The Summer of Broken Rules, page 4
So what I settled on was stopping in my tracks, swallowing hard, and saying in what I hoped was a threatening tone, “I have a knife.”
“Really?” a male voice called back. Familiar, but one I couldn’t place after meeting so many people today. “You have a knife?”
“Yeah,” I lied. “I do.”
“What kind?”
“Swiss Army,” I said, thinking of a Netflix documentary I’d watched with Ben once, all about the history of the knife company. It was random and far from romantic, but I’d found the intricate design and construction process interesting.
“Hmm, a Swiss Army knife.” A low whistle. “Impressive.”
I didn’t say anything. The voice sounded closer now, and it was almost unnerving how melodious it was. My toes curled in my flip-flops. Who was I talking to?
“So I suppose this afternoon wasn’t enough,” the guy continued. “You gotta maul my face even more?”
My breath caught in my throat.
Crap.
Wit appeared in front of me like magic, the starlight shining on his wicked bruise. I couldn’t tell if it looked better or worse. “Oh, um,” I fumbled. “You, uh, know it was, mmm, me?”
“Yes.”
I winced. “How?”
“The hat-and-sunglasses routine only works on TV, Killer.”
“I’m sorry,” I blurted. “It was an accident. I wasn’t paying attention.” I sighed. “And I’d just been on the phone with—”
“Your shithead ex,” Wit finished for me, grinning his crooked grin. “If I’m quoting correctly.”
“You heard that, too?”
No response.
“Well, that’s great,” I mumbled, feeling my neck prickle—partially out of embarrassment but also because he was still smiling. Smiling with his blond hair mussed and falling across his forehead, and wearing a fraying sweatshirt like mine. My stomach did that strange swooping thing. “What are you doing out here?” I asked, hoping it would stop.
Wit shrugged. “Exploring.”
“At night?”
“Yeah, I wanted to see the stars. There’s no light pollution like in the city.” He paused. “I also wanted to escape the best man and maid of honor banging in the next room.”
“Ugh,” I said. “Really?”
“Yep.” Wit nodded. “I mean, you know how people get at weddings.”
“Yeah.” I nodded, too, Pravika’s words from earlier coming to mind: They’re perfect for a fling.
But not for me, I thought. Family and friends. It’s all about family and friends.
The ocean drowned out whatever Wit said next, waves crashing hard on the beach. I hadn’t noticed how close to the dunes we were, so I shined my flashlight and motioned for him to follow me so we could find a nook away from the noise. My flip-flops slapped against the sand, and Wit’s half-tied sneakers scuffed like he had a habit of not picking up his feet when he walked.
“So what are you doing out here?” he asked once we sat down, tall grass swishing around us but safe from the wind.
“Oh,” I said, hiding my hands in my sweatshirt pocket. “Just thinking.”
Wit was silent for a second, pulling up the hood of his own sweatshirt. I thought it was more than obvious what I was thinking about, but he didn’t say Claire’s name, and I was grateful for it. “Assassin, right?” he eventually guessed. “Gearing up for tomorrow?”
“Perhaps,” I replied, an attempt at coyness. Wit didn’t need to know how hesitant I was to play. That I hadn’t even opened my envelope yet to find out my first target—they’d been left in each house’s mailbox earlier. MEREDITH FOX, one was labeled, and inside would be a laminated slip of paper with a single name on it.
“The rules seem simple enough,” Wit commented, and I nodded. “But strategy…there must be a ton of strategy involved. Type of water weapon, if you want to play offense or defense, that kind of thing.” He shifted so that his leg brushed mine, his striped pajama bottoms against my floral-patterned ones. Was it on purpose? “Also alliances,” he added as goose bumps blossomed under the thin fabric. “I bet a ton of alliances form.”
I stayed silent, realizing where he was going with this. Almost immediately after the announcement had been made, Luli had created a group chat that included Eli, Pravika, Jake, and me. Tubing on the Oyster Pond tomorrow, she’d texted. Noon. Tell no one, invite no one. Business to discuss.
Whether I liked it or not, it appeared that I was part of an alliance.
