Ripple (6 page)

I sob, a great, choking thing that racks my shoulders. Collapsing into a ball, I push the book off me. It hits the floor with a loud thunk.

I suppose I knew all along my mother killed herself, but seeing it like this, so black and white, is devastating. It was her decision to tie that cinder block to her feet, to leap from the pier.

And hers is the same pain that I live with every day.

What if I’d had this book two years ago? Would I have gone swimming with Steven? I’d like to think no. Never. But I’m not sure if that’s true.

For two hundred and fifty years, every generation gave birth to another girl like me. And every girl lured another man to his death. It was inevitable, my killing Steven.

I know what I am now, what I’ll always be—a siren.

I clutch my knees to my chest and sob even harder, hoping my grandmother can’t hear me.

I
walk through the double doors at school, tightening my grip on the straps of my plain black backpack. I’m only a few feet into the hall when it all goes bad. My foot hits something and I fly across the entry. I scramble to stop myself, but all I can do is throw my arms up and brace for impact. My elbows skin on the ugly brown carpet, burn with pain.

I realize belatedly what tripped me: a foot in my path. Someone did it on purpose.

I end up sprawled out, facedown, my backpack thrown forward. I pick up my head. Everyone is staring. Physically, though, I’m okay.

My binder doesn’t fare so well. My assignments and notes are all scattered, strewn across the floor.

I look up again at a sea of my former friends. Sienna, Nikki, Kristi, half of Steven’s former football teammates. Two years ago, they would have had my back if someone had done this to me. It would have been
them
to help me to my feet, to collect my things.

Instead, they just stand there, smirking. Some even laugh and whisper.

But I won’t let them see that they’re getting to me. I rip my gaze away and take in long, calming breaths. I focus on my anger. On the asshole who must have tripped me.

But it doesn’t matter how hard I try to hide it: they do get under my skin. Not because of their taunts, so much. But because they know the truth, that I’m responsible for Steven’s death. Everything they do to me just reminds me of what I did to
him.

I grit my teeth as people begin to turn away, the entertainment officially over. They tread on my binder, shredding my trig homework and leaving dirty footprints in their wake. I snatch up what remains of my homework and shove it into my binder.

Suddenly, a hand appears in front of me, holding a stack of my chemistry notes. My eyes trail from the hand, up to the arm, then shoulder, then neck . . . until I’m staring up at Cole’s face. He looks concerned. “I think these belong to you.”

I look up at him, forcing all emotion from my own face. I stifle a
thank you
as I stand up, rip the papers from his hands, and shove them inside my bag. For a split second, I let my gaze linger on his.

Then I spin around and stalk off.

 

Several hours later, I sit in English class, fidgeting in my seat. Sienna and Cole sit too close for comfort. Everyone does.

I wish they would all simply forget my existence. I wish I could forget them, too, but it’s impossible to forget my former life. I ache for the friends I once had, because I know that I can never have them again.

I have to deny myself friends. It’s the only way I’ll stay alive. The only way
they’ll
stay alive.

And it’s not like they want me back anyway. At Steven’s funeral, Cole tried to talk to me, but I wasn’t ready to talk to
anyone.
And then seconds later, Sienna showed up, told me I had no right to be there, and, in a final display of emotion, slapped me.

Cole grabbed her by the waist and hauled her away, screaming; and by the next time I saw her at school, she’d withdrawn, created a cool, detached image that fools everyone. Everyone but me.

Mrs. Jensen hands back my graded homework for the first two weeks, jolting me from my trip down memory lane. I look at the marks.

I smile a little as I slide the graded essays into the back pocket of my mostly reassembled binder. If the rest of life could just be as easy as homework. It’s almost as effortless as swimming.

Mrs. Jensen returns to the front, dusting her hands off on her jeans. “So now that that’s done, let’s get right into our first big project.”

A few students groan, but I perk up. Even though I don’t look forward to
school,
I like my classes. Someday, I’m going to be a doctor or a research scientist. I’ll find the cure for cancer or something. I’ll give back to this world the things I’ve taken.

