Wreckage

The Tracking Board’s

2016 Launch Pad Manuscript Competition

Wreckage

Chapter One

I have tried so hard to forget, but memory is a stubborn thing. Memories linger no matter what I do. They’re there all the time – and worse. Even my dreams aren’t safe. I have vicious nightmares, and they’re real, too real, and suddenly I’m back there. I can’t will them away, I can’t squeeze them away, and the more I try, the more they burrow in my head. I want to cut open my skull and dig my fingers into my brain and just pull them out.

I press the Call Nurse button.

This place, this room – it’s no better than a white coffin. Sometimes I feel like the walls are closing in on me and I have to remind myself nothing’s moving. Nothing at all.

Breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe.

A nurse enters. She’s got skin the color of rich walnut. She says, “It’s late, you should be asleep.”

“I can’t.” She tilts her head, knowing it’s a lie. The truth is I don’t want to. “Can I have some coffee?”

“You’ve got to sleep sometime, honey.” She walks over and gently grasps my bandaged hand. “Do you want me to stay with you a while?”

Usually my mom is with me, but she must’ve had to run home. Reduced to a little girl, I nod.

I close my eyes, but my mind runs and runs. Tubes and fluids enter my body, but there’s nothing to stop the anxiety. My heart pounds and sometimes I fear I’m on the cusp of crossing into whatever lies on the other side of sane. Being in the hospital makes it harder. The white walls and sick people only remind me that I am so far from normal. My mom’s apartment in Los Angeles is less than five miles away, but it might as well be a million.

The nurse, staff, doctors, everyone, they all know me for one thing. The thing that will define me for the rest of my life. I am a survivor. The only survivor of Air Brazil, the plane that crashed into the Amazon jungle carrying 134 passengers, 37 of them students, teachers and chaperones from Riverdale Academy High. I used to hear about plane crashes and wondered how the victims felt in the seconds before impact. Wondered what it was like to know you were about to die.

Now I know. And I’d give anything not to.

I knew those people from school. Every. Single. One.

They aren’t faceless names. They are people and they are dead.

The counselor didn’t help, either. She told me not to feel guilty. Survivor’s guilt, she called it. She warned I could expect to be angry and sad. I could expect to be confused. I wanted to tell her I was angry and sad and confused long before I got onto that plane.

My counselor told me to write my story down. By writing I could make sense of all that happened. I keep thinking if I remember everything the way I need to that the memories will fade away. That I can accept what happened. I can accept that I survived and everyone else died.

The laptop on my nightstand is waiting for me. I’m scared to touch it.

###

I was dead to the world and when I came to I was drowning. Water gushed into my mouth and I was tumbling, flailing, not knowing what end was up or down. I heard the sounds of screaming and the roaring of water and then nothingness. Coming up for air, I held something, something rectangular. I was holding a seat cushion. It kept me afloat. I was in a river. Why am I in a river? I kicked and kicked and it made no difference. I never believed in God, an all-powerful being that allowed so many horrible things to happen, but as I saw the rocks up ahead, I prayed.

The current sped faster, churning like boiling water and I thought I was going to die.

I was 17 and I was going to die.

All the time wasted. All the things I never got to do.

I had one thought over and over: I don’t want to die. Someone else, but not me.

I held onto that seat cushion for dear life and plunged into the rapids. I was a human rag doll. The torrent sucked me into a watery hell and I couldn’t breathe, my eyes shut, mouth shut, face tight against the murk, willing everything to stop. I couldn’t breathe. I started to panic.

Someone else, but not me.

I needed air, my body screamed for it and I opened my mouth about to take in water when I bubbled up to the surface and gasped, empty, and just as soon was taken under again. I slammed against the rocks and buried my face deeper into the cushion. I saw nothing, heard nothing and imagined I was in a womb and could only wait for the terror to pass. There was no outlet: I couldn’t scream, my fear so deep, so real it was tangible, an actual substance that enveloped my body, my brain, my very being. I receded further and further within myself, a dark hole, my entire body a taut muscle.

Suddenly, I took a shot to the head and saw stars. A high-pitched squeal rang in my ears. I fought the growing sensation of darkness that threatened to overcome me, but I knew to give in meant death. I was tempted. So, so tempted. I forced my eyes open and saw the water, the dark water and wondered in that emptiness if I hadn’t died already.

My prayer must’ve been heard.

The water calmed and I was spit out near a bend. I realized I had to give up the cushion, my lifeline – it was holding me back. I let go, cursing myself as it floated away and I swam, giving everything I had. My body had nothing left, but I commanded it, willed it, to swim. As I approached the shore, my shoes finally touched bottom and I heaved myself onto land.

I don’t know how long I lay there catching my breath. But there is no greater feeling of security than the sensation of the earth beneath your stomach, hands grabbing dirt. The scent of decay and wet leaves smelled like a bouquet. All this time I’d taken it for granted, the ground beneath me, this place to rest.

I was soaked. My jeans pressed against me, my hair drenched, my socks squished against my feet. I didn’t understand. I had left on a flight from Los Angeles with a layover in Panama City and then onto Asuncion, Paraguay for a year-end class trip. We were traveling as an inter-disciplinary trip for history, international relations, foreign language and biology. We were going to have the trip of a lifetime.

Then it hit me, a delayed reaction: I’d almost drowned. I’d almost died. My body seized and I was overwhelmed. I cried; I didn’t even know why or for what, but I sobbed on that little stretch of dirt. I heaved, gasping for breath. Every inhale was a wheeze, and I caught myself hitting the ground, my hands balled into tight fists, pounding and pounding.

Moments passed and I cried myself empty. I told myself: get up. You have to get up.

I placed my hands in the dirt to help me stand and looking around thought what is this place? There was green everywhere, too much green, and a river the width of three football fields in front of me. The air was heavy, a physical pressure against my skin. I was in the jungle, a tangled web of trees and totally foreign. Any other time, I might’ve been amazed by its majesty, only now I felt small. Trees towered behind me, the river flowed in front, and I was trapped.

It was then I felt the weight of my cross-body bag. I’d been wearing it the whole time. Not very heavy, I managed to unhook it and was about to open the zipper when I heard screams.

