Tragedy Girl (11 page)

“Exactly,” he says with conviction, the thunder getting closer.
“Exactly.
I didn’t want to overreact.”

He clamps his lips together to steady his trembling chin. “And you wonder why I feel so guilty.”

The seagull swoops onto the water’s surface again, then soars into the air.

I’m tempted to stop asking questions now. Just when I start distrusting Blake, he sucks me back into his sympathies; his grief seems so raw, so genuine. But I’ve come too far to let this story fizzle to a halt. This story’s not over yet.

I clear my throat and say, “So you and Jamie looked for Car
a on the jet ski?”

He glances at me and looks a bit disoriented, as if his self-flagellation has predictably been the point in the past when people stopped asking him any more questions.
Why are you still yammering?
his expression seems to say.
Don’t you know this is where you’re supposed to show some respect and shut the hell up?

Still, he manages to collect himself and answer me.

“Right,” he says in a tight voice. “We tore through those waves looking for her. The rip currents were bad that night, but we were flying through the water. My adrenaline was totally pumping by that point. Once it was clear she hadn’t gotten back out of the water, man,
that’s
when I panicked. I kept screaming at Jamie, ‘Hurry, hurry! She’s drowning!’”

“But … no signs of her?”

He drops his head. “It felt like we stayed on that jet ski forever. Neither of us wanted to give up. If we went just a little farther, a little deeper, maybe we’d see her bobbing around, thrashing in the water … ”

I shiver.

“But … nothing,” Blake says, then mindlessly grabs a small shell and flicks it into the ocean. “That’s when we ran back to the rest of the group. ‘
Call 911
,’ we yelled. Then the police came, and pretty soon they had the Coast Guard out here, and … ”

His face crinkles again and he squeezes tears from his eyes. “That’s what happened,” he says, his voice breaking.

We sit there for a long time, more ocean spittle peppering our faces, more stray raindrops skittering against our bare arms, more thunder churning ever closer.

So there it is: he’s told the whole story now, from start to finish. He said I could ask him anything, and his churlishness at certain points notwithstanding, he’s answered my questions. Yes, some details seem odd, but overall, the story hangs together. I mean, people
do
drown, right? Some even in broad daylight with dozens of people around. Cara’s circumstances were the worst possible: swimming on a dark, isolated stretch of beach in a rip current. And the police certainly believed Blake. The news clippings made it clear no one ever considered Cara’s death suspicious or criminal. Her parents wanted Blake to speak at the memorial service, for crying out loud. Occam’s razor: the simplest explanation is usually the right one.

I sit quietly for a few moments trying to collect my thoughts. It’s wrenching, torturous, draining to hear a story like this, particularly sitting at the very spot where it happened. I wonder whether a single monster wave swamped Cara that night, or if the rip current pulled her deeper out to sea than she realized, or if she knew exactly what was going on and swam like mad against a too-strong current, flailed for her life, uttered desperate screams that no one could hear amid the crashes of the waves. I shudder.

Of course, Blake can’t answer those questions. But there
are
a couple more that maybe he can …

He picks up another small shell and fingers it idly.

“I heard something crazy today,” I say quietly.

“What?” Blake asks.

“Just … speculation, stupid gossip … ”

“I’ve heard it all,” Blake says, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “You can tell me. What did you hear?”

I squeeze my arms together. “That maybe Cara
wanted
to disappear. I mean … not that she wanted to die, but that she wanted to … disappear.”

Blake huffs dismissively. “Sounds like a real genius was floating
that
idea. God, I hope her poor parents haven’t heard that one—that’s all they need. Why don’t people realize when they’re running their mouths that actual people with actual feelings are involved?”

“Right, it was stupid.”

“So did this rocket scientist toss out a theory about why Cara would want to disappear?” Blake says, his voice dripping with disdain.

A gust of wind suddenly buffets my hair. “Again, it was just stupid speculation … you know, the typical reason teenage girls disappear. That maybe she was … pregnant.”

I jump as Blake snaps the shell in his fingers in half.

Nineteen

Crash!

Just as Blake breaks the seashell in half, a jagged, blindingly bright bolt of lightning flashes in the sky, followed by a crack of thunder so loud it makes me tremble.

Then the storm unleashes. Cold, fat raindrops pelt our heads, rain so heavy and torrential that it’s hard to see Blake just a few inches away. Within seconds, I’m as soaked as if I’ve just jumped into the ocean.

Blake grabs my hand. “Let’s go!”

