The Islanders (8 page)

CLAIRE FINISHED GETTING DRESSED FOR
the evening, emerged from the gym, and walked toward Portside Weymouth, wandering through the quaint shops that were so much like a somewhat larger, better-stocked version of North Harbor. She bought a pair of silver earrings at one shop and almost bought a sweater at another before deciding against it. Then, glancing at her watch, she decided to find something to eat. It was either eat now or wait and be forced to consume the hot dogs the team booster club sold at the game.

She walked through the cool, busy, cobblestoned streets and aimed for Big Mikey's, a slightly disreputable but cheap diner that was an after-school hangout for Weymouth High kids.

Big Mikey himself was behind the counter, looking dissatisfied and a little dangerous. Claire sat down on an empty stool at the neon-trimmed counter. “Hi, Big.”

“Ah, the banker's daughter,” he replied, managing a half-smile. “What'll you have?”

“Foie gras?”

“Sorry. Just ran out of foie gras.”

“Okay, then I'll have a chicken breast sandwich and a salad,” Claire said.

“Uh-huh,” Big Mikey muttered. He glanced meaningfully toward the comer of the room.

Claire looked toward the corner but saw nothing of any particular interest.

“In the last booth,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

Claire looked again. From her angle, she couldn't see a thing. She held up her hands helplessly. “What? Is there something I'm supposed to be seeing?”

“Jake and some other kid.”

Claire was surprised—both that Jake was there and that someone like Big Mikey would know that she cared. “So what?” she asked, acting nonchalant.

“The two of them ordered tall Cokes. Which they've been drinking for an hour now.”

“So what, she repeated,” Claire said impatiently.

“So the Cokes never get empty, but a little paper bag keeps appearing from under the table.”

It took Claire a moment to figure out what the man was telling her. When she understood, she was shocked. “Are you telling me Jake's drinking? He has a game tonight.”

“Yeah, and I have a twenty-dollar bet I'm going to lose if the star running back is faced on cheap rum. And it is cheap rum; I can smell it from here. Not to mention that my business could be pretty well screwed if some cop wanders in here and decides I'm letting underage kids drink.”

Claire cursed under her breath.

“Exactly,” Big Mikey agreed. He shook his head. “You'd think after what happened to his brother . . .” He let his words trail off, looking down in embarrassment. “Sorry. I wasn't thinking.”

“Neither is he,” Claire said. “Damn. You want me to get him out of here, I guess?”

“I was just getting ready to do it myself,” Big Mikey said. “But I think it might go a little more peacefully if you do it.”

Claire cursed again, this time silently. Damn it, what did Jake think he was doing, getting drunk a few hours before the game? Come to think of it, what did he think he was doing getting drunk, period?

She drew in several deep, steadying breaths.

“I'll buy your dinner if you can do it without any dishes getting broken.”

Claire climbed off the stool and walked over to the booth. The second guy was Dave Voorhies. He and Jake were hunched
morosely over two Cokes that were suspiciously light in color. “Hi, Jake. Dave.”

Jake looked up quickly. His eyes were a little blurred, but he focused. Good, he probably wasn't too far gone.

“Well, damn, if it isn't Killer Claire,” Jake said in a rowdy voice.

Claire forced herself not to react. It wouldn't help things for her to get emotional. “Jake, I was thinking maybe it might be time to head up to the school. You know, the game tonight?”

“I know the game, Claire, Claire, Killer Claire.”

His voice was slurred. He might be drunker than she had realized. She forced a cool smile. “You know, you're supposed to be
in
the game.”

Jake slapped his forehead in mock surprise. “No!”

“Yes,” Claire countered.

“You know,” Jake said, leaning forward to stare at Dave, “I really, really liked her, you know?”

“I can understand that,” Dave said with a leer in her direction.

“Don't do that,” Jake said sharply.

“I didn't do nothing.”

“I saw that look,” Jake said. “I was telling you something. See”—he grabbed Dave's arm—“she . . . see, I really liked her,
only, you know what she did? And then, how can I?” He sat back. “How?”

