Wrecked (29 page)

“Teddy told me you came home upset. He thought you needed someone to watch over you. And I was only happy to be there. You were screaming in your sleep. You were moaning, crying . . . you had a rough night.”

“Something like that,” Miranda said dully. The truth was, she had no one. Not Christian. Not Fletch. Even Teddy seemed scared for her, and Louisa was only doing this because it was her
job.

“I’m fine. Really, Miranda said sharply, pushing Louisa’s hand away. “I just need to take a shower.” She swung her legs off the bed and stepped onto the cool wood floor. Before Louisa could do it, she flung open the windows. But the view of the sun rising majestically over the harbor only made her more exhausted. She was
tired
, the type of exhaustion that made even attempting to fall back asleep seem too daunting.

She headed into the adjacent bathroom and turned on the water, waiting for the room to get ultra-steamy before she stepped into the shower. She surveyed herself in the mirror above the sink, frowning at her reflection. Her dark hair was crunchy and tangled from too much salt water, and her legs had dried streaks of sand on them. And she had huge dark circles under her eyes. She looked tragic and sad. She couldn’t do this anymore. A thought crept into her mind, terrible and frightening. What if . . .

She glanced around the room, her eye momentarily landing on a razor. Would it be easy? Would it hurt? And worse, what if it didn’t work?

“Miranda?” Louisa rapped sharply on the door, as if she’d sensed where Miranda’s thoughts were headed.

“I’m taking a shower!” Miranda yelled, stepping into the thick steam of the shower. She washed her hair, noticing how much lather the shampoo produced on her scalp. Darcy, who read beauty magazines religiously, always said that the more lather your shampoo produced, the dirtier your hair was. How could she keep living, if something as everyday and routine as taking a shower could make herself hurt so badly? At least when her leg had throbbed those first few weeks, that was something
real,
something she could feel. But now that the leg pain had faded into the background, the only thing that ached was her heart.

She turned off the shower, dried off, and pulled on her skirt and blouse. She’d lost so much weight she didn’t even have to unzip her uniform skirt to pull it past her hips. Not like she cared. She pulled her still-wet hair into a ponytail and walked down to the kitchen as though she was walking through a fog.

“Good morning, Miranda,” Eleanor said, glancing up from the kitchen table, where she was drinking a cup of tea and reading the newspaper. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Miranda said.

“And you’re going to school today,” Eleanor announced.

“Of course. I’m
fine,”
she added, wishing it were true.

“Good.”

Just then, Teddy ran down the central stairs, grabbing his backpack.

“Ah, Teddy,” Eleanor looked up and smiled one of her rare smiles at her grandson. “Will you drive Miranda to school?”

“I’ll drive,” Miranda said sharply. “Teddy doesn’t need to be my babysitter. And you have to trust me,” she added, noticing the way “trust” had cropped up more and more in her vocabulary these past twenty-four hours. But unlike Christian, she didn’t have anything to hide. People
could
trust her.

“Miranda,” Eleanor said in a warning tone.

“Okay, fuck it. I’ll meet you in the car,” Miranda huffed, storming out of the house, not even bothering to grab her bag.

A minute later, Teddy climbed into the driver’s seat.

“You had to f-bomb Eleanor? Why?” Teddy asked in exasperation as they backed out of the garage and headed toward the ferry.

“I’m not talking to you,” Miranda said shortly. It was childish and bitchy, and she didn’t care. She turned her head away from Teddy and closed her eyes, not bothering to open them during the entire ferry crossing or the drive to Calhoun.

“We’re here,” Teddy announced finally, as he parked in the junior lot at the far end of Calhoun.

“Thanks,” Miranda said flatly. She knew that Teddy was only trying to help preserve peace between her and Eleanor, but she didn’t care. For once, she just wanted someone to care about
her.
She’d thought Christian had been that person.

“Are you coming in?” Teddy asked.

Miranda shook her head. “I’ll wait until the bell rings. See you later,” she said.