Floating down the river were more people. I wasn’t alone! A ripple of joy overtook me until I saw their faces. I had no mirror, but looking at them I could sense my own – bruised, bleeding and utterly thrashed.

Exhausted, I shouted, my voice hoarse, “Over here!” I waved my hands over my head. “You can do it,” I encouraged. “Almost there!”

Some didn’t move at all. They floated, faces down, rolling through the current, lost in the rapids, disappearing for far too long. Those were the ones who didn’t thrash. Others were swept in the rapids, their screams barely heard over the rushing water, only to be silenced on the other end. I was watching people die. The bodies were like a small leak, trickling down the river a few at a time, and yet almost none of them emerged alive on the other side of the rocks. I couldn’t save them. They were too far away.

Someone else, but not me.

I didn’t mean like this.

Then I saw Viv and my heart nearly stopped.

She struggled in the water, past the rapids, a bobber about to go under. She was never athletic, even though she was stick thin. Water gurgled from her mouth and she barely moved. I couldn’t bear to lose her. I wouldn’t allow it. I was terrified of my own exhaustion, but I jumped into the water and found a strength I never knew. I swam out to her. Her head dipped under the water and I would not let that be the last time I saw my best friend alive. I grasped her floatation cushion and then headed back to shore.

She looked at me, dazed. “Emily, it’s you.”

“Yes, it’s me.” I could barely contain my relief.

The sun shone over my head, reflecting in the ripples. “You look like an angel.”

I knew Vivian was out of it. “Stop talking now. Just swim. We’re going to be okay.”

I reached the shore for a second time and pulled her up with me. Once on land, she pulled me into a hug and nothing had ever felt better. Always shorter than me, her face burrowed into my chest and I felt I was protecting an abandoned baby bird. Her inky dark hair, usually so pretty was now plastered to her head, her make-up washed away, and she was just this tiny thing. Her whole body shivered. “Tell me it’s a dream, tell me it’s a dream….”

“I wish it was, Viv.” I would’ve stayed hugging her if not for the other people in need of help.

Nico, Viv’s immature boyfriend, splashed ashore, his glasses gone, his nose bloody, red steaks smeared across his face. He was panting and heaved over, and I thought he might throw up. We had a history, but there was no time for irritation. Any familiar face was cause for celebration. He seemed surprised to see me. “You made it.”

He then eased Viv from my arms and into his.

Further down the river there was movement. It was Derek, all limbs and urgency, his face pockmarked with acne and not a hint of stubble. He splashed onto shore, his fingers digging into sand and he kissed the earth.

Twenty yards away, Ryan Wray followed. One of his prosthetic legs was missing – he’d lost his legs below the knee after contracting a rare case of meningitis a few years earlier – and he crab-walked onto land, his one pant leg empty, wet and flat. He wasn’t alone. He helped carry Mean Molly with him. She was far from mean then, almost drowned, flustered and frantic. Once she got out of the water, she toppled in the mud, curling into a fetal position.

I stayed where I was as Ryan, Molly and Derek staggered along the shore, finally meeting up.

There was no time to rest or reflect. The river scattered more survivors along the shore. I pulled in a man and stopped in alarm when I saw that one of his arms had snapped off. I gently laid him down and he didn’t even notice until he turned his head. He said with an eerie calm, “That looks painful.” I recognized him from the plane. He’d sat a few aisles in front of me and slammed back drinks whenever we hit a patch of turbulence. On land, he didn’t even scream. His face was pale and blood spurted in rhythmic pulses from below his shoulder.

“What do we do?” Nico said.

I had no clue. I only knew we needed to do something. “Derek, your belt!”

Derek looked from his perch on the mud and shook his head. I couldn’t believe it.

“Derek, give me your belt! He’s losing too much blood.”

Derek, in shock or otherwise, didn’t move.

I searched for anything that would act as a tourniquet. But my efforts were in vain. The man’s blood had fallen to a dribble, leaving a red puddle in the mud.

Another woman emerged from the water like a swamp creature, stumbling. We sat her down and she gazed at the water. She had a head injury like mine. Blood ran from her scalp and there was a small spot where her hair had been chaffed away. It wasn’t a wound. It was a hole. Looking closer, I could see something I didn’t want to – her skull and what lay within. Her eyelids fluttered and she swayed, falling unconscious. I tried to grab her, but gravity took her to the ground. I nudged her once, twice; she didn’t respond. “Wake up,” I pleaded. “Please wake up.” She never moved again.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to run from this place.

It seemed like a Halloween parade. They had to be in costume or using special effects – the injuries and deaths couldn’t be real.

They were all too real.

One man drifted to shore, his face down in the water, his wispy gray hair splayed out on the water’s surface. We grabbed ahold of him, and he was heavy, far too heavy for his slender body. We saw why. The floatation device had kept him afloat, but he’d drowned somewhere along the way.

The last man we helped suffered so many burns his face was charred and etched in pain – I had the horrible thought of grill marks on steak. Once on land he jumped back into the water. Maybe the water had soothed him. I tried to reach out and grab him – “Let me help you!” But he was hysterical, too fast, and we watched as he floated away. I tell myself that he would’ve probably died anyway.

It’s terrible that I only knew them as The Woman, the Old Man, the Man Without an Arm and the Burned Man. Somewhere people knew their names, their histories, secrets and loves. Many of them rested at our feet, their chests still, mouths open. We were among the dead, and I found that we all, consciously or not, distanced ourselves from the horror.

###

The six of us stood on the shore, a hodge-podge of strained relationships, but I hoped the past meant nothing now. Silence fell over us. My voice felt robotic. “What happened?”

They looked at me as if I was stupid and in that moment I knew.

You’ve been in a plane crash.

You’ve been in a plane crash and you survived.

Viv broke down crying. “Where’s everyone else?” I asked.

“Where do you think?” said Ryan.

There had been a whole planeload of people, 37 of them from our school. My English teacher, Mr. DeKoning. We couldn’t be the only ones left. Things like this didn’t happen. At least not to us. To me.

I struggled, trying to remember, and yet there was only me sitting in my cramped seat, my body wracked with discomfort after such a long flight, the recycled air making my skin feel plastic, and then this. “How did we end up in the water?”

