Troy produces a key and opens the door. Inside, it is shockingly warm. A small lamp next to the cash register offers enough light to see.
“There’s a restroom in the back,” says Troy. “With a shower.”
“You can stay here until dawn,” Marcial says.
“Leave everything in good shape for Johanna,” says Troy. “That is our deal with her.”
“We’ll take good care of it,” Saralinda promises.
The two men start to turn away, but then abruptly, Marcial turns back. He pulls out his wallet. He empties it and hands the money to Saralinda.
“No, no, we can’t possibly—”
“Yes. You can.”
“Pay it forward someday,” says Troy.
Saralinda stares down into her hands. “I will.” She sounds choked. She puts the money down and reaches up. She kisses Marcial’s cheek. The next moment she’s hugging him tightly, and then Troy.
“Maybe let us know how you are later on,” says Troy. “Johanna can get us a message.”
“I will.”
Troy and Marcial look at the rest of you, one by one. “God bless,” Marcial says. Then they are gone.
You are conscious of the others talking—about the money, about showers, about finding clothes to wear, about what time it is (11:53 p.m., which is earlier than you guessed since it felt like you were on that boat for a hundred years). Everything they say is important. You’ll pay attention.
Just not yet.
You need to absorb something more important.
No matter what material things you do or do not have, if you have a friend who walks by your side, you will never ever have nothing.
Also.
No matter what is wrong with you and your life, if you can help someone who needs your help, then you will never be nothing.
You used to want to be nothing.
You have just been taught better.
Chapter 38. Saralinda
Three steps inside her shoppe (I pronounce it shop-PEA) I am ready to write sonnets to Johanna, who (I imagine) has fuzzy gray hair and laugh lines around her eyes and an enormous bosom like a pillow and glasses on top of her head. Mentally I try her in a twin-set but it’s not right on her. On the front counter of the shoppe is a spinning rack of costume jewelry which makes me realize Johanna would wear her glasses dangling from a sparkly beaded necklace. Purple.
Around the shoppe Johanna has put up heart-shaped directional signs. I would never hurt Johanna’s feelings by saying that the hearts are too much and maybe actually they are not.
The signs say:
BEACHWEAR
WOMEN’S
JEANS & SWEATS
MEN’S
SHOES
HALLOWEEN
HOUSEWARES
KITCHEN
BOOKS & MUSIC
MISCELLANEOUS
OFFICE
I interrupt Evangeline and Kenyon, who are counting money, to say, “We’re in heaven, you guys!”
Caleb’s mouth twists. “I guess that would explain the two angels.”
“I know!” I say. “Did that actually happen?”
His gaze and mine tangle. His face is intense I can’t look away.
He says, “You were brave, Saralinda. When you introduced yourself. That was when things turned around.”
I hear Kenyon and Evangeline agreeing, only that wasn’t what happened so I shake my head. “No, they were laughing and joking with us before that so I already knew they were okay.”
Caleb says, “Or maybe you held out your hand and said your name and then they knew you were okay.”
He is still all intense his eyes fixed on mine we are standing rather close together and my mouth goes dry, then Caleb pivots and says over his shoulder, “I see towels.” He steps away and tosses a towel each to me and Evangeline and Kenyon, who are right here and it is therefore not the time for anything quite extremely personal between Caleb and me which is what for a moment I crazily thought was going to happen.
I dry off Georgia and then myself as best I can. My towel has a jolly mermaid on it wearing a bra made of two daisies, unfortunate choice as daisies are a land flower, nobody thinks these things through. And by the way speaking of towels (and fashion) when Caleb was looking at me before, my clothes were sopping wet. Which is to say they clung. As for Caleb, he is shirtless but has his towel (featuring a picture of Nessie) slung over his shoulders.
God I am tired. Tired but I still notice things. Tired.
I can’t move even for a shower at the moment and so I thank Evangeline for offering it to me which she just did. “You go first,” I say.
Why won’t he look at me again he wants to I feel it.
Evangeline closes the bathroom door and Kenyon turns to me and says, “I wonder if there’s a computer here somewhere.”
“Let’s try the office,” I say, pointing to the heart sign and I make for the back of the shoppe with Kenyon and Caleb following.
Is he looking at me from behind?
The office computer is a big metal box paired with a heavy old-fashioned monitor. With difficulty I locate the power button and we crowd around while it spins and wheezes to life.
“Windows 2000?” says Kenyon incredulously. “Does that seriously mean the year 2000?”
“Yeah.” Evangeline is in the doorway with a towel wrapped around her head and another around her torso.
“You were quick,” I say. She smells of soap.
“Yeah,” she says again. “Let me drive, and please pray for internet.” She sits down and clicks on the browser. The rest of us lean in and nobody mentions going for a shower next.
There is internet. There is Google.
Kenyon breathes down Evangeline’s bare neck. “Check the New York news stations.”
I say, “No, no, don’t bother with that, google our names.”
The internet connection is not exactly fast. Eventually however the results of Evangeline’s search appear. She taps on a link and from behind me I hear Caleb suck in his breath.
