Ripple Page 5

  “Ick. His books are boring,” Sienna says. “If you’ve read one, you’ve read them all.”

  “Are you kidding me? That man’s a genius,” Cole says.

  Sienna shrugs. “Let’s do Manhattan Prep.”

  I snort. “Leave it to you to choose something trashy like Manhattan Prep. Mrs. Jensen will never let us do that—it’s right up there with comic books.”

  Sienna rolls her eyes at me and crosses her arms. “Not if we play it right. We can tell Mrs. Jensen we plan to explore whether the books are an intentionally satirical view of the privileged. Maybe the author’s true motivation is to show how shallow the elite really are by exaggerating the behavior of the characters. She’s mocking them, not glamorizing them.”

  Cole doesn’t hesitate in countering her. “There’s no way those books are meant as satire. They’re just trashy soap-opera novels. Mindless drivel.” All of a sudden, he pauses. His eyes light up and he sits up straighter. “What if we use that format for our presentation? We can stage a debate for the class—are the books meant to be tongue-in-cheek, or are they nothing more than trash?”

  Sienna crosses her arms. “Uh-uh. We can do a normal presentation, one where we separately memorize our parts. No . . .”—her voice trails off, and she glares at me—“interaction required.”

  “Come on. I thought you were valedictorian?” Cole says.

  She snorts. “I am valedictorian.”

  Cole gives her a pointed look. “Prove it. We do something unexpected, something inventive, and we’ll nail this.”

  Sienna huffs, her need to succeed outweighing her desire to avoid me. “Whatever.”

  Cole leans back against his chair, a smug expression on his face.

  I turn away and stare at the scribbles of permanent marker on the corner of my desk, trying in vain to keep the panic at bay. I can’t do this. I can’t work with her. With them.

  When I look up, Cole is grinning at me, sending my heart scrambling. “You in?”

  I smile weakly, nod, and yank my desk away, counting down the seconds until I can slip into my lake tonight.

  Chapter Seven

  That night, I sit at the dinner table across from my grandmother. Behind me, the wood stove crackles, warming my backside. I pick up a pretzel twist from the bowl in between us and chew off the pieces of salt. Gram reaches out, sliding four tiles up next to an S. BOATS. How ironic.

  She looks at me as she lines it up on the Scrabble board, and for a second I think she’s going to say something, but she doesn’t.

  “Do anything fun today?” I ask.

  She chews on her lip while she reaches into the plastic bag and draws her replacement letters. “Oh, not really. One of my exercise sessions at the center. How about you?”

  I stare at my tiles. I drew a bunch of consonants, and only one vowel—a U. The fire crackles again as a log splits, and the light of the room turns a little more orange. “We got a new assignment in English. It’s a group thing. We have to read a novel, and then we’re going to debate about it in front of the class.”

  “Oh?” She raises a brow.

  I spell out HURRY on the board and take a measly handful of points. My grandmother isn’t very good at this game, but I like letting her win. It’s a careful balance not to give away my ploy.

  “Yeah. The teacher paired me with Sienna and Cole.”

  She fiddles with her tiles, arranging and rearranging them on her little tray. “Well that worked out nicely, being in a group with your friends.” She raises her eyes to meet mine, and I try not to react. I look down at the bag and grab a few replacement tiles, hoping my evasiveness doesn’t give me away.

  Lately, she’s been getting suspicious. It began this summer, when she realized I was alone the entire time, reading college textbooks and watching Discovery Channel documentaries. I told her Sienna spent the whole break in France with her family. It worked, for a while, until she ran into Sienna’s mom at the bank. Leave it to her to remember the one thing I wish she’d forget. I had to scramble and make something up, about how they must have come home early, but I still don’t know for sure if she bought it.

  “Yeah, it’s cool. The project should be an easy A.”

  “How are the rest of your classes?”

  I shrug. “Same as usual. Some really good teachers, some meh.”

