Island
Peter Lerangis
PROLOGUE
J
ULY 15
He blinks.
A hundred eyes stare back. Glowing. Rimmed in black.
The small shell snaps shut. The eyes disappear inside.
He recognizes it. A clam shell. A scallop.
He sits up in the wet sand.
He is alone. The sun has risen but he is cold.
He picks up the shell and throws it into the water.
It needs to return.
Unlike him.
He never will.
He looks out over the bay. To the wall of white clouds sitting on the horizon, cottony and thick.
He has less than a day. The price of escape must be paid.
Startled by voices, he jumps to his feet.
From a pathway between the dunes, two people emerge. Strangers.
They wave hello and continue, without breaking stride.
He smiles, foolishly, uncontrollably.
He knows what he has done.
He knows his days are numbered.
And he is very, very happy.
Digging his hand into his pants pocket, he pulls out a pocketknife. He unsheathes the blade. Caked with sand, seaweed, and salt water, it crackles as it opens.
At the beach’s edge, beyond, the dunes and near the parking lot, he spots a waist-high metal box with a clear plastic door. It is labeled
NESCONSET INQUIRER AND MIRROR
—
FREE
.
He walks to it, placing the knife on top to dry in the sun.
Opening the box, he takes out a newspaper.
He checks the date.
His heart races as he scans the front page. The images and word rhythms seem so strange and false.
Then he sees a headline in the Social Events section:
Clemson Childers III to Celebrate
75th Birthday
Gala Event at Nesconset Yacht Club
He looks to his left. Toward a large gray building at the edge of the land. Over the front door hangs a coat of arms. In the window is a sign:
A car is pulling up to the building.
He watches as a figure emerges, jangling a set of keys, heading for the front door.
He knows just what to do.
He takes the knife.
And he heads for the man.
Does he realize what he’s doing?
He must.
Do we?
Case File: 7008
Name: Rachel Childers
Age: 13
First contact: 58.65.07
Acceptance:
H
E WAS STARING AT
me.
Well, not all the time.
But whenever I would look at him, our eyes would meet.
It wasn’t like in that old movie
Doctor Zhivago.
You know, when the girl and guy spot each other on a crowded trolley and —
dzzzzt
— cut to the sparks on the overhead electric wire. That’s a cool scene.
This was creepy.
He
was creepy.
I wasn’t sure why.
He didn’t skulk around or drool. He didn’t have hollow eyes, sunken cheeks, or pale gray skin.
He was tanned and healthy looking. He had a jet-black ponytail, frizzed from the humidity and salt water. He wore navy pants and a white shirt. Just like all the other bus-people at the Nesconset Yacht Club.
But something was
off.
First of all, his shoes were battered and way too big, as if they’d been picked out of the trash. But that wasn’t it, either.
It was the body language.
Awkward. Nervous. Eyes darting around the room. As if he’d forgotten something. Or was afraid he’d be caught.
Rachel, you’re taking this way too seriously,
I told myself.
I do that sometimes. Ask my little brother, Seth. He says that I think I’m in a movie all day long, turning everyone else into characters. According to my dad, I need to grow up and act my age.
Seth is right. Dad is wrong. But those are whole other stories.
All I knew was that this busboy sucked the air out of the room.
And I was the only one who noticed.
Everyone else was listening to my boring Uncle Harry, who was giving (as usual) a speech:
“… And so, in this picturesque village, Nesconset, so near and dear to us all, we celebrate the birthday of a pioneer. A great man. My father, Clem Childers the Third …”
Clemson, not CLEM. Grandpa Childers hates CLEM. It sounds like Clam. You should know that, Uncle Harry.
The busboy was staggering across the room now, loaded down by a trayful of dirty plates. You could tell he hadn’t been a busboy very long.
“… whose life was marked by heroism and loss,” Uncle Harry droned on, “on that tragic day, sixty years ago, when he swam to safety, the only survivor of the tragic boating accident …”
I nearly threw a jumbo shrimp at him.
Not in front of all these people, Uncle Harry!
I couldn’t believe it. Grandpa Childers
never
talked about that incident. It was a birthday cruise like the one we would soon be boarding. He lost his best friends. He lost his own grandfather.
I looked around for Grandpa Childers. I spotted him in the doorway that led to the dock. He was ignoring Uncle Harry, doing some magic trick, pulling a kumquat from behind the ear of one of the party guests.
(That’s Grandpa Childers. Seventy-five going on fifteen.)