I’ll go away for college, somewhere far away and big enough that I can be anonymous, blend into the student body. Sure, I’ll have to find somewhere else to swim, but I’ll worry about that when I come to it.

“Your first project will be done in groups.”

Murmurs spread throughout the room as students attempt to snag partners. My heart sinks, even as I try to remind myself this is part of working toward something bigger than the curse. Maybe I can work with that new guy, Erik something-or-other. Maybe he hasn’t heard the rumors about me yet, even though we’ve already had weeks of classes.

Mrs. Jensen clears her throat to silence the rumblings. “Before you get too excited, I will be
assigning
groups of three. So let’s see. . . .” Mrs. Jensen begins dividing the room up. As she reaches our corner of the room, the horrible, inevitable truth dawns: I’m going to end up with Sienna and Cole.

No.
This can’t happen. I can’t talk to her. I can’t talk to
him.

Just as I expected, she names the three of us off and then turns back to the board, as if she hasn’t just drastically altered the course of the universe, or at the very least, sparked off the third world war. I grip the edges of my table and struggle to breathe.

“For your project, I’d like you to read and discuss a novel. You may choose any book you’d like, but you’ll need to submit your selection for approval by tomorrow. Your assignment will be to complete an interpretive project for the class, which must include both a paper and a presentation. There are three of you, so I expect some good results.”

The class begins shuffling their desks around. I wait a few moments longer than I should and then grab the edges of mine and spin around, until I’m staring at Sienna’s hostile face. I glance at Cole. His sweet, unassuming smile catches me off guard. How can he look so relaxed when he knows what it’s like between Sienna and me?

“I’m thinking fantasy,” I say through gritted teeth. “Maybe one of Eva Stonewall’s novels.”

“Do you even know how
weird
you are sometimes? You look like you swallowed denture glue.”

“What’s that? I couldn’t hear you because your prepster shirt is so loud,” I say. Her eyes flutter momentarily as she glances down at the bright pink and yellow V-neck she’s wearing. She glares at me.

Cole glances between us but ignores our verbal smack down. “Those are girlie books. How about something by Carl Levison?”

“Ick. His books are boring,” Sienna says. “If you’ve read one, you’ve read them all.”

“Are you kidding me? That man’s a genius,” Cole says.

Sienna shrugs. “Let’s do
Manhattan Prep.
”

I snort. “Leave it to you to choose something trashy like
Manhattan Prep.
Mrs. Jensen will never let us do that—it’s right up there with comic books.”

Sienna rolls her eyes at me and crosses her arms. “Not if we play it right. We can tell Mrs. Jensen we plan to explore whether the books are an intentionally satirical view of the privileged. Maybe the author’s true motivation is to show how shallow the elite really are by exaggerating the behavior of the characters. She’s mocking them, not glamorizing them.”

Cole doesn’t hesitate in countering her. “There’s no way those books are meant as satire. They’re just trashy soap-opera novels. Mindless drivel.” All of a sudden, he pauses. His eyes light up and he sits up straighter. “What if we use that format for our presentation? We can stage a debate for the class—are the books meant to be tongue-in-cheek, or are they nothing more than trash?”

Sienna crosses her arms. “Uh-uh. We can do a normal presentation, one where we separately memorize our parts. No . . .”—her voice trails off, and she glares at me—“interaction required.”

“Come on. I thought you were valedictorian?” Cole says.

She snorts. “I
am
valedictorian.”

Cole gives her a pointed look. “Prove it. We do something unexpected, something inventive, and we’ll nail this.”

Sienna huffs, her need to succeed outweighing her desire to avoid me. “Whatever.”

Cole leans back against his chair, a smug expression on his face.

I turn away and stare at the scribbles of permanent marker on the corner of my desk, trying in vain to keep the panic at bay. I can’t do this. I can’t work with her. With them.

When I look up, Cole is grinning at me, sending my heart scrambling. “You in?”

I smile weakly, nod, and yank my desk away, counting down the seconds until I can slip into my lake tonight.