He is drunk
, Claire realized. Major drunk. Two hours before game time. “Jake, stop being a hole. You could get kicked off the team if you show up drunk for a game.”

He looked up at her with moist, defiant eyes. But she could see the light of reason beginning to dawn just a little. “I'm not drunk.”

“Sure you are, dude,” Dave pointed out helpfully. “We're both drunk.”

“I am?” Jake acted as if it was a pleasantly surprising bit of news.

“Your coach will dump you,” Claire said. “This is your senior year; you don't want to get dropped from the team.”

“What the hell do you care?”

Claire sighed. “I care, okay?”

“You don't give a damn about me,” Jake said flatly. “You just feel guilty.”

“You're wrong, Jake,” Claire said in a steady voice, trying to shut out Dave's blinking, unfocused stare. “I do care. I'm here trying to help you because I care. If you don't want to believe that, fine. But what I want to do right now is get you sobered up and ready for the game.”

He shook his head sadly. Then he lifted his head and stared
at her. “You are very, very, very beautiful.”

“So I've heard,” Claire said dryly.

“I have to go and get ready for the game,” Jake said with sudden, drunken decisiveness.

“Let's go.” Claire took his arm and guided him up out of the booth. He wavered and almost sat back down. But at last he was standing, weaving back and forth a little.

“Hot shower, then cold shower,” Big Mikey said, still behind the counter. “And fill him with fluids; that will help him to get rid of the alcohol and keep from dehydrating.”

“Come on, Jake,” Claire said, leading, him toward the door. “That's it. Yes, it's best if you put one foot in front of the other.”

Claire walked Jake up the hill to the school. The sun was just beginning to turn the sky pink in the west, throwing the Gothic-looking brick face of the school building into ominous shadow.

He walked sullenly beside her, wavering a little less, sweating profusely as the alcohol worked its way through his system. Just by the side of the building he tore free and made a dash for the bushes. Claire looked away and tried not to hear the disgusting retching sounds that seemed to go on and on.

At last he emerged, pale and shaken. “Must have been something I ate,” he said weakly.

“Yeah,” Claire said. She took his arm again and propelled
him toward the gym, taking the back way to avoid any kids who might be hanging around out front. Only a small, startled-looking group of juniors was in the back, passing a joint among themselves. Claire ignored them, and she and Jake reached the rear doors of the gym.

“Girls' shower,” Claire said. “Some of your team might already be in the boys' shower. Girls' locker room will be empty.”

“Too bad,” Jake joked feebly.

They skulked around the edge of the bright basketball floor and entered the girls' locker room. The only girls who tended to use the showers after-hours were island kids and, as Claire knew, they were all accounted for. The lights were off, so she turned them on, reassured that the room was in fact empty.

Claire guided Jake to the shower, turned the water on full and hot, and tested it. “Get undressed and get under.”

Jake gave her a bleary rendition of a rakish look. “Are you trying to take advantage of me?”

“Jake, right now you are a thoroughly disgusting creature,” Claire said. “You're sweating like a pig and you reek of vomit. Just get undressed and get under the shower.” She turned away and went to her locker. She dug out a towel and a bar of soap and set them on the bench. Then she pulled out a small blue bottle of Listerine.

She crossed over to Zoey's locker. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of Jake under the shower. She fought down the impulse to satisfy her curiosity and concentrated on remembering Zoey's birthday instead. She tried the numbers out on the combination lock, and it opened easily. In Zoey's locker she rummaged until she found a tiny bottle of Murine and the vitamins Zoey popped every day before gym class. She dumped two of these and the Murine on her towel.

“Jake, I'm going to bring you some stuff,” Claire warned. “Turn away.”

He gave no sign of having heard her, but as she approached he was leaning headfirst against the tile wall, looking like he might fall over. “Here,” she said, keeping her eyes fixed on his. “Take these with some shower water.”

He held out a hand and swallowed the vitamins obediently.

“Soap. It's Camay. Sorry, I don't have anything more manly. There's a towel and some mouthwash and some Murine over by the sinks. Drink all the water you can hold. I'll wait outside and make sure no one else comes in.”

Jake nodded mutely.