Ryan looked at me, stunned. “You don’t remember?”

I shook my head.

“Maybe it’s better that way.”

Derek rose. “The plane crashed into the Amazon. At least that’s what the map on my seat showed. You don’t remember bracing yourself? The flight attendants freaking out?”

“She said no, Derek!” This from Viv.

Derek said, “The plane broke apart. Flooded. We were lucky to get out.”

I didn’t remember any of it. “How did I get out?”

“Same way we did,” Derek said. “We were all sitting near each other. Near the exit rows. Threw on our life jackets or grabbed seat cushions and jumped in the water. A lot of people….” He paused. “A lot of people didn’t.” Derek looked at the dead adults. “They did, though.” He spit near the dead bodies.

“What are you talking about?”

“You should’ve seen ‘em claw over everyone. Trampled over people. They scratched and pushed their way out. There were no heroes on that plane. Not them, at least. They deserved to die.”

Nico shot back, “No one deserved to die. No one.”

“I don’t know,” Derek said. “Bet if you checked under their fingernails, you’d find human skin.”

Ryan interrupted, “Anyone see Conlin?” We shook our heads. Pete Conlin was Ryan’s best friend. “He was sitting right next to me. He was right there.” Ryan peered out over the water, as if he could see Pete in the distance. “He was right next to me.”

I don’t remember what I did next. Maybe I cried. Maybe I fell on the ground. I receded back inside myself where nothing could hurt me. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. Beyond the wreckage and bodies, we were in some kind of Garden of Eden, untouched by humans, as pristine as anything I’d ever seen, canopies of trees, and plants and flowers like colorful origami, a perfume of nature, and yet we’d fallen from the sky. I hunched over, shivering, saying to myself I am safe, I am safe, I am safe.

Our layers of clothes were so wet there was no point in wearing them. Derek was missing a shoe. Most of Nico’s pants were ripped from the waist down. Viv’s designer sweatpants clung to her body. Ryan fiddled with his remaining prosthetic leg, knocking sand loose from the joints and making sure it moved properly. Disjointed and detached from his body, it looked out of place, like the rest of this nightmare. With his jeans rolled up, I saw his stump covered in scar tissue.

Derek stood near the jungle’s entrance, a quizzical look on his face, almost scientific. He didn’t seem all that fazed, and even ran his hand over some of the trees, feeling their bark. I wondered what was wrong with him.

Molly sat on the shore, plopped down like a scoop of soft-serve ice cream, her head in her hands. She sat alone, and I felt bad for her, but she had earned the nickname Mean Molly for a reason. I got up anyway and approached her. Even as I asked it, I felt stupid. “Are you okay?”

She ignored me. Then she spoke. “I never wanted to come on this trip.”

Molly didn’t once look at me. She just kept staring ahead. I left her alone.

Viv, Nico and I formed a triangle on the ground. Viv and Nico leaned into each other, and Viv’s crying went from a soft cry into heaves of despair. “I just want to go home. I just want to go home.”

We didn’t know it then, but the jungle was to become our home for far too long.

###

In the minutes that we sat or stood, there was just present time. As if time had stopped altogether. Nico shook his silver watch, its face cracked, hands motionless. He sighed and slipped it back on. Then he took off one of his soaked tennis shoes and peeled off a wet sock. He reached inside the sock and pulled out a plastic baggie. The baggie was tightly wound and he unrolled it, revealing about an eighth of marijuana. Finding it dry, he smiled. “Small victories.” Nico was a smart kid, on the National Honor Society, and some of the kids never understood how he got such good grades when he smoked so much pot.

Viv stopped crying, and asked, “You brought that on the plane? You could’ve been arrested.”

Nico replied ruefully, “Maybe it would’ve been better if I was.”

He pinched off a bud, intertwined with what looked like orange hairs, and offered it to me. I’d tried pot once or twice, but it made me feel paranoid. That’s the last thing I needed. He offered the bud to Viv. She shook her head.

“You’re going to eat it?”

He shrugged. “Can’t smoke it.”

“Nico, please…I need you. Don’t.”

He rubbed his nose, trying to move it from side to side, and grimaced. “I think it’s broken. Hurts.” Then he popped the bud into his mouth and swallowed, cringing. “Hurts a lot.” Still feeling her judgmental gaze, he said, “Not now, Viv. Not now.”

She looked away, too overwhelmed to argue.

This had happened. This had actually happened. Yet, the feeling of unreality permeated everything. I kept thinking any minute now a friendly tour guide would pop out from behind the overgrowth and ask, “Had enough?” Then he’d bring us to a concession stand and we’d find we were all in a theme park, one giant theme park – the latest in Disney’s effort to bring the jungle to the masses.

No tour guide came.

Moments passed.

My fight-or-flight endorphins began to wane and my body suddenly felt very, very tired. My head throbbed, a remnant from slamming into the rocks.

Ryan stood, his one leg attached back on, gripping a tree for balance. He was the school athlete and took to running track with custom blades. Some of the kids he picked on, including Derek, called him Darth Vader, “more machine than man, twisted and evil.” But no one had the guts to say it to his face.

He rubbed his hands over his buzz cut. “Is everybody okay?” When we looked at him stunned, he added, “I meant, any injuries?”

Everyone seemed to be able to move their fingers and toes.

Derek said, “I say we go back up the river, that’s where the search party will look first.” He was normally an awkward kid at school, but he spoke with more authority now.

Ryan said, “Did you see the rapids we just went through? No way we’re going back that way.”

“I’m telling you, there’ll be search parties. They’ll be looking for us where the plane went down. It’s that way.” Derek pointed up the churning river. “The further we move, the harder it’ll be for them to find us.”

“You see those rock cliffs?” Ryan pointed to the side of the rapids we’d just come through. Jagged cliffs about three stories high bookended the river. “We’re not going back.” Looking the other direction, he said, “We can walk this.” For as far as we could see, the land was flat, the river cooled to a normal current, and there seemed to be a mud path next to it.

Derek argued, “I actually know what I’m talking about.”

“No one cares what you think. The river leads to the ocean, I know that much. There’s gotta be a village along here somewhere.”