Teddy sighed, as if about to protest, and Miranda was convinced he thought she was planning to skip the whole day. But she wasn’t. All she wanted to do was avoid another round of verbal attacks in the hallway.

When the bell rang, Miranda slowly got out of the car and headed to AP English. Although she doubted school would get her mind off things, it was preferable to sitting in the car obsessing.

She sat in the back of the room, glancing out the window and wishing she could be anywhere but here. But where would she go?

Suddenly, the intercom crackled, the sign of an imminent announcement.

“Miranda O’Rourke to the guidance office, please.” The intercom crackled.

Of course. She stood up and walked out of the classroom and down the winding hallways to the guidance office. Head-mistress Wyar was standing at the door like a sentry.

“Miranda,” she called, her voice echoing down the hallway. Her chestnut hair was pulled into a low bun at the nape of her neck, and she was wearing a salmon-colored cardigan twinset. “Come in,” she said firmly, closing the door with a thud.

The interior of the guidance office resembled a Southern parlor that looked like it belonged in a
Gone With the Wind
knockoff movie. Initially the sitting room of the Calhoun mansion, it had oriental rugs that covered the polished oak floors, Tiffany lamps on the end tables, and photos of long-dead patrician-looking men on the walls. Surrounding the waiting area were smaller offices, which either were used for guidance meetings or for college counseling sessions.

“Come in,” Headmistress Wyar directed, leading Miranda toward Dr. Carlson’s small corner office. Normally Headmistress Wyar went out of her way to make small talk to students, especially ones who were the athletic and intellectual elite of Calhoun. It was all part of the homey atmosphere that the school prided itself on. Miranda realized that she was being treated like a capital-
P
problem, like Henry Burke, the junior who had his lip pierced and a small business selling pot in the junior parking lot, or Jenny Martin, the frail sophomore who wrote pages-long angsty poems for the school literary magazine and cited Sylvia Plath as her personal heroine at every opportunity.

Miranda had never understood why they seemed so
tortured,
why they couldn’t just realize that they’d kind of won the life lottery. After all, they lived in a beautiful place, they went to one of the best schools in the country, and even if their lives kind of sucked now, at least they had the ability to escape in a few years. But now she got it. Sometimes things just sucked, and wouldn’t get better.

Miranda stepped into the office, recoiling when she realized
that Eleanor was perched on the cream-colored loveseat in the corner.

“Miranda,” Dr. Carlson said, standing up behind the desk.

“Please sit,” she offered, gesturing to the spot on the loveseat next to Eleanor.

Instead, Miranda slumped on the hard-backed chair in the corner of the room, as far away from Eleanor as possible. She felt like she was being ambushed. She fixed her gaze on the scarred coffee table in the center of the room. It was cluttered with prospectuses from colleges around the country. The smiling students in the cover photographs seemed to be looking at Miranda.

“Now, let’s make sure we’re all on the same page,” Dr. Carlson chirped nervously, as she glanced from Headmistress Wyar to Miranda to Eleanor. It was clear that Dr. Carlson wanted to impress Headmistress Wyar with her handling of the situation. It was a big step up from her normal tasks of consoling people who didn’t get into their first choice of college.

“Miranda, we want to make it clear . . . Headmistress Wyar and I want to make it clear, that you’re not in trouble. This is just a conversation to determine whether you’re in the best place for
you.
It can’t be easy to be here, surrounded by so many memories,” Dr. Carlson said, lowering her voice somberly.

“She hasn’t been herself,” Eleanor said, arching an eyebrow at Dr. Carlson. “I don’t know what she’s been doing, but I will do anything to help Miranda.”

“Whatever,” Miranda whispered under her breath.

“Excuse me?” Headmistress Wyar asked coolly, turning toward Miranda, clearly uncomfortable at getting caught in any family drama between Miranda and her grandmother. After all, Eleanor was a staunch supporter of Calhoun and Headmistress Wyar would no doubt miss the generous checks Eleanor wrote to the school at the biannual galas.

“I just don’t think I can handle her right now. It’s too much,” Eleanor said, as if Miranda were a disobedient puppy.

