"She said yes to someone else," comes a whisper.
I turn toward the voice.
Charlotte.
She's looking her usual self.
"Never thought I'd see the day," she says quietly, "when my little brother stands around watching another guy ask out the girl he's interested in. Sure you're not losing your touch?"
"I'm older than you, remember?"
She laughs, and the noise is something like what I'd imagine sea sirens would sound like moments before they drown their victims.
My attention returns to Willow and the guy who has short, dark dreadlocks. Willow looks right at me as she takes a big swallow of her tea from the guy who now has her number and the promise of a date.
He turns to leave just as the final bell screeches like a banshee through the corridor.
"We'll talk later," Charlotte says, making for her class.
I wait only a moment, enough for Charlotte and the guy to be gone, before I approach Willow.
"I didn't realize caffeine was the way to get a date." I flash a grin.
"Maybe I don't want to go out with you, Beau," she says. "Maybe I want to go out with Brody."
"Is that his name?"
"Or maybe I want to go out with the other guy who invited me on Friday for pizza. I happen to like pizza."
Two guys now? Maybe Charlotte's right. Perhaps I am losing my edge. No, on second thought, that can't be it.
"Or maybe I want to walk away from you and never speak to you again," she says.
"How does it feel, Beau? To hear nothing but riddles? Do you like it? Maybe one of those is true. Or maybe none at all. You figure it out."
Maybe it's the fact that no one challenges me, perhaps that's why I'm completely stuck, my words gone. I think, though, that I do like her riddles. I think I appreciate that she has a backbone and that she stands up to me. But it's hard to tell because nothing like this has happened before.
"I will meet you on the path today," Willow says as the late bell rings. "And you will answer every question I have about Samantha and how all this happened."
So that's why she seems upset.
She walks away.
"Wait," I say.
But she's already gone.
…
"I had nothing to do with Samantha's death," I say as Willow stands next to me under a weeping tree.
The fact is that I have no idea what happened to Samantha, not that Willow believes me. I wonder if she would if I told her that Samantha's death haunted me all last night, woke me from my dreams, drenched in a sweat so thick it felt as though I'd brought the bog inside with me. I'm the reason she visited the swamp, even though I'm not the reason she never left. I try to speak my feelings to Willow, but the words stick to my tongue, mixing with nausea. I can't help but feel guilty.
Samantha died on her way to see me. I didn't want her to come. Told her so myself. It seems Pax was right in what he'd overheard. Samantha did leave school early because she was upset. She sent a text that night, wanting to stop by to tell me how much our breakup hurt her, hoping I might change my mind and give it another shot. My response was a firm no. She even called to try to talk about it, wanting to visit me in person. I didn't see how her coming to my house would change anything. We were still two very different people. Done and over.
She never did make it to my property, and as far as I knew then, she wasn't coming in the first place. I thought my no was enough of a response. How was I to know that she'd take it upon herself to come anyway? I never imagined she'd drive to the swamp even though I told her not to come. She'd only ever been to my house once. Had she gotten lost, took a wrong turn, couldn't remember the exact way, and instead ended up somewhere she didn't mean to be, where someone evil took advantage?
"I'm telling the truth," I say.
I throw a quick glance at Willow's house. So far, so good. Old Lady Bell hasn't come out.
Her eyes slant. "Are not."
"Am, too."
"Liar," she challenges.
"I am a liar," I admit, swallowing down my trepidation. "Just not about this."
The sun trades off with the moon. There's nothing like a night in the bog. Cicadas buzz so loudly that I swear they've found a way into my eardrums.
"Trust me this time." I practically have to yell.
Willow laughs. "Trust you? That's rich."
I see her point.
"Look, all I know is that Samantha was upset. She called and asked if she could come over. I said no. I never should have let her come the one time I did. Usually we went to her house."
Willow's eyes narrow further.
"That's not the point," I say. "Point is, I said ‘no,' and that was the end of it."
"Yet still, she ended up here."
I nod. "She must have come anyway. I didn't know. I never saw her. Ask my family. I was with them all night."
Willow looks me directly in the eyes. "See, right now I think you might be telling the truth, but maybe not."
"I am." I might be mean sometimes, but not mean enough to kill.
Willow shifts, and a spider crawls dangerously close to her arm. She pays it no mind.
"Fine, let's say I believe you," Willow says. "That really only leaves more questions like: who would do such a thing?"
"Believe me, I'd like to know."
Because that means Willow's family and my family aren't the only ones out here.
11
Willow
I don't speak a syllable for nearly two hours. I know because that's the amount of time I've spent walking, rowing, climbing the swamplands, seeking relief from being stuck indoors, and thinking about the dead girl. My parents keep me company, searching for elusive birds that apparently, for whatever godforsaken reason, need complete quiet to show their faces.
As soon as Mom heard about the murder, she insisted we have a day together, picking me up directly from school to do so. Probably mostly to make herself feel better for leaving me alone so much. Dad, having questioned me about Beau's connection to the victim, doesn't seem convinced that my hanging out with Beau is a good idea, no matter how many times I tell him that the police cleared him of any wrongdoing and that Beau has an alibi. I don't blame Dad for looking out. He only means to keep me safe. Mom believes in the police findings, thankfully. If there were reason to doubt, she'd insist I don't see Beau again. But instead, she encourages me to keep close to a friend.
"I don't think the birds are coming," I say, glancing at my mother.
"They'll come," she insists. "You just haven't taught your patience how to wait yet."
How much longer could it possibly take? It's a couple of hours until dusk, the sun angling overhead, pressing down on us with blazing rays. I wonder if more birds come out at night like many of the other swamp creatures.
We're sitting in a grassy spot that snakes insist on taking from us. I keep having to warn them off with a long stick. So far only one of the three has been venomous.
"My patience is perfectly fine," I argue.
I almost never argue with Mom. She knows instantly that something is up.
"What has that boy done now?" she asks with an all-knowing grin.
Dad glances at us but notices the keep-out sign attached to my forehead, so he says nothing.
I can't talk to Dad about boys.
Mom is another story.
I lower my voice. "He had a girlfriend."
"But he doesn't anymore?"
"Right."
"And this is a problem because … ?"
"Because," I say, sighing, "there's a chance that he might have broken up with her for me. I hung out with him, thinking the girlfriend rumors were false. It's so hard to tell with him. He doesn't always come right out and say things directly. But it was true-they were together. We didn't do anything, he and I, but still. What if I unintentionally played a part in their breakup? She came to the swamp to see Beau. I can't help feeling guilty for that."
Mom sighs, gently patting my hand. "Sweetheart, you can't make decisions for someone else. What's done is done. Try not to worry too much about the specifics. It's horrible, yes. But it's not your fault. You're experimenting. Creating memories. As long as you're safe about it, it's not a bad thing."
Mom is all about experimenting. It took her nearly all the years she's been married to Dad for Gran to warm up to her free spirit. Gran likes structure and boundaries. I do, too. I also like seeing how far they stretch.
"That's not how I wanted to start things with a boy," I say.
Maybe I'm a bit of a romantic.
"But you like him," Mom counters.
"I like a lot of things. Doesn't mean they're good for me."
"So don't keep him forever. Maybe just for a little while."
Mom is the kind of parent who hands the reins to me and lets me figure out how to steer. I appreciate her leniency, even if sometimes I crave more direct advice.
"So what you're saying is that I should go for it?" I ask.