I said, “Why can’t we stay here?” Ignoring me was something Ryan and Derek could agree on. I added, “We might have injuries we don’t even know about. Internal ones.”

Ryan said, “All the more reason we need to find help.”

Viv said, “I think Em’s right. Why don’t we stay here?”

Ryan snapped, “Because we have to do something. I’m not just gonna sit here and wait. I’m not just gonna hope. We need to move. We need to move down river. That’s where I’m going.”

Derek looked at the rest of us. “You’re all just gonna sit there and listen to him?”

“Derek,” I said, trying to calm him down. “Let’s take a vote.”

“Take a vote?”

Viv looked up. “Then go by yourself.”

Derek scanned the group. “Okay. Let’s vote. Who wants to come with me?” He raised his hand. No one else did. Defeat spread across his face. Out of sympathy, I raised my hand.

“Really, Em?” asked Viv.

I considered, looking at the determination on Ryan’s face and put my hand down. It was decided. We would head down the river, towards the ocean. I hoped Ryan was right. Rather than trek off by himself, Derek stuck with the safety of the group. Peer pressure, it seemed, was as powerful in the jungle as it was in high school.

For the strangest reason, the poem by Robert Frost popped into my head. “The Road Not Taken.”

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

We would take the road less traveled that was for sure. But whether it made all the difference, I would never know.

Chapter Two

I’ve loved to read ever since I was a kid. Books gave me an escape from my own forgettable life. They took me to places I’ll probably never see. Introduced me to people and events and made me feel less alone. Words aren’t just words; they’re alchemy. But it’s one thing to read and another to write. Writing, I’m finding, is an exorcism. I type on my laptop and it’s torture. Remembering every detail is like ripping pieces of skin off my body where even the weight of air feels excruciating. Yet there is an underlying sense of relief to feel I am letting go. That’s probably what my counselor wanted all along. For me to let go.

I wonder if I can. I wonder if I want to.

I will only tell this story once. It’s too painful to ever do again.

There’s a knock at the door. The door slowly opens and it’s Miranda Wert, Derek’s mother. Miranda is usually so put together. Not today. She’s without make-up and her face seems hidden by dark sunglasses. Her clothes weigh her down and her hair, which I thought was always straight, is wavy, probably its natural state. There’s a frailness about her, as if a strong gust might send her to the floor. She stands in the doorway, her gaze lost on me, and I wonder if she’s picturing her son alive instead of me.

It’s not the same, but I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose my mom. We don’t have the best of relationships, but she’s all I have.

Mrs. Wert stands, hesitating, her hand on the doorknob as if waiting for me to invite her in.

“Mrs. Wert?”

Her dark sunglasses face me. “Emily.” Her voice sounds far away.

“Come in.”

She lingers near the door. “I didn’t know if this was a good time….”

“It’s fine.”

“I can always come back.”

Now that she’s here, it’s like she wants to leave. “Now’s fine, really.”

She walks into the room and stops a few feet from my bed. Her mouth opens to speak, and then shuts. Her head drops. “I’m sorry,” she sighs. “I didn’t even bring flowers.”

“It’s okay.”

She looks around the room as if getting her bearings. “How are you feeling?”

“Not sure. They say I’m getting better. Doesn’t feel like it, though.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing here….”

“Please stay.”

She sits down and we share an awkward silence. She fidgets, absentmindedly picking at her cuticles. They’re raw and red. I finally say, “I’m sorry about your son.” I mentally cringe. Saying nothing would be better.

“No one told me what happened,” she says. “I mean, they did in general terms. The plane crashed due to mechanical failure. You were the only survivor. But no one told me what happened to my son. What really happened.”

“The plane crashed from mechanical failure?”

“No one told you?”

I shake my head. It’s weird. Knowing why the plane went down doesn’t seem all that important. It certainly doesn’t fix anything.

Miranda says, “I kept up on the news for a while and then couldn’t. I haven’t been outside….” She seems to be mentally counting the days. “Since the funeral.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come.” What a stupid thing to say. Trying to say something concrete, I say, “I know a few lawyers have already been in contact with my mom.”

“Lawyers,” she says more to herself. “No amount of money will bring back my son.” She fixes her gaze on me. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Anything to make her feel better.

I tell her how we journeyed into the jungle, living off Derek’s knowledge, eating grubs and drinking water. “All the years you went camping as a family kept us going for quite a while.”

A small smile rests on her lips. “I always hated camping.” She gets out of her chair and goes to the window with its closed blinds. “Do you want these open?”

“No,” I say. “I like them closed.”

She looks at me oddly, her hand on the circular rod and lets go. She crosses back to the chair and takes her glasses off. Her eyes are tired and ragged. I thought in the jungle we looked beaten, but Miranda is the definition of broken. She asks, her voice flat, “How did he die?”

I hesitate. “Are you sure?”

She says, simply, “Yes.”

The room suddenly feels too small and even though the air conditioning is on, I’m uncomfortably warm.

“He was my baby, my little boy….”

“I’ll tell you,” I say. “I’ll tell you what you want to know.” I gather my thoughts and begin. “After so many days, I don’t even remember, we were only alive because of him. His skill at hunting, picking out which food was edible or not. Without him, I wouldn’t be here.”

Miranda pinches the bridge above her nose, and there are tears in her eyes.

“Would you like me to stop?”

“Go on,” she says. “Please.”

“We were out fishing. Derek had a spear and sometimes he’d spearfish. I don’t know how he was able to do it. He let me try a few times, and I always missed. The fish always seemed to see me coming, no matter how fast I was. But Derek, he was a pro. He’d hold the spear right over the water. He knew at just what angle to jab ‘em…we never did find a way to make a fire. But I know if we were there long enough, he would have.”

Mrs. Wert just listens.

“Derek thrived out there. He could take care of himself.” I take a breath and continue. “The day he died, we were out near the river. I see a spot across the way where we haven’t been. There’s a whole patch of mushrooms. So we cross. I thought it was just going to go up to our waist, but suddenly, it drops. The water was deep, and there was a current. Me and Molly fall in and….”

I stop.

“I’m sorry, Emily. I know this is hard for you.”

