Shining Sea (7 page)

ECHO

Dr. Harrison joked once that all musicians have OCD tendencies. Ha-ha.

Bo.
What is he?

During dinner with Dad, and later, while I’m doing homework, that question—and a million others about Bo—slices through my thoughts like a swimmer’s strokes through water, again and again.

Listening to the new song I’d managed to download before the nearly nonexistent Internet connection dropped, I write to Mom, telling her I’ve met the most beautiful boy—then hit “Delete.” After starting over and writing about school, I hesitate. But Dad wouldn’t have told Mom about my fall; he’s smarter than that. Closing the note with
x
’s and
o
’s for Lilah, I shut down the computer. The email will have to go tomorrow, from the library.

But thoughts of Mom won’t go so easily, even though, in a way, she herself has been gone longer than Lilah has. And I’ll probably never know why. She’d blame it on her art.

Tonight, I wish I could talk to her, about Bo, about my walk. But she hardly ever picks up her phone, and even if she did, we wouldn’t really
talk
. We’d just exchange trivia.

After getting out my guitar, I open a notebook filled with lyrics and bad poems, and turn to a blank page. I pick up a pen, then put it down. Straighten a stack of paperbacks. Line up a handful of guitar picks. Focusing on small things can save you. I learned that even before Lilah’s accident. Learned to focus on the small things. When you look at something small for a long time—it opens. Then you can see a long ways.

Usually when I’m looking at that long view, I see words, find songs, and something’s clarified. But sometimes, I just see the past. I see Mom. Loving me. But I can’t
feel
it. It’s like having a photo of something but not the thing itself.

As if the love she gives me now is an echo, and the original sound is gone.

Mom used to joke,
“I loved you until you started talking back
.
”
But I hadn’t talked back, Lilah had, and Mom still loves her more. Why do adults joke about things that aren’t funny?

Playing around with a bunch of different chords, I settle on a minor one, of course. Next, my fingers land on the strings and form another chord, but not one I recognize. The combination of notes is—different. Dissonant.
Don’t think. Just play.

“To tell the truth,”
I whisper sing,
“I’m not okay.”

“Thank you for asking, and now will you stay? Or smile politely and just walk away.”

I have no idea where this is going, but the next verse comes out as if it’s already written.

“To tell the truth, I’m sure I look fine. You can’t see what’s hidden with the naked eye, it’s like trying to find something blue in the sky.”

My voice shoots into my upper register—

“Gently—pick me up carefully . . .

Gently—hold me. Rock me . . .

Gently like she—used to do.”

Scrambling to write the words down, the bridge bursts from the center of my body and up through my throat. I can almost hear the drums: a broken roll on the snare, a hesitant kick on a bass drum that
just
makes it to the downbeat on time. An ascending bass line that sends the next section soaring— Tears start rolling down my cheeks, but I must be feeling better, because depression is debilitating. You can’t write a song if you’re wasting away. You wouldn’t want to. Grief, that’s fuel, but the “depressed artist” thing? It’s a myth.

“Myth!” I shout. Then I shout it again, listening carefully—although not, I realize with a start, for an echo, but—for an answer.

Don’t know why I’m surprised when none comes.

SUNSET

“Ready for this?” Mary asks. Of course, she’s the first one here.

“Not really.” I stroke one of the hot-pink petals on the one last flower that clings to a Rugosa rosebush at the back of the lighthouse. Late-afternoon light edges the petal with gold.

“Don’t worry. I told you. You won’t have to do anything. The guys will dig the fire pit, my Kevin’s bringing food, and Pete said—”

“He’ll bring beer.”

“How did you guess? And your contribution?” Mary holds up a bag of marshmallows.

So far, though I’ve been invited to a bunch of parties, I’ve only been to two, both at Mary’s house. Each time I ended up wedged between a couple of Kevins.

But today is different. Today the party is here.

“We really should’ve waited until tomorrow night,” I say.

“True,” Mary agrees. “It’s not like this is going to help anyone’s test scores.”

For students concentrating on marine sciences, school will have a slightly later than usual start tomorrow. Not so we can sleep late “’cause we’re gonna be partying half the night,” like Pete claims, but to give us time to make it over to Seal Cove, a public beach on the west side of the peninsula. The longest and supposedly prettiest beach on the Hook, it’s also the site for the infamous rules-and-regulations exam.

Listing a bunch of rules and filling in blanks won’t be a problem. It’s the hands-on part I’m worried about. Tomorrow at nine a.m., I’ll be on a boat,
in the water
.

As much as I want to embrace the beach, want to walk at the ocean’s edge, the idea of actually
being on a boat
, of actually being
in
the water, terrifies me.

