Girl Underwater (12 page)

N
ew Year's Eve in Brookline dawns cold and raw. Lee wanted to see Boston, especially Fenway, but he changes his mind when we step outside. So we stay in, watching movies until the skies pink again, with dusk on the horizon.

When we've had our fill of mindless entertainment, Lee prepares me for a grand announcement of our evening plans. He leaps off the bed and spreads his arms wide. In one hand is his phone, a text message blinking on the screen.

“Gruder's having a party,” he declares.

My heart sinks. Gruder is one of the co-captains, although he looks more like a rugby player than a swimmer. Barrel-chested, thick arms, hair everywhere. Whenever he shaves his body for big meets, he breaks out in a swath of red skin and pimples, which probably intimidates his opponents more than the Tarzan-like whoop he releases before every race. But Gruder is also cool. Getting invited to a Gruder party means you've made it, at least on the social scale.

“I'm confused. Why isn't he in California?”

Lee shrugs. “Sounds like he came here for break,” he says. “His half brother lives in Southie. Do you know where that is?”

Southie is right next to Dorchester. “Yeah.”

“Is it far?”

“Not too far.”

He bumps my arm. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” I try to sell it with a smile. “I'm just surprised we were invited, you know . . . being underage and all.”

“Never stopped Gruder before.”

“Yeah, but this isn't college.”

“You think the Boston cops are gonna spend their New Year's Eve busting kids at house parties?”

“Maybe.” He's right, though. New Year's Eve is mayhem in the city. My dad took me in for the New Year's shift during my senior year of high school, an experience not soon forgotten. The ER was a war zone, with doctors and nurses on one side and all the drunks on the other. The patients were either belligerent or near death, soaked in urine and vomit and other fluids better left unidentified. I realized this was my dad's way of telling me to drink responsibly in college, and while I did my fair share of shots at parties, the message stuck. I was often the DD, and never more than tipsy if I wasn't the DD.

“Look, if you don't want to go—”

“I want to go.”

•

The party takes us to a two-story walk-up in a sorry stretch of South Boston. A pub occupies the corner, but the landscape is otherwise desolate: vacant lots on one side of the house, an abandoned row house on the other. Stray cats dash across the street, irked by the steady stream of cabs disrupting the peace. Bone-splitting music blares from the walk-up's open windows. A defiled snowman rots on the front lawn. Overall, it's a miserable place, with an air of badness. Or maybe it's just my mood. Ever since the incident at Anna's, I've been on edge.

We pull up just after ten, the requisite time for arrival without seeming overeager or unfashionably late. As Lee helps me out of the cab, the last of my cranberry-vodka sloshes over the brim of my cup. The cabbie glares. Lee smiles apologetically as he tosses him another five.

“Take it easy, little lady,” he says to me.

Edward has always had two rules about drinking: (1) Don't drink alone, and (2) Don't drink when you're in a bad mood. I don't want to admit I've broken one of those rules—if there ever was a time to be happy, this is it. I'm going to a party in the city, hosted by a senior, with my hot boyfriend. And I have to admit, though Lee is very attractive at baseline (i.e., first thing in the morning, hair unwashed, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep), he takes it to another level when he goes out. His thick brown hair is a little wet, a little wild. His jeans hang loose on his hips, accentuating his washboard abs and long, lean legs. Even those ratty Nikes are starting to suit him. And he smells good, too—like Christmas spice, colored by the fresh scent of his usual aftershave. I bury my hand in his, savoring the feel of him.

“You look amazing, Aves.” His voice barely rises above the din of the music, but I love that, because it means the compliment is just for me. There is no one around to hear it, no one to question or cheapen it.

I smile up at him, the familiar buzz of vodka coursing through my veins. He kisses my temple, warming the skin there.

“Aloha!” Gruder pulls Lee into a man-hug and claps him over the back with enough force to shake a lung loose. “So pumped you could make it, man.”

“Yeah. Hey, thanks for the invite.”

“Absolutely, buddy. Happy to have ya.” As Gruder's glazed eyes drift to me, he shamelessly scans my breasts, hips, and bare legs. The dress Lee picked for me—a siren-red halter-top scandal—accentuates all three. “Avery. Damn. You look fantastic.” Then, in a voice reserved for common courtesies: “Horrible what happened to you guys—”

“Nice place.” I step into the house, brushing close enough to feel his chest hair poking above his collar. “Did you grow up here?”

“Nope. My dad's originally from Boston, but he moved out west and met my mom after he and his first wife split.” He opens the door wide and lets us in. The house inhales as we enter, taking stock of each guest. It's the kind of house that closes in on you, makes you feel oversized in narrow halls and cramped rooms. The stairs twist upward, the musky darkness punctuated by occasional slants of pink, blue, and white lights. The house pulses with it—the lights, the people, the noise. Music coalesces into a chaotic drone of blending sounds and thumping floors. I take a swig of cran and squeeze my eyes shut, stealing a moment of calm.