That only makes me feel worse – that she’s worried how I feel.

“You have to understand, we were so tired. I couldn’t walk more than, I don’t know, it felt like only yards, without being exhausted. We were only eating enough to keep us from starving, so when we fell into the water…we had no strength.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“We were so weak, the water was taking us. And….” I try not to cry. “I wanted to die, Mrs. Wert. I was so tired. We weren’t living. We were just there. I thought we were forgotten, stuck, forever. In that moment, I gave up. I let go. I was saying goodbye when all of a sudden, I felt Derek’s arms around me, and he’s swimming, telling me it’s going to be okay, to just hold on, he’s got me. He swam with me, I don’t know how, carrying me across the river and then he got me on shore. He rescued me. He literally saved my life.”

“As I’m lying there, catching my breath, he goes back in. Molly was still in trouble. The current was taking her and she was getting further and further away. I knew he was tired. I said his name. I don’t think he heard me. Derek swam but when he got to her, she panicked. She was flailing. Derek tried to calm her down, but she was so scared. He held onto her even though she didn’t know what she was doing….”

I cry and I see that Miranda is crying.

“They drowned, Mrs. Wert. They hit some rocks, and they went face down. He never came back out. I don’t think he was in any pain.”

The only sound in the room is us. Mrs. Wert covers her face with her hands and she’s trembling. I hear her muffled sobs.

“I won’t lie, Mrs. Wert. While we were there we did things to survive. Things we would regret. But at the end, when it counted, your son was a hero.”

Miranda reaches her hand to mine and holds on tight. “Thank you, Emily. Thank you so much.” We stay this way for minutes, her hand grasping mine in little pulses. Then she stands up and wipes her tears. “I didn’t want to cry.”

“I know it’s not much, Mrs. Wert.”

“It’s everything.” She places her sunglasses back on and gathers herself. She wipes her clothes as if she’s spilled crumbs on them. “He was an only child, you know? Sometimes I wonder what that makes me now.”

“His mother.”

She has the faintest of smiles. “I know he’s not here. But I’m glad you are, Emily. When this is all over, don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“I promise,” I lie. If we ever met, she’d see the ghost of her son next to me. I wouldn’t inflict that pain on her. “Thanks for coming, Mrs. Wert.”

She’s at the door and straightens herself, mentally making herself presentable before she opens it. She turns to me. “Please, call me Miranda.”

“Miranda.”

Then she’s gone.

It’s a nice story. A nice story for a mother to hear, but unfortunately not true. That’s not the real story at all. The real story is much more complicated.

###

We trekked along the river, its water brown and muddy, staying close to the shore. If we got lucky, maybe we’d see a boat. No one said anything, all of us shaken in disbelief and shock. My brain seemed to go slack, as if it simply overloaded and switched off.

Ryan had found a knobby stick and used it as a crutch. He limped along and if we survived I knew exactly how he’d look as an old man. It was slow going. All around it smelled of wet earth and dirt.

Next to us the forest sang. It was a cacophony of noise – insects buzzing, birds squawking, frogs croaking and in the distance, did I hear howling?

Nico perked up at the sound, his eyes saucer wide. Stoned, he said, “This is crazy. We’re like, in the jungle. Seriously, listen to that….” He tilted his head, following the sounds. “It’s, like, stereophonic.”

Though I envied his sense of wonder, I hoped in his altered state he would keep his mouth shut. I didn’t want him to say something he shouldn’t.

After a time, the shoreline grew thinner, forcing us to the river’s edge until up ahead the path disappeared altogether. It was either swim or veer into the jungle.

No one said they were scared, but it was obvious. At least here you could see. Who knew what lay behind the wall of green? But there was no choice.

Entering the rainforest was like passing through a green curtain into a massive haunted room. It was as claustrophobic as I feared. We could only see a few feet in front of us, like a bank of fog, except it was trees and vines, trees that soared well into the sky, vines that grew at impossible angles and thick waxy leaves that blotted out the sun.

Thin shafts of light pierced through the canopy of trees, and sunlight barely touched bottom. The air was humid and sticky, as though we walked through gelatinous water. The temperature dropped by ten degrees and my clothes chaffed against my skin, soon to go raw if I didn’t get dry.

I didn’t like it. Not at all.

If we were slow going before, we were now reduced to a crawl. The growth was thick, sometimes up to our knees, and tangles of branches caught on our legs as if the jungle was actively trying to trip us. In some places we couldn’t see the jungle floor. The ground itself wasn’t firm, but spongy, like a carpet of memory foam mattresses.

All was alien, a blast of green and brown, a soundscape of nature turned up to ten, and a whole swath of dense monotony. One tree so like another, it’s as if we were moving in place.

Viv’s breathing started to go shallow. She was fighting a panic attack. Nico stopped and took her in his arms. “Viv, it’s okay. Look at me. Look in my eyes.”

“The jungle,” she stammered, “it’s closing in on us.”

“It’s not, Viv. It’s not. We’ll be okay.”

Viv fought the hysteria rising in her voice. “We’re gonna die, we’re gonna die….” She was hyperventilating, and I was angry that she brought my own fear – my own doubts – to the surface. “We’re gonna die out here. No one will ever know what happened to us.”

Molly stepped up to Viv and sharply slapped her in the face. We all stopped. This never would’ve happened back at school.

Nico pushed Molly away. “The hell you do that for?”

Molly nodded toward Viv. “She seems fine now.”

Sure enough, Viv did. The slap took the fear out of her and replaced it with anger.

###

In P.E. class, a volleyball smacked against my head. I hated volleyball. I hated track. I hated P.E. To me it was a wasted hour that I could have spent sleeping in, reading the latest John Green, or doing a million other things than mandated exercise. The only thing I liked was seeing how the unisex gym shorts and shirts made all the girls look the same, even the most endowed of us. In gym class, no one looked good. No one stood out. It was fashion communism.

P.E. was the only class I shared with Molly Higgins. She was a year older than me, a Senior, and while I don’t like judging people or being critical about appearances (I’m well aware of my own issues), there’s no denying that she’s, well, big. But there were a lot of big people in high school. What made Molly stand out was her face. With a permanent frown and exaggerated bone structure, she looked like an angry bull. It says something about her that she earned the nickname Mean Molly over Fat Molly. I never saw anyone pick on her. Not even in whispers. I’d heard that in grade school she beat up boys and smacked around girls. The reputation stuck.

