Undercurrent (17 page)

“Just like that?” I whispered.

“Just like that.”

He said this so simply, so matter-of-factly, I knew it must be true. “And Justine?”

“She wasn’t even two years old at the time. She wouldn’t have remembered your first year on earth if you’d spent it under our roof.”

“And Charlotte?”

“She returned to Winter Harbor.” His gaze fell to the postcard I still held. “A week later, there was a fire. At her store, in the middle of the night.”

I watched his lips tremble. I was tempted to hug him but resisted.

“I don’t know why she was there so late,” he said. “No one does. But she probably fell asleep, because she never called

911. By the time someone passed by, saw smoke through the trees, and alerted authorities, it was too late. The building, with Charlotte inside, was gone.”

There was a dull pain in my chest, like my lungs were contracting in sympathy. I’d known this had happened, but hearing it from Big Poppa, being so near his sadness, made it much more real.

“A few months after that,” Dad said, reaching into the wooden box again, “I received another note.”

I took the card. It was ivory, its edges worn. The handwriting was similar to that on the postcard, but looser, with more space between letters.

Dear Philip,

I’m writing on behalf of Charlotte Bleu, my younger sister. As I was sorting through Charlotte’s personal belongings in her home after the tragic fire, I came upon several notes you’d written her. Knowing the brief yet important history you shared, I wanted to reach out. I hope you don’t mind.

Needless to say, I’m devastated by this unexpected loss. And while I don’t know you personally, and while you certainly don’t owe me anything, I wondered if you would consider a trial partnership. In exchange for regular, written updates about Vanessa, I will, if and when the time comes, answer any and all questions she may have about her mother. As I understand it, you and Charlotte didn’t spend very much time together; I would be pleased to share with your daughter what you cannot.

This is a difficult, sensitive situation for all involved, and I understand if you’d rather sever ties completely and move forward. However, if you’re willing to attempt this arrangement, I assure you that I will act with the utmost care and discretion. I have no personal agenda other than to know my niece from a distance, and to do for her what her mother would have asked me to. I look forward to your response.

With kindest regards,

W. Donagan

P.O. Box 9892

Boston, MA 02135

“Willa… my aunt,” I said, trying out the word, “she’s lived in Boston this whole time? And she’s never wanted to see me? To at least meet me?”

“She said she didn’t want to complicate things any more than they already were. I agreed that was best.”

I looked up. “And now that I know who she is?”

He gave me a small, sorry smile. “Her feelings haven’t changed. That’s why we met today. She told me you’d been coming into the coffee shop and that she thought you knew something was up. That made her uneasy. She’s always felt very strongly that direct communication between you two would only worsen a difficult situation.”

“She’s wrong.” My voice was sharp, urgent.

“Excuse me?”

I understood his surprise and did my best to rewind. After all, he didn’t know everything either.

“Dad,” I said, taking a deep breath, struggling to recall some of what I’d planned to say, “I’m not going to lie. When I first learned that Mom wasn’t really my mother—”

“She is your mother,” he corrected quickly.

I tried again. “When I first learned she wasn’t my biological mother, I was shocked. And angry. And disappointed. I couldn’t fathom how you could do that to her—or to Justine. Part of me still doesn’t, since the one surefire way to resist a siren’s call is to love another woman, and I truly believe you’ve always loved Mom, but maybe Charlotte’s power was extraordinarily strong, or maybe—”

“Vanessa.”

I held my breath, looked at his hand, which he held up like a traffic sign.

“What did you just say?” he asked.

I’d been so focused on racing ahead to the next thought it was hard to remember. “That you’ve always loved Mom?”

“After that.”

“That maybe Charlotte’s powers were really strong?”

His head tilted to one side, and his eyebrows lowered. “What powers?”

I hesitated, then, realizing the confusion, shook my head and offered a small smile. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s not—it’s hard and weird and unreal—but at least I know now. You don’t have to hide it anymore.”

“Hide… what?”

My lips, still lifted, froze. Images of Paul Carsons and Tom Connelly and Max Hawkins flashed through my head.

Was it possible?

“Dad,” I said, “you knew that Charlotte wasn’t normal, right? That your relationship… wasn’t normal?”

