Silver is for Secrets (23 page)

“Clara,” I manage, al out of breath. “Where is she? Where‟s Jacob?”

“Who?”

“Clara,” I repeat.

“Wait—are you Tracey?”

“No . . . Stacey.”

“Right,” the girl nods. “She said she‟d meet you on the main deck.” She goes to close the door, but I wedge my foot into the door crack to keep it open.

“Excuse me?” I wipe at my nose, a dribble of blood smearing against my finger.

“Are you deaf?” The girl rol s her eyes at me. “The main deck. She said something about meeting her boyfriend.”

I whirl around and run down the hallway, my mind scrambling with even more questions. What is she up to? Why didn‟t Jacob wake me up? Is he okay?

Why did I have that dream about him?

I bolt up the stairs, two at a time. There are voices everywhere; people are still partying it up—the sounds of girls squealing, guys laughing, and bottles rolling across the wooden floor.

“Jacob,” I cal out, my eyes tearing up, my heart about to explode inside my chest. I fol ow the voices up on the deck, but I don‟t see him anywhere. Just groups of private parties—people in the hot tub and lounging on beach chairs. I move to the other side of the boat, a horrible twisting feeling in my gut.

I swallow hard; blood rushes down the back of my throat. Still, I keep moving forward, accidental y tripping over a cleaning bucket and barely catching myself. It‟s just so dark, just a few sparse lights strategically placed around the deck.

“Have you seen Jacob?” I ask some faceless guy in my path, but I don‟t even stop long enough for an answer.

Final y, I reach the other side of the deck. That‟s when I see Clara. She‟s standing in one of the spotlight beams, facing me, but she doesn‟t say a word.

“Clara,” I say, almost startled by her. “Where‟s Jacob?” Her eyes bore right into me, almost haunted, so black against her pale white skin.

“What‟s going on? Where‟s Jacob?” I repeat.

“Taking a shower,” she whispers. “You just missed him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You‟re a smart girl,” she says, gesturing toward the blanket that‟s spread out on the deck. There‟s a picnic basket on it, as wel as dinner candles, a bottle of champagne, two glasses, and a sprinkling of rose petals. “How does it feel to have someone you love taken from you?”

My jaw locks. “Nobody‟s taken Jacob from me.”

“It didn‟t take much for him to stray, you know. I just told him how I caught you and Chad kissing a bunch of times on the beach and how I promised you not to say anything. I also told him how you‟re always complaining about how secretive he is and that you plan to break up with him as soon as the vacation ends.”

“Those things aren‟t true,” I say, noticing how both the wineglasses are completely full, as though untouched.

“
He
believed me . . . was more than happy to wipe all memory of you away.

That‟s what the picnic was for. Of course, we never quite got around to picnicking.” I shake my head, knowing in my heart that she‟s lying about Jacob. I divert my eyes toward the ground, noticing a spattering of blood. I check my nose; it‟s dry.

The blood trails across the deck, toward the bathroom. I look up to see if Clara‟s noticed it too. That‟s when I spot the knifelike letter opener clutched in her palm.

Her other hand is clutching her middle. There‟s a giant patch of blood there, sopped into her T-shirt. Some of it has worked its way down her waist, trickling down her thigh, and pooling at her feet.

“Oh my god, Clara, what happened?” I move toward her, almost tripping over a long metal pipe that rolls across the deck.

“I‟m fine,” she whispers. “Just
leave me alone.”
Her voice is weak. Her body wavers to keep a solid stance.

“What happened?” I repeat.

“I said leave me alone.”

“No—let‟s get you some help; you‟re bleeding.”

Instead of responding, she leans over the railing, breathing the night air in like she can‟t get enough, like it‟s helping her stay alert.

I move toward her anyway.

“Stay back,” she says, snapping to attention. She whirls around to meet my gaze, her eyes wide like a cat‟s.

“Who did this?” I ask, just a few feet from her now.

“You did,” she whispers. “You cut me. You stabbed me in the back.” She sways a bit, stumbling against the railing, taking a couple steps from side to side to gain her footing.

“No,” I say, taking another step toward her, keeping my eye on the letter opener in her hand. “I didn‟t.”

