Between Page 5

Everybody’s parents fight, I think again. My dad and Nicole fight sometimes. It’s not like my parents’ marriage was a disaster. Sure, I can remember the rumors clearly, even though I wish I couldn’t, but I know they aren’t true. No matter what anybody else might think.

  “Would you pull yourself together?” Alex asks.

  “Shut up.”

  He raises an eyebrow but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he turns his attention to the scene unfolding inside the boat. Together we watch.

  A couple of my friends—Mera and Topher—are openly smoking cigarettes, their fingers shaking, silent tears running down their cheeks. Everyone is white, shocked into paleness, their summer tans nowhere in sight.

  Without a word, my stepmom, Nicole, goes first to Mera, then to Topher, taking both of their cigarettes. She drops one of them into an empty beer bottle and keeps the other one for herself. Nicole quit smoking a few years ago, when my dad had his heart attack. I guess she figures now is as good a time as any to start up again.

  Once everybody is sitting down, Joe Wright takes a seat in the captain’s chair. He’s holding a tiny spiral notepad and a pen. It seems like an impossibly small tool for solving the mystery of how I ended up dead. There’s another cop standing beside him, also holding a notepad. His name tag reads SHANE EVANS.

  Joe Wright clears his throat. “Okay, kids.” He takes a deep breath and rubs an invisible spot on his forehead, like this whole situation is giving him a headache. “Let’s start at the beginning, all right? Tell me what happened.”

  Nobody says anything for a good long minute.

  “I know you kids were partying here. It was her birthday, right?”

  “Liz.” Richie stares at the hardwood floor of the boat. “Her name is Liz.”

  “And you are? That’s a good place to begin, actually—let’s get all your names, and you can tell me what you remember from last night. One by one.”

  “It’s fascinating,” Alex whispers, as though they might hear us.

  “What is?” I can’t stop looking at my dad and Nicole. They are both trembling, probably from shock. I would do anything to put my arms around them right now, to really feel them, and to have them realize my touch.

  “I’ve never seen the cool kids in such disarray. Your friends don’t even have on makeup. They don’t look so hot without it. Don’t you think?”

  I scowl at him. “When would they have had time to put on makeup? Do you think they’re really that shallow?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me.” He squints. “Especially Josie and Mera. You three were the most superficial people I’d ever met. You know what my friends and I used to call girls like you? Girls who had everything handed to them on a silver platter, who only cared about how they looked and who was dating the most popular guy?”

  “What?”

  His grin grows wider. “We called you bitches. You girls were straight-up bitches.”

  The comment stings. Coolly, I say, “Funny, I thought it might be a trick question. I assumed you didn’t have any friends.” Right away, I’m sorry for saying it. I almost want to apologize, but the silence dangles between us, so palpably uncomfortable, so thick with other emotions, that I don’t know what I’d say.

  “I had friends,” Alex says. “You just didn’t know them.”

  “Who were your friends, Alex?”

  “I worked with them. At the Mystic Market.” He pauses. “They were older. Mostly college kids. But they were nice. They liked me. They were different from you and your group. They understood that there was life beyond high school, that there were other things that mattered besides what brand of purse you carried or who you were dating.”

  I shrug. “But high school was life. It was all we knew. So even if those things wouldn’t matter forever, they mattered then.”

  Alex opens his mouth to respond. But before he has a chance to reply with what I’m sure would be another one of his biting observations, Mera starts to talk. As she speaks, my memory of who she is becomes clearer and clearer.

  Mera Hollinger: eighteen years old. Blond hair, long and highlighted, just like all of my other friends. She’s a swimmer, and a very good one at that. She’s also kind of stupid. She’s all beauty and athletic prowess, no brains whatsoever. Out of all my friends, I like her the least. I’m almost disappointed that she’s the one who found me; aside from her other flaws, Mera can be melodramatic. Once school starts, I’m sure she’ll be taking full advantage of the fact that she discovered my body, using every opportunity to tell the story, making sure to mention what I looked like when they pulled me out of the water.

