The Lifeboat Clique (9 page)

Trevor stared at the food, deciding. I wondered if he'd
ever consider eating Hayley, whose round, flat eyes were more like those of a mackerel. Finally he took it and bolted it down.

Then Abigail at last took her turn.

“This is what leaders do,” she announced. “Eat last.”

I could only shake my head. Here she was, making sure she was boss, even on this rickety boat in the middle of nowhere. But I did recognize a certain irony: this was the first time I'd ever had lunch with the cool kids. And all it had taken was a devastating act of God.

Everyone got another cracker and another sliver of Spam, and that was it.

“Wait a second,” said Sienna. “That's all we get? I'm still hungry.”

“Oh, come on,” said Abigail. “That's more than I've ever seen you eat.”

She put the top of the Spam can on carefully and placed the container in one of the hatches. “None of you even think of sneaking in here. Anyone steals food, it's man overboard. Rules of the sea.”

Sienna was giving me a long, hard look. Suddenly she pointed at me. “We'd have more food and water if it wasn't for her. Like Hayley said, she's not even supposed to be here. She crashed your party, Abigail.”

“That's not true!” I protested. “I never wanted to go to her stupid illegal party in the first place. Croix invited me.”

Before anyone could answer, Trevor let out a long laugh. It didn't end, just collapsed into smaller laughs that sounded like—if I remember right from that episode on Animal Planet—the tiny yips of a dingo pup.

“Croix did invite her,” he said. “He told me he did.”

I felt simultaneous pulses of relief and dread.

“Then why are you laughing?” I demanded.

He flipped his hair out of his eyes. “Because it was a bet.”

“A bet?” A sinking feeling was forming in my stomach that had nothing to do with being marooned on a boat. “What kind of bet?” I insisted.

“There was a bet he couldn't get in your pants. And I guess he didn't, what with that big-ass wave and everything. Now we'll never know who would have won.”

“That's not true!” I insisted. “He was a perfect gentleman. You're making that up!”

Trevor began to drum slowly on his legs. “He was just setting the trap, man. Like a rat sets a trap for . . . whatever rats eat.”

“Shut up, Trevor,” Abigail said. She actually looked a
little sorry for me. Amazingly enough, so did the other girls. “That was a mean thing for Croix to do,” Sienna said.

Trevor shrugged.

“Yeah,” said Hayley. “That was mean.”

I really felt like crying, and I probably would have if my body's water supply wasn't busy just keeping me alive. I looked at Abigail. “Did you know about this?”

She shook her head.

“Then how do you know it's true?”

“'Cause I knew Croix. He was a dog.”

The other girls nodded.

Everything was unraveling in me. Everything I thought I knew about Croix and gentlemen and luck and fate. I felt terribly humiliated. Now everything about that magical night fell into a different context. When he had smiled at me or laughed at my jokes, handed me a beer, it meant something else than I thought it had. And that almost kiss—that was just a strategy in Croix's ultimate goal to win a bet.

Perhaps the tsunami had come to save me.

The boat rocked gently, and there was silence for a few moments. Trevor didn't seem to notice all the trouble he'd caused. “Men are dogs,” he said finally. “You can't take the dog out of the man. It's a lyric in one of our songs.”

He began to drum and sing.

“You can't take the dog out of the man

You can't take the soup out of the can

You can't take the rice out of the bowl

You can't drink the Stoli you just stole.

You can't eat the doughnut without the hole . . .”

His voice trailed off, and he began to laugh that dingo pup yip of his, which grew in intensity until he began gasping and clutching his stomach. “Oh, my God, eating a hole, that gets me every time!” He collapsed on the deck, rolling around, still laughing, his open shirt revealing his tanned, hairless chest.

I had no idea how he'd managed to score cannabis on the high seas, but he wasn't helping.

“Croix was very nice on the outside, but he wasn't that good of a person,” Sienna said. “He just pretended to be. He could fool you for a long time, but you can't fool people forever.”