When I looked back, the busboy was out of sight.
“… and subsequently he dedicated his life to the dreams and aspirations of the children who had lost their lives — and we here are living proof that he succeeded!”
No. There he is. Heading toward the kitchen. Still struggling with that tray. Heading for … Mr. Havershaw.
This was amusing.
But Mr. H was quick. At the last moment he jumped out of the way, and the busboy disappeared through the swinging kitchen door.
Too bad. A collision would have been just fine.
Mr. H was at the party to see me. He’s the director of this boarding school called Phelps. My mom and dad want me to go there the year after next, so they invited him.
My mom and dad are impossible. I’m not even in eighth grade yet, and they already have my whole life planned out — prep school, Yale, then some career where you shout into a phone, networking all day. That’s what they do best. They network at the beach. They network over breakfast. (And they tell me
I
spend too much time on the phone. Ha!) I once told Dad he should have his cell phone grafted to his ear, but he didn’t find it amusing.
I mean, I should have been having fun. School was out. It was a gorgeous July day. But I was dressed in heavy, stiff clothes, sweating like a pig and worrying about my future.
No wonder I’m so paranoid about busboys. It’s stress.
Next thing I knew, Mr. Havershaw was looming over me, firing off dumb questions and bad breath. And I was giving my good-girl answers: “Thirteen years old … straight A’s, except for math … what I really want to do with my life is be a doctor or a lawyer … yes, foliage season
would
be a great time to visit Phelps …”
I would rather die than go to your school,
was what I really wanted to say.
And while I’m at it, I’ll TELL you what I want to do with my life — dive into the bay and swim. Away from this party, away from you, until I disappear into those clouds on the horizon, and I’ll soar upward on the mist and build a castle, no adults allowed, and I’ll only invite people like me who want to enjoy life, enjoy BEING A KID, like Grandpa Childers says, so why don’t you just get out of here, go and interview the psycho busboy.
Who, at that moment, was coming out of the kitchen. Trayless, dodging and weaving among the guests.
“Rachel?” Mr. Havershaw was saying.
Pay attention.
“Uh … what?”
I spotted Grandpa Childers. He was alone at the buffet table. In a corner.
The busboy was heading toward him.
Fast.
He was pulling something out of his pocket.
A knife.
Wooden handle. Folded-up blade.
“Excuse me,” I said.
I didn’t even wait for Mr. Havershaw’s response. I was running across the room. Knocking hors d’oeuvres from people’s hands.
Get there. Get there now.
Grandpa Childers turned. Faced the boy.
His smile vanished. His face went pale.
And I screamed.
The knife.
2The fool.
“S
TOP HIM!
H
E HAS A KNIFE!”
I barreled through the crowd. A waiter crossed into my path, then jumped out of my way with a cry of surprise.
The busboy’s back was toward me. I grabbed his shoulder and he spun around.
I could see the knife up close now. Still sheathed in his palm.
Both he and Grandpa Childers were staring at me, startled.
So was everyone else in the room.
“It’s all right, Rachel,” Grandpa Childers said gently. “It’s mine. This young man found it on the beach. He’s returning it to me.”
“Re-returning?”
Grandpa Childers took the knife from the busboy’s hand and held it toward me. The initials CC were carved on the handle.
“Oh,” I squeaked. “Sorry.”
Rachel, you dork.
I couldn’t look him in the eye.
I couldn’t look anyone in the eye.
Unfortunately, they were all looking at me.
The whole party.
Including Dad and Mom and Mr. Havershaw.
That’s it, Rachel. Kiss the Phelps School good-bye.
Maybe a reform school for you instead.
I slunk away.
Mr. Havershaw’s relaxed smile had gone tight. “Everything okay?” he asked.
I nodded. “It was his. Grandpa Childers’s. The knife. I thought — you know …”
“Yes,” said Mr. Havershaw. “Well, um, it was good to meet you, Rachel. You have a wonderful family.”
“I can’t figure out how YOU fit in, though.” Come on, say it!
“Thanks,” I replied.
As he left, I felt two pairs of eyes impaling me from either side.
The Wrath of Mom and Dad.
They didn’t have to say anything. I heard the message loud and clear. I’d heard it a million times before.
Lazy. Good-for-nothing. Immature.
So much potential. So little ambition.
Stand up straight.
Don’t shoot yourself in the foot.
Try. Because there are a thousand others who
are
trying, just waiting to step ahead of you.