“You’re still stressed, aren’t you?” Mary says. “But not about the party.” I nod, and she gives me a sympathetic look. “You’ll be fine tomorrow; it’ll be like riding a bike.”

“Yeah . . . if you saw the hills in my old neighborhood, you might not think that was such a good comparison.” But tomorrow’s test isn’t the only thing bugging me. Earlier this week I asked Mary about Summers Cove and told her how Dad had said not to go there. I was going to ask her about Bo too, but she got this weird look on her face. Then she said she had to go and hurried off to PE. Maybe now is a better time.

“Mary, when I asked you about Summers Cove—”

“Here comes Alyssa,” Mary interrupts. A 1960s yellow Mustang convertible skids to a stop in front of us, spraying stones.

“And Pete and Bobby,” we both say at the same time.

“Jinx.” I start to laugh, then stop, a second late in hearing the weight Mary’s given the word. Her eyes hold a warning.
She really doesn’t want to talk about Summers Cove.

Would it make a difference if I told her what happened to me over there?

Wet lashes catching light, water dripping from his skin onto mine—

“I didn’t ‘catch’ you. I dragged you. Out of a tide pool.”

Lies, all lies.

But even so, I can’t possibly tell Mary. Not about any of it.

“Niiice,” Pete says, climbing out of Alyssa’s car. Bobby gives a low whistle.

“It’ll be
awesome
when this place opens for real next summer; it’s so much closer than Seal Cove.” Alyssa points to the lighthouse. “Can we go up?”

“Um, yeah, sure.” It had to happen sooner or later, might as well get it over with.

By the time we come down from the tower, Alyssa is my best friend. “Hey, I’m driving the mantrap to Portland pretty soon. I need new winter clothes. You guys want to go?”

“It could happen,” Mary says. “You in, Ari?”

“Maybe.” I’m betting Alyssa approaches shopping like an extreme sport, but I wouldn’t mind checking out some clubs.

A van drives up, and some kids I recognize from school pile out with blankets and coolers. As the crowd heads toward the steps, Logan’s white pickup rolls in. He takes his time walking over to where I stand waiting at the top of the stairs.

“Who invited them?” He jerks a thumb toward the group on the beach below.

I roll my eyes. “Come on, before Pete drinks all the beer. He brought Shipyard, and Geary’s. Not that I care, but you might.”

“Damn right I do.” We make our way down the steps. “But promise me something?”

“Sure,” I say, not really paying attention, “anything you want.” We walk across the sand.

“Anything?”

“Wait, what am I promising?”

“Too late. But don’t worry, I won’t ask you for anything you don’t want to give.” Logan’s light eyes glint in the sun, and I notice, not for the first time, that he has ridiculously long eyelashes. “And I’ll start with something easy, like a beach walk.”

I’m off the hook for a reply—Dad arrives carrying two platters laden with lobster rolls. He puts the trays down on one of the coolers, and he and Logan shake hands.

“Young Mr. Delaine. Pleasure. How are your folks?” I’d forgotten Dad knows the Delaines, but it makes sense since he knows everyone on the peninsula.

“Doing well. They want you to come over and cook for them this weekend.” Dad’s face lights up, and Logan shoots me a wide grin that says,
See? I’m totally charming.

“This weekend ought to be fine.”

“I’ll tell them.” Logan takes my hand. “I’d love to continue talking to you, Captain Rush, but I promised Arion I’d go for a walk with her.”

I start to object, but Dad runs right over me. “Great idea. Going to be a fine sunset. I’m going inside myself, Classic Regatta’s on. I’ll leave you kids to your walk and your bonfire business.” He eyes our clasped hands, and leaves.

“Oh, you promised
me
,
huh?” I laugh and yank my hand out of Logan’s.

“What? A promise is a promise. I make it to you, you make it to me, same difference.”

“Okay . . .” I look at him sideways, feeling like I’m missing something. “Guess a walk is a good deal. I mean, you could have asked me to write your Existentialism papers.”

“That comes later.” We start walking, and he slips one hand beneath my hair, his warm fingertips finding the back of my neck. I shiver under his touch and pull away, landing a punch on his arm. Swiftly he catches my hand, murmurs, “Resistance is futile. You know that, right?”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” I laugh, but my cheeks are hot. “Move over, will you?” I reclaim my hand as we change places, so he’s walking next to the water instead of me.

Washed in shades of pink and streaked with purple, the sky curves above us like the inside of a seashell. After about fifteen minutes, we sit down on the sand at the end of the beach.

A few weeks of friendship with Logan feels like so much longer. He’s always seemed familiar, and we’ve gotten tight, fast. But the closer we’ve gotten to the jetty separating Crescent Beach from Summers Cove, the quieter he’s become. This silent side of him is new to me.