Trevor stopped laughing. He stared up at us, his expression turning hostile. He got to his feet. “You didn't know Croix. You didn't see him visit his grandmother every single week in the nursing home till she died. You didn't see him work that shitty job at the burger place to try to pay the bills after his dad left his mom. You didn't see him drive his little sister to school every day instead of riding
with us because his mom had to work. Don't you judge him, you stupid bitches. Because that's what you stupid bitches do. You judge. Croix was a prince; now he's shit. Because, oh, my God, he tried to get in a girl's pants? No dude in history has ever done
that.
”

We were all silent. This was the most I'd heard Trevor speak. I thought his psyche consisted of a drumbeat, a good wave, some high-grade weed, and a pair of fake boobs.

But Trevor wasn't done yet.

“That's the thing about guys that maybe you need to learn. We don't judge you. We accept who you are.” He looked at Sienna. “You've got a great set of tits and you're a bitch, but I've seen you be nice a couple times and you're a good soccer player and that's cool.” He looked at Abigail. “You've got a white-trash accent and no one knows why you're popular and you give great parties and that's cool.” He looked at me. “You're weird and you use big words and I forgot your name and that's cool.” He looked at Hayley. “You talk too much and you're pretty and that's cool. So shut up about Croix. He was good and bad and whatever, but he was Croix. He was Croix. He tried to save us. He loved his sister and his mother. And he was a dog. But he wasn't just a dog, goddamn it. He was my fucking friend, and now he's
dead.
”

These last words came out as a sob, and we all just
stood there, stunned, as he turned and dove off the back of the boat with all his clothes on. We heard the splash of his pissed-off body, and we rushed over to see the roiling circle in the ocean where he disappeared.

Hayley turned to Sienna. “He said I was pretty.”

We waited for him to come up for air. I imagined him crying underwater, his feet pointing toward the ocean floor, his hands over his eyes, concerned manta rays and gentle dorados approaching to bump his arms consolingly.

Finally he surfaced. He lay on his back in the calm sea, his face blank and his arms and legs moving slowly. I think he'd forgotten about us. He was alone with his thoughts and his grief and maybe with the lyrics of some new song his garage band could sing about Croix.

Abigail looked contemplative. When she spoke, her voice was oddly soft. “Men can let you down, Sea Snake. You of all people should know that.”

A warm flush ran through me.

“Are you talking about my father?” I demanded.

Sienna and Hayley had both perked up.

“What about your father?”

Then it dawned on me.

“Oh, my God, Abigail,” I said. “These are supposedly your best friends, and they don't even know.”

TREVOR FINALLY CRAWLED
back onto the boat, dripping wet, and sat down in his swivel chair and didn't say a word. Silently we watched the trickles of water run down his face and a stain spread out in the carpeting around his feet. I still believed that at least part of Croix's attention was real. Perhaps it had all started out on a bet, but either he had been the greatest actor in the world or something about me had charmed him. Anyway, I would never know for sure. It was another mystery in my life I could put next to the mystery of why loss is so sudden and so absolute.

“Abigail,” I said, opening the compact, “I'm going to start signaling.”

“Nah, I'll do it,” Abigail said.

I should have known she'd take over.

“But first,” she added, “I think we should take just a moment to remember our friends and say their names.”

“Like a funeral?” Hayley asked.

“Yes. Like that.”

Trevor raked his hands through his wet hair. “Croix Monroe,” he said.

Abigail nodded as if in reverent approval. “Matt Riley.”

“Audrey Curtis,” Hayley said.

I noticed something over Hayley's shoulder way out on the horizon. I straightened my back and squinted.

Sienna took a deep, shaky breath and sobbed out the name. “Madison Cutler.”

I stood up. “Ship!”

Abigail stared at me. “What?”

“Ship! Ship!”

Then we were all on our feet, jumping up and down, pointing. The ship was just a tiny, gray rectangle in the distance, but we were filled with a wild hope. Of course there was a ship. The ocean was full of ships. And of course we were going to be rescued. We lived in LA, the town of obvious resolution. Heroes were saved. Wrongs were righted. Sure, there would always be fires and floods and earthquakes and the threat of nuclear winter.

