The Islanders (24 page)

 

Why did I sign that confession? Do you have any idea how many times I've asked myself that question? That question has been with me ever since then, every night as I lay in my rack and listened to my cellmates snore and cry in their sleep. And worse things.

Why did I do it?

Because at the time I was in love with Claire. I would have done anything for her. I mean, my life was no Disney World attraction. My mom and dad live in a state of suspended animation, two bodies sharing the same space but nothing else. Do they hate each other? I don't know. Do they still love each other? I don't know that, either. I know I never felt like anything other than an intruder in my own home. I was this . . . this creature that stayed up too late, and ate too much, and never did anything right.

Claire was the first person who ever said she loved me. She was a beautiful, brilliant, perfect being, an angel who for some reason actually claimed to care about me. She could do no wrong. So I didn't argue as hard as I should have for her to pull over and stop the car that night. I mean, jeez, we could
easily have walked home, but I didn't want to make her mad by insisting. I just made a few jokes about it, hoping she'd get the hint and pull over, but drunks aren't good at taking hints.

We hit. I climbed out through the back window and then I got Claire out of the car. Her forehead was bloody. I got Wade out, too. Funny, but at the time I thought Claire was the one who was badly hurt.

But he died very soon after. And she was in the hospital. I was terrified that she would die. Confessing was like . . . like some offering I was making to God. Please just let her live. I'll do anything, just let Claire live.

She lived. Her father came to see me and said he thought I was being a man accepting my responsibility the way I was. He had never thought I had the backbone, but now, he could see that he had misjudged me.

He said he knew my dad was having some financial troubles, and he was a banker, so maybe he could help.

You know what's funny? I didn't even understand what Claire's dad was doing till days later. Honest. I didn't understand he was telling me he'd help my dad, but only as long as I stuck to my confession.

Why did I confess? Because I loved Claire. And because even though I hate him, I love my father, too.

Neither of them ever came to visit me. Or sent letters. Or called.

I fell out of love with Claire over time. But what can you do about your dad? He's still always your dad.

AFTER SCHOOL ZOEY WENT STRAIGHT
from the ferry to Lucas's house. He had skipped school that day, leaving Zoey apprehensive. As the day wore on and her imagination grew wilder and wilder, she became totally preoccupied, even fearful.

She ran straight to his house but hesitated at the front door. She hadn't run into either Mr. or Mrs. Cabral since Lucas had come back from jail. She knew that relations between Lucas and his parents were hostile, and she didn't know whether that hostility transferred to her.

She knocked and waited, trying to look pleasant. The door opened quickly. Mrs. Cabral stood there in the dark interior, wiping her hands on her long apron. She had Lucas's blond hair, made lusterless by streaks of gray. Her face was somber, her eyes expressionless.

“Hi, Mrs. Cabral,” Zoey said cheerfully.

“Hello, Zoey,” Mrs. Cabral said, showing neither surprise nor any great interest. “How are your parents?”

“They're fine, ma'am. They work too much, but I guess you and Mr. Cabral know about work, don't you? I mean, I know Mr. Cabral's work is really hard. And yours . . . you know, whatever it is, must be . . .” She took a deep breath. “Is Lucas home?”

“He is in his room.”

Not exactly an invitation, Zoey realized. “Um, so, can I go up and see him? Or else could he come down?”

Mrs. Cabral stared thoughtfully at her for a moment. Then, with a shrug, she stood back from the door. “Upstairs.”

“Thanks,” Zoey said, flashing her best smile. She ran up the stairs. The door to what was clearly the parents' room was open. The other bedroom door was closed. She knocked tentatively.

“Yeah?” a muffled voice answered.

“It's me, Zoey. Let me in.”

He opened the door, wearing jeans and no shirt. His face was grim. His eyes were red.

“Are you okay? Are you sick?” Zoey asked.

He closed the door behind her and turned away. “I'm not sick.”

She stepped up behind him, wanting to put her arms around him, but the situation made her edgy. She was in his room, and she had never seen his bare chest before, and his mother could be right outside the door. She dropped her hand to her side. “So
why weren't you in school?” she asked, feeling frustrated and nervous.

He released a deep sigh and bent over to reach into his wastebasket. He retrieved a crumpled ball of paper and handed it to her. Slowly she unwrinkled it, flattening it on the top of his desk to read the message:

Zoey felt like she had been punched. Her knees gave way and she sat hard on the edge of his bed, still holding the paper. “Your father can't really mean this.”