One time after gym class, we went into the locker room. Molly stood across from me, and I watched her change. She took off her shirt and I saw the rolls of fat and I felt a stab of pity. It must be very hard to be Molly Higgins. Then she caught me staring.

She said, “Think you’re better than me?”

“No.”

“Then what? You like girls?”

“No,” I sputtered.

“Then stop staring.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s right,” she said. “You are sorry.”

###

We moved like numb marionettes, moving for the sake of moving, in a line, one behind the other. It was the easiest way to travel. Not side-by-side but single file, as if moving through a tunnel. Suddenly, Molly stopped, breathing in short bursts. I thought she might be having a heart attack.

Ryan said, “We have to keep moving.”

“I can’t.”

We stopped, each privately grateful for the break, and grateful we weren’t the cause. One minute became two and two became three. Ryan tried to lift her. “C’mon, Molly.”

“Don’t touch me!”

“Molly.” Not a question: a statement: a command.

“I’m tired. I’m hungry. I didn’t even want to take this trip.”

Ryan looked at her coldly. “If you don’t get up and start moving, I will leave you where you are. We will leave you where you are. Is that what you want?”

“I’m tired.”

“We’re all tired!” He took a breath and rubbed his face. She was immovable and he squatted right in front of her, gently lifting her face so that they were eye-to-eye. “Doesn’t matter what your body is telling you. Your body is lying. It’s lazy. But you’re not. You can get up. You can do extraordinary things. If I can do it, you can, too. You can do so much more than you think.”

“I can’t.”
“You can. You will. Say it after me. I can, I will.”

She said quietly, “I’m pregnant….”

We were stunned.

Ryan said, “What? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She looked away in shame. “I was scared. Embarrassed. I should’ve known better.”

Having a baby at her age was going to be a life-changer. No matter our past, I felt sympathetic. I couldn’t imagine becoming a mother. Not for a long time.

Derek asked, “Who’s the father?” I wondered the same thing. I hadn’t seen her around with anyone. Maybe it was someone from a different school.

Viv said, “Does it matter?”

He shrugged. “Just curious.”

So we waited for Molly to catch her breath. I feared if we didn’t move soon, our bodies would turn to stone. After a time, too much time, we began walking again and made our way parallel with the river, towards the ocean and hopefully a village.

My tongue seemed heavy, an appendage that didn’t belong. I tried to remember if we could drink river water, whether it was fresh-water or salt, or if it didn’t matter because of all the bacteria and parasites that polluted it. Probably any water was drinkable with iodine or boiling, but we had no fire, no iodine and no canteen.

No god damn nothing.

I admit the thought of drinking my own urine crossed my mind. I’d seen it done on some Discovery survival show and what had disgusted me then now seemed necessary. But without a bowl or glass I wasn’t even sure it was possible. I was getting desperate enough to drink blood. Kill an animal and gorge on it like some kind of maniac. Anything but die of thirst.

Derek seemed to read my mind. He stopped near a big brown puddle of stagnant water and got on his hands and knees. About two feet from the puddle, he began digging a hole.

Ryan stopped, unsure of what was happening.

Once the hole was about a foot deep, Derek stopped and sat back on his ankles. Water slowly filtered into the hole, rising from the bottom up. The group circled around him.

“Now what?” Ryan asked.

“We wait,” Derek said.

“For what?” I asked.

“The water to filter out and let the dirt settle.”

We continued to stare at this most basic of things – water seeping into a hole and after what seemed like an eternity, the hole was filled.

The water was still brown. Molly said, “Looks gross.”

“Better than dying.” Derek was about to place his face in the water when he stopped. He took a gentlemanly pose, offering the first drink to Molly. She reluctantly obliged and lapped it up like a dog.

I fought the urge to push them all aside and submerge my face, and looking at them, felt they were thinking the same.

Derek went next, followed by Nico and Viv.

Nico asked him, “Where’d you learn to do that?”

Derek looked pointedly at Ryan. “Boy Scouts.”

I could tell Ryan’s pride wanted him to deny the water, but his thirst was too much. Letting his stick drop, he moved to the hole and hopped over. As he took a drink, Derek said, “Betcha don’t think Scouts are such fags now, do you?”

Ryan finished and wiped his hand across his face. He held Derek’s gaze and then got back up, retrieving his stick while I took the last drink. The water was surprisingly cool. To me it tasted like champagne. I was surprised that something so elemental lifted my spirits. This was my Fountain of Youth. We were going to be all right. We would survive. We would be okay.

I was wrong.

Chapter Three

Just because I attended Riverdale Academy High, one of the premiere private high schools in Los Angeles, it didn’t mean I was privileged. Take the parking lot. Lost among the fleet of BMWs, Mercedes and even cars that looked like they could fly when their doors opened, sat my used, dented Honda. I nicknamed it Harriet. No reason. Every morning started with a gentle pat on the dashboard and a soothing c’mon, Harriet. She never failed and carried me within the triangle that was my life: home, school and work.

As a scholarship student, I worked part-time everyday after school at Burger King, home of the Whopper, minimum wage and a large serving of humble pie. No extra-curricular activities for me. Work and study were my two basic food groups.

Derek worked with me, not that he needed money. His parents forced him to work in order to understand the ins-and-outs of business from the ground up. While I worked in the back, he worked the cash register and was the face customers saw, especially ones from our school.

Unfortunately, from our school.

I never really knew Ryan before now. He seemed like one of those people who made decisions easily, as if he was born fully formed, fully adult. One time he came in with his girlfriend-of-the-moment. Her father ran a movie studio and there was talk that he’d buy Ryan’s life-rights for a feel-good-kid-faces-adversity-and-does-well kind of story. Never materialized.

Derek asked, his face emanating grease, “May I take your order?”

Ryan ordered a combo meal. His girlfriend turned to Ryan, and she whispered something while giggling and pointing at Derek’s face.

