“Just say the word if you need reinforcements!” her dad chimed in.
“I’m fine!” Emerson called back. “It’s just a, uh… friend stopping by.” She turned to Josh. “My mom’s right, I’ve got to get to school.”
“You could always use the ever-popular my-duckling-ate-my-late-note excuse,” Josh offered.
Emerson shook her head. “I don’t think that will fly. Or, ahem, swim.”
Josh laughed. “Ah, there’s the Emerson Cunningham humor I missed.”
Emerson looked down, her cheeks flushing. After she’d bolted from New York the summer before last, Josh left her so many messages like that, telling her again and again how much he missed her. She ached to call him back after every one, to tell him she missed him just as much. But she couldn’t, because then she’d have to answer his questions, the ones that were piling up in her e-mails, her texts, her voice mails. Why did you leave? What went wrong? There were answers, of course; just not ones she wanted him to hear.
She coughed, clearing her throat. “I really do have to run,” she mumbled.
“Wait.” Josh grabbed her arm with his duckling-free hand, and that fizzy feeling shot through her again. “I just want a chance for us to talk, Em. An hour, that’s all I’m asking. If not for me, then for Holden.” Josh gave her an exaggeratedly pleading look, pressing the duckling against his cheek. “You do remember that day, right? With the ducks?”
“Of course I remember,” Emerson said quietly. It was one of those memories that had become part of her artillery, a weapon to draw when the world came at her from all sides. “All right,” she gave in. “An hour. I’ll call you later, okay?”
Josh nodded, looking satisfied. “Here.” He passed Holden to Emerson. The duckling was warm and cashmere-soft. She could feel his tiny heart beating against her palm. “Just wait one second and I’ll get his stuff.”
“He has stuff?” Emerson repeated. “Please don’t tell me you packed him a suitcase.”
Emerson looked down at the tiny animal in her hands as Josh jogged off the porch. Holden was wiggling a little, and his webbed feet tickled her skin. “Hi there, little guy,” she whispered. He pecked at her wrist in response.
“No suitcase, but I did come prepared,” Josh announced. He returned holding a bag of food and a small cage. The floor of the cage was covered in newspaper. A water bowl sat in the corner, and there was a small lightbulb affixed to the top. “Home and sustenance,” he explained, placing it all on the ground.
“So you still don’t half-ass things,” Emerson said. She bit down on her lip, trying not to be amused.
Josh ran a hand through his half Mohawk. “You can thank me later,” he replied breezily. “When you call me.”
The second he was gone, she collapsed in a porch chair, cradling Holden gingerly in her hands. Her head was suddenly a minefield of thoughts.
Josh was here, in Echo Bay. He wanted to spend time with her.
He was going to want answers.
Emerson’s chest tightened. The summer she’d spent modeling in New York, she and Josh had been inseparable. She was drawn to him right away; he was nothing like Echo Bay boys, or Sarasota boys, for that matter. He did things like go to the theater and read novels in Central Park and eat food like bibimbap and shawarma, things Emerson had never even heard of. He wore tighter jeans and used bigger words, and he had once spent an entire summer building houses in Africa. Being around him was like discovering an amazing new flavor of ice cream every day.
Emerson was different around him, too—freer somehow. She told him things she’d told no one else, not even Caitlin. Like how she used to be Emmy, the ugly duckling—and how sometimes, when she was having a crappy day, she still felt like that girl, the duckling that no one wanted.
The day after she admitted that, Josh took her to the Pond in Central Park. He sat her down on the edge of the water, handed her a full loaf of bread, and ordered her to start feeding the ducks. They stayed there for over two hours, laughing as the ducks swished their way through the water, fighting over crusts and squawking with joy. A few minutes before they left, he turned to her, smiling thoughtfully. “You know,” he said, “if I had to choose, I’d pick the duckling.”
“Oh, come on,” she teased, poking him in the side. “Over a swan?”
Josh leaned in, kissing the tip of her nose. “Over a swan,” he said. And even though it was a cloudy day and she’d barely slept the night before and Josh kept making Holden Caulfield Catcher in the Rye comments that went completely over her head, it became one of her favorite days of the whole summer.
