The Different Girl (8 page)

“Caroline has dreams, May. None of the rest of us do.”

“Why not?” asked May. Her voice was blunt. “And how can you have dreams?”

“I don’t,” I said.

“But how can
one
of you have them when you’re all the same?”

“We aren’t the same. We have different hair.”

May just made a face like hair didn’t count.

We’ve done different things,” I said.

“Like what?”

“Like deciding to stay longer on a walk. Like deciding at all.”

May made another face. “Everyone decides.”

“Not always,” I said. “Isobel and Eleanor and Caroline didn’t decide like I did, just like Isobel and Eleanor and I don’t have dreams. Just like they didn’t find you. I found you, and that was another decision. Caroline doesn’t know what that was. And Caroline found something on the beach. I don’t know about that.”

May turned to Caroline, blunt again. “What did you find? What was it?”

Caroline was stuck between different rules. “I don’t know,” she finally whispered. “I didn’t know what it was.”

May glanced at Irene. “Did they know?”

Caroline nodded.

“Was it the same thing in your dream?” I asked.

Caroline didn’t answer.

“Was it?” May demanded, pulling at Caroline’s hand. Caroline nodded.

“Why don’t they want you to say?”

“Sometimes that’s the way we learn. Things have correct sequences, and if one comes too soon we have to wait.”

“But this is happening now.”

May’s voice had become loud enough for Irene to look back. I waved at her. May looked down at her feet until Irene looked away, then whispered to me.

“And you can’t dream.”

“I don’t, whether I can’t or not. But Caroline does.”

May shook her head. “No, she doesn’t. She’s doing something else.”

Since I really wanted to know what Caroline had seen, instead of answering May, I waited. Just like she had before, May shifted the question.

“What did you dream?” she asked Caroline.

Caroline blinked, because she felt May’s hands squeezing and heard the changes in May’s voice. Since I was on the side of May’s face with the scab, I could also watch the skin being pulled when she spoke, tight on the curve of her cheek.

“I don’t know it’s a dream when it happens,” said Caroline. “I only wake up slow, slow from remembering. When I put that memory next to others I see it doesn’t fit inside my time, that the dream is out of order, like making oatmeal in the middle of a walk.”

“But are the dreams memories? Real things that happened?”

“Not always. But now they seem like mine.”

“But how? Where can they come from?”

“Irene says dreams are different thinking. Where do your dreams come from?”

“My dreams aren’t like
that
,” May said. “When
I
dream I don’t need anyone to—to—what
he
was doing. No one does.”

“What was your dream this morning?” I asked Caroline.

“I was listening to Robbert.”

May frowned. “What was he saying?”

“He was telling me to hide.”

• • •

Eleanor called back to be careful, because the first person to reach the cliffs always let everyone else know we were near the edge. Actually it wasn’t hard to tell, since the black rock extended at least ten yards back from the lip. When you reached the band of black, it was time to watch out.

Being on the cliffs was like being on the dock or on the beach—it was a place you could only go if you knew how to keep away from danger. There was a spot where we stood to look out, a good safe distance back since Robbert had explained how rock can crumble, how gravel was slippery, and how surfaces can’t be trusted.

We caught up to the others at the lookout spot. The cliff curved on either side, so you could see all the way to the water, which meant you could also see the seaweed, the crabs, the birds, the nests, the barnacles, and the waves. Irene took her hands from Isobel and Eleanor and tucked hair the wind had pulled free behind her ear.

“How are your feet, May?”

“They’re fine.”

“Good. What did you see on your way? Did you girls show May how we take walks?”

“We study things,” said Isobel. “As much as possible.”

“They did.” May nodded and looked at the ground, making it seem like she was shy about talking instead of the truth, which was that she hadn’t looked at all. Irene turned to Eleanor, for a good example.

“What did you see, Eleanor?”

Eleanor described the wind, how it had strengthened as we’d come closer to the cliffs, and how the direction had changed in little ways as the path wound up the slope. She pointed to the water and explained how the wind was connected to the tide, and how the tide determined, for just one example, what all the seabirds were doing.