“Wow,” Lee breathes. “You really went all out, man.”

“So,” I say, butting in, “did you invite Colin?”

Lee's face pales. Gruder allows a bit of a smirk.

“What, the plane crash hero? Nope. Didn't invite him.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, Lee hates him.” Gruder punches Lee in the chest. “He just doesn't like to talk about it.”

“You
hate
him?”

Lee starts to explain, but Gruder cuts him off. “You didn't hear about this? Shea took his place on one of the relays. I mean, Coach didn't have much of a choice—Shea swam the faster split—but still. Sucks to get bumped the day before Qualifiers.”

I turn to Lee. “You were supposed to swim at Fall Qualifiers?”

“Yeah, but . . .” He stares at the floor, which makes him seem smaller somehow, vulnerable. “It doesn't matter anymore.”

“He's right, it doesn't,” Gruder says. “Shea said,
Fuck it,
and never showed up to the meet. The whole relay had to scratch because the B-relay had already swum.”

The pieces start to fall into place. “And everyone on the A-relay . . .”

“Lost the chance to qualify for Nationals. Yeah.” Gruder clapped a hand on Lee's back. “I'm sorry, buddy. Look, if it makes you feel any better, I hear the guy's out for good.”

“It doesn't,” Lee says, and shrugs him off. “I wouldn't wish that on anyone.”

“Yeah, yeah. That's not what you said a couple months ago.”

“I'm over it.” Lee struggles to meet my gaze. If he has an explanation for the meet-up at Anna's Taqueria, he doesn't offer one.

Gruder's foul breath fans my face as he leans in close. “In any case, no, I didn't invite him. Why? Did he, ya know, get a little
primal
out in those woods—”

“Shut up, Gruder,” I snap, which stuns Lee more than it does me, but Gruder laughs it off. With a bizarre sense of pride, he leads us through the house's claustrophobic layout. The kitchen light is broken, and pieces of the shattered bulb litter the tiled floors. Every so often, the sound of crunching glass pokes through the constant thrum of rap music. A waifish blonde who decided to go barefoot leaves a trail of blood in her wake.

Most of the crowd, including the blonde, is gathered around the two kegs by the window. One is for keg stands and the other for socializing. Three girls in skimpy dresses surround the second one, whispering and giggling as Lee walks past. I give them a little smile—okay, maybe a slightly bitchy smile—and they look down at the fizz swirling in their cups. They start giggling again as we leave the room.

We meet about a hundred other people before we encounter Gruder's older brother, also called Gruder by his friends, which just confuses everyone. They could be twins with their curly chest hair and thick, squat skulls. Old Gruder is clearly no athlete, though. He has a portly belly and chubby arms. His hairline is receding at an Olympic pace.

He nods at my diminished bottle of cran. “Need a refill?”

“Yeah—”

“Nah, I think she's good,” Lee says. He squeezes my hand but doesn't look my way.

“I'll take a refill,” I say to Old Gruder. I release Lee's hand but don't dare meet his gaze. Doesn't matter; his stare burns a hole in my skull as Old Gruder pours me a healthy cup of booze.

“Aves, I'm just saying—”

“I know. Take it easy.”

“It's only eleven, okay? Let's try and make it till midnight.”

I start for the kitchen, but he grasps my wrist. “Do you have your phone on you?”

“Um . . .” I dig into the area where my pockets should be. No pockets. No coat, either. Must have taken it off earlier . . .

Lee frowns. “Where's your coat?”

“Dunno.”

“I think it's in the kitchen. Keep your phone on you, okay? In case we get separated.”

“We're in a house, Lee.” My voice sounds thick and goopy, the words a bit slurred. I tell myself to try harder next time; it's no fun to look drunk.

“Just do it, okay? Please? For me.”

“Okay.” He watches me as I follow Old Gruder toward the kitchen. Despite the broken radiators in every room, the house is a sauna. Sweat drips down the backs of my bare legs. My hair is damp, the ends curling up like they do on humid afternoons. Even my muscles feel slow and languid, like I'm wading through sand.

Old Gruder takes me by the hand—
Whoa there
—and guides me through the crowd. The kegs are in their assigned positions. A large drunken idiot tries to get his balance while another holds the hose up to his mouth. It all strikes me as a little silly.

“What's funny?” Old Gruder asks as he thrusts a red cup in my face. His cheeks are flushed and plump, like a younger, swarthier Santa Claus.

I didn't even realize I was laughing. “The keg stands.”

“You wanna do one?”

“Oh. No. I don't think . . .”

“
Come onnnn.
”

And then I'm up there. In a dress. Someone attempts to keep it from flying over my hips, but it's not like my dignity is a priority right now. The spray of beer finds my face, going pretty much everywhere except my mouth. By the time I'm back on my feet, my dress is ruined and my hair has lost its luster. Old Gruder doesn't seem to mind. He twirls the damp curls in his fingers and licks the split ends.