  She nods, finally spelling out PORK. “You should do a movie night soon, like you used to when you were younger. Have Sienna over, get some of your favorite buttered popcorn.” She looks up at me, her eyes appraising, studying my reaction. She might be forgetful but she’s not stupid.

  I fight the urge to swallow as I know she’ll catch on. “Yeah. That would be fun.”

  “Great. Talk to her about it and I’ll take care of the rest. Well, you two should probably pick the movie.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure.” I nod again and spell out PATIO.

  My grandmother smiles triumphantly as she uses the rest of her tiles to spell out ORDAINED. She waves her hand across the board with a flourish. “I win!”

  In more ways than one, I think.

  The following day, Mrs. Jensen gives us time to work on our projects in class. I wish she wouldn’t. Maybe then I could just e-mail some debate points to Cole, and he could do a few and send them to Sienna, and we could avoid talking until debate day. I still can’t believe an English teacher would let us choose Manhattan Prep at all, but I guess Mrs. Jensen was intrigued by the debate idea.

  It’s so hard to be around Sienna and not think about everything we shared growing up. Not think about laughing so hard we spit soda all over her dining room table. Not think about the first time her mom dropped us off at the mall by ourselves and we felt so adult buying our back-to-school clothes without parental guidance.

  How can it be two years now since we shared that stuff?

  The three of us push our desks together, and Sienna pulls out a dog-eared copy of Manhattan Prep. Cole digs out his own copy and sets it down on the desk. I can tell he bought it recently, because it has the newer cover with the cast from the TV show, instead of the original.

  “Please tell me someone saw you buying that,” I say. I attempt to look haughty and snobbish, but I wonder if I’m pulling it off. He doesn’t look at me like everyone else does. I feel stripped bare every time he’s close.

  Cole doesn’t take my insult seriously. “Nope. I borrowed it from my sister,” he announces, grinning.

  Sienna sets down two piles of note cards, one pink and one yellow. Most of them have her loopy, feminine handwriting all over them. “We can put the pros on one color and cons on the other. Like a point-counterpoint thing.”

  “Whatever,” I say. “You guys debate. I’ll be the moderator.”

  Sienna shuffles the cards like she’s starting a poker tournament. “No way. We have to contribute equally, and if I”—she pauses and points at herself with one of her perfectly French-manicured nails—“have already done half the planning, then you”—she points at me—“are doing the debate. You and Cole can duke it out on who gets pro Manhattan Prep, who gets anti.”

  I want to thunk my head against my desk. It’s like she’s trying to punish me. This stupid debate wasn’t even my idea, and now I have to stand in front of the class and participate.

  Instead, I say, “Who died and made you queen?”

  Too late, I realize it was the wrong thing to say in every way imaginable and nearly choke, trying to undo it.

  Sienna leans forward and stares straight at me, pursing her lips into a thin line and narrowing her eyes. From here, I can see every mascara-clad lash. “You did.”

  I stare back at her, those two tiny words ringing over and over again in my head. Because they’re true. I am as good as dead to all these people. Years ago, I was practically royalty to my classmates, but after Steven, Sienna took over the reins, along with Nikki. They’re the ones who decide which clothes are acceptable, which parties matter.

  She looks away and stares at her nails, as if she�
�s bored of this conversation. “Do you know what the government used to do to traitors?”

  I just stare back at her, immobile, afraid of where she’s going.

  She turns her attention to her perfectly manicured other hand. “They would hang them. Draw and quarter them. Or behead them.” She looks up at me, her eyes narrowing even further until I can barely see her dark blue eyes anymore. “But women, they were burned at the stake.”

  Sienna’s voice drips with venom. Somehow, the pain of losing her brother has been channeled into a single mission: destroying me. I don’t know what she’ll do if she ever succeeds.

  “Traitors are dishonorable. They’re better off dead.”

  My heart climbs into my throat. I can feel Cole’s gaze on me, needling me. There’s so much weight in his look, so much he wants to say, but he merely sits there. Lets her tear into me.

