Summer's Edge, page 20
I shake my head. “No. I think we should hold a séance. That’s what my mother wanted. Unfortunately, her request was denied.”
Kennedy blushes. “I—I didn’t have anything to do with—I don’t really have any say—”
“It is your house, though.” I raise an eyebrow.
“Yes. But it would be a legal violation for your mother to come here,” she says quietly. “Even her dropping you off was kind of over the line.”
Bitch. I pause. “I never said anything about inviting her. I just said it was what she wanted.”
Chase pushes his plate around in a circle. “Hey, why not? We can do that, right?” He shoots Kennedy a look. “Closure for Emily. For everyone.”
“But Ryan’s not dead,” Kennedy says. She looks pale. Nervous.
“Then what were you alluding to with the whole ‘say a few words’ thing?” he says, smiling in the way Kennedy’s parents do when they’re pretending not to fight. My parents don’t do that kind of thing. They turn it straight up to eleven and start throwing fuckwad and shithead back and forth across the dinner table. Ryan and I were the cool kids who taught the other kids at school all the best words. Thinking back, that was probably our initial in with Kennedy and Chase. We knew the best curse words.
Now my parents never talk at all. The quiet is nice, except when it’s not.
Kennedy sucks in a controlled breath. “I was just talking about remembering. We can remember him, wherever he is. Until he comes back.”
Chelsea takes my hand with her warm, sweaty one. “Whatever you feel like, Em. We can light candles, close our eyes, and just open our minds to the possibilities. Right, Ken?”
Her earnestness is the most awful thing about her. She knows. She’s always known. The old soul. Swooping in with her innate little ghost-whispery suggestions. I wouldn’t really know the first thing about contacting the dead. That’s my mother’s area, and it’s beyond what she does, even. But Chelsea. Mom has always idolized wildflower, dreamy-eyed, no-filter Chelsea. I always wanted to scream at my mother that there is nothing special about Chelsea. She’s just weird. Everyone else at school sees it. She’s awkward and random and has no sense of taste or style or the art of kissing ass. People only like her because she’s Kennedy’s best friend. I’ve always had to put in effort to stay in Kennedy’s good graces. It’s more exhausting than studying. It is like studying, in a way. A new exam every day, every time I open my mouth. Always being silently judged. I wonder if that’s what happened to Ryan. Maybe he finally said no to Kennedy.
But I bet that wasn’t it. She would have kicked him out of Camelot. I bet it was a bigger sin. I bet he crossed Chelsea. The Queen of Cups herself.
There’s only one way to find out.
I pick up my plate and begin to stack the other plates on top of it. Kennedy stares at me like I’ve just started peeing on the table or something. “I’ll clean up. You’ve done so much.”
She quickly jumps to her feet and starts gathering napkins and glasses, but I grab the silverware before she can get her hands on it. “Really, Emily, just sit back and relax.”
“I’ve got it, Kennedy. Let me.”
She presses her lips together and makes an odd strangled noise, and we carry our armloads into the kitchen silently. I can’t help but note the pained expression on her face with satisfaction. It’s killing her that I’m stealing her role. Kennedy is all about role-playing. Everything in its place. Everyone in their place. No one ever stepping out of line. Even to help anyone out. To save a friend from drowning? Maybe. We’ll find out soon enough.
Chase follows me upstairs, and I pull him into Kennedy’s room and lock the door behind us.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” He twists his baseball cap in his hands, and I take it and toss it on the dresser and pull him onto the bed. “Whoa. I thought we were doing an ‘Earth to Ryan’ thing.”
I kiss him quickly and urgently, the way we always kiss, rolling over on my side and sliding my hands up and down his body until he moves on top of me, tightening his grip on me and starting on my buttons.
“Here?” he whispers into my ear. “Right now?”
“Got anything in your pocket?”
“Always. Be prepared.”
“Yes, here.”