  Then there’s Mera’s boyfriend: Topher Paul, also newly eighteen, who’s sitting beside her now, holding her hand. They were the first couple I knew of in our school to have sex, back in the tenth grade. They’re joined at the hip. They’ll probably get married someday. Topher is a real high school celebrity, a football star, the only son of wealthy parents who dote on him like he’s God’s gift to the world. He is prone to fits of anger, sometimes difficult to get along with, but deep down he’s a nice guy. We have known each other since preschool.

  “We were just having a regular party,” Mera says.

  “There was nothing out of the ordinary,” Topher echoes.

  “And you are?” Joe Wright is frantically taking notes; there are visible beads of sweat on his forehead even though it’s cool inside the boat.

  “Topher Paul. Christopher. My father is Dr. Michael Paul.” Topher pauses for effect. “The dentist,” he adds. “He’s Noank’s most popular dentist and oral surgeon.”

  Joe gives Topher an odd look. He says, his tone dry and sarcastic, “Well, then. I suppose that would explain your beautiful smile.”

  “His dad’s a dentist? I don’t see what the big deal is,” Alex says, confused.

  “Hey, that’s my friend,” I tell him. “And it kind of is a big deal. His dad is on the board of directors for the country club. And, you know, Topher’s mom was Miss Connecticut once, too.”

  “Hmm. How important and meaningful. She was really contributing to the betterment of society, wasn’t she?”

  “Just be quiet. I’m trying to pay attention here.”

  “So it was a normal party,” Joe is saying, “and ‘normal’ for you kids involves drugs and alcohol?” He raises an eyebrow in my parents’ direction. “Who bought the alcohol?”

  When nobody says anything, Joe lets out a long sigh. “This is serious, now. I need to know where you got the booze.”

  “It was on the boat,” my dad whispers. He squeezes his eyes shut. A single fat tear drips down his white, whiskery cheek. “We keep the bar stocked.” He looks up, glances around at my friends. “We trusted them,” he says.

  Caroline Michaels, who has been sitting silently on the floor until now, finally speaks up. “We weren’t that drunk,” she says. “Liz wasn’t a big drinker. It was just something to do.”

  Caroline: seventeen years old. As sweet and naive as they come. She is the youngest of four girls. She made head cheerleader at age sixteen. Her claim to fame is the ability to do a triple back handspring, which she does often and with great enthusiasm at football games, flashing her perfect, Lycra-covered ass at the adoring crowd in the bleachers. Her parents travel frequently, and most of the time they go to exotic places like Vienna or Athens or Egypt. She’s well known for throwing the most amazing parties—I somehow know this, even though I can’t remember anything specific from any of them. It’s like somebody has taken my memory and deleted entire sections, simply wiping it clean, while leaving other simple details untouched. The effect is unsettling, frightening, and intriguing all at once. I don’t even know who I am. Beyond that, I don’t like who I seemed to be all that much. And I don’t know what happened to make me that way. But I get the feeling I’m going to find out.

  “Right,” Joe says, writing in his notebook. “And what about the drugs? Pot? Coke?”

  “Jesus,” Richie blurts. “No coke. Nothing like that. A l
ittle weed, that’s all.”

  “So you were partying,” Joe continues, “getting drunk, getting stoned … and then what happened? Someone get in a fight with the birthday girl?”

  “No,” Richie says. “I don’t know what happened. We went to sleep. We all went to sleep.”

  Richie Wilson: almost eighteen. Also known in school as Famous Richie Wilson. He’s my only friend who’s never worn braces; his teeth are naturally perfect. He is the smartest person I’ve ever met. He exudes confidence. I might have been pretty and popular, but I understand—I always understood, even in life—how lucky I was to have Richie. He is an all-around nice guy and the love of my life. I feel more drawn to him than anyone on this boat.

  Right now, though, his confidence, that self-assured coolness that drew everybody to him, is nowhere in sight. Instead, he looks deflated. He is shaking. Somehow, I know that he’s dying to go home, to lock himself in his bedroom and smoke weed until he can barely remember his own name. Richie has a drug problem—it’s his major flaw. But it didn’t matter much to me; I couldn’t help but love him regardless.

