Wrecked (18 page)

Without pausing she walked to the shore and waded into the surf, not slowing as she threw off her uniform or bothering to take note of the chill until she was up to her shoulders. Then, taking a breath, she ducked under the surface and did six breaststroke pulls underwater until she was farther out, to the point she went yesterday, where her feet wouldn’t touch sand and she finally felt safe. Then she began swimming, falling into the familiar rhythm of thought and movement that propelled her, not worrying about how far out the tide was or whether or not phosphorescence was floating on the water or whether
the waves were sloping or pointy or any of the ridiculous, Sea Witch-obsessed things islanders worried about. Because, when it came down to it, it didn’t make any difference.

Island kids grew up taking ocean superstition seriously, and by the time they were in elementary school, were able to read the beach and the waves and the sky just as well as seasoned sailors. Too much seaweed on the beach? The waters would be rough. Washed up starfish? Calm waters. And if you happened to see a dolphin, you were golden. But when it counted, none of the signs mattered. The night of the accident, the sunset had been beyond beautiful, the goldfish-orange type that even island kids took a second to admire. It had been the perfect summer day. Even when they’d gotten on the boat, the low rumbles in the distance hadn’t seemed threatening. They’d simply seemed like a subtle reminder that it was getting late, and it might be a good idea to think about getting home, kind of like how the teachers would flip the lights on and off during a school dance in middle school. There were
always
late night thunder rumblings on Whym.

“Stop it!”
Miranda muttered to herself as she submerged her face beneath the water. Talking to herself was definitely a sign she was going crazy, but why did it matter? Maybe she could be locked in a mental institution. That would be way better than reality. After all, the things she was doing were starting to become borderline crazy. Like coming back to Bloody Point after her weird interaction with the mysterious guy she
couldn’t get out of her head, no matter how hard she tried. Even at school today, he was the only thing she could think of. She knew she was operating on limited sleep and a lot of stress, and that combination was
never
good, even in the best of times. And now, swimming alone in the ocean, keeping an eye out for a random stranger, was decidedly not the best of ideas.

I’m a killer.
Stroke.
My best friend.
Another stroke. So much hurt, and Miranda was only halfway to the jetty. She put her head back in the water and continued to swim. In the pool a lap was never long enough to untangle a thought or try to forget about the angry faces staring at her when she got off the elevator on the top deck of the ferry. But here she had time and distance and privacy, and the images she both wanted to forget and couldn’t stop thinking about sprang to the forefront of her mind.

At that memory tears began to prick her eyes, mixing with the salt water.

“Stop!”
she yelled underwater, feeling the water rush into her mouth and her lungs. She wasn’t supposed to cry. Not now. Only when she was in control, and she definitely wasn’t now. It was as if the water was the key that opened up her Pandora’s box of emotions, and she was both frightened of them and desperate to feel them, all of them. It was impossible to stop crying, no matter how much she kicked or pulled. But it also wasn’t as humiliating or panic-inducing as crying on land. The ocean was always angry and uncaring; it felt like the only place that could let her be
herself.

She wasn’t sure how long she kicked and stroked and sobbed and screamed, but finally, her arms exhausted, her heart beating in time to the dull ache in her thigh, Miranda stopped and treaded water. Eleanor would be wondering where she was, and the last thing Miranda needed was to be put under house arrest.

But just as she was about to stroke toward shore, a giant wave came from behind Miranda, covering her in an avalanche of salt water. She tried to kick, but her legs wouldn’t move. It was as if they were caught by an invisible rope, or an invisible hand yanking her down. She tried to scream, inhaling a mouthful of water. Choking and coughing, she continued to flounder, trying to break through the surface, when all of a sudden she felt the distinct sensation of being
pushed
into calmer waters. Flailing, her legs touched solid ground. She stood up, only waist deep and yards from where she’d been just moments earlier. What had
happened
? The sand was uneven and she felt like her knees would give out at any moment.