But a small band of characters you had grown to care for would always survive. And we were that small, chosen group. We were the ones still standing at the end of
Saving Private Ryan
. We were the ones the velociraptors of
Jurassic Park
did not end up having for dinner. We were the ones, at the end of
War of the Worlds
, who were left to start a new civilization.

Of course the ship would come.

Abigail grabbed the compact from my hand and held the mirror to the light, signaling frantically as the rest of us waved and shouted.

“We're over here!” Hayley shrieked.

We screamed ourselves hoarse. And yet the boat remained a gray rectangle on a giant blue page of a coffee table book called
Better Luck Next Time, Losers.

“Damn it!” Trevor shouted. He opened the hatch and took out the signal flares and the gun. “Get out of my way!” he ordered us, taking a John Wayne stance and firing up in the air. We watched as the flare went off with a
whoosh
, shot up into the sky, and burst into an orange-and-red flash of fire.

We waited. The ship wasn't moving.

“It's hard to tell if it's coming this way,” I said. “Let's just wait a little longer.”

Trevor ignored me. He shot off another flare.

“Hold your horses, Trevor,” Abigail ordered. “We only got one flare left.”

“But it must see us!” Hayley insisted. “It must, it must!”

We clung to the rail, peering out into the distance, still waving and calling and hoping to bring the ship closer by sheer force of will.

But it was retreating. Growing smaller.

“No!” I said. “No, no!”

“Damn you, you stupid boat!” Trevor shouted. “You piece of shit!”

He grabbed the last signal flare.

“Trevor, don't!” Abigail hurled herself at him and tackled him. The rest of the girls piled on top of him, and we wrestled our wet friend over the flare, pinning down his arms. But Trevor gave a mighty effort and freed himself just long enough to point the flare gun at the sky and set it off. We stopped struggling and lay in a tangled heap with Trevor, looking up as the flare soared and burst.

Slowly, we picked ourselves up off the deck and looked over the rail.

The ship was gone.

“Well, that's that,” said Abigail.

THE SUN SANK
low in the sky on our first day at sea. We watched from different places in the boat, our gazes covering 360 degrees of empty sea. It was stunning, devastating, to watch it stretch out forever, confirming our solitude. It was strange to feel alone after four years of living in LA, where people were everywhere and impossible to escape. And yet, as the sea darkened, no one appeared. Abigail had signaled for a few hours and then, exhausted, finally surrendered the mirror to me. I was equally ineffective. We were going to spend another night as castaways.

My clothes were stiff and smelled like seawater and dead fish. My face felt dry and hot. And I was getting thirsty. We all were.

Abigail parceled out some more Spam and crackers, and then we passed the gallon jug around.

“Just two gulps,” Abigail warned, watching Sienna very closely, no doubt realizing her penchant for selfishness.

“We should keep watch all night,” I said. “Take turns.”

“Okay,” said Abigail. I was expecting her to challenge me, but she seemed subdued, tired.

“Crazy,” Trevor murmured, shaking his head.

“What's crazy?” Hayley asked.

“This time yesterday, it was just a regular day. It was, what? Seven? Seven thirty? My mom had made me dinner, and I was hanging out in my room, getting high before the party.”

“I had a fight with my sister last night,” Sienna said. “It was so stupid. Over nothing.”

She fell silent, and we each thought our own thoughts about how nice and orderly the world was twenty-four hours ago, like a row of pressed shirts encased in plastic at the dry cleaners.

This time yesterday Croix had filled up my head. He was in every thought. I had barely spoken at dinner although my mother had tried to engage me. Now I'd give anything to be able to go to her and tell her I was alive, that her world had not crumbled entirely, that Robert
Pathway was right to some extent and things you think are lost might just be under something else.

I knew she hadn't brushed her hair today. She could barely get that done on good days. Was she wandering the streets, the house? Bursting into tears at the sight of Sonny Boy curled up on my pillow? Of course my fate mattered not to Sunny Boy, unless my dead body happened to fall across his favorite shaft of afternoon sunlight on the upstairs carpet.