One afternoon, when we’d hung out on the front steps of the school, Lilah’s story had slipped from my lips. Not her story, really, no one knows that, but her
condition
. Logan listened without interruption, as if he knew it wasn’t easy for me to talk about her. It probably wasn’t easy to hear about her either, but he’d been there for me. I need to step up.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.

“Talk about what?”

“The thing that makes us alike.”

A beat goes by. Then he turns to me. The sinking sun shines directly into his light-gray eyes, illuminating them. “I do,” he says. “Because it’s you.” We gaze at each other for a long moment. “You know about my brother, right?”

“Some. I’m sorry, Logan. So sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Nick and me—” Grief and anger vie for control of his voice. Anger wins, and he begins to spit the words out. “We were best friends. We were, like, glued together when we were little. We had our own rooms, but at night, one of us would sneak—or get this, sleepwalk—into the other’s room. Sometimes I’d wake up on the floor in his room, or when I’d get up in the morning, he’d be at the end of my bed. Nothing could keep us apart.

“I remember one night, I was about eight, and I got out of bed to get a drink. The room was dark and I stepped right on him. He was on the floor next to my bed. He didn’t even wake up. The next day, though, when I told him about it, he was mad. That was the first time he punched me. He did way worse when we were older. And then, everything became about him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he went to that private school on the mainland, the one that’s close to the west side. Where the peninsula connects. Blaine. You’ve seen it.”

“Sure. Pretty place. Prestigious too, right?”

“Pretentious is more like it.”

“All right . . .”

“Not all right. I blame that place for everything.” Logan’s tone turns sarcastic. “‘Nick Delaine the brain,’ ‘the brain at Blaine.’ Nothing would have changed if he hadn’t gone there. He wouldn’t have started acting like he was better than everyone. Better than me. He became someone else, some big-deal preppie boy. As if we’d come from that kind of family.”

Logan’s lips compress into a frown, making his wide smile hard to imagine. Behind him, crimson streaks cut the sky.

“The last couple years we drifted apart,” he continues. “We fought all the time.
He
fought—loved to fight—about everything. We became . . . enemies.”

“That’s harsh.” I lay a tentative hand on his back.

“Yeah, it was bad.” His voice grows quiet. “And . . . there was Beth.”

“Who’s Beth?” I move my hand in slow circles.

“His girlfriend.” He shakes his head. “Supposedly. Beth was so into him going to Blaine. Her family couldn’t afford it. Then she got a scholarship, like Nick. Still, she didn’t go.”

“Why not?”

Logan’s pale gaze seems to search my face for a moment, then he turns away. “She wanted to stay at Rock Hook High.”

But I’d caught the hesitation.

Sliding my hand off his back, I study Logan’s profile. I hadn’t heard anything about Nick’s girlfriend. She must have graduated, because—

Suddenly Logan scowls toward the jetty.

“What?” I ask. But then I follow his gaze—

My stomach dips.

Bo Summers is climbing—more like flowing—down over the rocks.

He walks toward us now, the rays of the setting sun at his back, glorious in the glowing light.

CLOSER

“Hi.” Bo manages to make the one small word sound musical.

I stand up as if yanked by a string. “Hi.”

Logan remains sitting.

Bo gives a curt nod, extending a hand down toward him. “Hey,” he says, in the same dulcet tone. But Logan only glares at Bo’s hand briefly, before looking back toward the ocean.

It’s as if someone’s turned up the sound of the surf.

Bo lets his hand drop to his side, his expression thoughtful.

“Logan—” I hesitate, then ask, “Do you know Bo?”

But what I really want to say is,
What’s up with you two?

Logan’s short laugh is humorless. “Everyone knows him.”

Shifting my weight from one foot to the other I look back and forth between the boys. The three days since I’ve seen Bo feel like three weeks, and I’m desperate to talk to him. Alone.

Abruptly Logan stands. “I’m going back,” he says, ignoring Bo completely. “You should come.”

“Um. Okay.” I tuck my lower lip between my teeth. Don’t move.

Logan crosses his arms and looks at me steadily, as if taking my measure. “Fine. Stay. But—” Worry creases his brow, then he glances at Bo and his eyes harden. “Don’t do anything stupid. That would include, but isn’t limited to, swimming.”

My mouth goes dry.
I don’t swim,
I almost shout. “Since when is it your job to tell me what to do?” Logan gives another short laugh, then heads down the beach.

Mad at myself, I spin toward Bo. “What the hell was that about?”

He arches one dark-gold brow. My tone is all wrong. Clearly there’s something between him and Logan, but Bo isn’t the one who’s been rude, for once.