We start running down the beach, back toward the car. The boggy sand slows our stride, but Blake keeps pulling me along, tugging roughly at my arm, so roughly that I wonder a couple of times if he’s pulled it out of the socket. I’m breathless by the time we reach the car. Blake opens the passenger door for me, then runs around and gets behind the wheel, pulling a hoodie from the back seat and throwing it to me. I dab my face and hair with it, shivering as Blake starts the engine, his windshield wipers flapping furiously. He runs his fingers through his sopping-wet hair.

“Want the hoodie?” I say, rubbing my sore arm.

He grunts in response, his expression dark.

“What’s wrong?” I ask as he pulls out of the parking lot.

Silence.

“Blake … ?”

He drives in silence for a moment, then glares at me from the corner of his eye. “What’s
wrong
?” he repeats sarcastically. “Other than feeling like a drowning cat?”

More silence.

“Didn’t mean to snap,” he finally says.

I study his face, hugging my arms together, as Blake’s eyes peer out the windshield. “Why did you freak out when I mentioned that rumor about Cara being pregnant?”

“Because it’s bullshit!” he says, making me jump as he pounds his fist on the steering wheel. “You think her mother would get a charge out of hearing that one? As if she hasn’t been through enough?”

The mother you supposedly bring flowers to every Sunday?

I set my jaw. “I wasn’t talking to Cara’s mother; I was talking to
you
. I told you I had some questions, and you told me I could ask you anything.”

“Not bullshit! I didn’t tell you to ask me bullshit!”

My mouth drops. “How am I supposed to know what’s bullshit and what isn’t?” I sputter. “I don’t know anything about
any
of this! All I know is that I somehow keep getting pulled into other people’s drama.”

“Yeah, Anne. Keep blaming me for all your issues.”

My
issues
?

“You’re getting really good at that,” he says, snarling. He glares straight ahead, squeezing the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles are white.

“You’re driving too fast,” I say, but he ignores me.

I shiver again. Who
is
this person? Why do I feel so good about him one minute, so confused the next?

Dr. Sennett’s words echo in my head:
Wanting it to be right doesn’t make it right.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe I’m not overthinking anything; maybe I’m
under
thinking. Maybe I’m giving him too many passes.

“You’re being rude to me,” I say in a brittle voice.

Blake ignores me.

I take a deep breath, then forge on: “I have a question.”

More silence—he’s still glowering as he speeds toward my house in the pounding rain—but now, his petulance is just emboldening me.

“Does your brother not want you to be alone with me?”

Blake’s eyes dart in my direction. What do I see in those eyes? Indignation? Fear? Rage? I don’t know, I don’t know …

“What are you
talking
about?” he asks as if truly stymied, totally floored by the question. I’m impressed by how quickly he’s composed himself. I feel like I’m observing a master class in lying. I’ve clearly rattled him—his expression a moment ago sure didn’t lie—but he recovered in a nanosecond, shifting the focus onto me by trying to make me look ridiculous. Maybe I’m finally figuring out just who Blake is. Maybe I’m understanding him better by the minute.

“When I walked in on you guys the other day at your house—right before you drove me home,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady, “he was saying he didn’t want you to be alone with … with something, with somebody. Was he talking about me?”

Blake tosses his head back and chortles. “Yeah. My little brother doesn’t allow me to be alone with my girlfriend.”

The word “girlfriend” makes me shudder. The longer I’m with Blake, the clearer I am that I don’t want to be his girlfriend.

“Then why did you lie to him?” I persist.

Blake rolls his eyes. “Okay, I’ll bite. Lie to him about what?”

“About what you were doing today after school? You told him you had a yearbook meeting.”

Blake waves a hand dismissively through the air. He’s still acting haughty, but the good news is that he’s so busy trying to think on his feet that he’s driving slower, no longer whizzing maniacally through the rain-slicked streets.

“
Busted
,” he tells me with a sneer. “You caught me lying to my brother. Will you alert the media, or shall I?”

“Why wouldn’t he want you to be alone with me?” I say, my voice eerily calm. “And why would you agree to that?”

“Oh, good
god
!” Blake says. “This is the most asinine conversation I’ve ever had!”

“Left. Turn left!”

“
What?
”

“Left! My street is this left.”

Blake’s already overshot it, but he turns sharply, making the tires screech in the rain. I hold my breath, wondering if we’ll hydroplane or spin out.

Somehow, the car steadies itself, and I exhale slowly through puffed-out cheeks.

“I know where your house is,” Blake mutters, and as scary as the turn was, I’m incredibly relieved he’s taking me home. I don’t know where else I think he might have considered taking me; I’m just so desperate to get home.

Home.
I wish I were going to my
real
home. I wish my mom and dad would be there waiting for me. Tears spring to my eyes.

