after Mackenzie harder: hitting the corners, dropping soft ones with reverse spin just over the net.

“You really can play!” Mackenzie calls; there is accusation in her voice.

Sarah answers with her hardest serve of the afternoon—directly at Mackenzie. The ball ricochets once and catches her in the belly.

“Ooomph!” Mackenzie grunts as the ball dribbles off. She clatters her racket into the corner, where it bangs off the fence, and then she stomps off the court.

“Nice strokes, Sarah,” says the coach. “I knew you were a player.”

Behind the fence, Mackenzie's dad folds his arms across his chest.

Mackenzie will not speak to Sarah for the rest of practice and leaves with her father without even looking at Sarah.

The next morning in school she is smiley again. “Sorry I was such a bitch,” she says.

“Hey, no problem. I was playing way over my head.”

“It's just my competitive nature,” Mackenzie says. “Sometimes it comes out wrong.”

Sarah shrugs. “I know what you mean. And really, it's no big deal. I've forgotten about it.”

“Anyway, I was thinking,” Mackenzie says, “you and I could be doubles partners. We'd kick butt!”

“That might be cool,” Sarah says, which is a lie.

“So let's practice late tonight,” Mackenzie says. “My dad said he could drive you home.”

Sarah frowns as if she'd like to stay and practice but can't. “I need to be home right after practice. We have to … take our boat in. For the winter. All-hands-on-deck sort of thing.”

“I could help,” Mackenzie says. “We could stay over at your house tonight!”

“Ah, it's kind of a mess right now. We're doing some remodeling. But when that's done, sure.”

Mackenzie shrugs. “Okay. So how about a sleepover tomorrow tonight at my house? That will give us extra practice time.”

Sarah thinks of the hot shower, the bathtub, toilets with actual running water. “Okay.”

At the cabin that night during supper—fresh northern pike from the river and newly parched wild rice—she mentions the upcoming sleepover.

“Fine, I guess,” Nat says to Artie.

“Sure,” Artie says, sorting out a tiny Y-bone from his fish.

Miles is silent, then mutters something under his breath.

“What?” Sarah asks him.

He shrugs. “Pretty soon you'll be staying in town all the time.”

“It's just a one-night sleepover,” she says.

“You're gonna dump us for hot running water and toilets,” Miles says.

“Hot water and soap is a good thing,” Nat says. They all look at Miles.

“And, by the way, what are you pounding on all the time over by the sawmill?” Sarah asks.

“Nothing,” Miles says quickly.

On Thursday night, after a long practice and a deliciously long hot shower at Mackenzie's house, it's time for dinner with the Phelps family. Jane is cheerful as always, but Mackenzie's father is quieter than normal. Mitzy, who has her own chair and cushion, peeks up above the tabletop; her little dark eyes follow the food bowls as they are passed. Every once in a while Jane slips Mitzy a tiny bite of food.

“So how are things at home?” Bill asks Sarah.

“Fine, thanks,” she says quickly. “We finally got our boat in. My parents are busy getting the place ready for winter, that sort of thing,” she says.

He narrows his eyes. “Ready for winter?”

“It needs … some winterizing. It's actually our summer place—The Cottage, we call it.”

“I see,” Bill says as he passes the casserole dish to his wife.

“We
must
meet your parents, soon!” Mackenzie's mom says, and touches Sarah's arm.

“For sure,” Sarah says, matching her with cheeriness. “But they love being on the river so much that it's hard to get them away from there. I mean, it's so pretty where we live.”

Bill Phelps makes a throat noise, and the dinner continues with a focus on Mackenzie's tennis career. Once or twice Sarah is certain that Mackenzie's dad is staring at her.

After dinner, she and Mackenzie do the dishes while Jane takes Mitzy for a walk. Mr. Phelps watches television, though sometimes he watches Mackenzie and Sarah—Sarah can feel his gaze.

Suddenly Mackenzie's cell phone plays. She opens it. “It's Django!” she mouths to Sarah, and disappears up the stairs.