“Donovan was the only boy I ever loved,” she says, looking away, her eyes al teary. “You took him away from me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Maybe he didn‟t love me then,” she whispers, “because of Drea—because he thought he was in love with her at the time. But that doesn‟t mean he wouldn‟t have fal en in love with me eventual y.”

I‟m shaking my head, trying to make sense of what she‟s saying, trying to digest the fact that she even
knew
Donovan.

“Don‟t I look even a little bit familiar to you?” she asks.

I study her a moment, remembering how earlier Amber said she looked familiar.

“I was a sophomore last year at Hil crest,” she continues. “Donovan was kicked out the year before, when I was a freshman. Ring any bel s?” I feel my mouth drop open.

“I‟m almost surprised you don‟t recognize me,” she says. “I guess a little makeover goes a long way—either that or you and your self-absorbed friends are too preoccupied to notice anything that goes on outside your pathetic little circle.”

“Clara,” I say, ignoring her twisted logic, “let‟s get you some help. You aren‟t safe here.” I go to peer over my shoulder, wondering where Jacob is, but notice her fingers grip tighter around the letter opener. Facing me now, she brings it up to her middle, the tip red with blood. She cradles her stomach so closely, almost as if she‟s holding herself in.

“Don‟t you get it?” she whispers.
“Nobody’s
after me. Nobody‟s stalking me. Just like nobody was stalking Drea. Donovan loved Drea. Maybe if he didn‟t get locked up, if you didn‟t twist everything al around, he could have loved me, too. He could have seen how much I loved him.”

“Clara,” I say, “you don‟t understa—”

“No,
you
don‟t.” She brings the letter opener up to her forearm now, grazing along her skin with the blade, as though slicing at the tiny arm hairs. “You should‟ve heard how stupid you sounded—all that crap about me being in danger. It‟s just like Donovan said, you don‟t know how to mind your own business. I came here because I knew where you guys were vacationing. I heard you all bragging about it in the cafeteria last year—„
Aren’t we so special to get a beachfront cottage’,”
she mimics. “Someone needed to teach you a lesson—you and your so-called predictions. And now I have.”

“Wait,” I say, hearing the metal pipe as it rol s somewhere behind me, wondering how far back it is, if I might be able to grab it. “You made this al up? You aren‟t getting stalked?”

She shakes her head and lets out a laugh. “I‟m not even here with my parents—

they think I‟m at a friend‟s summer camp.” She looks down at the scratches on her arm, the ones she said were from the doll, and runs the blade over them. It‟s then that it hits me—how comfortable she is with the action. How it‟s obvious that she‟s the one who cuts herself.

I glance at her sarong, the tie flapping in the breeze, imagining all the cuts she must have beneath it, remembering hearing once that people who cut themselves often pick places on their body where nobody else can see. “You cut your stomach,” I say, more of a statement than a question. I take a step closer, noticing how distant her eyes look.

Clara ignores me, leaning back against the railing for support. Her feet are unsteady with the swaying of the boat—and with how weak she seems. “I hope I‟ve made you and al of your friends‟ lives miserable,” she whispers, “just like you‟ve made mine and Donovan‟s.” She goes to say something else, but the boat starts to rock a bit more, causing her to lose balance. She falls back against the railing—

hard.

“Clara, be careful!” I shout.

She goes to gain better footing, but the boat rocks even harder and her body launches backward against the railing again, her feet flailing upward.

I grab her arm, yanking her forward to keep from flipping off the boat.

“Let go of me!” she shouts.

I move to steady her, placing my palm over the handle of the letter opener. I look at her, silently asking her permission to take it.

“I said, stay back!” she shouts, lunging at me with the blade. She plunges it deep into my forearm.

I hear myself wail. I go to pull the blade out. At the same moment, Clara grabs the pipe that‟s been rol ing around the deck; it‟s about the length of a baseball bat. She comes at me with it, as though possessed by her own rage.

The letter opener finally free of my arm, I point it at her to protect myself.

“Clara—no!” It‟s Jacob. I turn to look. At the same moment, Clara strikes down on my shoulder with the pipe. The letter opener goes flying from my grip. I hear myself cry out from the sting of her blow. My whole arm is throbbing. Blood is trickling down over my fingers from the blade‟s puncture wound.

“Back against the railing!” She holds the pipe high, as though to strike down at my head.