“Hey,” I say, no longer caring if I'm slurring my words or not. “Wanna go to Dorchester?”

He smiles, but it's more like a creepy smirk. “Dorchester? Why the hell would you want to go there?”

“Because I know someone there.”

“Uh-oh. Not a little boy toy on the side, I hope.” He winks like he hopes it's exactly that.

“No,” I snap, surprised by the forcefulness of it.

Old Gruder doesn't seem to notice. He plows on, his pupils gleaming. “Hey, I don't judge. We can go if you want.”

Thoughts flutter through me—heard, reacted to, forgotten. Old Gruder keeps talking, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “So”—he leers—“you wanna go?”

“Go where?”

“Dorchester.”

“Oh.” I smooth the folds of my beer-spattered dress. My silver necklace has somehow tumbled into my cleavage, and Old Gruder fishes it out. I'm admiring Lee's taste in jewelry—he gave me this necklace for my nineteenth birthday—when Old Gruder grabs my hand and whisks me out of the room. Earsplitting music rolls through the speakers positioned throughout the house, even the bathroom. I almost trip over someone's coat before realizing it's mine. At least, it looks like mine. I hike it over my shoulders and follow Old Gruder outside. The music wafting around us cuts out, and the slow, melodious wail of “Auld Lang Syne” fills the night.

“Happy New Year,” Old Gruder whispers, but his attempt at romance sounds like a wheeze. He takes a swig of his beer and tries to lay a wet one on my lips.

I turn just in time. Lee.
Where the hell is Lee?
Memories of kissing his freshly shaven chin and squeezing his hand feel like vestiges of some other life, even though it was only hours ago that those things happened. I'm still trying to process this when Old Gruder yanks open a car door and shoves me inside.

“Hey!” I kick the door open as he climbs in the driver's side. He grabs my elbow and pulls me back in, yanking me hard enough to cause pain. I snap back and catch him in the jaw, but it's a glancing blow. The booze is everywhere now, like sludge in my blood. Old Gruder doesn't seem the least bit affected by it. Did he even drink? Did he
plan
this? I try to kick open the door again, but he's locked it using the kid-safety thing. It won't open. I'm trapped.
Trapped.

The flashback hits me hard and fast. It sneaks in through my fingertips and shoots up my spine, findings its target right behind my eyes. My vision changes. Old Gruder is no longer an ugly twentysomething with a square jaw and beady eyes. He's huge. Red eyes, snarling breath. The interior of the car recedes into a savage, snow-blown landscape. A child screams.

Or is it me, trapped in a terrifying nowhere?

T
he earthly stink of blood and sweat announces the presence of a fifteen-foot behemoth. A grizzly lunges out of the brush, shaking snow off its shoulders as it slashes the air. It glares at me, roaring so violently it sounds like a scream.

I know a thing or two about bears—thanks, again, to my dad. He taught me and my brothers how to make fires with shoelaces and how to catch fish with sticks, but he also made sure we knew how to survive an encounter with carnivores. First, always be talking—let the bear know you're there. Next, back away slowly; hope he takes the hint and leaves you alone. If he doesn't, find something to bang. Bears hate noise as much as people do. If these techniques fail, stand your ground. Don't. Ever. Run.

This bear has no intention of backing off. Paws the size of car doors, with claws to match. His snout glistens in the slants of morning light. He sees me, stares at me, and bares his teeth.

I bang and yell and throw pebbles at the trees. The little boys are surely awake by now, and I can only pray that Tim is strong enough to hold them back.

“Go away!” I scream. “Leave us alone!”

The bear lurches onto its front paws, ready to charge.

Don't. Ever. Run.

Its eyes are rheumy and white; mine are bloodshot and a very human green. I wonder if this bear has ever seen one of us before. I wonder if he's
eaten
one of us before.

I take a slow step forward. This isn't exactly a charge, but it's close. I scream and yell and try, frantically, to turn on the transceiver. The on-off switch does nothing. The batteries must be dead. Then, impossibly—it starts to beep. A low, sonorous sound, but enough to disturb the silence. I start waving it around, a flash of color and noise.

The bear roars.

“This is our territory.” I take another step. “Leave!” A dozen feet separate us, a distance a bear could probably cover in less than a second. Certainly close enough for it to reach out and pulverize my skull with a single swipe.

It paws the snow, its fury mingling with confusion. I won't run. I won't let those boys lose someone else. Not like this.

Maybe it knows this. Maybe it senses desperation, or resolve, or the budding maternal instinct that every species shares. Whatever the reason, it casts me one final glance, turns on its heels, and disappears into the trees.

When time starts up again, it looks like this: Tim sprinting out of the fort, trailed by Liam and Aayu. Their arms around my hips, their faces in my coat. My legs collapsing under me. The snow swirling all around us, feathering our heads and shoulders like fairy dust.

And through it all, one hammering thought:

Colin.