  “And when we woke up, Liz was gone,” Josie says. “We thought maybe she went up to the house, for food or something. She gets spacey when she doesn’t eat. She gets hypoglycemic.” Josie’s gaze flickers to my dad and Nicole. “She’s had problems with passing out. She’s been in the hospital because of it.”

  Josie Valchar: seventeen years old, a full six months younger than me. Even though she’s my stepsister, she and her mom took the last name when our parents got married. Although some people don’t believe we’re stepsisters. People who don’t know any better. Other than Richie, she has been my best friend since elementary school. Josie believes in ghosts; like her mother, she frequently goes to the Spiritualist Church in Groton. She claims she’s always felt a connection with the spirit world, but it’s obvious to me, right now, that she’s full of it. She’s just a scared kid, like the rest of my friends, devastated and horrified. I don’t know what she’ll ever do without me.

  “Hypoglycemic?” Alex asks. “What’s that?”

  “It’s nothing,” I say. “It’s just low blood sugar. It happens when I don’t get enough to eat.”

  “You mean like diabetes?”

  “Sort of. I’m not diabetic, though. But I get dizzy a lot. Like Josie said, sometimes I pass out.”

  “Well, that’s interesting.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, “it is. I was in the hospital last year because I fainted on my stairs. I got a concussion,” I say, almost brightly, encouraged that I remember the detail. “And I was drinking last night—I’m not supposed to drink.”

  He nods. “And now look what’s happened. You’re dead. Did you learn nothing from health class?”

  I give him a cool stare. “It’s no wonder you weren’t popular. You aren’t very nice.”

  He stares right back. “Being nice doesn’t have anything to do with being popular. You of all people should know that.”

  I close my eyes for a minute. He’s right. I should try to be nice. As politely as possible, I say, “Well, I’ve asked you twice now. Please shut up. I’m trying to listen.”

  Joe is looking over the notes he’s made in his tiny spiral notebook. “So … all right. Is everyone telling the same story here? You fell asleep, and when you woke up, Liz was gone.”

  “That’s right,” Mera says.

  “And then someone decided to go look for her?”

  Mera nods. “I did.”

  “After how long? Ten minutes? An hour?”

  My friends stare at each other. Finally, Richie says, “It couldn’t have been longer than maybe fifteen minutes. We sent Mera up to the house.” He swallows. “But she didn’t make it. She walked outside, and she saw Liz right away.”

  Joe takes a long moment to consider each of my friends. He stares at my parents. I notice a softness to his eyes, a watery quality. This isn’t easy for him, either. He knew who I was; I wouldn’t be surprised if he remembers me and Richie from that night a few months ago. Two kids in love, steaming up the windows of a car after prom.

  “So we’ve got ourselves a little mystery,” he murmurs. “Isn’t that something?”

  Silence. The calm inside the boat is unnatural, buoyed by silent horror and heartache.

  Joe closes his notebook. “All right. That’s it for now, kids. I’m going to be in touch with all of you, though. So, you know, don’t go too far.” He glances at my parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Valchar, we’re gonna need you both at the station directly.”

  They don’t say anything. They only nod.

  Alex and I follow Joe and his partner, Shane, onto the dock. Once they’re out of earshot from the boat, they stop.

  “You believe that?” Shane asks.

  “Do I believe what? That an eighteen-year-old girl fell into the water and drowned in the middle of the night without anybody noticing?” He takes a long look at my parents’ boat. “I don’t know. She had a history. I guess we’ll see what the medical exam says.” He appears to be thinking. “It’s probably an accident. That’s my best guess.”

  “But it sounds kinda fishy,” Shane prods, “doesn’t it? Like a bunch of liars in there with a lousy story they’re trying to keep straight.”

  “Fishy,” Joe repeats. “Ha.” He pats Shane on the shoulder. “You watch too many Law and Order reruns, you know that? This isn’t New York City. I’m sure her friends didn’t just decide to up and kill her.”