Blake glances at me from the corner of his eye and abruptly pulls alongside the curb, just a couple of houses up from mine.

“
Baby
,” he says.

Damn.
He noticed my tears. My heart sinks. Clearly, it’s time for Dr. Jekyll to reappear on the scene, full of a fresh set of excuses on behalf of that pesky Mr. Hyde. I don’t want to hear his excuses. I don’t want to deal with his faux-guilt, or his boyish charm, or his smooth explanations, or whatever tricks he pulls out of his bag to get his way and wriggle his way back into people’s good graces. I just want to be somewhere that I can breathe.

Blake touches my hair and I recoil.

He drops his head. “I’ve been such a jerk.”

I swallow hard, shivering in my wet clothes as the rain thrums against the windshield. “Please just take me home.”

“This is
not
how I intended this to go, baby … ”

And please stop calling me baby
.

“Man,” Blake says under his breath. “I guess I didn’t realize how it would affect me to go back there.”

Ah.
Time to shift the attention yet again and pull out the trusty ol’ sympathy card. What a nice pithy package of several of his manipulative techniques rolled into one.

“Blake, please take me home.”

“Baby, I just need you to … ”

I suddenly fling my door open, jump out of the car, and start running toward my house. I’m not afraid; I’m just done. I hear him calling after me, but I keep running, rain pelting my face as I pump my arms and pound my soggy shoes into the asphalt.

His shouts are piercing the air—“
Baby! Baby!
”—so I put my hands over my ears as I run through two neighbors’ yards to shorten my distance.

Slosh, slosh, slosh
go my footsteps through their lime-green lawns.

Home.

I’m almost home …

Twenty

“What in the world … ”

Aunt Meg, rifling through mail in the kitchen, stares at me wide-eyed as I fling the door open and run inside, dripping on the linoleum and doubling over to catch my breath.

She rushes to my side. “Anne, are you okay?”

I manage to nod, but I’m still too winded to speak.

“Oh my gosh … let me get you a towel … ”

She runs out of the room, then reappears a minute later with a bath towel and a plush terrycloth robe.

“You’ve got to get out of those wet clothes,” she says, draping the towel around me and peering out the window into our driveway.

“Don’t let him inside,” I say through heaving breaths.

“Who?” she asks. “I don’t see anybody. Who’s out there, Anne?”

I press the towel tighter around my shoulders, pull a chair from the kitchen table and collapse into it.

“Who is out there, Anne?” Aunt Meg repeats, her voice verging on full panic mode now.

I press the towel against my shivering arms. “Blake,” I say.

She pulls a chair in front of mine, her eyes frantic. “Why are you running from him? What’s wrong?”

My cell phone, still on the kitchen table where I left it this morning before heading to school, is blowing up with text messages. I glance at it irritably, then reach over and turn it off.

“Did he hurt you?” Aunt Meg asks, pitching her weight toward me.

“No, no,” I say. “I’m sorry I freaked you out, Aunt Meg. I’m fine. Really.”

“Then why are you soaking wet? Where have you been?”

I feel a stab of guilt for not telling her where I was going after school. I figured she’d still be at work when I got home, plus it feels so silly to check in with someone at my age, but seeing the worry etched in her face makes my heart sink.

“Were you with Blake?” she asks me.

When I nod, she says in a shrill voice, “I have some serious concerns about him, Anne.”

I laugh ruefully. “Problem solved.”

“What do you mean?”

I set my jaw defiantly. “I mean I’m done with him.”

Aunt Meg’s eyes search mine. “Tell me what’s happening.”

Go ahead. Tell her.

It’s the damndest thing … that was my mom’s voice in my head. Crazy, right? Yet I know with every fiber of my being that it’s true. So I do what my mother tells me to do. I tell Aunt Meg what’s going on.

As we huddle at the kitchen table together, me still shivering in wet clothes with the towel draped over my shoulders, my hair lank with rainwater, I start talking. I tell Aunt Meg that I’d truly started falling for Blake, that he was the only guy I’d ever felt that way about. I tell her that his grief resonated with me, that I felt drawn to his sadness … but that the more time I spent with him, the more red flags I noticed … flashes of temper, confusing inconsistencies, smooth manipulations …

I tell her about the weird vibe between Blake and Jamie, about the notes, about Natalie’s strangely convincing denial, about the snippets of conversations I’ve overheard between Blake and Garrett, about the rumors swirling around about Cara’s death …

Aunt Meg listens intently, leaning closer a couple of times to smooth my wet hair with the palm of her hand.

“So today he took me to the spot on the beach where she drowned,” I continue, my tone strangely flat. “He told me I could ask him anything. Well, that’s what he said, but there were clearly questions he didn’t want to hear. It’s crazy how fast he can blow his top.”