T
hat night, I sit at the dinner table across from my grandmother. Behind me, the wood stove crackles, warming my backside. I pick up a pretzel twist from the bowl in between us and chew off the pieces of salt. Gram reaches out, sliding four tiles up next to an
S. BOATS.
How ironic.

She looks at me as she lines it up on the Scrabble board, and for a second I think she’s going to say something, but she doesn’t.

“Do anything fun today?” I ask.

She chews on her lip while she reaches into the plastic bag and draws her replacement letters. “Oh, not really. One of my exercise sessions at the center. How about you?”

I stare at my tiles. I drew a bunch of consonants, and only one vowel—a
U.
The fire crackles again as a log splits, and the light of the room turns a little more orange. “We got a new assignment in English. It’s a group thing. We have to read a novel, and then we’re going to debate about it in front of the class.”

“Oh?” She raises a brow.

I spell out
HURRY
on the board and take a measly handful of points. My grandmother isn’t very good at this game, but I like letting her win. It’s a careful balance not to give away my ploy.

“Yeah. The teacher paired me with Sienna and Cole.”

She fiddles with her tiles, arranging and rearranging them on her little tray. “Well that worked out nicely, being in a group with your friends.” She raises her eyes to meet mine, and I try not to react. I look down at the bag and grab a few replacement tiles, hoping my evasiveness doesn’t give me away.

Lately, she’s been getting suspicious. It began this summer, when she realized I was alone the entire time, reading college textbooks and watching Discovery Channel documentaries. I told her Sienna spent the whole break in France with her family. It worked, for a while, until she ran into Sienna’s mom at the bank. Leave it to her to remember the one thing I wish she’d forget. I had to scramble and make something up, about how they must have come home early, but I still don’t know for sure if she bought it.

“Yeah, it’s cool. The project should be an easy A.”

“How are the rest of your classes?”

I shrug. “Same as usual. Some really good teachers, some meh.”

She nods, finally spelling out
PORK.
“You should do a movie night soon, like you used to when you were younger. Have Sienna over, get some of your favorite buttered popcorn.” She looks up at me, her eyes appraising, studying my reaction. She might be forgetful but she’s not stupid.

I fight the urge to swallow as I know she’ll catch on. “Yeah. That would be fun.”

“Great. Talk to her about it and I’ll take care of the rest. Well, you two should probably pick the movie.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” I nod again and spell out
PATIO.

My grandmother smiles triumphantly as she uses the rest of her tiles to spell out
ORDAINED
. She waves her hand across the board with a flourish. “I win!”

In more ways than one, I think.

 

The following day, Mrs. Jensen gives us time to work on our projects in class. I wish she wouldn’t. Maybe then I could just e-mail some debate points to Cole, and he could do a few and send them to Sienna, and we could avoid talking until debate day. I still can’t believe an English teacher would let us choose
Manhattan Prep
at all, but I guess Mrs. Jensen was intrigued by the debate idea.

It’s so hard to be around Sienna and not think about everything we shared growing up. Not think about laughing so hard we spit soda all over her dining room table. Not think about the first time her mom dropped us off at the mall by ourselves and we felt so adult buying our back-to-school clothes without parental guidance.

How can it be two years now since we shared that stuff?

The three of us push our desks together, and Sienna pulls out a dog-eared copy of
Manhattan Prep.
Cole digs out his own copy and sets it down on the desk. I can tell he bought it recently, because it has the newer cover with the cast from the TV show, instead of the original.

“Please tell me someone saw you buying that,” I say. I attempt to look haughty and snobbish, but I wonder if I’m pulling it off. He doesn’t look at me like everyone else does. I feel stripped bare every time he’s close.

Cole doesn’t take my insult seriously. “Nope. I borrowed it from my sister,” he announces, grinning.

Sienna sets down two piles of note cards, one pink and one yellow. Most of them have her loopy, feminine handwriting all over them. “We can put the pros on one color and cons on the other. Like a point-counterpoint thing.”