Girl Out of Water(69)

Lincoln seems confident as he shuts off the engine. “Ready?” he asks.

It’s a silly question. What could I possibly say?

No?

Let’s sleep in the car.

Let’s get an overpriced hotel room.

Let’s keep driving.

Of course not. Instead I manage a nervous smile. “Sure thing.”

Lincoln pops the trunk and we grab our bags. I take out my tote that I packed with the necessities. My duffel bag and old suitcase, stuffed to the brim with random items I collected over summer, like my helmet and skateboard and plush rhino from Ashfall, are too bulky and stay in the car. As we walk toward the front door, it opens, and a girl rushes out. Before I have a chance to register what’s happening, she sprints across the yard and leaps, arms opened, at Lincoln, slamming into him with a hug that almost topples his tall frame; this is a particularly impressive feat since the girl, presumably Wendy, can’t be more than five feet.

She has a chopped, pixie haircut. Her pink-striped pajama bottoms and blue cotton T-shirt hang loosely over her small frame. After hugging Lincoln for another second, she releases him and then punches him on the arm. “I cannot believe you waited this long to visit!”

Lincoln holds his arms in the air in submission. “I know, I know, I’m the absolute worst, as you’ve told me thirty-six and a half times, but it’s not like you’ve visited either.”

“I don’t have a car.” At this point, she turns to me, and before I have a chance to say anything, she hugs me too. “Hi! Sorry for being rude, I’m Wendy! Welcome! Lincoln’s told me so much about you!”

“He has?” I ask.

“I have?” Lincoln asks.

Wendy steps back and rolls her eyes. “Okay, not exactly. But it’s the polite thing to say when you meet someone’s girlfriend, right?”

My skin flushes. “Umm, not his girlfriend,” I mutter. I expect Lincoln to agree, but he just stands there with an unusually uncomfortable expression.

“Oh, right. Sorry.” Wendy says. She rocks back and forth on her feet. “Anyway, let’s get inside. It’s muggy out here. Sticky, gross! Um, we just have to be extra quiet. My parents go to sleep at, like, six because they wake up at the crack of dawn. They own a bakery and, as my dad says, the pastries won’t bake themselves.”

We follow Wendy inside the house. Lincoln places his hand on my lower back for a moment. I lean into the touch, comforted. I’m in a new place, but Lincoln is still right behind me. The house is dark, lit only by small plug-in night-lights and the glow of the moon through the windows. It’s quiet too. For a moment I think I’ve plunged straight into one of those horror movies Eric loves so much. But thinking about Eric starts to feel like a horror movie in itself, so I push away the thought. The closer I get to home, the more daunting home feels. I should be thrilled to get there—it’s all I’ve wanted since leaving in the first place—but each mile we get closer to the coast, my nerves increase.

Wendy’s room reminds me of my own. Not because of the posters of shirtless teen heartthrobs or the stacked shelves of fashion magazines or the many stuffed animals, but because it looks so lived in. I bet this room hasn’t been cleaned out since Wendy was born. It makes me yearn for my own drawers, stuffed with years of junk, walls plastered with posters I’ve outgrown but still haven’t taken down, Tess’s worn quilt spread neatly on my bed.

“Feel free to sit.” Wendy jumps on, grabs a stuffed animal, and hugs it in her lap. I hesitate for a second, but it’s a queen-size mattress, and there’s plenty of room for all three of us. Lincoln climbs on, leaning against the far wall, and I follow, perching on the edge beside him.

Are we going to be sleeping here too? Three pigs in a blanket?

“Sooooo…” Wendy says. She tosses the stuffed animal aside, pulls out a ball of bright yellow yarn from her bedside table, and starts knitting. “How was the drive? Get any speeding tickets? Rob any banks?”

Lincoln grins. “Much less eventful than that. It’s easy to follow the law without your influence.”

I raise my eyebrows. Not to judge a book by its fluffy pink color, but with all the boy band posters, stuffed animals, and knitting, I wouldn’t have counted Wendy as a rule breaker.

Lincoln glances at me. “Wendy here is quite the rebel.”

“Really?”

Wendy nods in confirmation. “It’s true. I am. Lincoln lived here during the eighth grade, and I’m pretty sure I was in detention half that time.”

“For what?” I ask. I almost never break the rules. Detention equals more time at school, which equals less time surfing.

“Oh, you know, the usual.” She waves her hand in the air. “Talking back to teachers, being late to class, freeing the mice in science lab, leading a strike on the mystery meatloaf in the cafeteria, impersonating a teacher for a whole period, you know, same old, same old.”

I stare at her open-mouthed, and she and Lincoln break out laughing. Wendy smiles. “Okay, maybe not the usual.” Her smile widens in excitement. She sits up, putting her knitting to the side. “That reminds me! I didn’t tell you about the senior prank we pulled! Dear god it was epic. Six months of masterminding. Hardest plan I’ve ever worked on in my life…”

As Wendy tells us about her prank in vivid detail, I become more comfortable in the warm room. I crawl further onto the bed, leaning against the wall with Lincoln, our shoulders pressed together, fingers idly touching. As Wendy talks about water guns and rigged alarms and farm animals, my exhaustion hits in that satisfying cozy way. I lean against Lincoln’s shoulder and fall into an easy sleep.