  Sienna clears her throat and resumes shuffling the note cards. It’s like she’s flipped a switch, and she’s back to cool, collected, totally detached.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” she says, shoving some note cards in front of me. “I’ve decided you should be pro-Manhattan Prep and say it is meant as satire of the upper class. It makes more sense for the guy to think it’s utter drivel.”

  I look through the cards. Sienna must have spent hours on these already. I swallow my pride. “Thanks.”

  She slaps a hand over her heart. “Was that a nicety?”

  “Shut up.”

  “That’s what I thought.” She flips through the yellow cards and then pushes them onto Cole’s desk.

  I pick up my backpack and shove the book and note cards into it.

  “I guess we’re done,” Sienna says.

  “Oh, we’re done,” I say.

  Chapter Eight

  I turn off my car and stare out the windshield at the behemoth of a house in front of me, unable to move. Cole lives in the biggest house on Maple Falls Road, just a few houses down from Sienna.

  I’ve been here a few times, but the elegance of it still impresses me. It’s painted a beautiful muted green with gray stone accents along the front and huge rock pillars that soar up to the colossal roofline. The house must be eight thousand square feet or more, and it holds half of our school when he throws a party. I try to remember the last time I’ve heard gossip about his parties, and I can’t seem to think of it. Which can’t be right, because he used to throw parties every other month.

  The front door is really two doors, both of them fourteen feet tall with lead-glass inserts. An enormous wing of garage doors stretches out to the left, while the rest of the house sprawls across manicured lawns. A big pond, complete with a waterfall, sits near the lighted front walk.

  Reluctantly, I get out of my car and head to the front door to continue work on our English project. Sienna’s shiny blue coupe is parked in front of one of the garage doors, like it hasn’t occurred to her she could be in anyone’s way.

  Dread churns in my stomach. I haven’t spent a second with Sienna outside of school since the funeral. The last moments of our friendship occurred just down the street. I step up onto the porch and then stop. I can hear the whisper of the Pacific. This house has a gigantic deck with a beautiful view, the best in Cedar Cove.

  Unable to stall any longer, I reach up and hit the doorbell. Pretty, elegant chimes ring out inside.

  Cole swings the door open, smiling as if he’s happy to see me. He runs a hand through his tousled brown hair as he motions me to follow him into the house. He’s wearing a thick, emerald green sweater and loose blue jeans. He’s not wearing shoes or even socks, and something about that feels surprisingly intimate.

  The entryway is soaring, probably thirty feet tall. A chandelier dripping with crystals hangs high overhead and pristine, polished hardwood floors, inlaid with intricate designs, head in every direction.

  I follow Cole around a corner and into an enormous industrialsize kitchen, with dozens of cherry cabinets and granite countertops. Beyond it, floor-to-ceiling windows cover an expanse of at least thirty or forty feet. And then there’s the view. Cole’s house is perched on a knoll overlooking the rolling sand dunes and the living, breathing ocean. It looks so close I could reach out and touch it. The breaking waves are a couple hundred yards away, nothing more.

  This is going to be hard. The sun sets in ten minutes. And as soon as it does, the sea may as well be calling my name—screaming it straight into my ear. We’re going to have to get through all of this quickly.

  I turn away from the shore and back to the kitchen. Sienna is sitting at one end of the big center island, twisting a strand of hair around her pen.

  She looks up and gives me a hard look, as if she’s waiting for me to insult her. But I can’t muster the words. She rolls her eyes when I fail to come up with anything to say and looks back down at her notes.

  “Do you want something to drink? A soda or bottle of water or anything?” Cole asks.

  I shake my head and sit down on a stool, the furthest one from Sienna. Cole sits between us. I dig my bent note cards out of my pocket and pile them in front of me. Cole’s are already sitting on the countertop, perfectly flat.

  Sienna scowls. “You better not lose any of those. I worked really hard on them.”

  “Whatever,” I say.

