Mandy Hubbard - Ripple

But I will not leave just yet. I cannot bear to go without seeing Will again. I am going to Varmoth Manor one last time in the hopes that he has returned.

I must know if he will truly marry Julia as the papers say.

Charlotte

April 2, 1750

He is dead. I’ve done something terrible. I do not understand what has happened to me, but I must flee.

Julia did something to me. I should have known by the crazed look of her she was desperate, that she’d done something so much worse than I had believed.

I must find her immediately. Before I am hanged for murder. I am but a servant and he a duke. They will not rest until they uncover the truth.

Until they uncover me.

Charlotte

I flip the page, but there are no more entries in Charlotte’s dark, angled cursive. I flip back and forth a few times, trying to figure out what happened.

The next dates are from late 1766. These entries are written in a different handwriting, lighter, curlier than Charlotte’s. I turn back to her entries and do the math.

Sixteen years. There’s a sixteen year gap. I hold my breath as my eyes scan the first entry.

It’s Charlotte’s daughter. Will’s daughter. Cursed to the same fate. My chest tightens and I stop midsentence. I flip several pages, until I spot a new script. This time, it’s eighteen years later. A new girl. Same story. She recaps the last couple of years on the first page. She tells about the first one she killed.

I flip back a few pages. Why did Charlotte stop writing? Did she die, or simply pass the book along to her daughter?

My fingers flip faster and faster as the writing changes again and again and again. I can’t bear to read the stories, not today. I expect they’ll all be painfully familiar.

Just as I am about to slam the book shut, I glimpse the final set of entries.

My mother’s handwriting stares back at me.

The entry isn’t dated on top, like the others, but rather scribbled to the side, as if done in haste. It’s over sixteen years old. I wasn’t even two yet when she wrote it.

I jerk back. It’s the year my father left us. It’s hard to breathe over the lump in my throat as I take in the words on the page.

I told him the truth. I thought that he loved me, that he would stay. If not for me, then for Lexi. But he couldn’t stand the sight of me once he learned what I am. He was gone within hours, while she still slept. He never even told her good-bye.

I blink. My father. She’s talking about my father.

I’ll never show someone my true nature again. This is pain like I’ve never felt. Rejection.

I grind my teeth hard in a desperate attempt to keep the tears at bay. The page is ripped on three of the four edges, as if it had once been longer, but this is all she was willing to save. All she was willing to share for all eternity, with the other girls who would eventually read the book.

I flip the page.

I’ve done the one thing I thought I’d never do .

I’ve killed.

I didn’t know Greg had followed me. I didn’t know he was there, in the shadows, as I stepped into the ocean.

It doesn’t matter how it happened, all that matters is he’s gone. And I’m the one who killed him. It was nearly impossible to let go of his hand, even after it grew cold. I left him there at the edge of the tides for someone else to find.

This pain hurts more than anything I could have imagined, far more than mere rejection. It is impossible to live with.

I want to be there for Lexi, but I can’t go on. I’m no stronger than the others who came before me. I’ll never be happy because I’ll always be a siren.

Lexi, when you read this, please know that my only regret is leaving you.

I sob, a great, choking thing that racks my shoulders. Collapsing into a ball, I push the book off me. It hits the floor with a loud thunk.

I suppose I knew all along my mother killed herself, but seeing it like this, so black and white, is devastating. It was her decision to tie that cinder block to her feet, to leap from the pier.

And hers is the same pain that I live with every day.

What if I’d had this book two years ago? Would I have gone swimming with Steven? I’d like to think no. Never. But I’m not sure if that’s true.

For two hundred and fifty years, every generation gave birth to another girl like me. And every girl lured another man to his death. It was inevitable, my killing Steven.

I know what I am now, what I’ll always be—a siren.

I clutch my knees to my chest and sob even harder, hoping my grandmother can’t hear me.

I walk through the double doors at school, tightening my grip on the straps of my plain black backpack. I’m only a few feet into the hall when it all goes bad. My foot hits something and I fly across the entry. I scramble to stop myself, but all I can do is throw my arms up and brace for impact. My elbows skin on the ugly brown carpet, burn with pain.

I realize belatedly what tripped me: a foot in my path. Someone did it on purpose.

I end up sprawled out, facedown, my backpack thrown forward. I pick up my head. Everyone is staring. Physically, though, I’m okay.

My binder doesn’t fare so well. My assignments and notes are all scattered, strewn across the floor.

I look up again at a sea of my former friends. Sienna, Nikki, Kristi, half of Steven’s former football teammates. Two years ago, they would have had my back if someone had done this to me. It would have been them to help me to my feet, to collect my things.

Instead, they just stand there, smirking. Some even laugh and whisper.

But I won’t let them see that they’re getting to me. I rip my gaze away and take in long, calming breaths. I focus on my anger. On the asshole who must have tripped me.

But it doesn’t matter how hard I try to hide it: they do get under my skin. Not because of their taunts, so much. But because they know the truth, that I’m responsible for Steven’s death. Everything they do to me just reminds me of what I did to him.

I grit my teeth as people begin to turn away, the entertainment officially over. They tread on my binder, shredding my trig homework and leaving dirty footprints in their wake. I snatch up what remains of my homework and shove it into my binder.

Suddenly, a hand appears in front of me, holding a stack of my chemistry notes. My eyes trail from the hand, up to the arm, then shoulder, then neck . . . until I’m staring up at Cole’s face. He looks concerned. “I think these belong to you.”

I look up at him, forcing all emotion from my own face. I stifle a thank you as I stand up, rip the papers from his hands, and shove them inside my bag. For a split second, I let my gaze linger on his.

Then I spin around and stalk off.

Several hours later, I sit in English class, fidgeting in my seat. Sienna and Cole sit too close for comfort. Everyone does.

I wish they would all simply forget my existence. I wish I could forget them, too, but it’s impossible to forget my former life. I ache for the friends I once had, because I know that I can never have them again.

I have to deny myself friends. It’s the only way I’ll stay alive. The only way they’ll stay alive.

And it’s not like they want me back anyway. At Steven’s funeral, Cole tried to talk to me, but I wasn’t ready to talk to anyone. And then seconds later, Sienna showed up, told me I had no right to be there, and, in a final display of emotion, slapped me.

Cole grabbed her by the waist and hauled her away, screaming; and by the next time I saw her at school, she’d withdrawn, created a cool, detached image that fools everyone. Everyone but me.