Mandy Hubbard - Ripple

In the days following his death, I ignored the intense desire to swim, and I shut everyone out. I pulled the drapes closed in my room and lay there all night long, staring at the shadows, pretending I wasn’t craving the feel of the water against my skin.

With each day, I grew sicker. It was just a little fever at first, but soon I could hardly stand it. Eventually, I drove up to an old lake where I used to go swimming with Sienna and Nikki and Kristi.

I sang all night. And by morning, I felt stronger than ever. But the feeling only lasted a day.

Within two weeks, I was swimming every night.

I sigh, rolling over onto my stomach and propping myself up on my elbows. Maybe it’s morbid to be lying here in the grass, just six feet above the bodies. Maybe someone would be horrified if they saw me. But I need this time with him—it’s the only thing that keeps me sane. Luckily, Steven’s grave is hard to see from the pathways because of a few shrubs and the willow. I would probably see someone long before they’d see me.

I reach out and trace my fingers over Steven’s grave marker. Steven Goode. Beloved Son, Brother and Friend. At the bottom is an engraved football. Steven didn’t even like football. I never told anyone that. He did it for his dad, who played through high school and college but never made it pro. That was when I first began to hope that he liked me—he was telling me secrets no one else knew. Secrets he trusted me with.

I never got to tell him mine. I spent three years pining for him; just when things started to shift, just when it looked as if the romance wasn’t all in my head, I killed him.

I set the Chevelle in front of his headstone. Every night, I tell him everything, even about the curse I live with. He’s the only one who knows the truth. Unless I want all my old friends to end up in the ground next to him, I have to keep them away.

I kiss my fingertips and then place them on his headstone. For a brief moment, my fingers linger on the marble, and I wonder for the thousandth time what it would have been like to be with him for more than just a moment. My sixteenth-birthday party could have been the start of something. And instead, it was the end.

I wonder for the thousandth time if he could have loved me in that same fierce way I loved him. “Good night, Steven.”

I get up and wipe my knees off and then step back onto the pathways. It’s getting darker now and harder to see. I have another night of swimming ahead of me. Even as I leave his body to rot in a grave that I put him in, I must return to the water.

“See you tomorrow,” I whisper, as if someone will hear.

And then I take the first few steps that will leave him behind.

I swam all night, but my stomach still churns as I walk into the doors at school, zipping up my fleece jacket as though somehow it will protect me from what’s to come. Getting through today will be a gauntlet.

We’re two weeks into the school year, now, which means one thing: it’s my birthday. It should be a happy day. For any other person in this school, it would be. But my birthday will forever mark the anniversary of Steven’s death; and no one is going to let me forget it. The police may have cleared my name, but to everyone else, I was found guilty. Forever and always, the one who stole Steven from their lives.

I tip my chin up, square my shoulders, and try to walk to my locker as if I don’t notice the watchful eyes of my classmates.

An underclassman, oblivious to the tension in the hall, walks by me, his eyes sweeping over me in an appreciative, almost lustful way before he catches my glare and turns away.

A group of people, Sienna and her boyfriend Patrick, plus Nikki and Kristi, stand together not far from my locker. They lounge around a big bay window, officially reserved for seniors. Unofficially, it’s for top tier seniors, and that means it belongs to them. Why did I have to be cursed with a locker so close to their stomping grounds?

I turn to my locker, concentrating on keeping my hand from shaking so much they’ll see it. I screw up the combination the first time and have to start over. I can feel their eyes on my back, watching me. My chest tightens and it seems harder to breathe.

Finally, I hit the last digit and pop the door open.

Sand spills out in a wave, piling up at my feet. My books, my papers, everything is filled with grit.

I whirl around, wondering which of my classmates is to blame. Sienna’s closer than before, her hand on her hip. She’s wearing a kneelength black skirt and one of Steven’s old T-shirts, the one he used to wear at least once a week. I haven’t seen that shirt since last year. Since my seventeenth birthday. I wonder what else of his she’s kept.

My chest rises and falls rapidly, and I’m so close to losing it I want to just leave everything like this and run.

“Happy birthday,” she says, her voice trembling.

I blink.

There’s no anger to her words.

I clench my hands, desperate to hold it together. “How long are you going to do this?”

She tilts her head to the side and the light streaming in from their window catches the tears shimmering in her eyes. “Until I get my brother back.”

She spins around and walks away. I want to scream at her that I want him back as much as she does, that I never wanted to kill him and she doesn’t have to keep doing this to me, but I swallow the words.

One by one, the crowd disperses. I turn back to my locker, slam it shut, and stalk off in the opposite direction.

Happy birthday to me.

When I walk in the door at home, my gram is in her recliner, but her eyes are shut, and the steady sawing of her snoring fills the living room. I pause in the faded hardwood entry and watch her, my hands still gripping my heavy backpack.

Her gray hair is rumpled, her matching pink sweats and sweatshirt a little wrinkled, but she’s never looked more serene. I wish I could look that peaceful. Every limb, every muscle is relaxed.

I turn away and go to the kitchen, flinging open a few cupboards. Dinner. It will occupy my hands and my mind. I survey the options for a long moment, my arms crossed. I’m not in the mood to cook anything elaborate. I only want to get the meal over with, smile in a convincing way, and retreat to my room to wait out the hours until dusk. I grab beans, corn, some dry noodles, and stewed tomatoes. I’ll throw it all together with a little bit of frozen vegetables and call it soup. Gram loves soup.

I fill a pot with water and set it on the stove, twisting the dial to high. As I pull a ladle out of the drawer, a flash of pink catches my eye. I smile as big as I can manage at my grandmother as she shuffles toward me, hoping to hide the strain of my day at school.

“Lexi, honey, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You were sleeping, Gram.”

She frowns. “You shouldn’t have to cook dinner on your birthday.”

“I know, but I like cooking.” I dump the noodles into the pot and then turn back to look at her. “It’s okay, really. You can sit down. It’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”

She shuffles away from me down the hall, her slippers swishing on the hardwood. I watch her until the bright pink disappears.

I twist back around and reach for the can opener, humming to myself as I open up the tomatoes and dump them into the pot. Everything about school sucks, but I find comfort in the normalcy of being at home. It’s so different from my intense, supernatural problems. When I’m here, I don’t have to watch my back.

I find the Italian seasoning jar in the cupboard and pour a bunch in. Then I lean a hip against the counter as I watch the soup come to a boil.