Then it's just Sarah in the kitchen. She rattles the dishes loudly as she works.

Bill gets up and comes into the kitchen behind her.

“Hi,” Sarah says stupidly.

He glances around, then back to her. “I want you to know that I know.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know that you don't have a home on the Mississippi River,” he adds, keeping his voice low. “I've checked at the courthouse and in the plat maps, and there's no record of you.”

“It … we inherited the cottage from my grandmother,” Sarah says quickly. “It's probably still in her name.”

“Don't lie. You're only getting yourself in deeper,” he says. “I've also made some calls to the Hubbard County courthouse. Nobody down there has ever heard of your family.”

Sarah swallows. She's rinsing silverware and just happens to have a butter knife in her hand.

“Which means just one thing,” Bill continues, keeping his voice down. He glances around. “You and your family are Travelers.”

“What?!” Sarah exclaims. She manufactures a laugh, but it comes out fake and strangled.

“So let me give it to you straight,” Bill says, leaning closer. He has her cornered in the kitchen. She can smell his breath; it's sour and grapy with wine. “I suggest that you just disappear. From this community. From this school. You have no future here. If you don't, I'll blow the whistle on you; and the sheriff will find you—wherever you and your family are squatting.”

A door bangs.

“Mitzy saw a squirrel!” Jane says from the hallway. “And she barked at it—as if she's any danger to a squirrel!”

Bill Phelps pivots to pick up a dirty plate and pretends to be rinsing it.

“Hey, you two don't have to do the dishes!” Jane says cheerfully as she comes into the kitchen.

“No problem,” Sarah says, slipping the knife into the dishwasher.

“Just trying to get to know Sarah a little better,” Bill says.

“That's so sweet of you,” his wife says, and gives him a quick kiss. “Now, you go read your newspaper, and I'll help Sarah finish up.”

Luckily, the dishes are nearly all put into the dishwasher. “I guess I'll head up and see if Mackenzie's off the phone,” Sarah says.

Once out of sight up the carpeted stairs, she pauses to grip the railing and get her breath. Her heart is slamming inside her chest like an insane clock. Mackenzie laughs once behind her bedroom wall. Sarah heads for the hall bathroom, where she locks the door. She sits down on the closed toilet seat and looks around: the shiny bathtub, the faucets, the gleaming chrome, the fluffy rugs on the tile floor, the lineup of shampoo and conditioners and colored body washes. The whole room tilts as if she might faint—but she keeps taking deep breaths until her heartbeat slows.

“Hey,” Mackenzie says when Sarah enters the room.

Sarah musters a smile.

Mackenzie cocks her head. “Are you all right? Your face is, like, white.”

“Sure,” Sarah says. “I think I ate too much. Or something.”

In the morning she wakes up exhausted. Mackenzie's bedroom is too hot, the bed is too soft, and Mitzy kept nuzzling around all night on top of the covers.

“Shower?” Mackenzie mumbles.

“No rush. You go first,” Sarah says.

As water hisses behind the bathroom door, Sarah looks around the bedroom. It's totally girly in whites and pinks, with wall posters of boy bands. It feels like a room from a movie set or a museum. A diorama dedicated to showing how teenage American girls once lived. She has a vision of shabby people from the future passing through this very bedroom on a guided tour; they murmur and point at things in disbelief. The marked path on the white carpet is worn down to its mesh by rough sandals and boots. Mackenzie's big bed is roped off. The closet and the chest of drawers are open for ease of viewing. All the clothes. The endless pairs of shoes. The tour ends at the bright bathroom, with its soaps and bottles of shampoo and conditioner, its long, fluffy towels. In the line of gawkers are the little girls from the Travelers' minivan. They are now teenagers but even prettier with their cornrow hair—and when the museum guide is not looking, they reach across to touch the soft, stuffed animals on the bed. Examine the tubes of lipstick and eyeliner in the bathroom. With a guilty look over their shoulders, they quickly replace things exactly as they were and shuffle forward. The line is moving again—it's a busy day at the Museum of the American Teenage Girl.