Wit let a beat pass. “I’m assuming you have one already,” he said. “Being a skilled veteran and all—”
“I wouldn’t call myself ‘skilled,’” I cut in, turning toward him. Our knees knocked again. “The best I’ve ever done is five days, and most of that was spent in hiding. My cousin Peter followed me to the old tractor yard one day and shot me before I made it through the barn door.” I shrugged. “I always take a defensive stance.”
“Seriously?” Wit said. “I would’ve thought the opposite.”
I snorted. “Why’s that?”
He laughed, lyrical like his voice. “Because you threatened to pull a knife on me?”
“Well, you shouldn’t have snuck up on me like that!” I said, flustered. My cheeks heated. “You should’ve announced yourself!”
“Okay, yes, I should’ve said something,” he conceded, “but swinging back to alliances—”
“I can’t betray mine,” I told him, because focusing on my friends this week involved staying loyal to them. If Luli needed me to lead her target into a trap, I would do it. I’d been MIA for over a year, blown off my friends’ concerned texts and calls, and the fact that they seemed willing to forgive and forget…I couldn’t mess with that.
“I wasn’t asking you to,” Wit replied. “But I was wondering…” He casually flicked some sand at me, and I flicked some back. “…if you’d be interested in forming a pact.”
My ears pricked up.
A pact?
“Think about it,” Wit said. “We could really help each other. You’re on the bride’s side, and I’m on the groom’s—there are so many people I don’t know that you do and vice versa.”
A lump formed in my throat. It was dawning on me that Wit was approaching Assassin exactly like Claire—offensively and astutely, already planning and plotting. He wouldn’t be searching The Farm for a good hiding spot anytime soon.
“So instead of you sniffing around and asking everyone and their mother who Michael’s uncle’s daughter is,” he continued, “I’d be your go-to source.”
“And instead of solving the mystery of Honey’s brother’s third wife,” I said, liking this more and more, “I’d lay out her entire schedule for you, tell you her favorite Pilates studio in Vineyard Haven.”
“Exactly,” Wit said. “We’d keep the information between us, so no rumors about betrayals would flare up—we wouldn’t tip anyone off.” He released a deep breath. “What do you say?”
My stomach stirred with excitement. “I think it’s brilliant.”
“Excellent.” He smiled and held out his hand. “Now we shake on it.”
“Wait,” I said before we did, hands hovering inches apart. I could feel the warmth radiating off Wit’s skin. “One more thing.”
“Go.”
“If we hear each other’s names going around, we’ll let the other person know.”
Wit considered for a moment, then nodded. “Deal.”
I nodded back. “Deal.”
And so we shook.
* * *
Before sneaking back into the Annex that night, I visited the ancient oak tree on the edge of the lawn and ran my fingers over the notches carved into the trunk. Summer after summer, Claire used an ax to keep track of her victories. “I’m going to win,” I whispered once I’d reached the final mark. “I’m going to win this thing.”
Monday
Four
I woke up on the Annex’s couch at sunrise, my face smashed into an old needlepoint throw pillow and legs bent at an odd, almost painful angle. I can’t go back to the bunk room, I’d decided once Wit and I had parted ways last night. I can’t sleep there without her.
Across the sitting room, Loki stared at me from his dog bed. It was so early, but the Jack Russell was ready for the day. “All right, all right,” I said after rubbing my eyes and stretching my arms above my head. “Breakfast time.”
He leapt up and followed me into the kitchen, where I scooped a cup of kibble into his bowl, and he gobbled it up as I grabbed a banana for myself. Loki finished his food before I finished peeling the fruit, so I paused to open the back door and watched the dog shoot outside and vanish into the woods. It was like that with all the dogs on The Farm—they’d eat breakfast, then disappear until dinner. Sometimes even later.
Any other early morning, I would’ve gone back to bed, but today was not any other early morning. It was day one of Assassin. Mom and Dad were still asleep, so I tiptoed into my room and changed out of my pajamas and into Claire’s and my standard Vineyard outfit: a bikini with jean cutoffs and a lightweight fishing shirt on top. Instead of flip-flops, I grabbed my sneakers and laced them up on the back stoop, just in case I needed to run for my life.