“He means it,” Lucas said. He went back to his desk and opened the drawer. He held up an envelope with the logo of United Airlines at the corner. “One-way ticket, of course,” he said, with a hint of his old humor. “Not even first class. You'd think when you get banished, the least you'd get is a first-class ticket out of town. I'll probably get stuck sitting between a fat guy and a lady with a screaming baby. Then again, knowing my dad, I should probably be glad it's not Greyhound.”

“What can we do?” Zoey asked bleakly.

“Well, I'll tell you, Zoey, I've spent the whole night and the whole day so far asking myself that very question.” He slid the
ticket back in his desk and shut the drawer with finality. “And the answer is, nothing.”

“The answer can't be nothing,” Zoey said.

“I could try and get a job, rent an apartment, and support myself. I figured it out. If I stay in school, I could probably work about twenty-five hours a week, if anyone would hire a high school kid with a criminal record, no references, and no experience. After taxes and so on I'd probably take home as much as a hundred and seventy, hundred and eighty a week. Seven hundred fifty dollars a month if I'm lucky. With that I might be able to rent an apartment. Unfortunately, I wouldn't be able to heat it, and here in Maine it's a real good idea to have heat in the winter. Also, there wouldn't be any luxuries like clothing, food . . .”

He flopped backward onto the bed beside her. “Or I could drop out of school and get a job making burgers or working at a minimart. If I worked hard, I could still get somewhere. Make manager and so on in a few years.”

“You can't drop out of school,” Zoey said firmly.

“I don't want to,” he said. “But I don't want to lose you, either. You are the only thing I care about.”

Zoey lay against him, resting her cheek on his smooth chest. She could hear his heart beating, rising in tempo as she took his hand and squeezed it tightly.

“I love you, Lucas,” she whispered.

“I love you, Zoey,” he said, his voice rumbling through his chest.

She kissed the spot where his heart beat, then his collarbone, his neck, his lips as he bent to meet her. It was a kiss full of sweetness, full of her own need and desire. But she sensed a reserve in him, as if he could no longer commit himself completely.

She lay back down on his chest, listening to his heartbeat grow more regular. In his mind, she knew, he was already distancing himself from her. He was trying to save himself from the pain of leaving her by leaving her a little at a time.

Tears filled her eyes and flowed down onto his warm skin, trickling along the curve, rolling over his side to stain his sheet. And after a while she felt him sigh, a despairing sound. His arms tightened around her, drawing her up to him again.

There would be no easy way out. No leaving her a little at a time. They were in it together, to the end, whatever might happen.

Their lips met again, and this time Lucas didn't pull away.

Down on the other side of the field, cheerleaders were shouting something in unison, then throwing their right legs up, their left legs up, and falling on the ground in splits.

Claire watched with detached amusement from her perch on the bleachers. Why did girls want to do that? She certainly never had. Bouncing and shouting in front of a crowd of football fans, obsessing over whether one girl's toe was sufficiently pointed or another girl's smile was truly enthusiastic.

But then, she also didn't understand why guys liked to play football.

She turned her attention back to the line of guys bending over, resting on one knuckle dug into the grass, rear ends raised high in the air. Well, at least that part of the game was all right. Unfortunately, Jake wasn't one of the guys bent over. He was standing in back of the line, arms out from his sides.

There was a chant that amounted to a series of numbers, then everyone started running. Someone gave Jake the ball and he tucked it into his arm and ran. Another guy plowed into him, but Jake spun and ran on. Then two guys jumped him from behind, bringing him crashing down to earth.

Jake got up laughing, shaking his head ruefully. He trotted over toward Claire, pulling off his helmet as he ran, and removing a slobbery piece of plastic from his mouth.

“See that?” he yelled as he came closer.

“Yes. I hope it didn't hurt.”

“Hurt?” he said as if it was a ridiculous suggestion. “I broke the first tackle and carried the second tackle with me for another
five yards. I gained fifteen yards; that's a first down and then some. I'm ready for the game Friday. Big-time ready.”

He ran up the bleachers and sat down beside her, sweaty but exuberant.

“So you're saying what you did was good?” Claire said.

He squinted at her doubtfully. “You're not a football fan, are you?”

“Mmmm, I guess you wouldn't say
fan
.”

Jake laughed good-naturedly. “In other words, you know absolutely nothing about the game.”

“I know it involves a ball. And I thought several of your teammates had nice butts.”

