Ripple

drowned. That was all my grandmother would tell me. In the years afterward, the ocean’s call grew stronger, and I thought it was because my memories of my mother were innately tied to the sea.

I used to spend hours walking the beaches, not sure why I wanted to be so close to the surf. And then came the devastating events of my sixteenth birthday. That’s when I finally questioned the story behind my mom’s death. After I swam for the first time. After I killed.

It wasn’t hard to find out what really happened. A quick search on Google, and everything I’d thought about her changed.

It wasn’t an accidental drowning, like my grandma said. Her feet were tied to a cinder block. Most of the articles said it was a suicide, and even though I’ve never wanted to believe it, I don’t see how it could be anything else.

The articles always mention another unusual drowning: Greg Roberts, her boyfriend at the time. But Greg wasn’t there with her. He died at least twelve hours before she did, a half-mile down the coast.

I knew Greg, but not well. Until I read that article, I’d always thought he’d left town the day my mom died, in some kind of emotional fit. He’d only been with my mom for a year, but their relationship had seemed intense, even to me, a twelve-year-old. My mother could never stop talking about him.

I don’t know for sure how he drowned, but after what happened with Steven . . . I have my suspicions. I wish she were still around. I wish she were here to tell me what I am, what it will be like for me in the coming years.

Tonight, I don’t think of her for long, because at some point during my swim, my mind goes blank. I surface, and the song—the one I sing every night—bursts out, wrenching free from my throat like I’ve twisted the cap on a shaken-up bottle of soda. It’s a haunting wordless melody that comes from somewhere inside, and I can’t control it. My arms paddle steadily, my limbs working together until I’m propelling myself at a pace that would probably trump an Olympic swimmer.

I’m totally checked out as I find my rhythm, switch into autopilot. It reminds me of how it used to feel to sleep, the way the hours pass without a conscious thought. I simply dip into the water and start swimming; and by the time I know it, it’s dawn, and I feel refreshed and exhilarated, ready to greet the day.

At dawn, I climb out of the water, my toes sinking into the muddy shore. The soft, squishy earth feels good beneath my feet. The urge to sing is gone, and it won’t return for hours. I’m alive, rested, eager to find a way to outsmart the hand I’ve been dealt.

But moments later, my toes are cold. The chill has seeped into my bones, and reality screeches back. It’s unseasonably cool for September. The temperatures in Cedar Cove tend to be mild—although almost constantly rainy and windy—because we’re practically in the Pacific Ocean. But today, it’s barely in the forties.

I’m not ready for the winter. I’m not ready to make it through yet another season of darkness, of long nights and cold mornings with damp hair and even damper skin.

I shiver and for a moment I think about getting back into the lake, but it’s dawn, so the water will have no effect on me. I’ll just be a normal girl in freezing-cold water, who should be at home in bed.

Even though I never get sick, I don’t care for the bone-chilling cold that I feel when I climb out of the water at dawn, my hair dripping down my bare back.

I find the towel I hung on a branch and dry off, then slip back into my clothes. The walk out of the woods takes twenty minutes. The sun rises slowly behind the hilltops, steadily lighting my way. By the time I make it to the road, it’s emerged from behind the mountains, full and round and ready for another day. It will take me thirty minutes to drive back to town. So much wasted time, every day, driving and hiking. So much wasted money, filling the beater car every few days. My allowance barely covers the gas.

When I make it to my rusted-out brown Toyota, I turn the key. It sputters briefly, and my heart sinks. But then the engine catches and whirs to life. I promptly crank the heat. Cold air blasts out at me, and I flinch, waiting for it to warm. I sit in the dawn light, the car humming, as my body thaws.

Finally, I shift into gear and begin the descent into Cedar Cove.

Chapter Three

If there were thirty minutes of every day that I could strike from existence, it would be lunchtime. Unfortunately, I have to use the cafeteria scan card to pay for my meals. If I could get my grandmother to give me cash, I would stop at a gas station or the grocery store. I would buy something, anything, to avoid those agonizing minutes in the lunch line.

Today, I tap the scan card against the stainless steel countertop, anxious to get my turkey sandwich and leave the cafeteria. The lunch lady is almost done—she’s cutting my sandwich in half and putting it on a paper plate.

I grab the plate as soon as she holds it over the counter. Then I take it to the cashier, who quickly scans my card and hands it back. I tuck the card into my back pocket and then head for the door, relief beginning to fill me that the ordeal of getting lunch is almost over.

I realize belatedly that my route may not have been the best choice. Sienna’s crowd—all my old friends— claimed a different table this year. My heart climbs into my throat. I’m going to walk right past them.

I slow down and contemplate spinning around, running away. But then I watch as Nikki elbows Kristy Eckly and nods in my direction. In a matter of seconds, they’re all staring.

I won’t run away. I won’t let them see me sweat. I square my shoulders and walk faster, staring straight ahead, focusing everything I have on a vacant look that won’t betray my emotions. Fifty feet to freedom. The door beckons in the distance. So close.

But I’m so busy trying not to look at them, I don’t see something in my path, and I trip. I throw my hands up to catch my balance and my plate slips from my grasp. I manage to keep from falling, but I can’t say the same thing for my sandwich—it tumbles to the ground and scatters on the dirty floor.

The whole table snickers and laughs. I refuse to look at them as my face burns and I rush for the door, more careful this time about what’s in my path. Just as I reach the exit, I wrench around and glance back. It was a paper sack. I nearly hit the ground over an empty paper bag.

I glance at their table, and my eyes zero in on the one person who isn’t laughing. Cole. His face is completely blank, and he’s sitting there, perfectly still. As always, girls surround him.

I fling open the door and scurry to the bench in the far corner of the courtyard, the one mostly surrounded by shrubs, where they won’t be able to see me from their A-list table in the cafeteria.

Then I pull my legs up on the bench with me and hug my knees. I rest my forehead on them, closing my eyes and taking in deep breaths to steady my aching heart.

I know they all blame me for killing Steven. I know this is my punishment. Just as I know I deserve it. They blame me because they think I should have saved him somehow, stopped the senseless tragedy. If they knew I outright murdered him, I wonder what they’d think, how much worse their taunts would be.

My stomach growls as I sit alone, hoping no one is looking at me but unwilling to glance up to confirm it.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting there when a guy clears his throat. I freeze for a second, and then reluctantly uncoil.

Cole stares me straight in the eye. The look he gives me is so different than the ones from the rest of my old friends. His says he doesn’t hate me like they do. He sets the plate down, and I stare at the sandwich.

“It’s not right.”

I swallow. “What?”

“What they do to you.”

I tip my head to the side. “They didn’t do anything. I’m the idiot who tripped.”

“I don’t mean just now. I mean . . . every day.”

“Why do you even care? It’s just the same joke, new year. Nothing I can’t handle.” I jut my chin up.

“Why do you let them do that? Why do you just take it?”