“You don’t need to
handle
me. I’m trying. Why don’t you call Gray in and tell her not to turn everyone against me? Why am I in so much trouble when I haven’t
done
a goddamn thing?” Miranda exploded.

“Shh,” Dr. Carlson said, pursing her lips. She grabbed the box of tissues on the corner of her desk and brought them over to Miranda.

“Let’s get to the point,” Headmistress Wyar said nervously. “We all know that Miranda suffered something incredibly traumatic, both physically and emotionally, and that can have rippling effects on an individual, a family, and a community.”

“I think you need to take a break,” Eleanor interjected. “It’s been decided. I can’t lose you. And I can’t help you right now. It’s for the best.”

“A break . . . ,” Miranda said slowly, trying to wrap her mind around the idea. On one hand, a break sounded like
exactly
what she needed. But she knew there was going to be a catch.

“I think everyone was greatly . . . surprised at your decision
to return to the classroom so quickly after the chain of events. And I’m wondering, both as your advisor and as someone who
does
care about you, Miranda, whether that’s the best option. As you know, Calhoun’s a small place, not so different than a family . . . and we have to be aware of the needs of all students,” Dr. Carlson finished somberly.

“You’re kicking me out,” Miranda realized slowly. “You’re going to send me away,” she added, glancing toward Eleanor. “What about college, and Fletch and . . . everything,” she finished with a shaky sigh.

“No!” Dr. Carlson jumped in. “Not at all. You’re an amazing asset to this school, and we would have loved for you to graduate from Calhoun Academy. But given your circumstances, coupled with the fact that it’s always been your desire to apply to the most competitive colleges, we feel that transferring to a residential community that can offer you the academics
and
the emotional support you need, might be the best path for you. There’s a great one in Arizona, and another one in Utah,” Dr. Carlson said smoothly, reaching down to pull a few brochures out of her desk drawer.

“You’re sending me to rehab?” Miranda asked in disbelief. A knot of rage was forming in her stomach, threatening to explode. “Why? I wasn’t drinking on the boat. It was an accident.” Miranda said helplessly.

“Not rehab. Just a place where you can really focus on your, ah,
emotional
well-being in a way that will be helpful to you
and your family,” Headmistress Wyar said smoothly.

“It’s a good idea, Miranda. It’s clear you’re miserable. I can’t lose you, too,” Eleanor said. “You’ll go to Arizona,” she decided.

“Well, we’ll leave you all to figure everything out, and we’re here when you need us. We’re happy to write recommendations when the time comes for you to apply to college. And we wish you good luck,” Headmistress Wyar said, standing up and offering her hand to Miranda, clearly relieved the conversation was over.

Miranda glared up at Headmistress Wyar, rage bubbling inside her, threatening to spill over. “So that’s it. I’m no longer your problem? How many parents paid to have me kicked out?” Miranda hissed.

“Now, it’s not like that,” Dr. Carlson began.

“Then what’s it like? Because I didn’t ask for any of this,” Miranda said.

“It’s the best decision,” Eleanor said firmly, clasping her hands in her lap and turning toward Headmistress Wyar. “As you know, I’m raising Teddy and Miranda by myself, and I’m in over my head. I need Miranda to be safe,” she added. “You’ll understand, princess,” Eleanor said, using the pet name she hadn’t called Miranda in years.

Miranda gazed at Eleanor with fury. She was
not
a princess. She was the witch who cursed an entire family, an entire
community.

“Fine,” Miranda said simply.
Fine.

“Really, darling?” Eleanor asked in surprise.

“Yes,” Miranda said, standing up and walking out of the guidance office, not bothering to say good-bye to Dr. Carlson or Headmistress Wyar. She didn’t bother to hold the door open for her grandmother, allowing the door to click closed with a thud. She stood outside, gulping the crisp fall air. It was probably for the best. She needed to get away from this island, from whatever magic or curse had been laid upon her, to a place where mermen or betwixtmen didn’t exist and friends didn’t die and people didn’t get blamed for things that they had no control over.