Tumble & Fall (7 page)

But Nick deserves to ask, mostly because he already knows. He knows she’s just as lost as she was ten months before, when they sat together on Leo’s mom’s couch. Besides, with Nick, it isn’t a
voice
. Nick really sincerely means everything that he says, which is one of the reasons Zan has always had a hard time understanding how he and Leo could be so close.

“I’m okay.” Zan shrugs. “Basically just trying to ignore all of the obnoxious comments Leo would be making if he were here.”

Nick smiles, pulls in some air between his teeth. “Yeah, he wasn’t really into the jam-band thing, huh?”

“No.” Zan laughs. “He wasn’t.”

There was a period of about a month after the funeral when Zan and Nick hung out all the time. It was the height of hurricane season, and without ever saying anything about why, they started meeting up at the beach, watching the diehards get tossed around the angry surf; not talking, not crying, not pretending to be anything but the empty human shells they’d suddenly become.

And then, as abruptly as the quiet comfort of their routine began, it ended. School started. Zan spent all of her free time reading Leo’s books, and Nick went back to work, fishing with his dad. They’d barely run into each other since.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” Nick says now, his big blue eyes looking into hers. Leo used to say that as far as Nick was concerned, you could never have too much eye contact. At first, Zan thought it was creepy. Even now that she knows it’s just the way he is, ever-present and alert, it makes her borderline uncomfortable, like it’s a test that she’s destined to fail.

“Yeah,” Zan says, scuffing her sandal against the asphalt. “It’s weird, all this…”

She trails off, not exactly sure what she’s saying. All this what? The fact that even though people are freaking out, stockpiling like they’re headed into a war, nobody has any idea what’s going on? Or the fact that whatever happens, Leo is still dead, and always will be? The fact that maybe the rest of them will soon be, too?

“Totally,” Nick agrees. “My dad is still committed to the full-time denial route. We’re out on the boat every morning at four-fifteen, like nothing’s changed.”

“Maybe he has the right idea,” Zan says. “I mean, if the rocket thing works…”

“That’s exactly what he says.” Nick smiles and picks at a flaky piece of skin peeling from the bridge of his nose. His cheeks are freckled and pink. “He’s actually looking forward to the day when everyone else realizes how much time they’ve wasted sitting around doing nothing.”

Nick tries hard to sound teasing, like he sees his dad as a simpler version of himself, but Zan can hear the respect in his voice. Nick is looking forward to that day, too.

Zan leans against the net. It’s been years since she held a tennis racket, but her skin still bristles at all of the things they are doing wrong. Wrong shoes on the court; carelessly stretching out the net. She wishes she didn’t keep so many rules alive inside of her. Leo used to say she and Miranda were more alike than she thought. Nothing made her more furious.

Nick tucks his hands into his pockets and looks over his shoulder at the glowing windows of the Center’s main building. A new band has started, a bunch of old guys with fiddles and guitars. “Guess I should head back,” Nick says with a smile. “Good to see you, Zan.”

He leans in to give her a quick hug, crooking his elbow around her neck and awkwardly pulling her in. Zan flops an arm halfheartedly around his waist—she’s never figured out how to hug boys she’s not in love with—and pulls back to watch him go. There’s something about seeing him walk away that makes her start to panic, like she’s already lost her chance. Like the question she wants to ask and also doesn’t want to ask will never be answered.

“Nick,” she calls out. “Wait.”

Nick turns and walks back, his eyes already searching hers with alarm. “What’s up?”

Zan reaches slowly into her pocket. For a moment she allows herself to hope the receipt won’t be there, that she’s left it at home, in the book, or maybe it fell out somewhere on the way. But the flimsy paper sticks to the top of her damp fingers and her heart sinks as she pulls it out. She stares at it for a quiet moment before passing it to Nick.

“I found this in one of Leo’s books,” she explains, watching Nick’s face pucker as he tries to read the numbers and scrawled ink. “It’s dated the day that he died.”

Nick swallows, the lump of his Adam’s apple suddenly clear and pronounced. He flips the page over to the side with the handwritten note. Zan immediately wishes she could rip the paper out of his fingers.

