Authors: Linda Francis Lee
Ariel ran past them. Her shoulders had started to ache, so she pulled off her backpack as she entered the living room. Just then a cheer erupted, startling her. Two boys were stuffing the fireplace with old newspapers and flicking burning matches onto the paper. Every time they got a leap of flames, they cheered.
These dopes were still trying to make s’mores. “You can’t do that! You’ll catch something on fire!”
They didn’t even look at her.
Two girls sat on the hearth, pulling out the graham crackers and chocolate, shoving marshmallows onto a couple of pens. The fire was messy, ash getting everywhere. Just the sight of the chocolate made Ariel desperately wish she was back in New York, sitting at the counter island in Portia’s kitchen, watching her work her magic with food. If only she’d never come out here.
If only she’d never gotten in the car with her mother.
Tears beat behind her eyes like prisoners trying to escape. Someone started retching and she jerked around. A kid was vomiting into one of her mom’s decorative brass pots. Three boys circled around him, laughing hysterically. “Lightweight! Lightweight!”
One of them held a bottle of vodka. Probably her dad’s. Already empty.
Just then, one of her mom’s tasseled pillows flew by her head. “Who the fuck are you, little girl?” a boy shouted, from where he slouched on the sofa, beer can in hand. Another boy, somehow looking older, sat there, his brow furrowed.
She dropped her backpack and picked up the pillow, hugging it tight. “None of your business. Where’s Miranda?”
A bunch of them whipped around to face her.
“Freakin’ A. It’s Miranda’s sister.”
Ariel hardly recognized Miranda’s new friend Becky. She had on a ton of makeup. “What the hell are you doing here?” Becky demanded. “You’re supposed to be in the city.”
“Becks,” another girl said. “Cool it.” Then she smiled at Ariel, sweet, too sweet. “You want to play with us, Miranda’s sister?”
“No. And you better get out of my house before I call the police.”
The girl just laughed. “Seriously, you’re not that uncool, are you? Come on, do shots with us.”
Her face felt hot and sweaty, her heart pounding even harder. “Where’s Miranda?”
“What a baby!” Becky said, turning away. She saw Ariel’s backpack and yanked it up. “Do you have any money in here?”
Ariel grabbed for it, but Becky leaped out of the way and started pawing inside. Journal, pens, multicolored socks spilled out. “That’s mine!” Ariel yelled.
“We need money for booze,” Becky said, staying out of reach. “Your dad’s a freaking millionaire, everyone knows that. But all he had in this place was a few stinking bottles of Ketel One.”
Ariel grabbed for the pack again, but Becky smirked and tossed it to another girl.
Ariel pivoted and leaped for the other girl, who only laughed and threw the pack over her head to one of the guys, who tossed it to another kid in the foyer.
It was like a game playing out in slow motion, until she realized that Becky was laughing even harder. She turned around to find the girl was holding her journal.
“‘Musings of a Freak,’” Becky read, giggling madly. “You
are
a freak.”
The music swirled through Ariel’s head like notes swimming through melting marshmallow. It took a moment to figure out that this awful girl was reading her thoughts out loud—her frustrations, her hopes, her fears—for everyone to hear. Part of her was mortified, and some other part pulsed with fury. But something else clawed at her and stung her nose.
Smoke still puffed out into the room instead of going up the chimney. The boys making s’mores didn’t seem to care. One of them threw back a shot, then tossed his plastic cup into the fire, making the smoke smell so bitter she could taste it on her tongue.
“Hey, moron—” she heard someone say, but then a big
pop
sounded and the fire flared up, and still none of the smoke went up the chimney.
“Shit,” one of the boys said, falling back a step.
“Yeah,” another said. “Son of a bitch, you’re a moron.”
Somebody threw a glass of beer on the fire, but it didn’t go out.
“Oh, no,” Ariel cried, swiping her nose with her sleeve, as it only got worse. She grabbed a beer can from the table and ran forward, too, but the can was empty. The fire popped, a flying ember hitting her sleeve. She stared in shock as her shirt started to burn.
“Damn.” The cool boy from the sofa pushed up, tore off his jacket, and wrapped her arm with his coat. Then he grabbed a full water bottle from his pack and threw the contents onto the flames, and the fire sizzled and hissed as it went out. “Seriously, morons,” the guy muttered.