Son of Dr. Caleb Colchester Sought as Witness to Accident
Rockland, NY – Emerging testimony in the death of Antoine Dubois, the 17-year-old Rockland Academy student killed yesterday afternoon in a traffic incident, points to the presence of another student in the car with Dubois. Caleb Colchester Jr., 17, had accompanied Dubois on an unauthorized trip off-campus. He did not remain on the scene after the alleged accident.
Police seek to question Colchester as a person of interest, but he has disappeared. He apparently departed Rockland Academy this morning, while the student body was reeling from the news of Dubois’ death.
Colchester is the son of psychiatrist Dr. Caleb Colchester, writer for The New Yorker and author of the bestselling book The Woman Who Chased Love, and Other Strange Twists of the Human Mind, and his wife, Veronica Silva Colchester, of New York City.
Antoine Dubois was the son of Gabrielle Dubois, an engineer and architect, and the late Laurent Dubois, of Scarsdale, New York. His paternal grandmother was the poet Julietta Bandoni. Dubois was president of the senior class and a starter on the soccer team, according to sources at Rockland Academy. “He was a young man of remarkable character, who was admired by everyone,” said Dr. Dennis Lee, Head of School at Rockland Academy.
Rockland Academy has released a letter, which reads in part: “This is a tragedy for the entire Rockland Academy community. Our thoughts are with everyone whose life Antoine touched, and especially with his mother, family, and his many friends.”
Also missing are three female Rockland Academy students: Saralinda de la Flor, 16, Evangeline Song, 17, and Martha McKenyon, 17. They are believed to be with Colchester. Song, McKenyon, and de la Flor are known to have been on campus at the time of Dubois’ death yesterday, however.
McKenyo
n was in the news last spring for providing controversial evidence leading to a confession in the Perrytown High School alleged gang rape case, which is expected to come to trial next year.
Asked about his son, Dr. Colchester said, “We are hoping that Caleb comes home soon and tells us what he knows about the death of his classmate.” He added that he had no idea why Caleb or the other students had run away.
The families of the other runaway students either had no comment or could not be reached for this story.
An AMBER Alert has been issued for the underage runaway students. Anyone with information regarding their whereabouts is asked to immediately contact the police hotline.
I wonder: What is this story insinuating about Caleb?
Caleb says to Evangeline, “I didn’t know Antoine’s grandmother was Julietta Bandoni.”
“Yeah, well,” says Evangeline. “She was.”
“Do you know her work?” I ask him. I have never heard of this poet myself.
He says, “My mother likes her.”
“Antoine never knew her really,” says Evangeline. “He kept meaning to read her poems but I don’t think he ever did.”
This is so sad I have to look away.
Kenyon leaves to have her shower and the rest of us browse through the pictures with the article. However they are just our school ID photos and height, weight, and last-known-clothing information, yay the clothing has nothing to do with us anymore. Caleb’s picture is a horrible unsmiling head-and-shoulders shot that makes him look like he is holding a prison number below the photo’s bottom edge. The slideshow ends with a shot of Antoine in mid-leap on the soccer field. As he kicks out you can almost hear his living yell of triumph so the photo goes blurry before my eyes and I have to blink and lean on the edge of the desk.
Evangeline says, “It sounds like they’re sort of hinting that Caleb had something to do with Antoine’s death.”
“That won’t stand up,” I say.
Caleb doesn’t say anything.
“Is this part of the game thing your father is playing?” Evangeline asks.
Caleb shrugs. “Maybe, I guess.”
Evangeline clicks on another link. However instead of loading, the computer makes a grinding sound like a dentist’s drill and shows a blue screen with white lettering.
From the doorway, Kenyon says, “That’s not a good noise.”
Error occurred
Operating system stopped to protect file from damage. Press any key twice to reboot.
Executed code dump:
0x4A757374 0x20696E20 0x7465726D 0x73206F66 0x20616C67C 0x6F636174 0x696F6E20 0x6F662074 0x696D6520 0x72655736F 0x75726365 0x732C2072 0x656C6967 0x696F6E20 0x69732061E
Evangeline puts her head down on the desk.
“To hell with the computer,” says Kenyon, who is wearing khaki pants and a plain black long-sleeved T-shirt. “We don’t need it.”
Evangeline raises her head. “We do too.” She presses the Escape key twice. The computer whirs and grinds and as we stare at it hopefully it chooses once more to come to life and say:
Windows shut down unexpectedly.
“Evangeline?” I say. “If we get out of this, can you please buy Johanna a Mac?”
“Freaking yes.” She tries to restart the computer.
Caleb says, “Saralinda, do you want the next shower?”
“You go,” I say.
The computer runs a diagnostic.
Evangeline says, “I’ll get this piece of crap working. Meanwhile, we need to think about how to use our hundred and twenty-nine dollars—”
“Not too bad,” I say. “Thanks, Marcial and Troy.”
“Not great, but not bad,” says Evangeline. “Way better than nothing. Also, we need to figure out what we’re going to wear.”
“Who cares?” says Kenyon. “We’re going to wear clothing, Evangeline. Clothing that we borrow from Johanna. Unlike you in that tiny damp towel.”