Lacey, her physical therapist, had said that some muscle seizing might happen, but both legs? And why the wave? It felt like more than just rough waters. She wrung out her hair and took a deep, shaky breath. And then, all of a sudden, she squinted. Far out, near the wave breakers, was a body, stroking closer to the shore.

“Hi,” Miranda said, surprising herself as she heard her voice cut through the evening air. The tide lapped her ankles and she
stood frozen in place, unsure of whether to swim out and meet him or walk up the beach.

The boy turned toward her, a slow smile spreading across his face. Miranda staggered backward. It was the guy from last night, looking even better than she remembered. He looked
beautiful,
which was a terrible word to use for a guy. But the way his six-pack shimmered, the way his dark hair dried on his forehead, the way his large blue eyes sparkled . . . Miranda had never seen anyone as amazing as he was.

“Hello,” the boy called, his voice carrying over the wind as he walked out of the water. Miranda watched him as though she was stuck to the sand. Part of her wanted to run back to her car, but the other part of her wanted to run back into the water with him.
Magnetic attraction,
was what Genevieve would have called it. It was definitely real, and it was definitely terrifying. Miranda shivered. The palm trees surrounding the beach were swaying in the breeze; a sign that a thunderstorm was about to roll in at any moment.

“What are you doing here?” She felt like she was gasping for breath or talking underwater. Her hand flew to the hollow of her throat.

“What are you doing here?” The boy repeated, the cadence and emphasis on the word
doing
so similar to Miranda’s question that she thought he was making fun of her. His accent sounded vaguely foreign, but it was nothing Miranda recognized. German maybe? Italian?

“Are you all right?” the boy continued, taking another step toward her.

“Yeah.” She stepped backward, but her foot got tangled in the shorts that were puddled on the sand. She tripped over her feet, stumbling to her knees. “I mean, I’m fine,” Miranda said, turning bright red. The boy reached down to try to help her up, but Miranda batted his hand away. She felt warmth surge through the palm of his hand and into her fingers, and, paradoxically, she shivered. It was the first time since Fletch that someone had touched her,
really
touched her. Physical therapy didn’t count. The therapists prodded and poked her, like an unformed lump of clay. She yanked her hand away and scrambled to her feet, wiping the sand off her butt.

“You were here yesterday,” Miranda said, the words sounding like an accusation.

“I was. And so were you, even though you shouldn’t be. It’s not safe,” he said, taking a few steps back and letting his gaze wander over her body. Miranda followed his gaze, looking down at her bra and underwear barely covering her skinny frame. She angrily yanked her tank top over her shoulders. Yeah, this guy was cute, but he was kind of a jerk. Who the hell was he, anyway?

“Who are you, the beach patrol?” Miranda retorted. “I can take care of myself.” Could she? Her heart was still pounding from when the riptide—or whatever it had been—had pulled her under.

“Are you sure?” The boy countered. It sounded like he was challenging her.

“Should I be afraid of you?” Miranda asked, then winced. It was the flirty type of response she’d overhear Genevieve saying at one of the Coastal Carolina parties she used to drag Miranda to; it didn’t sound right when she was dripping wet in a Speedo. Above them a seagull cried, breaking her out of her reverie.

“Okay, great conversation. I’m going to go,” she said sarcastically, turning on her heel and walking away from the ocean.

“Wait!” The boy called behind her. “Miranda!”

She stiffened. “How do you know my name?” she asked, whirling around and putting her hands on her hips. “Are you spying on me? Because I’m not doing anything wrong. I’ve
never
done anything wrong,” she said, kicking the sand for emphasis.

“No. I just know it,” the boy said quickly. His mouth twisted, but in the rapidly approaching darkness, it was impossible to tell whether he was grinning or grimacing.

“Because of the accident?” Miranda snorted. “Yes, I’m the girl that killed her friends.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just thought you would want to talk to someone.”

Miranda sighed. “You actually want to talk to me?” she asked skeptically.

