Girl Lost (2 page)

Part of me doesn’t believe that Grayson will let me stay. I’m an adult, and Aunt Jane can’t do anything to force me back into institutional care, but she controls Barrie Enterprises.

I grit my teeth and smile at Orchid. “You can have your pick,” I say, waving at the empty beds. She takes the bed to the right, and I move my stuff to the left, situating my desk to face the window. I push it open, and she gives me a curious look as the sound of the wind and the ocean seeps in. “I like the fresh air,” I say simply. She doesn’t comment, and I stare at my untouched boxes. Nod to myself, firmly.

I can’t screw this up. It’s my chance to prove to Micah and Grayson and Jane—to everyone who matters—that I’m not insane. I haven’t seen the Boy in months—not counting this afternoon, and I can dismiss that, because I didn’t see him. It was
a
boy, a normal student, a redhead, but not
the
Boy.

With that thought firmly in mind, I busy myself unpacking the boxes, working alongside Orchid in companionable silence.

The first day of class is dark and cool before sunrise. Not a true cold, but a hint of it that promises a long and sullen winter on its way. Summer is, quite officially, over.

Orchid is still sleeping, so I change into yoga pants and a tank top and a pair of comfortably worn flip flops. Then I creep out of the room. I hurry down the stairs, pulling my hair into a messy pony tail, and break into a jog when I get outside.

It’s all downhill, circling to the base of the college and the small boathouse. Northern is too aware of the wealthy and their fascination with yachting to not have a boat house. And there is the ever present fishing industry, even here at our tiny school.

But I’m not complaining—it means there is a rowing machine and a place to store my kayak in the warm months.

Micah has already uncovered the boats, and he hands me a cup of coffee as I stretch and roll my arms.

He doesn’t talk—he’s smart enough to know I’m not going to be very communicative until I’ve had the coffee and gotten into my boat.

As the little kayak dips and bobs under my weight and I get my bearings in the water, the panicked, uncertain feeling ebbs.

“How long?” he asks quietly.

“Forty five minutes. You have an early class to get to,” I answer and dip my paddle into the ocean.

We cut through the water silently, with me just a bit in front of Micah. Here, words aren’t needed—there are no questions about my sanity. Here there is only peace. I find an easy rhythm, dip and pull, and as my muscles warm and loosen, I flash a grin at Micah. His eyes narrow—he knows me well enough, after all—and I put on a burst of speed and pull away from him. He splashes water at me, and I laugh, a wild and free noise, a noise so unlike me it’s almost heartbreaking.

But this isn’t the place for heartbreak, and I let the thought go as the sun lights the dark, setting the Atlantic to flame and brightening the day.

Later, I rub a towel over my hair and step out of the women’s locker room. Micah pushes off the post of the door, falling into easy step alongside me. “You ready?”

“Yep. It’s going to be a good day, Micah. Don’t worry.”

“What happened, yesterday?”

I still, remembering that flash of the Boy. I want to tell him. Want to confide in him everything I suspect, but I know too well how that works out. Micah has never been one to indulge in my delusions. And he hadn’t been on the island.

There is no island.

“Nothing. Too many people—you know how easy I spook in that kind of situation.”

“I also know you looked like you saw a ghost,” he says, and I whip around, glaring at him. His expression is carefully blank. “Gwendolyn. Be honest with me—you’re doing well , and I want to help. Did you see him?”

Him. The Boy.

Flashing hair and laughing eyes and a glint of madness that calls to me like a moth to flame.

“No,” I say flatly. “He isn’t real. He never was. It’s been two years, Micah. Let it go.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him off with a sharp glare and turn away.

“I’m gonna be late,” I say over my shoulder. He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t move either—just watches me with those worried eyes as I hurry away.

It is a party. The summer after junior year has just started, and I am allowed to go because I’d stayed on my meds for six months straight. I am awkward and excited and so nervous I can taste it, like the bitter powder of my drugs when I swallowed them, clinging to the back of my throat.

I don’t need pills. I’m not crazy. But no one believes me.

Kyle is there, his arm wrapped around my waist, a proprietary touch that at once excites and chills me.

I’m not his, to touch this way.

The party is loud and nothing like I expect—people are packed too close together, the air rank with the scent of sex and sweat and desperation mixed with beer and weed. It makes my stomach turn, but I’ve fought to be here. I can’t turn away from it because I’m shy and awkward.

Kyle retrieves two drinks for us, and I twist the top off my wine cooler, sipping it tentatively as he draws us deeper into the house. There is a wide spread of grass behind the house and a pool lit by exotic colors. In their tiny suits and long hair, the girls look unearthly as they frolic for the attention of the watching boys.

He leads me on a meandering path, through the party. Toward the edges of the lawn, past the lights of the house and the ruckus laughter and cursing. I dig my heels in once, and he gives me a sweet smile. "You look tired, sweetie. I wanted to give you some quiet."

It's a sweet thought, and surprisingly thoughtful. I hadn't expected that kind of consideration from Kyle.

He spreads his jacket on the ground beneath a tree, and I sit gingerly. My head is spinning--I'm not used to the commotion that is this party. I'm used to the quiet halls of Pembrooke, broken by the shrill screams of the crazy.

Even at Pembrooke, there are screams.

His hand is still on my waist, and I shift a little, trying to politely dislodge it, but his grip tightens minutely, drawing me toward him.

He kisses me before I realize he intends to, and for several long heartbeats, I don't react, frozen by the touch and his hands on me.

Wrong. So wrong.
I shift again, trying to pull away, and Kyle pulls back.

