In Her Skin(52)

Not until you pointed it out did I realize how easy it is for some people to kill another person. A quick mental calculation of the danger you are in, of the worth of that life, and your chances for getting away with it. If those things add to the right sum, and you can do it without getting hurt yourself, it’s on. Except a person like you doesn’t make such calculations. You kill as an attempt to lose control, as an attempt to conjure an irrational state that does not exist inside you, to feel something.

You claim we’re alike this way. But we are different, you and me. I am learning.

*

Though there are hints of the alarming, truthfully, life is magical these days. On your last day of school, we left Boston for the rest of June and most of July—the girls and Gerry, and Mr. Lovecraft flying back and forth for the weekends—and rented a house on Martha’s Vineyard. The Vineyard instead of the usual Nantucket, not because the Lovecrafts were being respectful of Vivi’s feelings, but because it would look, as I overheard Mrs. Lovecraft say, “wrongheaded.” For the first time in my life, I rode on a boat, which is weird for someone from Florida. The Last One failed on his promises to let me ride on the Everglades boat, same as he failed on his promises to Momma. I don’t think of Momma often these days, which is odd since all I have is time. In fact, we are downright lazy, you and I, and the season is passing fast. Though the ocean is still warm, here and there I find a leaf tinged yellow or orange. We do childish things: ride bikes around the island. Reach for the brass ring on the flying carousel at Oak Bluffs. Once, we set our alarms and rose early enough to see the Edgartown lighthouse turn pink at sunrise.

It might have to do with the fact that I am surrounded by the ocean, but you seem less concerned that I am going to leave you and that makes your meannesses fewer and farther between. Mr. and Mrs. Lovecraft are on some kind of circuit here on “the island,” with parties in Chappy or Squibby every night, and we are left mostly alone. The Lovecrafts had to reciprocate all those cocktails, and the one night the rented house was filled with people and the driveway got blocked and you and I escaped to the roof and watched the attendants below scrambling like ants and above I have never seen stars so bright.

I sound more like Vivi these days. How Vivi would sound. I take the Lovecrafts’ words in my mouth and try them. See which ones I like. Reciprocate.

So much remains of the old you that affection rushes me when I least expect it. The lope of your walk on the sand. The simple swish of your ponytail. The arc of your lower back when you rise and fall on the balls of your feet. The kooky idea that tickles me in its strangeness. These are enough to make me forgive the alarming things you do, the signs that you are getting dangerous.

I should have known it would all come crashing down. The computer at the island house is an expensive design that curves. The owners are a Silicon Valley couple, and they’ve rigged the house with sensors that play music and trip alarms and turn on the air-conditioning, a network that’s supposed to make things easier but causes Mrs. Lovecraft anxiety. The curved monitor is perched on a standing desk in the main room, and in the rare moments when you are not on it, like now, I touch the touchpad just to bring up the screen saver, happy dudes with glowing teeth standing in front of the Acropolis. This time it goes directly to Mrs. Lovecraft’s open e-mail, which means you were just reading it. This is how I spot Vonnie Lee’s message.

At first I don’t want to open it, because you are nearby somewhere, but mostly because the thought of going to the Parkman School in September fills me with dread I can taste. I’ve barely thought of Parkman, except when we bumped into Lila on the beach and you pretended not to know who she was and things got awkward fast.

But Jo would open it, because information is power, and the one thing I do think of these days is Jo.

The e-mail starts with apologies for its lateness. I can’t say I think Mrs. Lovecraft was looking for it, since she rarely read her e-mails. You assumed there was no harm in showing it was read; I, too, doubt your mother would notice. I click on the attachment, which is For Mr. and Mrs. Lovecraft’s review, and Edits are welcome!

Draft 504 Plan in Accordance with Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act and the Americans with Disabilities Act

Vivienne Weir attends Parkman School and has a diagnosis of “bolting disorder.” She is susceptible to fleeing incidents, otherwise known as “wandering,” “elopement,” or “bolting” (see definition below).

Vivienne is extremely interested in outside attractions, in particular streets and highways and bodies of water. She will wander off to get to these areas, and all measures must be taken to ensure her safety. Due to Vivienne’s wandering, her physician strongly urges close and constant one-on-one adult supervision.

Should Vivienne wander, 911 should be called IMMEDIATELY. Parental notification of ANY wandering incident, including incidents where she may have wandered within the building, is required. Incidents should be well documented and include when and how the occurrence took place.

Please know that failure to address known, preventable escape patterns and security breaches puts Vivienne at great risk. We ask for your cooperation in working with us to report all incidents, to make sure the school premises have proper architectural barriers (locks, sensor alarms, and cameras) in place, to ensure all school staff members are aware of her tendency to wander, to ensure fences are gated at all times and exterior doors are always shut, and to ensure that Vivienne is never left unattended no matter what the circumstance.