Aunt Meg’s eyebrows knit together. “What do you mean, honey? He didn’t get violent in any way, did he?”

I involuntarily shudder. “No,” I say softly. “Not really. But he got … mean. He can be really mean.”

“So, did he answer your questions, even the ones he didn’t want to hear?”

I hesitate, then nod ambivalently. “Yeah … I guess. Some things are weird … he doesn’t seem to remember what he did with Cara’s clothes, for instance, and he didn’t let the whole group know right away that she was in trouble … A few details seem … sketchy. But he had an answer for everything. Tragedies happen, right? And people don’t always react in the heat of the moment in ways that make perfect sense in retrospect. I’m starting to get that he’s a jerk, but the story … it makes sense, I guess.” I study Aunt Meg’s eyes warily. “Cara’s aunt, the one you work with … has she ever expressed any …
suspicions
about Blake?”

Aunt Meg shakes her head. “No. All I ever heard was just an acknowledgment of what a terrible tragedy it was. I think her family liked Blake, trusted him … The story seemed perfectly plausible. No one ever questioned it, not that I know of.”

“I guess there’s no reason anyone would. It sure makes more sense than any other theory out there, like Cara disappearing on purpose. Talk about a long shot. So, yeah … I think I probably believe Blake. I just don’t
like
him anymore.”

Aunt Meg nods and squeezes my arm gently.

I bite my bottom lip. “Dr. Sennett thinks I’m scared of my future,” I say, staring at my hands.

“Your future?” Aunt Meg asks. “What do you mean?”

“She asked about my future, and I told her I couldn’t really envision what was
in
it … only what wasn’t: Mom and Dad. So maybe I fell for Blake as a way of postponing my future … that I’m clinging to whatever will keep me from moving forward.”

“Wow,” Aunt Meg says in a whisper. “Deep.”

I wave a hand through the air. “But then I thought, ‘That’s so silly, so over-dramatic.’ Talk about psycho-babble, right? I figured I was just freaked out by the thought of falling for a guy; I mean, I feel ridiculous now, but I’ve never fallen so hard, so fast, before. I assumed I was overthinking every little thing, kinda subconsciously looking for an escape hatch, because maybe I still wasn’t quite ready for a relationship … ”

Aunt Meg’s eyes prod me to continue.

“But, of course, the flowers,” I say. “Blake telling me he brings Cara’s mother flowers every Sunday … telling
all
of us that.” I narrow my eyes. “What a creepy thing to say if it’s not true.”

“
Hmmmmmm
,” Aunt Meg says.

“He also told me he volunteers at the children’s hospital. One of our classmates overheard him talking about it, and he said Blake is full of crap.”

Aunt Meg and I sit there for a long moment contemplating what it all means.

“Smooth,” I finally say. “
Too
smooth.”

“So have you talked to him?”

I run a brush through my freshly shampooed hair and sit on the foot of my bed. “Nope,” I tell Sawbones, a steady rain still pelting the roof. “He’s texted me, like, a zillion times and left some messages. I haven’t responded to anything. I guess I’ll tell him tomorrow that we need to cool it.”

“Do it in public, do it in school,” Sawbones says, an alarming hint of urgency in his voice. “I don’t want you alone with him.”

I scoff lightly. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“Are you sure? Sounds like you
have
been afraid a few times.”

I finger my parents’ rings under my robe. “Not really
afraid
. I mean, I don’t think he’d
hurt
me or anything … ”

“You know there’s more to the drowning story than he’s telling you,” Sawbones says matter-of-factly.

“I
don’t
know that,” I say. “A girl jumps in the ocean for a quick swim one night, gets caught in a rip current, tragically drowns. It happens. Her own family—and the
police
, for crying out loud—they all accept that what happened is what Blake said happened. Yes, it was creepy being out there on the beach with him today at the exact spot where it happened, but all the crazy rumors? Cara wanting to disappear? I don’t buy any of that. Of course, the bottom line is that I really don’t know. But I know one thing: I’m done with Blake.”

I take a deep breath, relishing the thought—the exhilarating, liberating notion that’s occurring to me just now, this very second—that being done with Blake renders all the other stuff moot. Being done with Blake means being done with Cara, and as crass as that sounds, the very thought makes my muscles relax, makes my stomach unclench, for the first time in weeks. Being done with Blake means no longer having to deal with his crazy mood swings. Being done with Blake means being totally uninvolved with mysterious notes. Being done with Blake means having no reason to worry about creepy vibes between him and his best friend. Being done with Blake means …

Bang! Bang! Bang!