Claire turned and walked outside into the gym. She leaned against the wall and realized she was perspiring herself. She let out a long, shaky sigh.

Well, at least she hadn't stared or broken out in giggles. All
in all, she had handled her first close encounter with a completely naked guy pretty well. Like a professional nurse.

Although certain images were now pretty well burned on her brain.

After fifteen minutes, the locker room door opened. Jake came out, dressed again in his same clothes, looking pale but alive. His eyes were downcast.

“Did you drink plenty of water?” Claire asked him.

“Gallons.”

“Good. Alcohol dehydrates your body.”

“What time is it?” he asked.

“It's five fifteen.”

“I have to suit up in forty-five minutes,” he said anxiously.

“You should eat if you think you can keep it down,” Claire said.

Jake nodded passively.

“Probably not Big Mikey's,” Claire said. “Come on.”

They walked a few blocks in silence, ending up at a little diner, where Claire ordered Jake poached eggs, toast, large quantities of juice and coffee, and an Alka-Seltzer to help him keep it all down. As he ate, he seemed to revive. Color came back to his cheeks. His movements became more crisp and efficient. His eyes focused clearly.

“You want anything else?” Claire asked.

He shook his head. “I think I can make it now. I'm still woozy and I won't be a hundred percent, but I won't fall on my face. At least I don't think I will.”

“I thought falling on your face was the whole point of football.”

Jake didn't smile. Instead he looked down at his coffee. “Coach would have cut me if I'd shown up like I was,” he said. “I . . . I have to say thanks. I mean, thanks. Thanks.”

“No problem,” Claire said, feeling a sudden welling of emotion.

“I, uh. . . Look, I don't know what's going to happen with us, all right? But anyway, you saved my ass.”

Claire allowed herself an impish smile. “It is a really nice ass.”

Jake groaned, but with some of his old good nature. “Please don't remind me. Ever.”

“Jake.” She paused. “Jake, why were you drinking?”

He shrugged. “Dave had a bottle.”

“You didn't used to drink,” Claire said, as gently as she could.

“It's been a bad week. It's been a bad couple of weeks.”

Claire reached across the table and took his hand. He gave her fingers a light squeeze, then bit his lip as if he regretted it. “I have to go,” he said. “I need major warm-up. I have to try and
sweat out the rest of this stuff.”

“I'll see you at the game,” Claire said.

“I'll be the one falling on my face.” He stood up and dug crumpled dollars out of his jeans to pay the check.

“I'll be the one cheering while you do,” Claire said.

“HERE HE COMES,” AISHA MUTTERED
out of the side of her mouth.

Zoey was next to her in the crowded, rowdy bleachers with Lucas. Twilight had followed sunset, and the stadium lights bathed the field in unreal, bluish brilliance, turning red uniforms black and casting impenetrable shadows that completely concealed the faces of the players within their helmets.

“I don't see him!” Zoey yelled over a sudden roar of excitement. “Oh, wait, now I see him. He's looking for you.”

“Are you sure about that?” Aisha asked. She plastered a phony smile of welcome on her face and waved her hand back and forth. “Christopher! Here he comes, the snake.”

“Give him a chance,” Zoey advised.

“Is something going on?” Lucas asked.

“No,” Zoey said. “Nothing that would interest someone like yourself who is so far above all this day-to-day school stuff that occupies smaller minds like mine and Aisha's.”

Lucas sighed, shook his head glumly, and returned his
attention to the game.

Christopher came winding his way through the seated kids and parents and townspeople, all either talking, cheering, or eating. He gave Aisha a big smile. She searched it for signs of falseness.

“Hi, Christopher,” Zoey said.

“Hey,” Lucas said, lifting one hand in a sort of greeting.

Christopher gave Aisha a quick kiss. “What's the score?” he asked Lucas.

“Nothing to nothing,” Lucas said. “But our nothing looks a little better.”

Aisha scooted over to make room for Christopher beside her. “So, what have you been doing all afternoon?” she asked brightly.

Christopher shrugged. “Stuff. Picked up my paycheck for the paper deliveries. I'm rich enough to buy you a dog, if you want. You can even get chili.”