"Is this ok?" he whispers. His words are soft and sweet, at odds with the hands still holding me and the smile that is more a leer. I shiver and try to shake my head, but he kisses me again, and my shriek is muffled. I jerk back and slam my head against the tree. The world sways drizzly, and I whimper, pain and fear making me sound so incredibly broken.

I hate that girl, who could so easily be broken.

The Boy appears from nowhere. For an instant, I don't recognize him—even at his most wild, my Boy has never looked like this, savage and feral and terrifying.

"Close your eyes," he whispers, a noise like the wind in the trees. Kyle doesn't hear him. But I do. And I obey, because with him, there is no other choice.

There is no noise, nothing that tells me what is happening. Curiosity burns through me, and I am tempted to peek.

I don't. Even when I don't trust my own senses and sanity, I trust the Boy. I keep my eyes closed.

Fingers brush my arm, and I jerk back, fear and adrenaline spiking in me. I can still feel Kyle and his too invasive touch.

"Easy, Gwendy," he says. I relax. I would know that voice anywhere. It's all warmth and safety, with the softest touches of laughter. And just now, it's coated in concern.

How hard is he trying, to keep the anger from his tone?

"Can you walk?"

I don't know, but there is something urgent in his eyes, so I nod. He gives me a smile as he helps me to my feet. I look toward the dim shape of Kyle, and the Boy snaps his fingers sharply, jerking my gaze back to him.

"Don't," he says simply. "Go. Find your brother and go home, Gwen."

"How did you know?" I ask softly. He gives me a sly smile and then pushes me back toward the raging party.

I take a few stumbling steps and glance back.

He's already gone.

I shiver. The memory wraps around me like the cool morning, a light fog that dulls the edges of reality. I can’t afford to be like this. I step off the walkway, leaning for a moment against a tree.

When I have moments like this, quiet and focus helps set the spinning world to rights.

It's not real. It was never real.
The island doesn't exist
.

I've repeated those words for two years. Since the disaster of a party, I realized that no one would ever believe me—not even when the evidence was there, a body laying bloody on the grass in front of them. I've repeated the words and forced myself to accept them, and at the very worst of times, even I begin to believe.

If he was real, why is there no proof? Why am I the only one who has ever heard or seen him? Why has he never come to find me?

Slowly, slowly the memories recede and my breathing evens out. I open my eyes and find the morning unchanged—quiet and still.

I take a deep breath and step back on the path, hurrying through the campus to my dorm.

Orchid is sitting cross legged on her bed, a sullen, sleepy expression closing her off from the world.

"We have no coffee," she says carefully, her voice faintly accusing. "We only have tea."

I swallow my laugh and give her a somber look. Orchid seems at once annoyed and appalled by my lack of breakfast beverage choices.

"Get dressed. We'll stop by the cafe on our way to class."

Orchid gives me a long stare. "My treat," I add.

She smirks and crawls from the bed.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I tug it out. A text from Aunt Jane.

Aunt J: Don't forget your call with Grayson this morning
.

I frown and drop the phone. I haven't forgotten. And even if I had, Micah won't let me miss my check in. Too much rides on me staying sane.

Orchid makes an impatient noise, and I jerk away from my phone and hurry to dress.

Ten minutes later, Orchid and I step out of the dorm hall. The campus has come to life, and I feel a startling jolt of excitement as I survey it.

"Coffee," Orchid says abruptly. "Now."

I grin, a surprisingly light feeling wrapping around me as I follow her to the campus cafe. It's a large, dark place filled with the rich aroma of roasted coffee and sugar, with a hint of lemon. The wood panels gleam, mismatched tables and chairs scattered without a thought for order.

A shelf of worn books stands in the corner. I abandon Orchid to wander over and examine it. There's a simple sign.

Take an adventure. Leave one you’re done with it for a friend you haven’t met.

Someone steps next to me and nudges a tattered paperback in my direction. "I liked this one."

I glance up, startled to see the blue eyed boy from orientation. His black hair flops in his eyes. He flashes me a smile. "I didn't catch your name yesterday."

"Gwendolyn," I say softly. I look away, nervous suddenly.

"I'm James Accrocher."

"Gwen," Orchid says, her voice pulling me away from James. I see him glance at her, and his eyes widen a touch. She doesn't notice, stepping up and handing me a cup of tea.

The thin cup warms my cold hands.

"We need to go," she says, nodding at James. His mouth closes on whatever he was going to say next, and I let Orchid pull me away, out of the cafe. Outside, I can breathe better. Something about James puts me on edge.

“Who was that?” Orchid asks, sipping her coffee cautiously.

“I don’t know,” I tell her truthfully. She frowns then shrugs it off. “Come on, let’s get to class.”

The morning passes in a blur of lecture halls and professors and syllabi. After my first class—Comm 101—with Orchid, I’m on my own for the rest of the day. Which is thrilling and terrifying. By the time my break for lunch rolls around, I’m exhausted, the introvert in me demanding a retreat to my room.

But there is still the phone call to Grayson, which has me standing outside the cafeteria, waiting impatiently for my phone to ring.

Everyone—Micah and Aunt Jane, the board of directors and myself, even Grayson—wanted me to get better. To let go of the delusions and memories. Two years without a manifestation is a long time, and we are all breathing easier.

But no one is willing to trust my sanity to hold, alone in the world.

The phone rings, a special tone reserved especially for Grayson. With a sigh, I thumb it on and answer.

“Hello?”

“Gwen, darling. I hear the weather is lovely. Micah says you get along with your roommate. And it’s only the first day, so I’m sure you’re in class.”

“Pretty much sums up the day. So we can sign off and chat next week.”