Derek kept calm, seemingly used to it. But sometimes I caught him looking in the mirror, rubbing his palm over his cratered face and cringing. I could relate, as I often found myself looking in the mirror at home, unhappy with the size of my breasts or the shape of my body.

“Seriously,” she said, “he’s, like, a walking oil slick.”

I watched helplessly from behind the grill. I hated it. Not because of any love for Derek, but anyone who wore the polyester hat like I did was okay in my book. Messing with him was like messing with me.

To my surprise and Ryan’s credit, he said, “Just order, will you?”

She turned to Derek. “I’m not trying to be mean, but you should see a dermatologist. They can fix that, you know. If your parents don’t, that’s like, abuse.” She paused to take in the menu. “I’ll take a burger. No onions.”

I pictured her sticking her finger down her throat and bringing it back up later.

Derek asked, “Anything to drink with that?”

“Just water.”

No, I didn’t spit in her food. That’s gross. But I did wipe her bun on the bottom of my shoe.

###

The heat was oppressive. We were swimming in air, rather than walking through it. I had a constant sheen of moisture on my skin. To distract myself, I pictured wearing a fedora, wielding a whip and machete, and facing any situation with humor, like a female Indiana Jones. It was the only way to pretend this was something adventurous. I told myself we weren’t running from a plane crash; we were running to an Indian tribe who would feed us, save us, and maybe offer us an ancient gold relic with magical powers. Like the power of going home. I lost myself in this mini-fantasy until I got sick of almost tripping, swatting away bugs and fighting the throb of a headache.

Seemingly moving in place from one green prison cell to another was making me dizzy. I fought the sensation of nausea, looking up in the sky to get a point of reference. The rainforest was like a real-life myth: the Minotaur’s labyrinth colored in lime.

Inspired, I said, “Hey.” The formation stopped. “We should leave a mark. A trail. Let rescuers know we’ve been here.”

Nico asked, “With what?”

“I don’t know.” Sensing it was a good idea, everyone searched their pockets and found nothing. Then I noticed my cross-body bag. I finally opened the zipper. Rummaging inside, I found my wallet, cell phone –

I’d forgotten it was there! Even though it was soaked, I pressed the power button and in crazy desperation hoped it would work.

Please, please, please.

“You got your phone?” This from Ryan.

I waited and waited, my hope soaring and soaring, only to crash.

I felt so stupid for allowing myself to believe.

Ryan said, “Throw it here.”

We watched as he tried the button over and over, a holy grail that wasn’t holy anymore. Frustrated, he swore and whipped the phone into the jungle.

Seconds passed and Nico asked, “Any of you carry lipstick?”

Viv wore make-up. She never left the house without it, but she didn’t have her purse. Molly and I went natural.

I looked again in my cross-body bag and pulled out a book. It was small and the pages were wet, the edges curled. It was from my English teacher, Mr. DeKoning. He’d self-published a book of poems.

He’d given me the book and encouraged me to explore writing. He said, “I thought you might like it.” He’d even signed it To Emily, my favorite student.

I opened the book and took a page and ripped it out. It was a poem entitled Longing For What Never Came. I hesitated. This had been a gift, an inspiration. The page lay in my hand, an artifact from the past. I approached a tree and silently said thank you to my teacher and then pierced the page with a branch. “This should work.” The poem hung on the tree. I knew the pages would dissolve in the moisture before too long; I only hoped we were rescued before that happened. Just as Theseus had left string in the Minotaur’s labyrinth in order to escape, so did I. Page by page, branch by branch, I left little signposts of paper in our wake.

###

The café was dark. A barista with a handlebar mustache gave us our lattes. Hipsters flitted to and fro, socializing among themselves. A lone microphone stood near the back. Viv turned to me. “So, we’re here on a Wednesday night for…caffeine?”

“Wait, you’ll see.”

We took a seat away from the ad hoc “stage” – a tiny wooden plank – and sipped our drinks. I felt alive and excited, and couldn’t tell if it was the caffeine or the thrill of coming here. After a few minutes, a balding man with suspenders came to the microphone, cleared his throat and thanked the sprinkling of audience members for coming to tonight’s poetry reading.

Viv’s eyebrows leapt up. “You brought us here for poetry?”

“C’mon, give it a chance. It won’t be that bad.”

“Em, it’s poetry,” as if that said it all. She checked her phone and engaged in a text conversation I wasn’t privy to. She asked, “Why couldn’t I have brought Nico?”

“I don’t know, Viv. I want a girls’ night every once in a while.”

The first speaker must’ve been an alcoholic because he spoke lovingly about his affair with a beer bottle, and how after they broke up he smashed the bottle, only to try and piece it back together like Humpty-Dumpty. The second guy did some mash-up of words talking so fast I couldn’t tell what the point was other than a kind of spoken Jackson Pollack painting.

Then the balding man introduced the next speaker, as simply, Johannes. I saw him rise from the audience. He looked over the scattered crowd, his eyes finding mine, surprise on his face.

“Hey,” Viv whispered. “It’s Mr. DeKoning.”

Mr. DeKoning seemed nervous, so much different than how he stood in front of the classroom. In class, he exuded a youthful confidence. He was the kind of teacher everybody wants: funny, almost our age (well, 24, but only a few years out of college), with an interesting history: he was first-generation Dutch, which brought an avalanche of jokes and comments about Amsterdam’s red light district. Of course he was handsome, but not in that cocky, bad-boy way. He was sensitive and loved literature. He held a piece of paper in his hands, and the page slightly shook from his nervousness. I found it endearing.

“This is titled Longing For What Never Came.” His nervousness disappeared as he spoke, less words and more emotion translated into air.

I listened and felt I was seeing into his soul.

“He’s good,” Viv whispered.

He was speaking to me, as if the words were written for me. About me.

As he finished, he’d mesmerized the whole audience, and I so wished I’d recorded it on my cell phone. It was seriously one of those things that would’ve gone viral. The audience gave a hearty applause.

I watched as he sat down, alone. No girlfriend, no posse of supporters. No fellow teachers.

Viv and I stayed for the rest, but the other speakers were forgettable. The balding man closed out the event, our coffees were empty, and I told Viv I was going to say hi to him.

“Ask him for his autograph,” she teased.