“Why wouldn’t I?” The boy asked, furrowing his brow.

“Well, no one else does . . . and I don’t really blame them. Anyway, we’ve established that you know something about me, and I know nothing about you. What’s your name?” Her gaze
flicked up from his hand to the water droplets on his arm, shimmering in the sunlight. Was he
glittering
? Miranda glanced down at her own arm, wondering if it was the phosphorescence that occasionally appeared in the water. But her arm was simply pale and covered with goose bumps.

“Christian,” he said.

“Christian,” Miranda said, glancing up at his angular face. At five-foot-eight, she’d long ago resigned herself to being at eye level with most high school boys. But he was tall—at least six feet—and seemed like someone who could protect her. Was that why she felt so comfortable with him? Was she, as Dr. Dorn would say, “creating a hero?” For the millionth time, she wished Genevieve were here. She’d consult her
Interpretation of Dreams
book and then tell her, throwing in plenty of the psychobabble she always used inaccurately. Miranda winced at the memory. “Is that your name, your religion . . .”

A shadow of a smile crossed Christian’s face. “It’s who I am.”

“Okay, so where are you from, Christian?” Miranda asked, leaning back against her hands and gazing up at him. She was enjoying this conversation. He was wearing a soaking-wet pair of cargo pants. Who wore cargo pants swimming? She stepped back and blinked, trying to remember if she’d ever run into him from anywhere.
I should be scared. I should yell for help.
But she wasn’t and she wouldn’t.

“I’m from . . . around,” he said evasively as he perched on one of the large granite rocks on the edge of the high-tide line.
“Here, sit. Let’s talk for a bit. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was swimming, you were swimming . . .” He shrugged.

“Most people don’t swim here. It’s supposed to be haunted. You should know that,” Miranda said. She perched next to him on the rock, resting her elbows on her knees. “So you live near the Point?” Miranda pressed, cocking her head and trying to place him. Was
that
how she knew him, from seeing him on the ferry or in the bakery?

“I live close enough,” Christian shrugged. “But I like to swim here. This island is beautiful. The view’s beautiful,” he said, his gaze falling on Miranda. His eyes were large and blue, and framed with thick, long lashes. Miranda tore her gaze away.

“Thanks,” Miranda said, realizing too late that he was complimenting the island, not her. Her face flushed. She stared at her feet in the sand. There was impossibly still a stripe of glitter nailpolish on her big toe, left from the last time she and Gen had gotten pedicures together. Her breath caught in her throat.

“So, are you skipping school? I am,” Miranda offered. She decided he wasn’t an asshole. Sure, he was a rebel, but one of those
real
rebels—the ones who actually did what they wanted because it
was
what they wanted, not because it would piss off their parents or make them look cool. It only added to his allure. There was a time back in the seventies that a whole beach colony of drifters and ex-hippies had cropped up at Bloody Point. The Whym Island council had tried to get rid of them, but had found there were no laws saying they couldn’t be there. Was
that what Christian could be doing? Living on the beach? He looked to be around her age, maybe a year or two older.

Christian shook his head. “No, I’m not skipping school. I’m just relaxing. Not worrying. Swimming.” Christian shrugged. His jaw twitched and Miranda suddenly felt a wave of fear wash over her. Maybe it was the way he kept clenching his jaw or the way his eyes kept darting back and forth, as though he wasn’t sure whether or not they were being watched.

“Well, you are worried,” Miranda said, after a beat.

“Why?” Christian said, the word coming out like a bark.

“You’re all twitchy.” Miranda shrugged. “Honestly, between you and me, maybe the beach really is haunted. You’re definitely adding to the negative energy here.”

“I’ll try to stop,” Christian said stiffly.

“Well, whatever your problem is, I’m sure it’s not as bad as mine. Listen to this: Parents dead, three friends dead, boyfriend in a coma.” Miranda sighed, then, despite herself, began laughing. It sounded
too
maudlin, too much. “Now, let’s hear your sob story.”