Second Star

18

Pete slides the back door open without dropping my hand. As we step inside, he pulls me close for another kiss, and he doesn’t let go as he backs us toward the stairs. My torso is flat against his; I stand up on my tiptoes to press my mouth against his. I don’t think I’ve ever stood this close to another person before.

Suddenly, Belle’s voice fills the room. “You kids sure stayed out late.” She’s sitting on the couch in the center of the room, her eyes glassy in the moonlight.

I nearly fall down, but Pete holds me steady. I’m completely still when I see something on her lap—and realize it’s my notebook.

“What are you doing with that?” I ask, peeling myself away from Pete to grab the book from her. But Belle bounces up from the couch and dances out of my reach.

“Oh, boys!” she shouts, her voice echoing off the empty walls and bare floors. “I need to tell you something.”

“Belle, what are you doing?” Pete says softly, but Belle ignores him and keeps shouting for the boys to come downstairs.

Hughie, Matt, and the rest of Pete’s crew pad sleepily down the stairs.

“What gives, Belle?” Hughie says. “I was dead asleep.”

“I thought you’d want to know what your girl Wendy is really doing here.”

“Belle,” Pete says sharply. His hazel eyes flash green with anger. I look from Pete to Belle desperately.

“Belle, please don’t,” I plead, hating my voice for sounding so weak.

Belle holds my notebook above her head like it’s some kind of trophy. “She wasn’t here because she had problems back home and was trying to learn to surf. She’s looking for her brothers. They ran away months ago.”

I shake my head desperately, a lump rising in my throat.

“She’s been taking notes on all of us,” Belle says, opening the notebook to the page where I listed each of their names and guessed their ages. She begins reading the list aloud, spitting out one name after the other.

Hughie looks at me. “Is it true?”

Slowly, my head feeling like it weighs a thousand pounds, I nod. “I did come here to find my brothers. John and Michael Darling.”

The look on Hughie’s face drops in an instant; I recognize it immediately. It’s the way that he looked at Jas when he saw him on the beach that morning; like he was looking at an enemy.

“Sadly, Wendy,” Belle continues, tossing my notebook to the ground, “the joke’s on you. John and Michael left months ago.”

My heart stops. “You knew them?”

Belle shrugs, as though it’s no big deal. “Of course I did. We all did. Pete kicked them out once they started using, though. So there’s no reason for you to hang around Kensie anymore, Wendy Darling. You can go back home to Newport, to your soft fluffy bed with your soft fluffy pillows and resume your soft fluffy life.”

I shake my head, struggling to understand. My brothers were dusters? Was it my brothers Matt was talking about the other night, the two kids Pete kicked out in January, the boys who refused to give it up?

Even as I’m berating myself for missing the clues, I know why I didn’t see it. My brothers were athletes, surfers. I would never have guessed they’d be interested in drugs. They needed to be strong enough to take the next wave at all times. What were they thinking, putting something like that into their bodies?

My mind swims with the words I’ll yell at them when I find them: crazy, foolish, stupid, careless. I think about our poor parents, back at home, mourning my brothers as surely as if they’re dead. What will they say when they learn that their sons ran away not just to surf, but to get high? It was somehow easier when I believed they left us behind to search for the next big wave, to live somewhere no one would yell at them to put their boards down and head to school, study for their finals, sit still at their sister’s high school graduation. But leaving us for drugs? I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry at them. Not when I was nine years old and they decided to give me a haircut while I slept. Not when I was fifteen and they crashed my computer, destroying the history paper I’d been working on for months, the one that was due the very next day. Not even when they refused to teach me how to surf.

But suddenly, my anger shifts, directing itself at someone else.

“Pete?” I turn slowly. I can still feel the warmth of his touch on my skin.

“I didn’t lie,” he says, sinking onto the couch. Even though we’re still surrounded by Belle and the boys, it feels as though we’re the only two people in the room. “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly? Just like you didn’t exactly lie about having a girlfriend? Just like you didn’t exactly lie about what you steal?”

“I said that I couldn’t tell you where they were. And that’s the truth. They left months ago, and I haven’t seen or heard from them since, I swear.”

Even though it’s cool in here, my skin is coated with a hot slick of sweat. I didn’t know I was even capable of being this angry.

“I almost told you, tonight, on the cliffs—”

“You almost told me but then you figured there was less of a chance I’d let you stick your tongue down my throat once I found out that you’d lied to me about my brothers, so why take that chance, right?”

Belle and the boys snicker at that, but I ignore them. Suddenly, all the places on my body that Pete touched just a few minutes ago feel filthy. My mouth tastes sour.

“I told you that you were a good person. A good friend,” I say bitterly. “You’re not.”

I stomp up the stairs to grab my bag, digging inside for my car keys. Before I walk out the front door, I grab my notebook off the floor, where Belle dropped it after it was no longer of use to her.

I pause, looking desperately at Belle and the boys. “None of you know where they were headed when they left?” I ask. “If they said anything to any of you, please, please tell me. I’m sorry I lied to you, but all I want is to bring my brothers home.” I may be angry at John and Michael, but I still want to bring them home. I’ll never stop wanting to bring them home. No matter what they did or why they left. “They have a family who loves them,” I beg. “Please.”

Hughie won’t even look at me. Matt just shakes his head and starts toward the stairs. I stare at Belle. The daggers in her eyes are no match for the daggers in mine.

“They were headed to Witch Tree,” she says finally, dropping her gaze.

“What’s Witch Tree?”

When she looks up at me, she doesn’t look angry anymore. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she looked sorry for me.

“It’s a wave up the coast,” she says softly. I think she’s about to say something more, but instead she turns on her heel and runs up the stairs, her long blond hair covering her face.

I resist the urge to call out a thank-you before I hear her slamming her bedroom door. After all, she’s the only one who actually said a single thing that might help.

“Wendy!” Pete shouts, following me as I leave the house and open my car door. “Please just wait. Give me some time to explain.”

“What explanation could you possibly have, Pete?”

I throw my bag into the passenger seat and climb into my car. Michael’s surfboard is still inside; I hate that I’m leaving John’s board behind, but I’m not about to go back into that house.

“I panicked, Wendy,” Pete says. “I just wanted you to stay. And I thought if you knew the truth, that I’d kicked them out, that I was the reason they weren’t here—I thought you’d hate me.”

“So that’s why you lied to me, Pete? Because you wanted me to like you?” I fiddle with my keys, squeezing them so tight that it hurts. “I think that might be the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard.”

I shake my head, finally putting the pieces together. “That day on the beach, the day I came back here to look for my brothers. I called you a liar, and you freaked out. You thought I’d figured out that you were lying to me about my brothers, didn’t you? Not about Belle.”

Pete’s silence answers my question. The skin on his neck looks bright red, as though he’s breaking out into a rash, allergic to his own lies.

My hands are shaking so hard that it takes me three tries to fit the keys into the ignition.

“You were right about them, Wendy,” Pete says. “They were special. From the instant they showed up on the beach—”

“Don’t you dare talk to me about them,” I say, pressing my foot on the gas. I spin my car around the huge circular driveway. Out the window I shout, “Don’t you dare talk to me about anything ever again.”

I pull away, careful not to look in my rearview mirror. I don’t want to see the look on Pete’s face. And I don’t want him to see the look on my own. I don’t want him to see that I’m crying, not just because he’s a liar but because even now, angry as I am, there’s still a part of me—a part that I hate, a part that I don’t understand—that wants to stop the car, jump out, and run back into his arms.