May shaded her eyes with one hand and pointed farther up the cliffs. “What’s up there?”

We all followed her gaze, and saw—because we saw Irene nodding—that May was showing us something about ourselves. The crest of the hill, in fact the highest point on the island, wasn’t the cliffs proper—they were only the highest spot where we could safely climb. The island itself rose for another hundred yards, above the grass and trees, to a crumbling spike of red stone. The ledges were spattered white from birds, and they flew around the peak in patterns that, just like the waves, would entrance us if we stared too hard—wide loops of numbers in the air, swinging and falling until we lost track of anything else. Instead of looking at the peak, we had learned to focus simply on the path and then on the cliffs when we reached them. So when May pointed up we all looked with her, but just as quickly dropped our eyes away.

“That’s the peak,” said Isobel.

“Has anyone climbed it?” asked May.

“It’s very high,” said Eleanor. “And extremely dangerous.”

“It’s just as bad as water,” said Caroline.

May kept looking up. She pointed again. “What is
that
?”

Her finger picked out a spiked metal pole that rose from a squat steel box that had been bolted to the rock.

“That’s Robbert’s aerial,” I said. “For the satellites.”

May turned to me, with her mouth crooked. “So
he
can climb.”

“It’s extremely dangerous,” repeated Eleanor.

“Looks like it,” May agreed. She hobbled forward, to stand with Irene and the others, but then all at once she darted past, right up to the cliff edge.

“May—” began Irene.

But May was already sitting on the lip and dangling both legs down.

“May!” Caroline was shouting, and I was shouting with her. “Come back!”

“What are you scared of?” May looked over her shoulder with a grin. “Nothing’s going to happen . . . or is it?” Then she suddenly lurched, like she was about to launch herself into the air. As we all started to scream we saw she hadn’t jumped after all—that it was a joke, because May was laughing, laughing at us.

“That’s enough, May.”

Irene walked to her, closer to the edge than any of us had ever seen Irene go, and took May’s hand, pulling her up. May came along, still smiling, but now to herself, like it was something no one else understood.

• • •

On the way down Caroline and I walked with Irene, so there was no more talk of dreams. We barely talked at all, mainly because Irene was thinking, and when we did talk—when she asked us a question—she didn’t ask a second one afterward, like usual. This gave Caroline and me time to think, too, glancing across Irene, me about what I didn’t know and Caroline about what she did. But both of us also thought about May and the edge of the cliff, and about the peak. The truth was, we never did think of the peak, simply because we’d been taught not to—almost as if we’d been taught not to even
see
it, though we caught glimpses of it all the time. I glanced over my shoulder and there it was behind the palms, the red stone sharp against the sky. Irene squeezed my hand.

“Just because she’s foolish enough to go to the edge doesn’t mean you should. I hope you know that.”

She thought I’d looked back at May.

“I don’t want to go to the edge,” I said, and then so she wouldn’t be worried, “That rule is there for a reason.”

“And it’s our business to be careful,” said Caroline.

“It is,” agreed Irene.

“Is May not careful because she was hurt?” asked Caroline. “Because of the ocean?”

“Or is it because she’s different?”

I watched Irene for an answer. Irene glanced at May and the others, who had fallen even farther behind, and lowered her voice, as if she were giving Caroline and me special instructions.

“Everyone is different—”

“We’re not,” said Caroline.

“It’s impolite to interrupt, Caroline. And you
are
different. Just not in as many ways as May.”

“But our differences are shared,” I said. “In school.”

Irene sighed. “Are they, Veronika? Always?”

“No.”

“Then why did you say they were?”

“Because that’s the rule.”

“And what’s a rule when it’s broken?”

“A problem to be solved,” said Caroline. “Like me.”

“No,” said Irene. “No. A person is not a problem.”

“But when I have dreams—”

“You aren’t a problem, Caroline.”

“Is May?” I asked.

“Of course not.” Irene squeezed our hands. “She’s only a girl.”