Evangeline doesn’t look up from the computer. “No, we’re not. We’re going to wear disguises.”
Chapter 39. Caleb
You clean up rapidly, because Saralinda needs to shower too—no, no, no, you can’t think about her in the shower. This same shower. She is not for you, nothing has changed, all you’ve done is endanger her. When you step out of the shower, you notice the old mirror over the sink. Because of how the mirror’s silver has worn off the back, your face is reflected in disconnected, smoky pieces.
That’s who you are.
Outside, you hear the murmur of the girls’ voices and a geyser of laughter—all three of their voices, pealing out. It is enchanting to hear their laughter and then abruptly it is terrifying. You try to get back the feeling you had from meeting Marcial and Troy; the idea that no matter what your father does, who you are is in your control. But what good does that do if you can’t protect them, her?
For a moment in your head you are back in Ellie Mae with Antoine, and now you can feel your father’s puppeteering hand, the hand that somehow killed Antoine.
“Why?” you whisper aloud, even though you know better than to ask that question.
You almost think about your mother then. She was younger than you are now when she met him; she was alone and she had no one, and really that’s still her life—but you can’t, you won’t, go there.
You emerge from the bathroom wearing pants and a chamois shirt that you took from the men’s department. The clock now says 1:17 a.m. You follow the girls’ voices to the two racks of the women’s department—and your mouth literally drops open.
Kenyon is wearing the wig from the mannequin in the shop window, along with too-snug lilac yoga pants and an enormous matching sweatshirt. The sweatshirt features a Siamese cat and the words I’m Purr-fect.
Somehow too she has acquired a pregnant stomach.
Saralinda has a huge grin on her face.
“Well?” Evangeline asks. “Would you recognize Kenyon?”
Speechless, you shake your head.
“I look about thirty, right?” Kenyon’s expression is half-pleased, half-appalled.
“Here’s the pièce de résistance.” Evangeline gestures at a stately, old-fashioned baby carriage. “It was in the storage room.”
You are impressed. The carriage is not just a disguise; it’s also walking support if Kenyon needs it. Which makes you think of—
Kenyon looks at you and nods, as if she reads your mind about Saralinda and her cane. “Saralinda’s going to be an eleven-year-old boy. Hey, SL, go shower.”
Saralinda departs—you will not think about her standing naked under the water exactly where you just were. You pretend interest in the Yankees shirt that Kenyon holds up, and on second thought, Saralinda dressed as a boy couldn’t be more perfect and you completely approve.
Fifteen minutes later, Saralinda sits on the stool behind the cash register in a white pin-striped Derek Jeter #2 baseball shirt and baggy boy’s jeans, with her freshly washed and braided hair tucked up under a Yankees cap. Her face is grave, her eyes are alert, and she doesn’t look at all like a boy.
It was easy at school when you only saw her occasionally in the hallways. She wasn’t entirely real to you then—you know that now—and thinking about her was recreational fantasy.
But the reality of her is nearly unbearable. You want—so much—
Kenyon says, “SL? I’m sorry, but we need to cut your hair. Maybe then you’ll look more like a boy.”
Saralinda’s hand inches up and cups her bare nape.
“Hold on, I’m not sure we can even do that,” Evangeline says. “I haven’t been able to find scissors.”
You hold up your knife, which you cleaned thoroughly earlier. “I volunteer as tribute.”
Saralinda takes a deep breath. Then she pulls off the cap. Her braids drop. She undoes them, combs her finger
s through the loosened wet hair, and it tumbles down her back.
“Okay,” she says.
You’re going to get to touch her.
You don’t ask if Kenyon or Evangeline should do this instead. You stand behind her. “Are you ready?”
She looks up at you and nods.
Her hair is soft, yet each individual strand is wiry and strong. You hold the first lock gently. Its wave curls around your fingers. You try to saw through the hairs a few inches away from her scalp. Inadvertently, you pull. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
Neither of the other girls offers suggestions as you cut, for which you are grateful, and after a while you figure out how to do it. You take your time, strand by strand. But the knife is small and not suited for the job, and you have no clue, so by the end you’ve made a mess. The lengths are anything but even. Some of Saralinda’s hair sticks up, and there’s a strange curl over her left ear.
“Hmm,” says Kenyon.
Also, Saralinda still doesn’t look like a boy. She looks like a girl with a bad haircut.
You ram the Yankees cap down over her head. “Don’t look.”
“How awful can it be?” Saralinda puts a hand to her head, and looks at you, and then at the other girls.
Evangeline’s hand makes an “a little up, a little down” motion.
Kenyon makes a face.
Saralinda laughs. She swivels back to look at you—
You know better than to let her know what you feel about her; it would make things worse in so many ways. But you’re looking down into her laughing eyes, and everything you feel for her is plain on your face, whether you want it there or not.
You see her see it.
In fact all three girls look at you with their all-seeing, all-knowing girl-eyes.
But you don’t die on the spot from their knowing, and then you realize: You can’t bother with secrets anymore. No more secrets, none—they have to know it all. They need to know. Even if they don’t believe you. Even if they think you’re insane. Even if they cringe away. To have any chance of defending themselves, they need to know what you know.