The Light Pirate(26)
She understands that she isn’t liked at school; that much is obvious. There are smaller reasons for that—her clothes, men’s T-shirts full of holes, or her questions in class, one after another—but none of these things is the whole story. What she doesn’t quite understand is that the town of Rudder is dying, and its inhabitants need a reason. Here is Wanda: born at exactly the wrong time, under exactly the wrong circumstances, given exactly the wrong name. The blame settles on her shoulders easily, small as they are. It’s Rudder’s own mythology, passed from parent to child, gossip that became stories that became beliefs—as thoughtfully constructed as the crumbling homes they live in.
Wanda did have one friend, Jules, and one was enough. But Jules’s family moved at the end of the last school year and now Wanda has zero friends. Which is not enough. She sits here at the Edge for a long time, missing Jules, whose face grows fuzzy in her memory, and watching the gulls who perch on the high-rise as they chatter to one another. There is so much to observe, so many things to skim her gaze across, so many smells, so many textures. Even in its monotony, the ocean can’t help but be mesmerizing. Wanda has never gotten to sit like this and just look for as long as she likes. This is her first real adventure, her first foray into the world beyond her house all alone. Without Kirby or Lucas she feels free, but also exposed. As it happens, she is both.
She doesn’t notice the other kids arrive. There are four of them, two boys and two girls, out wandering these nearly deserted streets in search of something to do, not unlike Wanda herself. There is a brief moment—Wanda’s back is still turned and the others are too far away to mark the distinct froth of her dark hair and the particular rattan basket attached to her bicycle—when these five children could be anyone to each other. They could be friends or they could be strangers. But then this moment passes. The newcomers recognize her and something shifts. They are not strangers. But they’re not friends, either.
“What are you doing here?” one of the boys calls. It’s more accusation than question.
“Yeah, this spot is private,” the other boy says. “No freaks allowed.”
Wanda turns. She recognizes this quartet as sixth graders, the grade just above hers. Older kids. They are often together, these four: a set of fraternal twins, Corey and Brie, and their respective best friends, Mick and Amanda. She isn’t sure how to respond at first. She’s naive enough to hope that what she says next matters, but old enough to know it probably won’t.
“I’m not a freak,” she says, and instantly knows it was the wrong thing. She plucks nervously at her T-shirt and hopes they move on. But they don’t. They approach, hemming her in against the ocean.
“Aren’t you?” Mick lunges forward and shoves her. It happens so fast she topples easily into the water. Her head goes under and as she plunges down to the bottom her arm scrapes up against the jagged pavement. It isn’t so deep; her feet touch and she kicks off to get back to the surface, but she had no time to prepare herself. Water gushes up into her nose. Her eyes smart. She comes to the surface, gasping, spitting, her arms flailing in the dull gray water. Above her, the sixth graders are a blur. The other boy, Corey, steps in front of her. He crouches, blocking her exit, his face closer than she’d like it to be. A wave thuds into the back of Wanda’s head and washes over his tennis shoes, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“What’s the water like?” Corey asks. His voice is soft, almost gentle, but there is something hard underneath, something cruel. Calculating. Wanda paddles with her hands, her toes a few inches from the bottom.
“It’s cold,” she finally says. This is true; the water is cold, in a good way. The air is wet with humidity, like breathing steam, and the Atlantic, though warmer than it often is, feels chilly in comparison. She understands that this is not what he’s asking, but the answer to that other question, the one beneath the words, eludes her. She ventures closer to the pavement, planting her hands to hoist herself out of the water, but Corey pushes her backward, his palm up against her forehead. His hand is hot and sticky on her skin as he shoves her. He would like to hurt her. She knows that now. They all know. Mick smirks, intrigued. The girls look uncertain. They don’t want this. Wanda fastens her hopes on them. They are the audience, and the audience decides, don’t they? To admonish or to join; to boo or to clap. Wanda looks at them through stinging, watery eyes, a white haze of salt caught in her lashes, silently beseeching them to protect her. But they say nothing. Corey puts his hand on the top of Wanda’s head, his fingers digging into her wet hair, gripping it by the roots. “Why don’t you stay awhile?”
And then she is underwater in a much more forceful way. She thrashes up toward the surface but he holds her down. She can feel his fingernails scraping against her scalp, pinching the skin. Everything is dark; she can’t look up toward the sky, can’t see through the murk. She doesn’t fully understand what has just happened, why she is underwater, why she can’t get to the surface.
Above, a few eerily quiet seconds pass. The sound of splashing, the call of gulls, the slap of little waves kissing the Edge. Corey holds Wanda down easily. All it takes is one hand, leaning his body weight into her struggle.
“Corey,” Brie says, her voice sharp. “Enough.” She knows that if she doesn’t do something, no one will.
“Just playing.” He grins back at his twin, wanting to see how far he can push this.