But for one second, I saw how alike they were, how lost. Dylan’s face bloomed with a bruise. Josie’s lip was still swollen. Each of them was so beautiful, like creatures from the sea, all limbs and fair hair and shining eyes.
Dylan barked out an order. “Get. Off.”
Josie started to protest. “Please, he hates me—”
“Get off the bike.”
He didn’t look at her. His limbs were rigid with fury. Josie slid off, and the instant her feet hit the ground, he was gone.
Gone for days.
When he returned, he was broken in a dozen pieces, that broken cheekbone the least of his injuries.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mari
By the time I was fourteen, I stole entire bottles of vodka and tequila out of the storage closet and shared them with boys on the beach. Not the cove, our safe, isolated little place, but the actual beach, which I reached by hitchhiking down the highway.
I learned to sip, not guzzle. Learned to space out the drinks so I didn’t end up heaving my guts out behind some rock or accidentally black out and have sex with someone. I never went all the way, but I would make out with just about anybody once I started sipping the vodka.
I learned so many things.
One of them was that there was a crack in the wall between Dylan’s bedroom and the one I shared—ever more reluctantly—with Kit. The house was sliding down the cliff long before the earthquake hit, and everywhere the walls were cracked, the floors uneven and full of tripping hazards. It makes me feel dizzy to imagine it now, that all these things revealed the fact that the house was going to fall into the ocean at any minute, but my oblivious parents did nothing. What if it had happened when we were all sleeping?
I discovered the crack along our closet door, along the shared wall with Dylan’s bedroom. It was situated above our heads, so you had to stand on the end of Kit’s bed to see, and then you had to close one eye, but it was a perfect view of his bed.
Where he had a lot of sex.
The first time I spied on him, I felt guilty and giggly. I could see the girl’s naked butt and her tattoo of a butterfly. The girl covered Dylan the first time, but another time I watched him lying on the bed naked while she touched him, and I was both fascinated and repulsed. It was technically some of the same stuff Billy had made me do, but it was different somehow with Dylan.
Kit would have thrown a fit if she’d found out, so I did it when she wasn’t around. Everyone said he was like our brother, and I know that’s how Kit thought of him, but I never felt that way. Never.
We had a special connection. Everybody commented on it. People thought we were actual siblings because we both had such blond hair, such long legs, and could ride a longboard like we were the original Hawaiians. Because we spent so much time in the sun, we were tanned as dark as varnished cedar, and if he was the most beautiful boy on the beach, I was growing into the most beautiful girl. King and queen of the ocean.
The big secret we shared was the weed. From that first time, when it calmed me down, I loved it. It soothed the shattered, angry girl who lived inside me, screaming all the time. It mellowed me out, just as it mellowed Dylan. We’d lie on the beach in the cove long after everyone else was in bed, after the restaurant was closed. We smoked. Often, we didn’t even talk, just sprawled there looking at the stars.
Sometimes we did talk. One night, I asked about his life before he came to us, and he sighed the longest, saddest sigh. “You don’t want to know about that.”
I turned my head, and the movement sent soft, happy ripples through my body, a combination of the beers I’d stolen and the pot he’d brought. I was so very high, I was pretty sure I couldn’t get up even if I tried. “Maybe I do want to know. Maybe you need to tell somebody.”
“Do I?” he asked, and his voice rasped into the night, unsure.
“That’s what you told me.”
“I did.” He touched my hand with one finger, and in his eyes were the stars that had fallen. “Will you tell me?”
“You first.”
“Not this time.”
I looked back up at the sky. “You know what happened. A man made me do things.”
“What things?”
I shook my head, feeling myself tremble all beneath my skin. I felt the places in my body where he hurt me, and something swelled right over my throat to keep me from speaking.
“You know it isn’t always going to be like that, right?”
A vision of his current girlfriend’s bouncing breasts rose up behind my eyes, and I giggled. “Yes. I spy on you.”
“What?” He sat up.
I had a sneaking suspicion that I wouldn’t be pleased with myself later, spilling this secret. “I can see you through a crack in the wall.”
“Having sex?” He didn’t sound mad, just confused. “You watch me having sex? How long?”
“Ooh, long time. Since Rita.”
“Huh.” He fell back down. “You know you shouldn’t.”
“Of course.” I closed my eyes, and to think about it, to see his shoulders, the kissing, the heat moves between my legs. “It makes me feel good.”
He picked up the vodka bottle and took a big swig. “We shouldn’t be doing this either.” He fell back on the sand. “Jesus, I’m so fucked up.”
I laugh. “Me too!”
“You’re only fourteen,” he says sadly.
“Yep.”
“You shouldn’t know any of this stuff.”
“But I do,” I sang, and felt like I was rising up from my body. In my imagination I took the place of his girlfriend, and it was me he was kissing and touching, and I was doing it back. “It’s not your fault, though. It’s Billy’s.”
“Billy Zondervan?”
“Who else?”
“That motherfucker. We should tell your parents, Josie. He should go to jail.”
I hauled myself upright. “No! Never.”
“Why? Why don’t you want to punish him?”
“They won’t punish him,” I said fiercely. “It’ll be all about me, and everyone will know, and—” I could just see the way people would look at me at school, and in my drunken state, I burst into tears. “You promised!”
“Oh, baby.” He hugged me. I thought he might be crying. “I’m so sorry. I should have protected you better.”
I buried my face in his shoulder, feeling relief and peace. I was so very, very tired. “It wasn’t your job.”
“Yeah,” he said. “It was.”
We lay down on the beach, and he held me. Just held me, while we looked at the stars.
After so shockingly running into Kit on the promenade in Devonport, I make it through my family’s dinner by focusing on the stories everyone else has to tell. If I let myself feel even the tiniest edge of it, I will lose control, and that is the one thing I absolutely cannot afford. So I’m perfectly Mom and Mari over dinner.
The effort of pretending gives me an enormous headache, however, and when I get back to the house and settle the children, I head for the kitchen to make a pot of tea. “Do you want some chamomile?” I ask Simon.
“No, thanks,” he says, typing something into the computer on his lap. Toby, the little mop dog, is perched on the arm of the chair, and the TV is on, playing the evening news. For a moment, I look at all the disasters happening around the world, and my drama seems ridiculous and small, all of my own doing.