His eyes narrowed even more. He didn’t have to speak for me to know his answer.

“She was a siren. Like in one of your old books.” I paused, wishing, not for the first time, that we could rewind, start over. “You were her target.”

“D
O YOU HAVE
any special skills?”

“Special skills?” I repeated.

The man waved around a champagne glass filled with sparkling cider. “Like playing the accordion, or competitive flame throwing, or something else you might not think to include on your application but that could set you apart from the thousands of other seniors with great grades and standard extracurricular activities?”

I can breathe underwater. And command the attention of every guy in the room just by walking into it. And make enemies with every girl in the room the same way
.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“What about your family? Maybe your uncle’s a famous actor? Or your second cousin’s an Olympic luger? At Colgate, your family’s our family, so if the relatives are doing anything exceptional, you should definitely let us know.”

My female relatives kill men for sport. Will that win me early acceptance?

“They’re all pretty average,” I said, holding up my empty water glass. “Would you mind… ?”

Beaming at the request, he took the glass and started backing up, toward the refreshment table. “Don’t you go anywhere! Next I want to tell you what Colgate can do to make your life—”

I knew I should warn him that he was about to collide with a waiter, but not doing so bought me about twenty seconds as he stumbled and brushed juice off his lapel. I used the time to get a head start toward the other side of the room.

“Vanessa!” a female voice called out behind me.

I glanced over my shoulder to see Ms. Mulligan hurrying after me, holding a small blue Yale flag overhead. Behind her was another male recruiter in a pinstriped suit and bold red tie. He was already smiling, which made me move faster. Shielded by clusters of students, I zigzagged through the transformed gymnasium. By the time I reached the nearly empty state-school section, which Hawthorne had deigned to include for their few scholarship students, Ms. Mulligan and the Yalie had given up on me and moved on to the senior class president.

I took a water bottle from my backpack and drank. I hadn’t been feeling well since my long talk with Dad the day before, when I’d told him everything I knew about the Marchands and last summer and had shown him old Winter Harbor Herald articles online for backup. I’d also told him I’d inherited some of Charlotte’s abilities but left out a few key details, like my involvement in freezing the harbor and how unpredictable my physical health had been since then. But even without that information, we’d talked for hours. I’d left his office exhausted and thirstier than I’d been in weeks. I would’ve skipped today’s networking event if attendance hadn’t been mandatory for all seniors; I didn’t need to attract even more unwanted attention by breaking rules and getting in trouble.

Plus, the event gave me somewhere to be besides home for a few hours. This was awkward and uncomfortable, but since Mom was still studying home movies and Dad had taken a personal day to hide out in his office, it was also preferable.

I wandered around the room’s perimeter, careful to stay a safe distance from the long tables covered in fancy linens and bouquets of flowers. We’d been instructed to break the strict dress code so that the event felt more like the “mocktail” party it was supposed to be, and my classmates had taken advantage of the opportunity to wear their designer best. The girls had gone for librarian-sexy in pencil skirts, silk blouses, and heels; the guys looked like Wall Street trainees in dark suits and shiny ties.

Not wanting to stand out even more in my Hawthorne skirt and hooded sweatshirt, I’d striven for invisible while getting dressed and had finally decided on black pants, a black turtle-neck, and black flats. I’d taken my hair out of its usual pony-tail and let it hang down so that I could hide behind it when necessary.

As I circled the room, I saw only one other student who’d taken about as much care with his appearance. He wore jeans, a wrinkled beige T-shirt, and a brown sport coat that, with its suede elbow patches and frayed cuffs, was trendy rather than classic. Dirty Converse completed the outfit. He stood in a small circle with two older men who talked to each other like he wasn’t even there.

And as he stared off at nothing, his expression blank, I knew that, in a way, Parker was somewhere else.

“I’m done.”

The salt water I’d just swallowed shot back up my throat.

“Sorry.” Paige patted my back as I struggled not to choke. “I waved on my way over. I thought you saw me.”

I forced the water back down. “What about your list?”

She held up a notebook. Each of the dozens of colleges she’d been interested in learning more about was crossed off with a single red line.

