Wrecked (14 page)

“Hey!” Miranda yelped, but it was only Headmistress Wyar, wearing an impeccable slate-gray pantsuit. Her mouth was drawn in a firm line and her platinum blond bob was hooked back behind her ears. She was the bad cop to Dr. Carlson’s good cop. Even so, seeing Headmistress Wyar was a relief after her run-in with Gray.

“You’re going to be late,” Headmistress Wyar said, seconds before the bell rang. Immediately, kids scurried out of the hallways and into the classrooms. “Off you go. Let’s try to make this day go smoothly,” she said. Miranda cringed. She
hated
it when teachers used words like
let’s
and
we
when they really meant that they didn’t think you were capable, were already assuming
you’d fail, but wanted to make it sound like everyone was in it together. As if to back up that sentiment, Headmistress Wyar gave Miranda a firm shove on the back, as if she were a baby bird being pushed out of the nest.

Miranda didn’t have a choice. She made her way to AP English, all the way at the other end of the school.

B
Y THE TIME SHE GOT TO CLASS ALMOST TEN MINUTES LATER,
she was sweaty and her arms were aching from the crutches. Calhoun was a sprawling building that had begun as a large family mansion back in the nineteenth century and had been added onto ever since the structure had been turned into a school in the early twentieth century. Now, the school was a hodgepodge of different architectural styles: part southern Gothic, part seventies modern, with a futuristic glass and metal science center tacked on almost as an afterthought. Humanities classes were held in the oldest, creakiest part of the school and the uneven floorboards made the already annoying task of maneuvering with crutches even more complicated. Thankfully, her first class was Mr. Devlin’s AP English class. Mr.
Devlin had been her soccer coach since ninth grade. If anyone could help her feel less weird, it was him.

Miranda opened the door and made a beeline for the back of the room, where, as in all Calhoun classrooms, there were cozy couches instead of desks. They did that because the teachers at Calhoun unanimously felt everyone had to feel comfortable and at home to learn properly. Of course, at this point, those seats were already filled and the only place to sit was a desk at the front of the classroom, next to Heather Mackenzie, a ninth-grade prodigy who took all senior-level classes. Great.

Coach Devlin turned and smiled a tight smile as whispers rippled through the class. Miranda kept her gaze focused on the whiteboard at the front of the room. Genevieve and Fletch would have most likely been assigned this class. They always had English classes together.

“Welcome back, Miss O’Rourke,” Coach Devlin said formally, as if she were a new exchange student rather than his star varsity soccer player. But maybe that was just how he acted with all students—after all, she’d never had him as an actual teacher. Miranda knew, even as she thought it, that that was most likely not the case. Coach Devlin was also uncomfortable around her. Just like Gray Miller. Just like Headmistress Wyar.

“Thanks,” Miranda said, the disappointment obvious in her voice as she slid into her seat, not bothering to take out a pen or a notebook.

“We’re discussing Shakespeare’s sonnets. You can look on
with Heather,” Coach said, before perching on the edge of the desk and picking up his own text.

‘Since brass, nor stone, nor boundless sea / but sad mortality alone o’ersways thy power,’ Mr. Devlin quoted, in a baritone voice. “It’s a good first line,” he said, as he slipped off the desk and began pacing back and forth. It was something he always used to do on the soccer field, and it was clear it was a habit he hadn’t broken in the classroom. But really? That sonnet? It seemed a little too apropos to Miranda’s own situation. Couldn’t Coach have chosen a poem that referred to a jungle or a desert or anything but a
shipwreck
?

“Maybe one of Shakespeare’s best, in the sonnets. Much better than ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day,’ at any rate. And it’s a great example of iambic pentameter. Can someone map it out on the board?” Coach continued, waving a black marker.

No one volunteered, and Miranda knew it was because no one was listening: they were all staring at her. She didn’t blame them.

Miranda stared down at the pockmarked desk and pulled her tangled brown bangs over her eyes. Her ends were badly split. It was weird how she could even think about split ends after the accident, but she couldn’t help but notice them, and then feel guilty for doing so. She glanced at the clock, realizing that she’d only been in class for three minutes. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Heather’s hand shoot up.

“I think the water’s a liminal space. You know, neither here nor there, and a place where transformation can occur,” Heather babbled in her squeaky voice, not bothering to be called on. She smugly pushed her glasses farther up her nose. Miranda kind of wanted to hug her, relieved that someone was actually
talking
about something other than her.

“Liminal space,” Mr. Devlin said. “Good work, Heather. But we’re talking about iambic pentameter. But since you brought it up . . .” He wrote the words on the board and the students scribbled them down. Miranda didn’t need to. She was living in a freaking liminal space. She leaned back in her rickety chair and snuck another glance at the clock. Thirty-two minutes left. She stifled a scream. Seriously? This was torture. She could sense twelve pairs of eyes staring at her, and she felt like she couldn’t even shift position or scrape her chair back without using it as an excuse to cough out the word
killer.
But the worst thing was, the murmurs were so quiet she couldn’t figure out whether they were coming from the people surrounding her or from inside her head—and she wasn’t sure which prospect was more frightening.

Somehow, the class ended, even though Miranda had no idea what they’d discussed, why it was important, or what the homework was.

“Miss O’Rourke, a moment?” Mr. Devlin asked.