I can’t help the way I feel about Chase. I don’t know if I love him. I don’t think it’s possible to love someone and want to hide them, and I know that feeling is mutual. I don’t know if it’s possible to love someone and hate them too, though songs and movies seem to urge that possibility. It can’t be healthy, but most of the relationships I’ve witnessed in my life aren’t. I don’t know what he saw that night, what he knows, and the fact that he won’t tell me is unforgivable. But I’ve been wanting Chase so long, I can’t turn it off. I don’t want to be his girlfriend. I don’t want to marry him. I just desire him. The messed-up part is that before Ryan disappeared, I think part of that desire had just a tiny, tiny, tiny bit to do with his pointless rivalry with Chase and the fact that Ryan is/was the Joiner family golden boy. I can’t really explain it. But every time Prince Ryan was lavished with some unearned praise, I fantasized about having Chase. It would kill Ryan. It sounds more twisted than it is. It’s a question of loyalty. Switching sides is the cruelest betrayal. I think all people have these thoughts but don’t articulate them. I’m very in touch with my feelings. My mother doesn’t see that about me. Maybe if she did, she would have said I was the one with the sight.
Anyway. After Ryan disappeared, it just intensified. Like being with Chase brought me closer to Ryan. Again. It sounds more twisted than it is, I think. I think. Because I think it’s the same for Chase somehow. He never paid that much attention to me before. Not in a sexual way. Now it’s like we can’t get enough of each other. Only the second it’s over, we have nothing to say and I feel like a traitor. No. I have everything to say, but it’s all extremely unsayable.
Like, I know you’re lying to me, Chase. Just tell me the truth and I’ll forgive you. Just you. I can’t say it, because I can’t forgive him unless he tells me on his own. But he hasn’t. He’s had a whole year and we’ve been alone together many times. And if he hasn’t done it by now, he never will.
“Tell me something, Chase.”
He rolls away from me a little. “What?”
“Something I would never guess.”
“I’m not afraid of clowns.”
“What?” I laugh unexpectedly. It happens so rarely these days.
“It seems like most people are afraid of clowns. I don’t get it. They’re just actors with bad taste in clothing and really dramatic makeup. I feel sorry for clowns.”
“What about killer clowns?”
“Well, I’m afraid of killers, period. I’m also afraid of killer farmers. But people don’t go around saying they’re afraid of farmers. They say they’re afraid of clowns. It’s clownist.”
“What else are you afraid of?”
He furrows his brow, narrowing his bright eyes. “Being tantalized.”
I sit up and try to look sexy. I think. “Like, tempted?”
“Oh no. Like Tantalus. He tried to trick the gods by serving them human flesh in a stew—his own son, actually. As punishment, Zeus killed him, and made him stand forever in a lake surrounded by water underneath a tree of fruit. But whenever he tried to drink or eat, the water would recede and the fruit went just out of his reach. That’s being tantalized. Surrounded by what you need, but you can’t have it.” He pauses. “People use the word in relation to desire, but when you think about Tantalus, even if he was already dead, that’s food and drink we’re talking about. Hunger and thirst are more than desire. You need some things so much that if you don’t have them, you change.” He looks at me quickly and then off the bed. “Maybe that’s silly.”
“No. It makes sense. Like trust.”
“Companionship.”
We neaten ourselves up and leave the room one at a time, me first. When I get downstairs, I find Kennedy standing stiffly at the back door, biting her nails. I tap my fingers on her shoulder. “Everything okay?” I ask. I kind of hope she did hear us a little.
She turns to me, her dismay unconcealed. “Extra guest. I hope you don’t mind. I really didn’t know Chase was planning… I don’t…” She trails off and I push the door open.
My heart drops into my stomach. Chelsea is perched on the table, peeling green grapes and babbling on about wormholes. Beneath her, smoking a cigarette and picking at an heirloom tomato salad, is Mila.
Mila.
Onetime Mila. Mila of the past. Mila, who has no business in the lake house or my life.
Or with Chase.
With Chase.
I turn around, light-headed, and sit on the large green suitcase Chase left by the cellar door. “Was Chase planning this?”
Kennedy throws her hands up. “It’s his girlfriend. Trust me. She was not invited.” She rushes to my side. “Emily, I’m so, so sorry about this. Say the word and I will pull the plug on this whole weekend.”
The word girlfriend sends an electric current through my body, and I feel my heart flicker out. I tap it. He wouldn’t do that. Of course he would. He betrayed Ryan; he betrayed me. None of these people, my friends, have any redeeming qualities. They do what they want, when they want. “I thought they were over. Ages ago.”