I do what she says, plotting the whole time about how I can protect myself—push her back and off balance, kick her in the stomach, wait for the boat to rock and dive into her middle . . . I scan the deck for the letter opener. It‟s just inches from her feet.

Jacob begins walking toward us as Clara smacks down on my other shoulder with the pipe. “Stay back!” she shouts at him. “Or I‟l make Stacey pay.” Jacob stops. My arms and shoulders throb with pain. I dive down for the letter opener, just as Clara stomps her heels down onto my hands. I try to pull away, but she grinds harder into my knuckles and holds me there. I lift my head, ready to bite at her ankle. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jacob coming toward me again.

“Against the railing,” she shouts at him. “Every step you take just makes it worse for your girlfriend.” She plunges the pipe down into my neck, cutting off my breath, my cheek flat against the deck now. “Of course, you weren‟t exactly cal ing her your
girlfriend
a little while ago,” she continues. “That‟s what you were cal ing
me
.” She releases her hold on my hands to gain a better stance, and then kicks the letter opener away.

I go to push Clara back, but I can barely breathe. I feel my arms flail out, my fingers searching, reaching. I can see Clara struggling with the pipe, trying to hold me in place and keep her balance, but stil , it‟s like there‟s this fire blazing inside her, feeding her adrenaline, keeping her strong.

“Let‟s make a deal,” she breathes. “For every step your cheating boyfriend takes backward, I‟l release the hold on your neck. Deal?” I blink in agreement.

Jacob hesitates, but then I see him comply. He takes a step back and I‟m able to swallow. He continues to take steps backward, toward the railing, as Clara‟s pipegrip on my neck gives and I‟m able to breathe. Lying on my side, I gasp a few times, keeping my eye on the letter opener, now just a few feet away. Clara follows my gaze, allowing me to sit up and push her—hard. I plunge my palms into her middle and she goes reeling. The pipe shoots from her grip. I lunge to grab the letter opener.

At the same moment, I hear it. The railing gives way and Jacob falls backward.

I stop breathing.

His scream is like a long, sour wail that cuts right through my heart. I cry out his name and scramble to my feet, running across the deck to where he fell. I look down into the ocean, half expecting to see him, but there‟s just blackness, the inky black water splashing up against the sides of the boat. And we‟re moving so fast, the boat speeding away. “No!” I cry out. “Stop!”

I go to grab a life preserver, almost tripping over the pipe that continues to roll around the deck. That‟s when I notice that it‟s actual y the pin they use to keep this section of railing closed, that this is actually the gate where we boarded the boat, and somebody didn‟t put both pins back in.

I throw the preserver into the ocean and lean over the side of the boat. “Jacob!” I scream, over and over again, toward the water, readying myself to dive in. There‟s a patch of blood at the side of the boat, like maybe he hit his head.

I look back at Clara, wondering if I still need to protect myself against her attacks, but she‟s lying facedown in a puddle of her own blood. I approach her, noticing how her sarong has opened slightly, how there are dried cuts up and down her thighs.

She‟s whimpering now, cradling her stomach wound. Her eyes are drooping, the fight inside her finally dead. I go to touch one of her hands, noticing how cold it feels, how her lips look blue.

I run as fast as I can to find one of the few crew members. And when I do, I can‟t seem to get the words out fast enough—how Jacob fell in, how the boat needs to stop and turn back.

And how Clara is minutes from death.

thirty-eight

Everything that happens next is a blur. The boat stops. The Coast Guard arrives.

Rescue boats speed out. Clara is flown away in a medical helicopter.

The police come. Frat boys get arrested. Another boat ferries most of the passengers away.

And I just sit here, emotionally welded to the deck, just feet from where Jacob fell in, waiting for him to surface. I feel like if I leave this spot, he might not be able to find his way back up.

Blurs of people approach me. They want me to go to the hospital as well, I think.

They want me to move away from the scene of the accident. They want me to talk to someone, tell them everything that happened, put on a warm coat, have something cold to drink, get my arm bandaged up.

But I won‟t. Because that means leaving this spot, leaving Jacob. And I can‟t.

Amber and Drea are al arms and hugs around me. They‟re crying too, whispering that everything will be okay, that the rescue team will find him.

I hope they‟re right. I hope this is a horrible dream, that in a few short hours I will wake up out of this nightmarish state, even though I know it isn‟t.