“I don’t know,” she says, backtracking. “I’m sure it’s nothing, I just thought, you know, since you were the reason he went out that night…”

Nick doesn’t move. His eyes stay trained on the smudged black print, but the air around him feels different. Charged.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean, I didn’t mean that it was…”

Nick puts a hand on the side of her arm and she stops talking. Right after it happened, she was careful with her words, sensitive not to say anything that might betray the way she sometimes felt.
If only you hadn’t cared so much about your stupid boat. If only you hadn’t asked for his help. If only you’d waited the night.

“Nick,” she starts again. “I’m so sorry.”

Nick shakes his head, his hand still on her shoulder. “No,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry. I should have told you before…” He passes her the paper. His voice sounds cool, far away and different.

“What do you mean?” Zan asks. She crumples the receipt and watches as Nick’s hands return to his pockets. He’s staring at the clean white lines of the court. Zan’s stomach twists and coils. “Told me what?”

“I lied,” he says, so quietly it’s almost lost in the amplified chords of the music behind them. “I promised him I’d never say anything, before he left, and when he didn’t come back, I didn’t know what to do.”

The outlines of Nick’s hands turn to tight fists in the wet pockets of his cargo shorts. She can see his skin changing color in the dark, from pale pink to red, like a brutal, sudden sunburn.

“What?” Zan says. She takes a step back. “What are you talking about? What did he tell you? Look at me!”

Nick finally lifts his eyes, and this time, Zan knows she will win. She will keep his eyes on hers as long as she possibly can, until they’ve told her everything. “Nothing,” he says, pleading. “I swear, he told me nothing. But he made me promise I’d go along with his story. He made it up. I didn’t need anything for the boat that day. He needed an excuse, said he needed to take care of something. That’s all I know, I promise.”

Zan feels her heart pounding in every square inch of her body. She takes another shaky step back and is quickly on the ground, the cool grass tickling the outsides of her knees.

“Zan.” Nick crouches beside her. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m sure he was just on one of his adventures. He was probably trying to surprise you. That’s why I never said anything. He made me promise, and it’s not like I had any idea what he was up to. You know the way he was.”

Zan feels Nick’s arm around her back. She tries to focus on the in and out of her breathing. The wet of the grass. The white of the painted lines on the court.

“I have to find her,” she says quietly.

“Find who?”

“Vanessa.”

Nick laughs, but Zan can hear he doesn’t mean it. “The girl on the receipt?” he asks. “Zan…”

“What?” she hisses. “I’m the one still here. If there was something going on, you don’t think I deserve to know about it?”

Nick peels his arm away from her shoulder and rests it on his lap. “No. I mean, I don’t know,” he stutters. “I don’t know what I think. I just don’t … I don’t see how it will help.”

“Help what?” Zan cries. She’s practically yelling now; she can feel the force of her words as they hurtle through her and out into the night. “He’s already dead, Nick. Don’t you think I should at least know the truth about what happened?”

Nick picks at the grass between them. “I know he’s dead,” he whispers. “I meant that I don’t know how it will help you.”

Inside, a song ends and the crowd erupts into boisterous applause. She feels Nick turn to look at the side of her face, feels him watching the single tear that’s sinking toward her chin.

“Zan, you have to let him go.”

A quick, shifting breeze flips a lock of her dark curls across her nose. She tucks it back, wiping the wet marks on her cheek and pushing up to her feet. She brushes her hands on her shorts, feeling the grass marks indented into the skin of her palms.

“No,” she says firmly. “I don’t. Not yet.”

SIENNA

“Don’t play with your food,” Ryan commands, with all of the authority of a sixty-five-year-old governess. Sienna pushes a snakelike pile of cold sesame noodles around on her plate. The two of them are settled at the empty end of a long table, tucked in the back of the Martha’s Vineyard Community Center. Many of the hundred or so people crowding the old converted barn are already up and dancing, or at least that’s what Sienna guesses they think they’re doing. Dad and Denise included.

“Fine.” Sienna shrugs. “I’ll play with yours.” She reaches across to Ryan’s plate, piercing a piece of pasta salad with her recycled bamboo fork.

“Cut it out!” Ryan whines, boxing her out with his elbow. She rolls her eyes and turns back to the stage. A group of older men with long gray beards are playing old-timey bluegrass music on instruments that appear to predate the Civil War.