Kennedy’s forehead creases, and if you didn’t know her like I do, you would fall for the act, believe that she cares one bit how I feel. Like dirt. A single, crumbling grain of dirt. “They were. But you know Chase. I’m sure it’s not serious.” She hesitates. “At least I don’t think it is.”
I take a deep breath and purse my lips, letting my cheeks fill like a sail as I exhale. “Whatever. He can do what he wants.”
She scrutinizes me. “You don’t care?”
“Why would I?”
She shakes her head. “If you don’t, I don’t.”
Look at us, lying like a couple of besties. Like last year never happened.
Kennedy crouches next to me and lays a cool hand on my knee. “Is there anything I can do to help you set up for the, um. The talk?”
She can’t even bring herself to say the word séance. It’s a party game to her. Everything is a game to Kennedy.
“No. Do you have any candles?”
“Tons. Any special colors?”
“Black and white are best.”
“I doubt we have any black candles. But I’ll check.” She disappears into the kitchen, and I open the cellar door and lug my suitcase down. It’s ridiculously heavy. When I get back up to the first floor, Kennedy looks annoyed again. Chase is standing awkwardly by Kennedy’s side. Avoiding my eyes. I stare straight at him. No get out of jail free. Not anymore.
Kennedy shoves him toward me with her hip. “Mila wants to go for a swim.”
Of course she does. “Okay,” I say. “Let her. That’s why we’re here, right? It’s the lake house. There’s the lake.”
“Come with.” Chase offers his usual dazzling smile, but he won’t meet my eye.
“Why?” I blurt out.
“I didn’t know she was coming,” he mumbles, his face flushed. “I told her I’d be here and it would be fun. I didn’t mean it as an invitation. It was a misunderstanding.”
Kennedy slowly begins to back away into the kitchen.
“Fun?” He can do better. I demand better. It does not have to end this way. I suddenly feel more alone than I have this entire year. These entire seventeen years. “Chase?” I despise the pleading in my voice.
“I’m so sorry.” But he says it while walking away from me. And that is not an apology.
Kennedy waits for him to leave and then flutters back to my side. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him.” She furrows her brow. “Are you okay with this? We can go do your ritual right now.”
“I’ll start setting up.” I take a box of white candles from her. “You guys go ahead. Have fun.”
She looks uncertain. “We’re here for you, Emily.”
I wave a hand. “Not at all. Go.”
She spins gracefully, and her skirt whirls up around her. “Give a shout if you need anything.”
Not at all.
I watch them out the window as they gather on the dock. Chelsea sits aside with her book, as usual. Kennedy dips one foot into the water, kicks back and forth for a moment or so, and then arranges herself on her towel to sunbathe, a watchful eye on the lake. Chase splashes in the water like a kid, and Mila lets him hold her and throw her around. She’s not shy like she was at the beginning of last year. She’s grown teeth. Sharp ones. Chase is different around her than he is with me. Lighter. Bouncier. More like the old Chase. Maybe he’s been this way all along, and he only changes when I walk into the room. Or maybe it’s all a performance for my benefit. I don’t know which is worse. It makes my stomach turn.
I run upstairs and tear through Mila’s suitcase, looking for clues that I should have known this was going on all along. All I find are clothes, toiletries, two packs of clove cigarettes (for one weekend?!), a fancy lighter, a packet of sangria mix, and birth control pills. Shit.
Mila.
You know… I hadn’t planned on her. But she came. And look what she brought.
The murder weapon.
44
I fill every room in the house with candles, from cellar to attic, though I can’t light them or I’ll have a house fire on my hands in minutes. Then I retrieve my art supplies and begin to paint. I’ve been working on a custom set of tarot cards for weeks now. Over time, the theme has morphed from an idyllic nature setting to one specific to the lake house. Right now I can’t get that night out of my head. I start with the lake in rich, sapphire blue, the boat on top framed by a velvet sky. Anxiety begins to build up in my chest as I look for a place to paint Ryan. Because I don’t know where he was. I add Kennedy and try to imagine once more, but my mother is right about me. I see nothing. I paint thick, ruby red over the water in turbulent waves, add violent stitches into the sky, all the unfairness of not knowing, of the worst that could be. And then I paint a card for Chelsea—who didn’t go out on the boat either, but came back with the others—on the dock, watching. She came back with the others. I scrawl an inscription at the bottom of each and set them neatly in a corner to dry, then wait up in the attic for the others in a circle of candles, Mila’s lighter in my pocket, a single candle lit to light the rest. After everyone has gathered in the circle, I walk the perimeter and light each one.