• • •

We spent the rest of the day helping Robbert cut the canvas sail, some of us measuring, and others holding the cloth to make it easier to use the shears. There was enough canvas for all of our ideas—an awning, a rain trap, window shades, and a runner for the porch steps to stop splinters—with the girl whose idea was being cut standing next to Robbert to watch closely. May stood with Irene, since she hadn’t had an idea. Isobel asked if she had imagined so many things could be made from her sail. May shook her head and then Irene suggested another walk, and the two of them went alone toward the dock. I wondered if May would dangle her legs off the dock, too—if Irene would let her or pull her away, or if going there at all was a test to see if May had learned. I hoped she had.

When they returned we were already in the kitchen because that night Robbert was cooking. He didn’t do things the same as Irene, so we had to look sharp, which was what he called out whenever he caught one of us waiting without a job. “Look sharp!” he would shout, and whoever he shouted at had to be ready. Irene came in by herself, explaining before anyone could ask that May was having her own nap and might eat with us or might not, since sleep was important for her getting better. Isobel poured a cup of water for Irene from the filter. Irene took a big drink and scooted her chair to the cupboards and looked inside, nodding her chin as she counted the boxes and cans.

“How long until the boat comes?” asked Eleanor. We knew Irene hadn’t opened the peanut butter, so for her to be counting cans seemed soon.

“That’s a good question,” Irene replied. She shut the cupboard and held out her cup for Isobel to refill. “But who can tell me something else, something about May’s pictures?”

“What about them?” I asked, before anyone. “Which one?”

We all stopped what we doing and looked for the photographs. They weren’t on the table anymore. Had they been given back to May? Should we go wake her up? Caroline was two steps to the door before Robbert told her to wait. He wiped his hands and cleared a space at the table. From his satchel on the floor he took his black notebook and set it where everyone could see. He tapped a button and all seven of May’s pictures were there, each one a little box. Robbert tapped again and the entire screen was filled with the first picture, the sunny dock piled with crates and the two smiling men.

“Those are friends of Cat,” said Eleanor. “Cat is like May’s uncle except not her real uncle. Will is her real uncle. Cat is his friend. Will’s mother was Mary, which is the name of the boat. This photograph was taken from the deck of the
Mary
.”

“Very good,” said Irene. “What about the crates?”

“There are seventy-four of them,” said Isobel. “Five main sizes make up fifty-nine crates and fifteen other sizes are one crate each.”

“Do you see any writing?”

The crates had all kinds of writing but the actual letters were hard to see because of the grain of the photograph.

“I see ‘Orange,’” I said.

“For Port Orange,” said Eleanor. “I see ‘volume’ and ‘kilo’ and ‘mhz’ and numbers. One number is 805324776.”

She pointed at that crate. Since everyone saw numbers, we all began to call them out until Irene raised her hand.

“Like a tree full of parrots,” she said. “One at a time. What else?”

“Is there something we’re supposed to find first?” I asked.

“No. But your eyes are better than ours.”

“Because you’re old,” Isobel said to Robbert. “You say your eyes are old and then you rub them.”

“Where is
that
?” Caroline pointed to a gap between two piles of crates. Beyond the gap was a dark band, thicker than the horizon line of the ocean.

“Isn’t it a shadow?” said Irene, looking at Robbert. He took off his glasses and leaned closer, to squint.

“Is it?” he asked, looking at us.

“It’s land,” said Eleanor. “Far away and high up, like our cliffs.”

“Port Orange doesn’t have cliffs anywhere near it,” said Robbert. “Nothing like that elevation.”

“May must have made a mistake,” Isobel suggested. “Because of her injury.”

But Robbert wasn’t listening. He tapped the screen and we saw the second photograph, the green island across the water, wreathed with fog and clouds, and then the fourth picture, from the beach out to the sea. He tapped again and again, switching back and forth between them, frowning. Irene watched him.

“Robbert—”

“We have to know for sure.”

“But if she can’t tell us—”

“Or won’t.”

“Well—exactly.”

He spun the notebook to face Irene, but she only tightened her lips.

“Surely it’s time to eat.” Irene crossed to the counter and took over from Robbert as if she’d been cooking all along. We all went to help and soon it was dinner like normal, with Irene asking us about tomorrow’s weather.