After a quick visit to the outhouse, I cracked open the storage shed. Because along with the bikes, crabbing nets, boogie boards, toolboxes, and other randomness, it was where Claire kept her arsenal. The water handgun, the Super Soaker, and my sister’s big kahuna: the high-pressure soaker contraption. Everyone had a weapon of choice, and thank goodness Claire kept hers on The Farm. Since no one had known about Assassin ahead of time, each house had been gifted a basket of tiny squirt guns, compliments of the bride and groom. Last night, Wit had told me that his was pink and wouldn’t cut it. “I mean, Amazon’s fast,” I’d replied, thinking he meant to order something online, “but out here, it’s not that fast.”
“Oh, no.” He shook his head. “I don’t need Jeff Bezos’s help on this one! I already have an idea.”
Of course he’d already opened his envelope, and I’d crossed my fingers when ripping into mine when I had gotten home—crossed my fingers that I hadn’t made a mistake in waiting, that I hadn’t wasted an opportunity for a dossier. Wit and I hadn’t exchanged numbers, so I couldn’t text him.
But it turned out I’d gotten lucky. My first target was not only someone I knew but also someone whose routine I knew. RACHEL EPSTEIN-FOX, my slip of paper read, and I’d smiled to myself. Aunt Rachel, who was known for rising at the crack of dawn to meditate in the Camp’s front yard. Assassin wasn’t the bride’s side versus the groom’s; it was everyone for themselves.
I scanned Claire’s weapons once more before selecting the water handgun. The Super Soaker had been her favorite—she liked to intimidate, to send people’s paranoia through the roof by walking around with that flashy water gun slung over her shoulder twenty-four-seven. Its neon-orange and electric-green color combination warned everyone to watch their backs.
Nope, I thought, unable to imagine myself being that badass. Not for me.
After shutting the shed door, I loaded the gun with water in the Annex’s shower, tucked it into the back of my shorts, and set off as if taking a casual morning walk. The Camp was a ways down the road on the other side of the Cabin. I wondered if I would see Danielle, Sarah’s maid of honor, embark on a walk of shame from the best man’s room. Or was it too early for that? The sun was getting higher in the sky—I had to hurry so I wouldn’t miss catching Aunt Rachel midmeditation.
But as soon as I picked up my pace, someone shouted my name. “Meredith!” Michael called, and I turned to see him running toward me. Sweaty, shirtless, six-pack on full display. He shone so brightly that it took a beat for me to notice there was someone at his side. The two slowed in front of me. “Bit early for you, isn’t it?” Michael asked, smiling with his head half-cocked. Everyone on The Farm knew I liked sleeping late.
“Well, excuse me,” I said, a joking hand on my hip, “but people change, Michael.”
Sarah’s fiancé chuckled. “This is my stepbrother, by the way,” he said, motioning for the Gatorade bottle full of water his running partner held. He squirted it in his face. “I don’t know if you got the chance to meet yesterday.”
“Oh, we’ve met,” Wit said before I could. He wore a white T-shirt and looked so slight standing next to six-foot-four Michael. But I noticed the sinewy muscle cording his arms when he took the water back. He, too, was strong, just in a different way. I thought I remembered him mentioning something about skiing and rock climbing on our 2:00 a.m. walk back to the houses. “Meredith made quite the first impression,” he added now and motioned to his bruise. “The next Picasso.”
Michael’s jaw dropped, horrified.
I shot Wit a glare.
He smirked.
“Why, Mer?” Michael asked. “Just why? Sarah’s mom is talking about leaving him out of the wedding photos!”
“Listen, it wasn’t on purpose,” I said, then glanced over my shoulder—I really had to move it. “And I’m sure he’ll heal by then…”
I trailed off, Wit suddenly at my back. “Hold on a sec,” he whispered, breath swirling warm against my ear. “Conceal your weapon.” He pulled up the back of my shirt to cover my water gun. Slow shivers rippled up my spine. “You’ll lose the element of surprise.”