“Should we join hands?” Mila asks. She snaps her gum. Nerves maybe. Or maybe she’s just bored.
Kennedy glares at her, a scolding, motherly look.
“Yes. Unbroken circle.” I’ve placed myself between Kennedy and Chelsea so that I don’t have to deal with Chase. I can’t even wrap my head around the fact that we just slept together and he has a date here with him. He’s been avoiding my eyes. I think that’s the worst part. He owes me a real explanation. More than that. But at the very least he owes me the truth.
I try to wipe it all out of my head. This is more important.
“So, what’s next? We chant or burn a goat or what?” Mila bounces her knees up and down.
I remember hating her, but I don’t remember her being this obnoxious. “No, we don’t burn a fucking goat. Do you see any goats?”
She shrugs. “I don’t see any ghosts, either.”
This close. I’m this close to punching her. But I don’t. “Why don’t you start?”
That wipes the smirk off her face. “What?”
“Call to Ryan. Ask him to come back and speak to us.”
She pulls her knees into her chest. “I didn’t really know him.” Her voice is small now; she is small.
“But you saw him the night he disappeared. If he died, you saw him closer to his last moments than I did. Right?” I hand my candle to her.
“He didn’t die.” The words snap off Chase’s tongue like a rubber band. Reflexive. That doesn’t mean much.
Mila stares down at the flame, and her face lights up and darkens in the flickering glow. “Ryan, will you please come talk to us?” she mumbles. She shoves the candle into Chase’s hand.
He holds it far away from his body like a stick of dynamite in a cartoon. “Hey, buddy. I’m here. Speak up if you want to. We all miss you.”
He nudges Kennedy with his elbow and she takes the candle, holding one hand underneath to catch any dripping wax. “Ryan, sweetie, we’re all here waiting for you to come back. Whenever you’re ready, you know the door is open.” She passes the candle to me, then casts her eyes down to the floor.
“Ryan, I know you’re out there. I feel it. At home, at school, everywhere I go. I feel it stronger in this house, and I won’t leave until I hear from you. Talk to me.” I wait. But nothing happens. I reluctantly hand the candle to Chelsea.
She heaves a big sigh and concentrates on the flames. She is so fake. Chelsea and her sight. Instead of saying anything coherent, though, she whispers something so softly it’s impossible to make out, her lips barely moving, her eyes narrowed, so focused on the candle it looks like she’s intent on moving it with her mind or something. I try to read her lips, but I can’t.
“Share it with the class,” Mila finally says.
Chelsea startles. “Sorry. I can’t really think of anything good.” She hands the candle back to me.
She did, though. She thought of something good. It just wasn’t something she felt like sharing. Just like Chelsea to keep her precious little Ryan secrets from me, even now, after she’s played her part in silencing him, maybe forever.
I place the candle back in the center of the circle, and we join hands again.
“Now what?” Chase whispers.
“We wait. Open your mind and wait.” I know that if the worst did happen, Ryan will speak to me. I may not have been the favorite in life. Chelsea may have been his chosen one while I was left to gather clues and put on a show of knowing, of twin closeness. But it’s my turn now. I’m all he has left.
He wasn’t the perfect brother. The favorite child doesn’t have to be. He can think mostly of himself and his wants, and Ryan had many, and toss around little kindnesses like favors. I was always running after him for approval somehow, ever since we were little, because if he approved, so did Mom and Dad. It was the opposite with our friends. I was the one everyone liked. It was a confusing balancing act. The portrait of the unbreakable bond for all our friends, because if I faltered, he would be alone. And if I lost his approval, my parents would be relentless. Why couldn’t I be practical like Ryan? Play sports. Focus on school instead of art. Stop dressing like a hooker and talking like a truck driver. Be a lady. They were such hypocrites. They hated the Hartfords, but they wanted us to become them.