“No thanks,” Aisha said. “Did you do anything after you picked up your check?”

“Yes, yes, no, no, no, look out!” Christopher yelled. Down on the field, Jake got the ball and ran five yards before being tackled.

“That had to hurt,” Lucas said sympathetically.

“So you just picked up your check,” Aisha persisted.

“Hm-hm. Bought some socks. That was pretty much the high point.”

“Really? Socks?” Aisha asked, sounding terribly interested.

“They're going to the blitz,” Christopher said.

“Uh,” Lucas agreed.

“So where did you buy these socks?” Aisha asked.

A roar from the Camden fans across the field elicited a response from the local faithful.

“What?” Christopher shouted.

“I said, where did you buy the damned socks!” Aisha yelled.

Christopher looked at her skeptically. “Why?”

“Because I'm just curious. Zoey and I are both curious about where you bought your socks because we both would like to know where a good sock store is,” Aisha said.

“Yeah,” Zoey agreed unconvincingly. “Socks. We love socks. I probably have, oh, twenty pairs. All different colors and stuff.”

“I bought them at that place downtown. You know, that place with the neon sign in the window shaped like a wave?”

“Spinners?” Aisha asked, beginning to seethe.

“Yeah, that's it.”

“You should have tried the mall,” Aisha said. “They have lots of great sock stores there. Cheaper than Spinners.”

Christopher shrugged. “The mall's miles out there. I didn't
want to go all that way just to save fifty cents on a pair of socks.”

There it was, Aisha realized. He had lied. A flat-out lie. She felt Zoey's hand surreptitiously squeeze her arm in solidarity.

She had seen him coming on to another girl. And then he had lied about it. Which meant there could have been lots of other flirtations with lots of other girls. And he was probably prepared to lie about them, too.

Or maybe it was nothing. Maybe he knew the girl from somewhere and was just saying hi. Maybe he forgot he was at the mall.

That's right, Aisha
, she thought,
you can come up with some kind of bogus explanation if you try hard enough.

“So, what did
you
do today?” Christopher asked her. “I hope it was something as exciting as buying socks.”

“No,” Aisha muttered. “I guess you had more fun than I did.”

On the field Jake caught the ball and ran for a touchdown. The Weymouth High fans went nuts. Aisha was the only one left sitting. She sat through the next two quarters, but at the half, with Weymouth High well in the lead, they all headed for the rest rooms and the munchie stands.

Zoey and Lucas peeled off, still sniping at each other about homecoming royalty. Christopher took Aisha's hand and drew her under the darkened seats. Overhead there was the clatter of
footsteps on the boards.

“I haven't had a chance to kiss you all day,” he said, taking her in his arms.

She forced a smile. “And you were thinking about me all day?”

“Every minute,” he said. “Every second.”

“I'm sure there were a few minutes here and there when you might have thought about something else.”

He held up his hand as if taking an oath. “On my Boy Scout honor.”

“Were you a Boy Scout?”

“Nope.” He grinned and lowered his mouth toward hers. She gave him a grudging kiss.

It would have been easy to make him admit the truth. She and Zoey had both seen him. And the fact that he lied about being in the mall just proved that he was hiding something. The girl with the long blond ponytail? Some other girl he had met later? She could drag the truth out of him right now. Was he seeing other girls? Was he going to go on seeing other girls?

“We can do better than that,” he said in a lower voice. He tilted back her head with his hand, and she let him. He pressed his lips to hers, and she let him. And when he opened his mouth, so did she.

She could force the truth from him. But what if she didn't
like the answer? What if for him she was just one among many? How could she stand hearing that, when for her he had so quickly become the only one?

The front of the Geiger home had a balcony. The door to the balcony was halfway between Nina's room and the room her uncle would soon be staying in. Nina seldom went out on the balcony. Even just two stories up, it excited her fear of heights. But she went out on it now, keeping a nervous eye on the white-painted crosshatched railing. By looking west, she could see the water through the trees in the front yard, and beyond the water, the lights of Weymouth. A brilliant white point, like a star fallen to earth, marked the school's stadium where Zoey and Claire and Aisha would be.

