The Girls of No Return (31 page)

And Boone was right. After a few minutes of quiet conversation, during which everyone came to terms with the fact that Bev wasn't going to say anything, the room returned to its initial state of excitement. People started laughing. I heard one girl exclaim from across the room, “No, guys, seriously — did anyone see my bong?” Girls started looking in the direction of our table. I think someone even gave Boone a thumbs-up. I guess they figured that, if Bev really was going to pretend nothing had happened, she couldn't very well punish the perpetrator.

And just as Boone had predicted, the Rec Lodge was as clean and sterile as a conference room by the time breakfast was over. I peeked in the window first, and then Boone edged me aside with an elbow and looked in. Nothing. No evidence that there had ever been a Christmas altar of liquor and weed, or that a stoned rabbit had sat in Amanda's seat.

“Just as I thought,” said Boone.

“Yes,” said a voice from behind us. “A shame, isn't it. And after all that careful work too.” It was Margaret, standing there in a lopsided cap, cradling the stuffed bunny in her arms.

Boone played dumb. “What's that you're carrying?”

“This?” Margaret held the bunny out and shook it. I thought I could hear the baggies wrinkling together inside its belly. “Some toys are not safe for children between the ages of one and one hundred.” She looked around. “Some, like Bugs here, are downright illegal. I'm going to perform a minor surgery and send his . . . goods to the proper authorities.”

“Ah,” said Boone.

Everyone else was in the cabins already, or still finishing up their chores. Bev could have been anywhere, but I guessed that she was sitting in her cabin, sorting through the pile of crap that Boone and I had left in the lodge, making an inventory and trying to figure out which items were missing. My hand instinctively found its way into the front pocket of my hoodie.

“It was an artful decorating scheme,” Margaret said quietly, a faint smile on her lips. “Too bad no one claimed it.” She paused, and then continued, staring at Boone. “I have a feeling that Bev won't hesitate to punish the responsible parties, however —
if
they seem too proud of themselves.” She glanced down at the rabbit and shook it once more for emphasis. “And that would be the real shame, wouldn't it?”

“Point taken,” said Boone. Just as she began to push me toward the cabin, I heard Margaret call out.

“Lida,” she said, “a word?”

I shrugged at Boone, who raised her eyebrows at me and continued on toward the cabin. I stayed and turned toward Margaret.

“I've been meaning to ask if you'd help me lead this afternoon's hike with the Fourteens,” she said.

“Oh,” I said. Why had she kept me behind for this? Why not just ask me in front of Boone?

“You know your way around a mountain,” Margaret continued, “and I'd love it if the younger girls could take a page or two from your book.”

“Fine,” I said. “Whatever.”

Margaret gazed at me calmly. “Lida,” she began, but I didn't want to hear it.

“I said fine.”

“I know you did. And you said it like I'd just asked you to clean the toilets with a toothbrush. That's not the Lida I've gotten to know. What's going on with you?” Her look was compassionate, but her voice, as always, was commanding.

“Nothing.”

“I don't think so.”

I shrugged.

“Something's been bothering you these past couple of weeks. I'd like to know what it is.” Margaret stuffed the bunny under one arm and stuck both hands in her pockets, rocking back on her heels. “You know you can always talk to me — about anything. You know that, don't you?”

I shrugged again.

Margaret was undaunted. “You've done a lot of work here,” she went on. “I'd hate to see you throw it away.”

“I'm not throwing anything away.” I stared beyond her at Bob.

“Nothing concrete, Lida. You know what I mean. You're on the road to sliding back from all the progress you've made.” She shook her head. “And that would be a shame.”

“Well, I'll try not to disappoint you,” I said, my voice almost a snarl.

Margaret sighed heavily. “Do that,” she said. “In the meantime, I'll talk to your other teachers and let them know you'll be with me this afternoon.” She walked away, humming softly to the rabbit in her arms.

Boone was waiting for me outside the cabin.

“Leading a hike, huh? Clearly, you're doing something right,” said Boone. “Don't worry, Townie,” she added, “we'll breathe some life into you yet.”

It was true that I hadn't thought as much about Gia in the past twelve hours. This was both a relief and a sadness. I had grown accustomed to thinking about her constantly — like having one eye always fixed on a certain spot while the other has to take in everything else. I couldn't imagine her smile, the warm weight of her hand on my shoulder, without also hearing her voice:
Not right
. The thought that I
could
feel better — that maybe, with time, her words would become muted in the back of my brain — was somehow just as painful as the words themselves. I followed Boone into the cabin, wanting equally to hear the sound of Gia's voice and to forget it.

The knife was cool and smooth in my hand.

 

 

My hand is cramping from writing so fast. I need to slow down, to get it
right
. “Precision, precision,” I tell myself. It's the only way.

The telephone rings down the hall. Terri's voice floats my way. “Lida, for you!” I can hear the radio in the kitchen, her favorite NPR program trilling away as she makes another pot of coffee. Always with the NPR. It's like having a gaggle of boring professors and a string quartet sandwiched in the living room all day.