“Can you hang out?” He gestures to the sand.

At the sound of his voice I automatically plop back down on the beach, immediately wishing I’d been more graceful as he melts down to the ground in one fluid motion.

Turning toward the water I ask, “Why did Logan ignore you?”

“Surely you have other, more interesting questions.” A smirk colors his voice.

My head swivels—I can’t help it. “Questions for
you
? The guy who literally appeared out of thin air and saved my life?” He frowns at that, but I hurry on. “Oh no, I don’t have any questions. It’s perfectly normal to pretend the water temperature is eighty degrees, when it’s more like forty. Nope, no questions, not when I know that cold-water surfing is tough enough,
with
the right gear. Do you even own a wetsuit?

“Because from what I’ve heard, you’re an
expert
on hypothermia.” My heart begins to race. The way Bo risked his life to save me, the way he nonchalantly surfed in such cold, rough water the day I first saw him, is suddenly beyond upsetting. It doesn’t matter that we don’t know each other—
I care
. The reason why I care is a mystery, but I do. “And what about the other hazards of surfing in this area? Like a tidal swing of, oh, say, twenty feet? Or riptides?”

“
You
surf?” Bo runs his eyes over me.

“Oh, you have questions too? Great, let’s swap. I don’t see my dad anywhere, so maybe you’ll tell me how you managed to break my fall from Rock Hook Cliff
and
pull me out of the ocean
and
carry me to the lighthouse.” My words seem to bounce off his calm demeanor.

“Like I told you, I helped you out of a
tide pool
. Helped you home. End of story.”

“More like, beginning of story.” About to call him a liar, I stop, drawn into the depths of his oceanic eyes.
Heat
from those eyes wafts toward me, I swear, and the chiming in my ears—nearly constant these last few days—grows louder, more lovely, until it becomes impossible to ask the most important question of all:
What about the wings?

“You say you fell from the cliff, but . . . people don’t just fall, do they?” he says quietly.

But thinking about the fall is a bit like reliving it, and all at once my emotions threaten to overwhelm me. Swallowing hard, I fight back tears.

“Are you—” His eyes narrow as he studies my face. “Are you going to cry?”

“No!” I shut my eyes. “No, I’m not going to cry.”

“Hey,” he says softly. “I have an idea. Why don’t we start over? Just, start again.”

Blinking, I open my eyes and look straight into his. I hardly know him, it’s just, when he held me in his arms that day . . . but he’s right. Do-over. I nod.

“Hi.” I hold out my hand. “I’m Arion Rush.”

“Hey. I’m—”

Our hands come together, and the pull—the pull is like some kind of bizarre sideways gravity. Seawater washes over my toes, the tide is on its way in. Some instinct tells me to move back, but I can’t—I can’t move.

“Closer, I want you closer.”

His voice. All at once his mellifluous voice is everything, the impetus behind my smile, the ache in my chest. His voice is
everywhere
, in the sudden curl and crest of the waves, in the thrum of my pulse—
but not in my ears
. He’d spoken—but he hadn’t. The world tilts. My confusion grows, my clothes seeming to chafe against my skin, even as his velvet voice lulls me.

“I need you . . .”

I hear him—
feel
him—but his lips aren’t moving! His lips are still. His lips . . .

I lean in—

He drops my hand and leaps to his feet, his eyes riveted on my mouth.

Gasping at the abruptness and fluidity of his movement, I bring my hand up. “What is it?” I whisper through the cage of my fingers.

He turns away, the movement sharp. “This isn’t a good idea,” he says over his shoulder. Ragged music seems to surround him—angular melodies roll off of him.

Words are impossible.
Music, I want music.
I want to hear his voice again, want to hear it whispering inside my mind, the way I did just a moment ago.

But he’s walking away. I can’t let him. Not again.

“What about my answers?”

He stops short. “You mean your questions.” He shakes his head. “I can’t do this.”

“Do what? Be friends?”

A dry laugh escapes his lips. “
Friends.
Being friends would be a very bad idea. Trust me, I’m not what you need.” He scales the jetty with an aqueous movement, looking almost unreal as he stands on the rocks with the cobalt sky behind him, his light hair a nimbus.

“But maybe
I’m
what
you
need,” I say impulsively. “And how can I trust you when—”

“Unfortunately, you’re exactly what I need. And that is
not
a good thing.”

“I don’t understand. Why?” My voice is so full of pleading I want to kick myself, but I go on anyway. “Why isn’t it a good thing?”

“Because—” He pauses, looking down at me, his face half in shadow now, his expression unreadable. “It’s a very
dangerous
thing.”