If it hadn’t been for Ryan nosily spotting the flyer on the floor of her room, they would never have come to the Community Center concert. But he was drawn to the cartoon lettering, and soon the four of them were piling in the car, stopping at the only bakery still open to purchase a last-minute pie, and swinging into the overflowing parking lot.

On stage, the music stops abruptly and the old-timers are taking curt little bows. The next group files quietly in behind them, and it isn’t until the bearded banjos are cleared from the stage that Sienna spots Owen. His long dark hair is tucked behind his ears and he’s wedged impressively behind a portable keyboard, with two separate levels of keys and a series of pedals at his feet.

There’s a drummer, a girl with short blond dreadlocks, and a skinny Asian kid playing guitar. The three of them immediately dig into their instruments, and a heavy wall of sound fills the room. From behind a curtain pulled to the side, a girl walks slowly and deliberately to the microphone.

Sienna doesn’t recognize her right away. Her small, curvy body is tucked into a floral-print dress with a narrow leather belt cinching her tiny waist, and on her feet, brown suede ankle boots with tassels on the sides. Her shoulder-length fire-red hair is teased so that it looks like it’s been through a tornado.

But there’s something about the way she walks—slow, almost dreamlike steps—that feels familiar. In a flash, they’re on the beach. Sienna is running, being chased by a boy with seaweed in his hair. Behind them, a little girl drags her feet lazily through the waves, a rainbow on the belly of her faded one-piece suit.

Sienna looks up at the stage. Owen plays with his eyes closed and his body hunched and tight, his long fingers frantically stretching across the keys. He’s good, but he was right; Carly steals the show. Even before she’s opened her mouth to sing, Sienna can’t stop staring. Neither, it seems, can anyone else in the crowd; at the sight of her, they immediately start cheering and hollering like crazed college football fans.

And then there’s her voice. Owen was right about that, too; it is like sandpaper. Gravelly and gruff, but tinged with little girly riffs and a strong, belting vibrato. Instead of the indie hipster music Sienna expected, the band plays a full set of standards, upbeat love songs and bluesy ballads.

“Wow.” Sienna turns, after what feels like ten seconds but must have been at least four songs, to see that Ryan is gone. Dad is squeezed into the flimsy folding chair beside her, his blue eyes glassy and focused on Carly. Sienna knows what he’s thinking before he says it. “Your mother would have loved this.”

Sienna’s stomach twists into a knot. They used to be able to talk about her, not all the time, but after a while they’d each found their own way to say her name out loud. But now it feels different. It feels wrong and cheap and forced, as if Dad’s making a special point to remind her that just because he’s seeing somebody new, she’s not forgotten.

“Where’s Ryan?” Sienna asks flatly, pushing back from the table and scanning the length of the room.

“He went with Denny to get more food.” Dad gestures to the buffet behind them. “Said something about you contaminating his plate?”

Sienna rolls her eyes and fakes a smile. On stage, Owen is in the middle of a solo. His hands are flying over the keys, alternating quick, short runs with full, complex chords. Carly sways beside him, and every so often he looks up from the keys to catch her eye. It’s as if he needs to know she’s watching, like he’s playing just for her. Sienna feels something hard in her chest, followed by a sinking numbness.

She doesn’t realize that the music has stopped until the applause is almost over. She joins in late, clapping as Carly and Owen hug on stage. Owen hops to the floor and Sienna watches as he’s swallowed by a crowd of his friends.

She gets up to refill her plate. The Center is packed with bodies and all of them seem to be funneling her into the buffet line. There are rows and rows of dishes and plates, half-ravaged pans of lasagna, big chopped salads, and cooling ears of corn on the cob. Sienna lifts a plate from the top of a short pile and is hovering over the selection of salads when she hears a familiar voice behind her.

“You showed up,” Owen says, nudging her with his elbow and plunging a spoon into a sheet pan of lukewarm mac and cheese. He steps back and Sienna sees that Carly is hovering behind him. “See?” Owen gloats to Carly. “I told you she was real.”

“Oh my God,” Carly says quietly. Her speaking voice is a full octave higher than when she sings, and Sienna has a hard time believing that this is the same girl she just saw swaying seductively up on stage. “You look exactly the same. The hair, the freckles, the perfect teeth.”