“Thanks,” I whispered back. “I only have limited time, too. I gotta go.”
Michael had an eyebrow raised when we both straightened up, like he’d caught us making out or something. His eyes went from me to Wit and back to me.
Pulse pounding, I chose not to explain. “Enjoy your run, Duprés. I’ll see you later!”
Wit responded by spraying me with his water bottle. I dodged him, but the bottle’s stream did have a nice range to it. Forget the tiny squirt gun, I thought, deciphering his silent message. The Gatorade bottle was Wit’s weapon. Shrewd, sly, something no one would suspect.
He was clever.
“Wait,” Michael said as I started speed walking away, and I thought he was talking to me, but before pivoting back around, I heard, “She thinks your last name is Dupré?”
* * *
The Camp had been built a few years before World War I, and back then, it was George Fox’s duck hunting camp. It resembled the Annex from the outside—a simple one-story shingled structure plus a pine front porch—but it was deceptively big inside, able to sleep twelve people and with space for two full bathrooms. “Aunt Julia’s kids will never know the terror of sneaking out to an outhouse in the dead of night,” Claire and I once joked. “How cruel!”
Sure enough, decked out in Lululemon, Aunt Rachel with her big belly had unrolled a yoga mat by the flagpole and sat cross-legged with a perfectly erect spine. Her palms rested on her lap faceup, and her eyes were calmly closed. I remembered her mentioning that it was counterproductive to squeeze them shut. It didn’t let the rest of your body relax.
I crept as quietly as I could across the grass, wincing every time my sneakers squeaked from the morning dew. “Hello?” Aunt Rachel said once I was only a few feet away, keeping her eyes closed. “Julia?”
My shoulders sagged. “No,” I felt like I had to say. “It’s, um, Meredith.”
“Oh, Meredith.” Eyes still shut, she didn’t shift her position, but she did smile. “Isn’t it a little early for you to be out and about?”
I didn’t reply, unable to breathe. My heart was beating so fast.
“Feel free to join me,” she said as I pulled my water gun from the back of my shorts. I aimed it at her head, hand shaking. “Your mom and I were talking yesterday, and we agreed meditation might be good for you—”
I pulled the trigger, a fatal blow to her temple.
My aunt laughed. Her eyes popped open, she fell back against her yoga mat, and she laughed.
It wasn’t nearly as dramatic a takedown as I wanted. Far from it.
“Oh, come on!” I whined like one of her young children. “You think this is funny?” I stamped my foot for emphasis. “Really?”
“Yep.” She sat up and nodded. “I’m pregnant, silly.” She rubbed her stomach. “I was hoping someone would shoot me today. There’s no way I can play this game. I almost texted Wink to drop out, but I didn’t want to mess up the assignments.”
I sighed an especially melodramatic sigh. “Well, I guess that’s understandable.”
Aunt Rachel gave me a lopsided grin. “I’m sorry for not being more pissed.” Then she patted her mat. “Join me.”
My stomach churned. Claire used to get up early on the weekends for yoga and would always demonstrate the difficult poses when we hung out in her room. I failed miserably whenever I attempted them. “That’s okay,” I said softly. “I’m not flexible.”
“This isn’t yoga,” Aunt Rachel replied just as softly. “It’s simple meditation.” She gestured to the mat again. “Please sit.”
* * *
I fled the Camp once Aunt Rachel passed on her target after about twenty minutes of meditation exercises. “Do you feel that?” she asked during one deep-breathing sequence. “Do you feel the flow?”
“I do,” I whispered, even though it was a half truth. I felt more calm but not fully calm, squeezing my eyes shut to hold back tears. Meditation might not be the exact same thing as yoga, but it was still Claire. “I actually do.”
Michael was doing crunches when I got to the Cabin. Good, I thought; I was hoping he and Wit would be back from their run. Because the name on my new slip of paper?
It did not ring a single wedding bell.
“Hey,” I said to him. “Is Wit around?”
This time, no eyebrows were raised; Michael kept doing his crunches but avoided my question. “Who’d you off?” he asked instead.