Jake winced and shook his head. “No. No one on the team has a nice butt. The game is not about guys' butts. It's war, it's destruction, it's about power and taking the other guy's territory away from him, advancing, penetrating. Like Napoleon at Waterloo.”

“Napoleon lost the battle of Waterloo,” Claire pointed out.

“Yeah, well, we're playing South Portland on Friday, so it's probably a pretty good example to use,” he said wryly. “They've beaten us every year since . . . actually, since Waterloo, come to think of it.”

“Isn't it depressing to think you're going to lose a game?”

“Haven't you heard? It's not whether you win or lose, it's
how you play the game.” Jake gave her one of his most wonderful smiles. “Sure it's depressing, but their school is twice the size of ours, so we don't feel too depressed. Besides, we might win. Their quarterback could get hit by a bus.”

“I've never been to a game,” Claire admitted. “I guess if I'm going to be your girlfriend, I'll have to go to all of them.”

Jake looked down and kicked mud from his cleats. “Zoey only came to three or four during the year, usually,” he said. “But I think I finally got her to more or less understand the game.”

Claire was silent, and the silence stretched for several minutes while the rest of the team ran plays. “I guess it's way too soon for you to be over her,” she said softly.

“Yes and no,” Jake said. “Most of me is just so glad you and I are together that I almost don't care. But it still hurts, you know. I mean, no one likes to get dumped.” His face grew dark. “Especially not when you're getting dumped for someone like Lucas.”

Claire put her hand on Jake's arm. “I'm glad you've managed to stay out of fights with him. I was worried you might do something stupid.”

“I would have, except I don't really need to,” Jake said. “That's one of the lessons you learn in football. Don't take unnecessary hits, and don't apply unnecessary hits. When the man is down, don't pile on. If he's down, that's all that counts.
And Lucas,” he said the name with a sneer, “is out of the game.”

“What do you mean?” Claire asked, feeling uneasy.

“My dad talks to Mr. Cabral just about every day. Mr. Cabral fuels up at our marina. My dad says Lucas has a one-way plane ticket out of town as of Saturday. Good-bye, Lucas.” Jake smiled a cold, unpleasant smile. “Zoey may have dumped me, but the guy she dumped me for has less than three more days before he's history.”

A fierce current of joy and relief flooded Claire's mind, almost taking her breath away with its intensity. Lucas, gone in three days! It was like a miracle. With him gone, there would be no one around to reveal the truth. No one but Benjamin, and he had no proof, just guesses. Her secret was safe. Safe from everyone, and most of all, safe from Jake.

She leaned over and started to kiss Jake, but he pulled back.

“I'm all sweaty and dirty,” he protested, “and my breath probably smells like Joe Bolt's shoe since he stuck it into my mouth on that last play.”

“Joe Bolt,” she said thoughtfully. “Is he the one with the nice behind?”

“Claire,” Jake said reproachfully, “we are all very, very tough guys and manly men and all. No one on the team has anything nice. Except maybe me.”

He kissed her, holding his body away.

“McRoyan!” the coach yelled up at him from the field. “Are you practicing or are you making out?”

“Right there, Coach!” Jake yelled back.

“Tell him you don't need practice, you're making out just fine.”

He smiled, and then she noticed he was blushing and looking awkwardly down at his cleats again. “You know, Claire, I don't know if I should say this or anything, but, you know, I'm really . . . I mean, I really am starting to like you. A lot. I mean, I always liked you, just now it's more. And different. You know.”

Claire felt strangely touched. There was something so sincere and utterly without deception about Jake. In a million years he would never lie to her.

Not like she was lying to him.

The thought stabbed her and made her clench her fist.

“I guess I shouldn't have said that,” Jake said, looking embarrassed. “I mean, even though we've known each other forever, we've only been
together
for a little while.”

“No, I'm glad you said it, Jake. Very glad.”

“McRoyan, for cripes' sake, what the hell are you doing?” The coach's voice was rising in exasperation.

Jake rolled his eyes. “I have to get back to the other manly men.”

“Here,” Claire said, grabbing the front of his jersey and pulling him down to her. She gave him a long, deep kiss. “Give the manly men something to be jealous of.”

He bounded down the bleachers, greeted by rude catcalls from his teammates. She watched him as he rejoined his team.

It would be easy to find the words to tell him the truth.
Jake, I was driving the car when Wade was killed.
But it was impossible to imagine what she would say after those ten words.