“They’re all either too big, too small, too expensive, or too hard to get into. And I’m definitely not enough of anything for them.” Her arm fell to her side. “The Amherst guy asked me what sports I play, and when I said I swam for fun, he excused himself to make an important phone call—then went to the refreshment table instead.”

“It’s his loss,” I said. “These schools are so used to their stuffy traditions, they don’t know what they’re missing.”

“Well, I don’t think I missed anything. And I’m kind of tired. I think I’ll check out with the nurse and go home early.”

“Do you want me to come with you? We can get something to eat? Or see a movie?”

“Thanks, but I could use a few hours alone.” Apparently seeing concern move across my face, she added, “I’m fine. Really. I just want to sort through some things. College. My future. All that fun stuff.”

“Okay,” I relented, unconvinced. “You’ll call if you change your mind?”

“Absolutely.”

I watched her disappear into the crowd, then continued walking. When I came to a tall cardboard cutout of five beaming students holding diplomas from the University of Massachusetts at Worcester, I ducked between it and the wall. I lowered myself to the floor, tilted my head back until it pressed against cool tile, and closed my eyes.

“You look like you’d rather be home under the covers, too,” a soft voice said.

Looking to my left, I saw a girl not much older than me sitting on the floor a few feet away. She was behind a velvet curtain one college was using as part of its display, hugging her knees to her chest.

“Crowds aren’t really my thing,” I said.

“Mine either. I’m only here to keep my job.”

I lifted my head from the wall. She looked more professional than the students in a gray wool suit and pearls, but her chubby cheeks were flushed, her blonde hair was pulled back into a sloppy ponytail, and black flecks lined her eyelids, like her hand had shaken when she was putting on mascara. She had to be nineteen. Twenty, max.

“Your job?” I asked.

“I work for”—she hesitated before shifting into a squat and peeking around the edge of the curtain; apparently deciding the coast was clear, she raised herself just enough to dash the short distance between her hiding spot and mine—“Dartmouth,” she finished, sitting next to me.

Justine’s answer to the personal essay, the one confirming Mom’s greatest fear—that her eldest daughter, her
only
daughter, wasn’t going to college—flashed before my eyes.

I don’t know… but neither do you…
.

“I’m an admissions counselor,” the girl continued, fanning her face with one hand. “And a Dartmouth alum. When I graduated last spring, I didn’t know what I wanted to do—the school’s amazing at teaching you how to think, but it doesn’t offer one course that tells you exactly how to survive in the real world.”

“You graduated? From college?”

“I look like I’m twelve, I know. I’m actually twenty—I graduated high school early, too. That’s also why I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was so busy cruising at mock speed, I never slowed down long enough to think about where I was going.”

“And when you did, you decided Admissions was it?” I asked, genuinely curious. For all the reasons Hawthorne said we should go to an Ivy League school, staying there post-commencement was never one of them.

“My parents did. It was either that or come home and live with them until I figured out something else, and they worried that if I did that, I’d get a job at Starbucks end up frothing milk forever.”

“That would be their worst nightmare?” I guessed.

“Pretty much. And as it turns out, working in such a public position is mine.” She peeked out into the gym again before turning back to me. “I’m supposed to be talking up all these students and telling them how great Dartmouth is, but I’m wired for studying, not socializing. I’m just no good at it.”

“You’re doing fine right now.”

She’d been biting her bottom lip between sentences, but now her mouth relaxed into a smile. “I’m Alison Seaford. And you’re… ?”

“About as fond of socializing as you are.” I didn’t want to give my name in case Ms. Mulligan had shared my situation with all of today’s recruiters.

“Right. Well, I don’t know what your plans are, but Dartmouth really is a fantastic school. Gorgeous campus, top-notch facilities, award-winning professors. And a totally supportive community.”

She seemed so nice I was tempted to tell her about Mom’s love of Dartmouth, but I didn’t know how to do that without prompting other questions. “Thanks for the info,” I said instead. “I’ll definitely keep it in mind.”

