Snared

“What is it?” Mary said.

Anne’s eyes narrowed. Usually whoever rolled the winning pattern felt a little light-headed as the story came to her, but this wasn’t that.

“No,” Shirley said, shaking her head faster and faster. “I won’t say it. I won’t.”

She clenched her teeth and pushed air between them. Her hissing mixed with spittle.

Daphne looked concerned. “Shirley, what’s going on?”

“Maybe she’ll explode,” Anne suggested wryly.

“Quiet! She’s fighting the story. She’s trying not to tell it,” Mary said.

“Can you do that?” Anne asked, genuinely curious.

“I don’t know,” Mary responded.

“From the looks of her, I’m guessing no,” Daphne said. “Shirley, stop! Don’t fight it!”

“No, I won’t say it. I won’t….”

Anne watched, seething with jealousy as Mary and Daphne pulled themselves protectively near the shivering redhead, taking her hands, rubbing her forehead, whispering into her ears like nurses.

I spent a night in the Red Room, and none of them ever even touched me.

“Let it out, Shirley. Go on, you can do it. Let it out.”

“I can’t…it’s too horrid….”

“You can, you can!”

“For Christ’s sake!” Anne yelled. “Are we doing Lamaze for the dead now? Leave her alone. If it has to, it’ll come out. She won’t be able to stop it.”

Mary turned from her ministrations to look at Anne with that puzzled expression again. “Lamaze?”

“Forget it,” Anne said, shaking her head.

In an instant, Shirley pitched out of Daphne and Mary’s grasp. She flopped onto her chest and raised her shoulders up by pushing on her hands. Her eyes were fixed on a spot in midair, the way a cat’s eyes are when it seems to see what no one else can. All the fear—and for that matter, all other expression—vanished from her face as she began to speak.

1

A storm raged overhead, pelting the road and the SUV with rain. The family vacation wasn’t getting off to the best of starts. It seemed to Lindsay Morgan that the rain was following them, like some kind of nasty omen telling her the family vacation was cursed. The closer to Redlands Beach they got, the louder the rain beat on the car.

With her dad driving and her mom in the passenger seat, Lindsay sat in the back, listening to music on her iPod and texting with her friend Kate. The drive had exhausted her and the storm was doing nothing to improve her mood. She knew the vacation was important to her parents, especially her dad, but Lindsay had spent the last few weeks dreading the trip. It couldn’t have come at a worse time. She’d been helping Kate with a totally important party, and now she couldn’t even go! Of course, her dad was quick to point out that Lindsay had always enjoyed trips to her uncle Lou’s place. But she’d been a little girl then. At sixteen, Lindsay wasn’t feeling any glee for the retro.

She was certain her dad just didn’t get it. She’d grown up. She was in high school. She was popular and received good grades. Though her teachers sometimes flinched at her often harsh humor, they couldn’t help but see the intelligence behind it. Oh, she could be snide and sarcastic, and more than once a friendly burn had been taken as meanness by kids who didn’t know her, but it usually only took a few kind words to mend those feelings, and often enough Lindsay found herself with another friend. Plus—and Lindsay felt certain her father did not get this—she could take care of herself. When she was faced with a problem, she found a way to fix it. She didn’t let it stress her out or piss her off; she just made it work. Lindsay Morgan was practical that way. But she’d tried to fix this trip—had done everything she could to avoid it—and it hadn’t worked.

She might not have been so bummed if her parents were taking her to a happening beach like Cancun or the Hamptons or even Atlantic City. But they weren’t. They were going to her uncle’s house on Redlands Beach, and though it had sand and ocean, it fell way short of an A-list destination. True, Lindsay’s memories of the place were a bit fuzzy, but that didn’t mean she was wrong. She remembered her uncle and other men standing on the shore with their fishing lines sunk in the ocean (which was probably why his house always smelled like fish guts). There were noisy children racing from the surf toward their chain-smoking mothers and their beer-drinking fathers. The “good” restaurant in town served fried clams in a plastic basket. On reflection, she considered the beach some kind of trailer trash econo-resort, but her folks said it was an up-and-coming town.

She’d asked to stay home, arguing rationally at first. When logical pleas tanked, Lindsay resorted to a more emotional approach. Tears were involved. They didn’t work. Anger soon followed, but it didn’t get her anywhere. There was no way she could get out of the trip. Her parents had already taken the time off work. So Lindsay was faced with ten days in her uncle’s house—away from her friends and an epic party.

Just thinking about it made her sad. Everyone from school was going to be there. BlackBerrys and cell phones had been buzzing about it for weeks. All the cool and cute would be gathering at Kate’s house. (Her parents were vacationing in Paris!) It would be a red carpet event with beer and banging tunes, and Lindsay was going to miss it.

Lindsay’s motivations weren’t totally selfish either. Yes, she badly wanted to go—who wouldn’t?—but Kate needed her, really needed her, and that was important, too.

Lindsay loved her friend like a sister, but Kate was about as organized as a chimp, not to mention the fact that she was panic waiting to happen. Lindsay knew the second one little thing went wrong with the party, Kate would freak like a meth head on Cops. She had said a billion times she couldn’t pull the party off without Lindsay.

The invitation tragedy was a perfect example. Kate had wanted to use paper invitations, and that would have been okay, but she bought boxes of invites with a picture of a kitten wearing sunglasses on the cover. Inside they read“ Come and party with the cool cats.” If Kate had sent out those wholly cred-killing invites, she’d never have lived down the humiliation. So Lindsay wrote the invitation for Kate—email only—and she made it sound like a total secret, because Lindsay knew the best way to get the word out was to tell people to keep quiet.

Lindsay often thought that she would make a great party planner, or maybe a wedding planner. She was able to look at any event, no matter how complicated, calmly and thoroughly, and spot the details others might overlook. Last year she organized the freshman dance, and instead of throwing some high-school hoedown with a pop tune theme, she made it memorable. She did an industrial disco night called Batcave, with painted wall panels that made the gym look like a dungeon and a wrought-iron bar for sodas. It was a total hit. Everyone at school talked about it for weeks.

Kate just can’t do this on her own. I should be there, helping her.

But she wasn’t; she was in an SUV with her parents, driving through a downpour headed to Redneck Hollow, and no matter how she tried to hide her disappointment—because she knew the trip really meant a lot to her dad —she just couldn’t.

It was like being kidnapped or something. She was a prisoner, and her two captors sat in the front seat, acting all happy and crap.

When the power on her Treo died, cutting off Lindsay in midtext, she couldn’t help but groan. Her connection to home and her friends was severed. She hadn’t bothered charging her cell phone completely, because she preferred the PDA. So her cell phone had died an hour into the trip, and now her Treo was toast. How much worse was this trip going to get?

A hand touched her shoulder, and Lindsay looked up, startled. Her mom had turned in the seat and was