“Em?” Her mom’s voice jolted Emerson back to the present. Her mom stepped onto the porch, letting the door slam shut behind her. “What are you—oh my god, is that a duck?”
“Yeah… my friend brought it over. As kind of a, uh, prank gift. He’s cute, though, isn’t he?” She gave her mom a hopeful smile, and Holden snapped his beak, as if to agree.
Her mom wrinkled her nose. “Sure, as long as he’s not peeing on you. Aren’t ducks supposed to be bathroom machines?”
“I guess you’ll find out.” Emerson held Holden out to her mom. “Unless, of course, you’ll let me skip school to take care of him…”
“Fat chance.” With a grimace, her mom took Holden from Emerson. Immediately the duckling stretched out his neck and pecked at her cheek. “Go ahead,” she said, waving Emerson away with a sigh. “I’ll take care of him. But”—she pointed a warning finger at Emerson—“starting tonight, you take over, or he goes back to whatever pond he came from.”
Emerson gave her mom a quick kiss on the cheek before hurrying to her car. The same thought circled endlessly around in her head. Josh is in Echo Bay. It made her feel as if she were being thrown up in a basket toss: One way or another, she had to come down.
There was some kind of promotional postcard tucked under her car’s windshield wiper, and she reached for it absently, still thinking about Josh. But the moment she saw the front of the postcard, all other thoughts vanished instantly.
It was for the Seagull Inn. Also known as the place where she and Matt had spent the night together this summer. She blinked, feeling light-headed. Why was this on her car?
Her breath came out in fast spurts as she flipped the card over. On one side, the text boasted about seaside rooms and reasonable rates, but it barely registered. Because on the other side was a message. In a typewriter font.
Once a slut, always a slut. Go enjoy some old-fashioned fun aboard Echo Bay’s Haunted Boat Ride… unless you want everyone to know how you fanned the fire chief’s flames. The ship sails at 9!
Warning sirens blasted in Emerson’s head. Who was doing this? And whoever it was… how could he or she know? She hadn’t told anyone the identity of her mystery guy, not even Caitlin. And she and Matt had been so careful not to be seen! It was why they’d gone to the Seagull Inn; only out-of-towners stayed there.
Matt’s words flashed through her mind. It’s not just me I’m worried about; it’s Sydney. If this got out, if Matt lost his job and Sydney lost her scholarship… it would be all her fault.
Once a slut, always a slut.
Emerson squeezed her eyes shut. She always did this: made the wrong choices, took the wrong path. With Matt, with Josh…
The memory slammed into her so hard she could feel it in her bones. New York. The kind of hot August day that smothered you in its breath. Emerson shuddered, using every ounce of her strength to shut out the image. She couldn’t think about that now. Not with this new darer to contend with. Her hands shook with anger as she shoved the postcard into the trash can in the driveway and climbed into her car.
The darer wanted her on some stupid haunted boat ride?
Fine, she’d be there. And hopefully the darer—whoever it was—would be, too.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tuesday, 12:08 PM
Tenley paused in the doorway of the cafeteria, the din of voices and clattering trays rising around her. Those first few steps into the lunchroom had become her least favorite moment of each day. So many bodies, her eyes flying from one to another until it was all just a blur: hands and arms and mouths, opening, closing, opening, closing. And then, like clockwork, it would happen: a flash of blond hair. Her breath would catch, and she’d think, Caitlin.
But then her eyes would focus, and she’d see it was just some freshman, or sophomore, or even a teacher—her hair stringy or bleached, as far from Caitlin as you could get. Now, as Tenley stood in the doorway of the cafeteria, her eyes locked on a bottle-blond girl, she could feel a flood of memories threatening to break through their dam. “Gabby Douglas, London,” she chanted under her breath. “Nastia Liukin, Beijing. Carly Patterson, Athens.” It was her new method for battling back her memories: reciting the Olympic all-around gymnastic gold medalists. Usually, by the time she reached Carly, she’d gotten herself under control. But sometimes it took going all the way back to Mary Lou Retton of 1984.
When she looked up again, she saw Marta waving at her from the table where she and Emerson always sat. Reserved for the most popular seniors, the table was set on a raised platform from the days when the cafeteria used to be a theater. Marta tossed her wavy red hair as she signaled for Tenley to join them.