“Take a message!” I yell. “I'll call them back!” I turn back to the paper. For some reason, writing this on my computer was never an option. I have to get it down the way I learned how: with ink and sweat. And besides, it's easier to lie when there's a keyboard between you and the truth. When it's your hand forming every letter, finishing every sentence — well, it keeps you honest. As honest as possible, anyway.

Terri's standing in my doorway, the phone in her hand. “Lida —” she says, and I cut her off.

“I'll. Call. Them. Back,” I whisper, since I can see that she's only loosely covering the mouthpiece with her hand.

“It's Margaret,” she says, and holds out the phone.

I take it from her wordlessly and wait until she's gone and I can hear her banging around in the kitchen. Then I put the phone up to my ear. “Hello?” The word catches in my throat.

“Lida. You're a tough woman to get a hold of. I've been leaving you messages for six months.” Margaret's voice, still so familiar to me, crackles over the school's emergency radio phone. She keeps talking, says she's got a question for me — “a big ask,” she says — and explains that she wants me to come back and share my story with the other girls.

“What?”

She continues as though she hasn't heard me, and maybe she hasn't. “We don't normally bring in speakers, you know, but this batch of girls could really benefit from hearing your story,” she says.

“Why?” I ask, and this time she responds.

“Because they're looking for a quick fix, Lida. An easy out. Because we've been talking about patterns, and how they're hard to break, but they don't believe me.”

“I don't see how —” I start, and then stop. “I mean, what would I say?”

But the phone connection weakens. It sounds like there's gravel in the receiver. Margaret says something, but I can't make out the words. I tell her I need more time to think about it, that I don't know if I can go back, but she doesn't hear me.

Then she says, “. . . both sides of the story.” Her voice sounds distant and hopeful. “I think that . . .” The phone fades in and out of service. “. . . two of you,” she says.

“What?”

“Just . . . You both . . . explanation.”

“I can't hear you,” I say, panic pulsing in my chest. “Am I . . . Are you inviting anyone else?”

Static. Then: “I hope you'll both come,” she says. “Just the two of you.”

I know who she's talking about. There's really only one person it could be.

“She hates me,” I say. “You know how much she hates me. I don't know if I can see her again without —” Without what? Falling back into it? Wanting to hurt myself as much as I hurt her? “How can any of this be helpful?” I ask, my voice wavering.

I wait for Margaret's response, but it never comes. All I can hear is static, a rushing sound like wind or water, and the bell's thick chime, striking once like a warning. Then the line goes dead.

 

 

BOONE TOOK MARGARET'S NOT-SO-SUBTLE SUGGESTION AND
didn't advertise her role in the defamation of the Rec Lodge. There was too much to do, too many “last” activities to accomplish before her departure; she couldn't afford to waste her time talking about something that had already gone down when there was still so much that needed to happen.

For one thing, our Solo Trips were coming up.

We'd been hearing about them from time to time over the past few months, but Margaret finally spelled it out for us when she popped into Circle Share and asked Amanda if she could make an announcement.

“It's really the most celebrated program here at Alice Marshall,” she said, “as in, this is one of the reasons parents choose our school over others. You will head out with a group, but each of you will have your own campsite away from the others. The expectation is that you'll use your time to meditate on your progress here, face some fears, identify solutions.”

Gia was sitting five seats to my right, so I couldn't see her face, but if I glanced casually at my knee from time to time, I could see her foot as she crossed and then uncrossed her legs. Now she jiggled her foot around in the air.

“Basically, it's a wonderful chance to reflect,” Margaret continued. “Some people call it Solo Meditation, though I think that puts too much pressure on the art of meditating.” She smiled around the room. “And another thing. Instead of dividing you up by cabin groups, we thought it best that we send you out with your fellow Sharers. Amanda and I have some activities planned that will help you process what you experience out there, and she'll guide you through them together when you return.”

The foot had stopped jiggling. Now it was moving in slow, deliberate circles, as though working out a cramp in its ankle. She'd been wearing more makeup than normal when she walked into the Rec Lodge, and I wondered if she'd just come from Ben's, or if she was about to head up there.

“Everyone's doing it, guys, so don't think about opting out. Amanda's Monday group is heading out Wednesday — tomorrow, in fact — and you all are scheduled to go a week from then.” She took a deep breath. It had been quite a speech. “Any questions?”

A girl named Heather raised her hand. She was a quiet Seventeen from Chicago with buckteeth and curly black hair. “Yeah. What if we don't want to spend the night in the woods? Can we just do, like, a solo night in the guest dorm or something?”

There was laughter. Margaret shook her head. “You know the answer to that one. But thank you, Heather, for reminding me of one important fact. The ‘overnight' is actually two nights, not one. We wanted to give you a full day by yourselves.”

The cursing and complaining started off loud and got louder. But Amanda and Margaret both put on their grim “This is not a preschool” expressions and made eye contact with each of us. The room calmed down quickly after that.

“Yes, Heather?” said Margaret.

Heather let her hand fall back into her lap. “Yeah. Do we get to bring guns? Or are you gonna send us out there with nothing to protect ourselves?”