She walked to the end of the balcony nearest her own bedroom and pressed up against the railing there to check if she could see inside her bedroom.

The view was clear. She could see most of her bed, the far closet door, her dresser. She went back into the house and lowered the blinds in her room. Then she went back out onto the balcony and checked. This time nothing was visible but the tiniest sliver of escaping light. At least that worked. With her blinds drawn, she would be able to hide.

She got off the balcony and closed the door behind her.
Then she went to her bed and spilled out the contents of an Ace Hardware bag. She had a brass sliding lock with screws in a shrink-wrapped plastic card and a Phillips screwdriver. She carefully read the directions on the back of the lock, then tore it open. The screws spilled out and she had to hunt for them through the folds of her quilt.

Once they were gathered up, she went to her door again and knelt to get a close look at the painted wood molding. She placed the lock where she thought it should go, and with her other hand tried to place the little eye. The two halves of the lock didn't match up. At least not perfectly.

Nina stared at the door in frustration. The problem seemed to be that the molding stuck out from the door. She placed the main part of the lock against the door this time and the eye against the molding. Still no good. She would have to damage the molding.

Too bad she'd never taken any shop classes. The use of tools wasn't her strong point.

She trotted downstairs to the kitchen and dug in the kitchen drawer for something useful. Then her gaze settled on a knife. It was a very sharp, serrated knife with a short blade, no more than three inches long. She stuck this carefully in her back pocket and ran back upstairs.

She went at the molding, using the serrated knife to chop
and gouge out a section long enough for the eye and deep enough to lie flush with the door. It took nearly twenty minutes before she had the lock in place, screwed down with its brass screws.

She closed the door and tried the lock several times. It stuck a little, but with some effort she could slide the bolt into the eye and make it work.

It wouldn't stop someone determined to get in. But it would slow someone down and force them to make noise. She nodded in grim satisfaction. He wouldn't want to make noise, not here in
her
house.

Nina scooped up the splinters and sawdust she'd generated and dropped them in the trash. Then she picked up the knife, intending to take it downstairs.

But with the black plastic handle in her palm, she hesitated. With unwilling eyes she stared down at its wicked blade. Would she ever use it? Would she ever really use it?

Would she have used it before, years ago, if she'd thought of it then?

Probably not. She wasn't that kind of person.

She sat down on the edge of her bed, still holding the knife. She pulled open her nightstand drawer and took out the picture of herself back then. A part of her mind told her that she wasn't acting rationally, that this was all unnecessary. No one would be
stupid enough to try to . . . to reach her here, in her own house, with her father asleep just down the hall.

Nina laughed, a short, bitter sound as she looked at the picture of a more innocent, unafraid girl. It wasn't about being rational anymore. Reason had been lost forever, after that first time. “You were so dumb, you didn't even know what was going on,” she told the photograph.

The first time had been so innocent. Just a request to sit on her uncle's lap in the family room of his house. And then, just innocent questions. Did she like Uncle Mark? Of course, she'd replied. Did she like him a lot? Sure, she liked him. That was good, because her uncle really liked her, too.

He thought she was a very pretty young lady. Someday the boys would go crazy for her, someday they would be all over her. No, not likely, she'd answered. Why not? She'd shrugged.

Claire was prettier, Nina had told him.

Yes, he'd said, but Claire wasn't as nice as Nina. Nina was nice, wasn't she? She wanted to be nice to people who cared about her and thought she was pretty. Didn't she?

That's good, he'd said. Give your uncle a little kiss. You can do better than that. Give your uncle a real kiss. Like this. Did she like that? Did she?

Nina realized her hands were shaking. She had dropped the knife on the floor.

Yes, she had answered, tucking down her chin and feeling almost sick.

Did she like that?

Yes. She'd said yes. And from that moment of weakness all else had followed. That
yes
had made it her fault as much as his, her sin. That's what he had said, all those many evenings when he'd sat across the family room, ignoring his wife who ignored him in return, and focused his blazing, relentless eyes on her. All those nights . . . All those nights when she'd lived the reality that would later become her nightmares.