Ariel dropped the empty can, and still, she couldn’t do anything but stare, her mouth open.
The guy leaned down and looked her in the eye. “You’re okay, kid. Got it? Now go home. Get out of here. You’re too young to get involved with this crazy shit.”
Her lip trembled.
“You’re fine, kid, really.” He straightened and shook his head. “I’m out of here. If you want a ride, this is your chance.”
She couldn’t move. She wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine.
He shrugged and headed for the door. “I’m out of here.”
She lost it then. She started crying in big, gasping sobs as she staggered back from the hearth. She dashed at her eyes, swiping away soot and tears and a year of holding on by a thread.
She didn’t care what any of them thought of her. She couldn’t stop crying. It was all of it, the one tiny gesture of kindness from a stranger who walked out the door, the forgotten house, her mom, the dad who wasn’t really her dad, the lies she hadn’t known about, the life she didn’t know how to fix.
Somebody put a hand on her shoulder and she twisted away, facing the fireplace, her body racked by tears, gasping as she tried to catch her breath. But all she managed to suck in was smoke.
With a gasp of surprise, she felt her lungs squeeze, her throat going tight. Her eyes burned, and she felt them start to bug out. She told herself not to panic. She wheeled back around, looking for her backpack. Looking for Einstein. But he wasn’t there. Her backpack was gone.
She opened her mouth to cough, but it wouldn’t come, just more smoke filled her mouth and nose.
The kids started to murmur, their faces distorting. But she couldn’t move. Her legs felt wobbly, sounds overloud in her ears.
“What’s wrong with her?” she barely heard.
“Stop being a freak!” Becky shouted.
“I think she’s having some sort of fit. Crap.”
“She’s probably epileptic. She’s gonna froth!”
“Damn, get me out of here.”
The voices swelled in her head before growing distant. Then all of the sudden she saw Miranda run into the room. Ariel wanted to weep in relief when she felt her sister’s hands grabbing for her, hands circling her arms, rough and frantic. But a second later she realized that it was too late. Her head swam, the prisoners behind her eyes finally going quiet, the world going black.
And she disappeared.
Forty-one
A
S SOON AS
Gabriel turned the Mercedes onto the narrow residential street, Portia knew for certain something was wrong. She felt it in the vibration of her thoughts, violets and watermelon flashing through her mind in a kaleidoscope of dread.
Gabriel must have felt it, too. He cursed beneath his breath and hit the gas, every ounce of civilized man falling away.
Portia had never been to New Jersey, much less to Montclair. The full moon cast silver light on the giant old houses that were set back from the road, built far apart, a gracious lawn rolling up to a sprawling Victorian with brilliant white latticework, followed by a stately redbrick Colonial, and finally a beautiful old Tudor, its slate roof shining like blue-black water in the bright night. The opposite side of the imposing street dropped off in a gentle cliff to even larger houses in the distance below.
Outside the Tudor, cars lined the road, lights blazing inside.
“The party,” Gabriel bit out, slamming on the brake in front of the house.
Portia saw the teenagers coming and going. Gabriel double-parked in front of what she assumed was the Kanes’ New Jersey house. Cars filled the long, narrow driveway that disappeared around back. Gabriel raced to the front door.
Portia was right behind him, unease filling her like hot water rising in a pan. It wasn’t the idea that someone was throwing a party at Gabriel’s house that concerned her. Something else quickened her pulse, a kind of horror that she couldn’t name.
They were halfway across the lawn when kids started barreling out the front door, running and yelling at each other.
Gabriel pushed past them like a beast possessed, Portia at his heels. At some level the opulence of the house registered along with the dread, the sure knowledge that she didn’t belong to this world, to this family. Robert’s sprawling home was nothing compared to this stately mansion, her family’s double-wide as foreign to this world as a mud hut on a Burmese hillside.
“Dad!”
Portia’s heart stood still when she ran into the living room. Miranda was a mess of tears and wrecked hair, mascara streaming down her face, looking like a crying child playing dress-up.
“She’s dead!”
Gabriel fell to his knees. When he did, Portia saw Ariel on the floor.