“Great.” She took a deep breath and released it slowly. “I should probably get back out there. But it was nice meeting a fellow wallflower—you don’t see many of those at schools like this. And if you ever have any questions about Dartmouth or college in general, please feel free to shoot me an e-mail.” She took a business card from her suit jacket pocket and handed it to me. “I’m
great
behind the computer.”

It wasn’t until she was gone and I was alone again, staring at the shiny green shield on her business card, that I realized what I’d said.

I’d keep it in mind. Like it was really an option.

For the first time, I was disappointed by the idea of not going to college rather than simply scared because of the reasons it was impossible. The feeling was so uncomfortable—and pointless—I emerged from behind the cardboard graduates and started for the gymnasium entrance. If Paige hadn’t gotten too far, maybe I could still convince her to join me for a movie.

I was halfway around the room’s perimeter when a searing pain exploded in my head. It started between my eyes and shot back, like an electric drill burrowing into my forehead, through my brain, and out of my skull. I clamped my mouth shut to keep from crying out and fell against the wall to prevent myself from collapsing. The pain was blinding, the urge to close my eyes overwhelming, but somehow, I held them open. I wasn’t in the middle of the room, but I was still exposed to anyone looking this way; I didn’t want to alarm them before the white light faded.

Which it did, finally, several seconds later. Just in time for me to see Parker follow a girl into the hallway.

I started after them, glancing once behind me. Across the room, Parker’s dad still talked with the Princeton recruiter like nothing was wrong, like Parker had just excused himself to give his dad time to seal the deal.

But something was very wrong. Because I’d felt pain like that before. I knew what it meant.

Zara was here.

I burst through the gymnasium doors. My head snapped to the right, then the left, but the hallway was empty. They were already gone. I tried to listen for her, to feel her presence, but all I heard was the buzzing of conversation from inside the gym. All I felt was the pain still throbbing, less intensely, inside my head.

Using that as a guide, I headed in the direction of the main entrance, thinking Zara would want to take Parker out of the school and away from witnesses. The ache dulled then sharpened. When it became more bearable, I quickened my pace until it struck again, slowing me down. Twice it seemed to disappear completely, so I backtracked and turned left instead of right, right instead of left. Eventually, the pain strengthened and steadied, and I stopped.

I was so worried—and terrified—it took me a second to realize where the pain had led me.

The natatorium.

Through the glass door I watched Parker take off his shoes and socks, roll the cuffs of his pants to his knees, and sit at the edge of the Olympic-size swimming pool. Zara was nowhere in sight, and for a brief moment I thought—hoped—that she’d left him alone. But as he lowered his legs into the water, she came out of the girls’ changing room, wearing a black bikini and a sheer black sarong. Her dark hair hung loose down her back and the sides of her face, hiding the gleaming silver eyes I knew were aimed right at him. She touched Parker’s shoulder, made sure he appreciated her appearance before slowly untying the sarong and letting it drift away from her waist, down her legs.

The pain swelled against the base of my skull and started down my spine. I twisted the doorknob, but it didn’t budge. She’d locked the door.

I opened my mouth to yell but stopped when she sank slowly into the water, keeping her back to me. Once all the way in, she turned toward him, placing her hands on the tile on either side of his legs. His torso blocked her face, but I knew that her silver eyes were warm and cold at the same time, her pink mouth was partially open in invitation, and her head was coyly dipped to one side.

I knew she looked just like she had when she’d targeted Caleb, then Simon, in the woods. When her beauty had been like a pendulum that hypnotized with a single swing. Later Simon had told me how strong her power over him was, and the one thing that had snapped him out of it.

Me. I’d yelled his name and broken her spell.

But Parker didn’t love me the way Simon did—the way Simon had. I wasn’t even sure he liked me that much. My voice wouldn’t have the same effect on him.

I still had to try.

“Parker!”

Nothing.

“
Parker!
”

Still nothing. His head lowered as hers lifted, and stayed there as they kissed.

I banged on the glass with both fists. Pounded harder when she helped him take off his jacket and pull off his T-shirt. As he started to slide across the pool’s edge, toward her and the water, I spun away from the door and across the hall. I opened the glass display case and grabbed trophies, plaques, and medals. And then I hurled them, one after the other, at the natatorium door.