“I need to get to Chapel,” she muttered, even though she didn’t stand up from her seat. She hoped he’d stop giving her
the cold shoulder. Besides, the idea of going to Chapel today terrified her. Once an honest-to-God, no-pun-intended service, now Chapel, always held after first period so people were less inclined to attempt to ditch it, was officially a time for announcements or assemblies, but unofficially the best time to cheat on calc homework or gossip about the weekend. And, apparently, a time for Gray to host a Remember the Ferries memorial presentation. As if Miranda could forget.

Maybe that was what Coach was doing: saving her from an event that was going to be awkward at best and devastating at worst. She slid back into the chair and gazed up at Coach. He was only thirty, and sort of looked like a youngish Brad Pitt, with golden blond shaggy hair, blue eyes, and just a hint of stubble on his chin. Gen had always had a crush on Coach Devlin, and even went so far as to try out for the soccer team in sophomore year, until she realized that soccer required a whole lot of running and team spirit, which were two of Gen’s least favorite things. Still, she stared at him from the bleachers, and Miranda knew Gen would have died to take a class with him. Miranda shook her head angrily at the phrase. Gen
was
dead.

The bell rang, signaling the start of Chapel.

“Coach?” Miranda asked.

“I think it’s better if you call me Mr. Devlin. I like to keep the coaching and teaching things separate. I explained on the first day of class.”

“Of course.” Miranda nodded, her face burning. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry,” he said shortly. “I wanted to bring you up to speed on how I handle my classroom. It’s different than the field. Basically, I know you’ve been dealing with a lot, and I can imagine that there’s a lot on your mind, but in here, it’s about English lit. Got it?”

Miranda nodded, a huge lump in her throat. Coach used to take the ferry to come to after-game cookouts on the beach at Lydia’s house. He used to call Miranda “Champ.” He used to spend hours explaining the college sports recruitment process to her, and she knew he put in a good word at dozens of schools. Now, he was treating her like a total stranger.

“Coach? I mean, Mr. Devlin?” Miranda said tentatively. “I know the roster’s probably been set, but I’m actually all right,” she said in a rush of words, her heart feeling like it was going to leap out of her mouth. “The stitches are out, so by states in November, I’m sure I could at least play some . . .” She trailed off, gazing up at him hopefully.

Mr. Devlin shook his head. “The bench is pretty full. I think we’re going to have to do without you this year.”

“Of course, but . . .”

“No buts. Just one more thing,” he said, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “I don’t know what happened that night, and I don’t want to know. I won’t ask questions. But you should know that the college recruiters are asking me. And I know you guys were partying . . .” Coach trailed off.

“We
weren’t,
” Miranda said, slightly hysterical. “I didn’t
drink that night. They have proof. I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Bottles on the beach, late at night . . . I’m not accusing you of drinking. I know they did tests, and I know you have a good head on your shoulders. But I want to warn you, you’ll have a lot to explain to scouts. They might see you as a liability if they still decide to offer you a spot at their school.”

“I need to go,” Miranda gasped as she stood up so suddenly the wooden chair behind her toppled over.

“Of course.” Coach stood up and took a few steps away from her. “And I only wanted you to know what other people are saying. I’m not thinking that.”

“But everyone else is,” Miranda said. Not waiting for a response, she opened the door and hobbled out, her crutches making a squeaking sound against the polished oak floors. She slowly made her way to Chapel. It wasn’t as if she had a choice: It seemed like everyone was watching her, waiting for her to make a mistake, and she wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.

She made her way painstakingly into the assembly. Miranda squinted in the darkened auditorium, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the light. Then she blinked at what she saw on the screen: Lydia and Genevieve, manning the Varsity Soccer car wash, wearing matching plaid bikini tops and Folly Beach shorts, painted-on Cougar paws on their faces and ear-to-ear grins. Darcy, Alan, and Gray, sticking out their tongues at an unseen yearbook photographer as they boarded the outbound ferry. Gen, hunched over an AP Euro test, her red hair fanning
over her shoulder blades, oblivious to the fact she was being photographed. The images kept coming, back when the group was happy and whole. When they were alive.

Gray was standing at the podium on the stage, clicking from one photo to the next. Sitting alongside Gray were the survivors: Jeremiah, wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt that
definitely
wasn’t part of the uniform. Alan, his eyes red and puffy. Gen’s seventh-grade sister Natalie, glancing up at the photos in disbelief.

“Best friends, gone,” Gray intoned, staring out into the auditorium for emphasis. “
My
best friends,” she added, her brown eyes momentarily connecting with Miranda. “It’s not enough to merely remember. We have to ensure that something like this will never touch us again. One instant, one person, can change the course of many lives, either for good, or, in this case, for bad. And the only bright spot that can come from such a tragedy is to make the world a better place. And it can start with our school, to be a place of unity, connection, and the power to transcend tragedy,” Gray continued, flashing the audience a brilliant smile, the timing as smooth as if she were performing a dramatic monologue for the Miss Teen South Carolina competition.

Miranda watched in horror. Gray’s speech was less a memorial than an accusation. At that point—as the photos flipped from one memory to the next—she began crying. Slowly at first, but then faster, harder, until it was impossible to catch her breath. She turned, desperate to run away, but saw Dr. Carlson
charging up the aisle, holding a box of Kleenex in one hand, her cell phone in the other, as if she were going to call for reinforcements if Miranda didn’t take the box of tissues, sit down and act like a cooperative mourner. But before she could reach her, Miranda dropped her crutches and ran, not caring that she essentially blew her cover of being injured. She burst out the door of the auditorium and continued to run, not risking looking back.