His roar filled the entire house as he pulled the girl into his arms. “What have you done?” he demanded.
“I didn’t do anything!” Miranda cried, hugging herself.
Portia felt an odd calm come over her. She pulled out her cell phone. “Has anyone called 9-1-1?”
“I already did,” Miranda managed, dropping down next to the girl and their father. “You have to fix her, Dad. Oh, God, it’s my fault! Ariel! Wake up!”
Gabriel started CPR.
Kids were still running, a boy pounding down the stairs, towing a half-dressed girl. The music was nearly deafening, so Portia turned it off.
Then there was silence except for Miranda’s sobs and Gabriel’s measured counting as he blew air into Ariel’s lungs and compressed her chest.
Portia sank onto her knees beside them. She took in the room, smelled the air. She turned back to Ariel. “Her lips are blue around the edges. It’s an asthma attack. Where’s her backpack?”
Gabriel and Miranda went stiff at the same time. Miranda leaped up. “It’s got to be here somewhere!”
But the kids had evaporated. Ariel’s backpack was nowhere in sight.
Gabriel raised his head, his hands compressing Ariel’s chest with gentle force. “The yard,” he ordered. “Someone dropped something in the yard.”
Portia flew back out of the house and spotted Ariel’s backpack lying in a forgotten heap in the dark. She careened back inside, ripping through its contents as she went until she found what she was looking for. She dropped down next to Gabriel, who grabbed the inhaler and put it into his daughter’s mouth. He shot it once, then twice, then clamped his mouth over hers and resumed CPR.
Forty-two
A
RIEL SWAM
in a murky place, where sound was muffled and light seemed overbright. But the worry, all the worry she had felt since the accident, was gone. She still felt the buzzing, but she was no longer a bee stuck in a jar.
She felt at peace.
This was where she wanted to be, a place where things were easier. This was what she had been moving toward ever since the accident, with all those horrible feelings slowly disappearing.
She had been right. She had disappeared, just like Mom.
For so long she had been afraid, but had refused to admit it. With the fear and worry suddenly gone, she felt herself expanding, as if she were flinging her arms wide and taking a deep breath.
But on the heels of that peace, she felt a tinge of panic trying to pry its way through the calm. Could she really leave her dad? Miranda? Even Portia? Would they be fine without her? Would they care?
“Ariel!”
The roar echoed in the quiet that surrounded her.
“No!”
She felt the vibration of the words against her body more than she heard them.
Dad?
“Ariel! Damn it, come back!”
For long seconds she felt the words, felt the way they surrounded her and pushed away the quiet. She felt torn between the peace and the wish to stop the pain she felt coming at her in a wave. The push, then the pull. The need to stay gone, the pull to go back.
Then all of a sudden, she saw her dad’s face in her mind with that look he had at Mom’s funeral when his mouth distorted and she knew he could have cried but wouldn’t. Of Dad sitting at the breakfast table reading
The Wall Street Journal,
the way he had lowered the paper and raised a brow when she inquired if he was interested in having cocktails that evening, only to go back to reading without a word. Her dad, who didn’t get ruffled by anything. Her dad, who she felt certain hovered over her now. Crying.
The world flooded back into her a startling gasp of breath, and she cried out in surprise. Air burned as it rushed into her lungs.
“Dad?” she managed, her tongue thick, her head light. She felt hot and cold all at once, and like she was going to be sick to her stomach.
Her father was leaning over her. “Ariel.”
Not a question. A statement. But with the world coming back into focus, she remembered everything that was wrong, the peace gone.
He wasn’t her dad at all.
Misery ripped through her as all the pieces jarred back into place. First her mom had been taken away. Now her dad. She wanted to go back to the quiet. She wanted to scream that it was all unfair. She wanted to tell him she would be the greatest daughter ever, that she’d do better this time at being perfect, that he’d be better off keeping her rather than giving her away.
But what if he didn’t want her? What if he didn’t want to deal with the trouble of always paying Anthony? How she wished he would never learn the truth.
She struggled to open her eyes. The minute she succeeded, her dad hugged her tight. “Oh, God,” he whispered, making her feel safe for the first time since the accident.
“Dad?”