  Five

  Before people knew me as a dead girl, they knew me as a runner. I remember this fact as clearly as I remember my own name or my mother’s face. I was on the cross-country team. I wasn’t all that fast—I usually clocked around an eight-minute mile—but I could run for hours. And I did; every morning, even during the school year, I’d roll out of bed before sunrise, tug on my running shoes, and go up and down the Sound, along the road leading to Mystic—which is the larger community that neighbors Noank—sometimes all the way to the outskirts of town before turning around to come home. It wasn’t unusual for me to do ten miles in a day. It is such a comfort that these memories are still with me, to know that they are ingrained within my being. At any time, I can close my eyes and almost hear the rhythm of my footsteps against the road.

  It’s funny—my parents used to worry about me, running alone in the mornings like that. Water everywhere, all around us, and they were always worried about my safety on dry land.

  For right now, everyone’s version of the events from that night seems to point to the conclusion that I drowned. The story is this: I was drunk, had low blood sugar, and I went outside to get some air. I stumbled and fell off the docks. Nobody saw anything. Nobody heard anything.

  And people seem comfortable enough with that version of the truth. My parents seem to accept it; my friends seem to believe it. It’s the Official Story. Case closed.

  But unofficially, Joe Wright is standing in a suit and tie at the back of the funeral home, watching with quiet eyes as the crowd shifts in the room.

  Getting around with Alex is easy enough; all it takes is for me to close my eyes as I make some kind of physical contact between the two of us, and he can come with me anywhere. Even though we don’t like each other, I can tell that we’re both grateful for the company. Regardless, aside from the memories that I visit on my own, when I choose to leave him behind, we’ve been practically inseparable since the day I died, bonded by an unseen force that I don’t have a name for.

  We’re at my funeral. It’s the same funeral home where they held services for my mother when I was nine years old.

  “She’s not here,” I murmur, tears coming to my eyes.

  “Who isn’t?” Alex asks.

  Even though I know nobody can see us, I feel strangely out of place with Alex, both of us so casually dressed among all the mourners in black. I gaze down at my boots. Their gemstones shimmer beneath the light from the chandeliers that hang in the funeral home. They hurt my feet so badly; all I want
is to slip into a pair of sneakers, to wiggle my toes freely, but I died with these boots on, and it seems as though they’re here to stay. It’s weird; I can’t feel any pain aside from my feet. I don’t understand why.

  “My mother,” I say.

  “Hmm.” Alex’s gaze drifts across the room. “Everyone else is here, that’s for sure.”

  It’s true. As I’ve reminded him more than once, I was very popular; it looks like practically the whole school has turned up to cry over me. But my close friends have the premium seats. Mera, Caroline, and Topher are seated in the second row, behind my immediate family. The other two—Richie and Josie—are seated with my dad and Nicole. Richie’s parents are there, too, a few rows behind my friends, sitting with Caroline’s and Topher’s parents. I haven’t spotted Mera’s mom and dad yet, but I’m sure they’re here somewhere.

  Death is tricky. My personal experience, I’ve learned, is different from Alex’s in a few ways. For instance, I still have sea legs; everywhere I go, even on dry land, I’m bothered by a persistent rocking feeling. And I’m freezing all the time, chilled almost to my bones. It feels like being submerged in cold water. Alex tells me that he feels cold most of the time, too, but more like he’s alone in the wind, in a wide-open space. It makes sense, when I think about it: death by sea, death by land. What follows really should be similar. Sometimes, when I concentrate on the taste in my mouth, it almost feels like I’m swallowing salt water.

  And it’s tricky in other ways. In the first day or so after I died, I had to really concentrate to bring myself into a memory. And when I was watching one, it felt very separate from my consciousness in the present. But what were initially so pronounced as flashbacks into my old life come quicker now, drifting almost like memories unfolding before me, the past and the present beginning to blend together—except that I’m not living the memories this time; I’m only a spectator.

  Like my mother’s funeral. All of a sudden, in a blink that I’m not anticipating, I see my nine-year-old self sitting in the back row of the funeral home, watching as my father stands before a closed oak casket. Inside the casket, I know, is my mother.