  She pauses a second, like she wants to fire back, but then she just rolls her eyes. “Okay, so, thanks to that stupid fire drill, we’re out of time. If we don’t figure this out tonight, we’re screwed.” She gives me a long, lingering look, like I’m responsible for a stupid fire drill. Like I wanted to spend twenty-five minutes standing in the parking lot this afternoon while the fire crew figured out that some genius pulled the fire alarm as a prank and there was no fire at all.

  “As moderator, I figure I’ll introduce the book,” Sienna says, holding a pink pen in her hand. There’s a page of loopy, girlie handwriting in front of her. “I’ll talk about the history of it, the popularity, the television show, et cetera, leading into the diverging commentary from both sides: those who see it as trash, diluting the quality of our literature, and those who see it as a satirical portrayal of the upper class.” She flips a page in her notebook. God save us, there’s another whole page filled with her writing. “The introduction should take three or four minutes, and then we’ll start the actual debate.”

  I nod, my stomach growing heavy. I know without turning around that the sun is little more than a sliver on the horizon. The light in the room has a buttery, warm quality to it.

  “You guys have reviewed your note cards, right?”

  “Yes, Sienna.” I want to remind her that up until Steven died, I was her only competition for valedictorian. After that night, I spent two weeks away from school, and I made no attempt to make up the homework. I got B’s that quarter. The only time I’ve ever had less than a 4.0. That one blemish is enough to keep me a step behind Sienna’s flawless record.

  It should have been her, falling apart when he died. And yet instead, it turned into fuel. Instead of melting down, she became empty and mechanical. “Excellent. So, you’re going first since your standpoint is positive, and then Cole will obliterate your argument. . . .”

  Sienna keeps talking, but her voice becomes little more than a hum in my ears. The sun has set, and it feels as if invisible lines have been lashed around me, as if the ocean is reeling me in. This is the closest I’ve been to the ocean at dusk in two years. I clench my hands in my lap and impatiently tap my feet against the hardwood floors, eager to give into the urge to leave this place and walk across the dunes.

  My irritation grows as Sienna drones on. This is a debate, not rocket science. I grit my teeth and force myself to listen to her. But try as I might to ignore the sea, it’s nearly impossible. It’s like the tide is actually lapping at my back, begging me to turn around.

  It takes us another ten excruciating minutes to run through how the debate will work. With each passing moment, everything inside me coils tighter. And then, finally, we�
�re done.

  I stifle the urge to run full-speed out of the house and into my car.

  Cole walks Sienna and me to the door, and I taste the freedom, can almost feel the water of my lake washing over my skin. We step across the threshold and part ways, not bothering to say good-bye to each other. I’m just sitting down in my seat when Sienna’s tires squeal and she rips out of the driveway, disappearing through the iron gates. I guess I wasn’t the only one ready to go.

  I shiver against the cold as I turn the key. But then . . . nothing. Instead of the car sputtering to life, all I hear is a series of clicks. A lump forms in my throat in an instant.

  No, please, this can’t happen. . . .

  I close my eyes and turn the key again, holding my breath, but still, the car refuses to start.

  Seriously, this can’t be happening. I have to get up into the mountains. I have to get to my lake. I have to swim.

  Tears spring forward and I can’t stop them. If I can’t get to the lake . . . if I can’t swim, and it gets worse and worse . . . would I buckle? Would I swim in the ocean?

  No, no, that won’t happen. I won’t let it. I’ll get the car fixed if I have to sell a kidney to do it.

  But no matter what I tell myself, panic swells in my chest. The tears come faster and faster. They spill over my eyes and trail down my cheeks, dropping off at my chin. I put both hands on the wheel and bury my face in my arms. My body racks with the sobs, shakes with them,

  I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

  A tapping on the window makes me jump, and I look up to see Cole standing there. I can’t make out his expression through the tears.

  “Go away,” I say, my voice bloated and raspy.

  He tries the door, but it’s locked. I close my eyes and try to wipe the tears away, hoping that by the time I open them, he’ll have just disappeared.

  For a second, I think I got my wish, because he stops tapping on the window. But then I hear the passenger door squeak open, and I hear him slide into the seat beside me.