As I approached him, a wave of pleasant anticipation filled me. “Hi,” I said.

“Hi. Didn’t expect anyone would show.”

“Why not? You invited the whole class.” I couldn’t tell if he was depressed by the lack of student participation or relieved.

“I kinda knew in the back of my head no one would come. Poetry’s poetry, you know? Hard to get people excited by it.”

“Um,” I said, pointing at myself. “Hello?” I had to admit I came because I was probably a teacher’s pet, but there was no denying my curiosity about him.

Around us, the café started to empty. “I appreciate it. I really do.”

“Was this your first time?”

“It was,” and he laughed. “Could you tell?”

“Not at all.”

“I purposely invited people, otherwise I might’ve bailed. Forced me to show up.”

Talking to him felt like talking to…not a teacher. But a normal guy. “I loved it. Your poem, I mean. Definite A+.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s way better than the stuff we read in class.” I quickly added, “Nothing against your assignments.”

“I doubt T.S Eliot and Maya Angelou would feel the same.”

“No, really. I feel like I saw a side of you that you keep hidden. And maybe you shouldn’t…’cause it’s nice. That side.” I blushed. “Sorry if I just got corny on you.”

“Not at all.” He looked at me differently. I could feel the shift. “Thanks, Emily. It means a lot. Now you can see if I’m preaching what I teach. Or if I’m just a total BSer.” In class he’d always called us by our last names. Like Ms. Duran.

I returned the salutation. “See you in class, Johannes.” I walked away, feeling his eyes on me and I felt…connected somehow. As if I just met the missing piece of the puzzle that was me.

In the car on the way home, Viv said, “So that’s why we went there.” She playfully sang the kissing song: “First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage!”

“It’s nothing like that, Viv. He’s, like, old.”

“He’s cute, isn’t he?”

“Very cute,” I agreed. “But not my type.”

“Liar.”

That night, I tossed and turned in my bed, feeling a heat within me I’d never felt before. I was crushing hard – on a teacher, no less. Not that it would go anywhere. Of course it would never go anywhere. Why couldn’t I just date someone my own age? I’d tried, but they were boys. They talked about getting drunk and told jokes stolen from the internet; nothing they ever did was original, as if they were trying on different personas to see which one would stick. Boys my age didn’t interest me. But Johannes DeKoning did, with his ever-so-slight Dutch accent and his Dutch-boy blonde hair and his professorial knowledge of literature. He was a man, a man of the world, and I was eager to learn.

Nothing would come of it, that was certain. Nothing at all.

###

We heard the river, its current resonating deep and wide. The river leads to the ocean, that’s what Ryan had said. There has to be a village nearby. We veered towards it, stepping out of the overgrowth. A group of butterflies fluttered across the river, big and bright, and I felt they were a good omen.

Ryan stopped first. Then the rest of us.

Bodies littered the river, caught in the rocks.

Not people, not any longer: bodies.

Bodies from the wreckage. Thirty, maybe forty or more. I didn’t count. I wouldn’t; they weren’t objects to be counted.

They must’ve floated downstream as the plane flooded and got caught in the river’s eddy. They bobbed in the water. On TV, it always looks as if dead people are merely like live ones, just not moving. As if life itself had evaporated from them leaving a calm husk in its place. This was real life, and they were dead: faces tinted blue, the skin no longer skin, but waxy, and the eyes dark orbs. Flies flecked over them, emerging from open mouths. How odd not to see someone blink.

Molly pointed into the water. Her voice was flat. “Him. I sat next to him. He told me his name, but I don’t remember it. He hogged my armrest.”

Pieces of wreckage floated on the water, bits of suitcases, a backpack or two, air sickness bags. I saw a teddy bear and I wanted to cry.

Then I saw movement.

The bodies weren’t bobbing because of the current. They were bobbing because of something underneath. The bodies rose up and down in minuscule beats, pulled down, and then allowed to rise. Little concentric circles rippled from their herky-jerky spasms.

Under them the water turned red.

This. Can’t. Be.

This was nature at work. Meat was in the water. The piranhas were having a feast.

Repulsed and hysterical, I rushed into the water, the water up to my ankles, and I screamed, “Leave them alone! Leave them alone!” I tried to shoo them away, when I felt Nico’s arms around me. He picked me up and carried me out of the water and the next thing I knew I was on shore.

“Don’t ever do that!” He took my face in his hands. “You can’t save them. You can’t stop it.” He released me and I looked past him.

The water churned like miniature blenders, and if I watched closely I could see the remnants of more passengers. Seat cushions and clothes I thought had come loose from suitcases: they hadn’t come from suitcases. The torn jeans, the ripped shirts, they were all that was left.

I wanted to be sick, but nothing came up. Just the taste of bile. I couldn’t even cry; I was too dehydrated. How messed up is that? To want to cry only to have your body deny you.

Viv sat next to me, her arm around my back and she leaned her head on my shoulder. “Just look away, Emily. There’s nothing there.”

“But there is.”

She gently turned my head away. “What kind of flower is that?”

I knew what she was trying to do, distracting me, but I couldn’t help but turn back and stare. “It’s random, Viv. It’s all so random. Why did we live and they didn’t? Why did we make it on shore and no one else did? Why were we special?”

“I don’t know, Emily.”

“I don’t know, either.”

Viv looked me in the eye. “Do you wish you were them?”

“No.”

“Then look away.”

I was about to when Derek ran into the water. I thought it was the most ridiculous way to commit suicide. I thought of all the taunts he’d gotten at school; how kids took his last name “Wert,” and chanted “Wart! Wart! Wart!”; how with gangly steps that only highlighted his lanky frame, he was trying to end it all with some story that would make him infamous – “the guy who got eaten by piranha.”

I shouted, “Stop!”

No one tried to save him like Nico had saved me.

But Derek wasn’t trying to commit suicide. He splashed out of the water almost as fast as he’d gotten in. Wet up to his knees, he carried a piece of metal. I couldn’t tell if it was a piece of the plane’s wing or what, but it was triangular. He held it in his hand, about two feet in length, and he ran his finger over the edge, satisfied it was sharp.

Ryan mocked him. “What the fuck, fucktard?”

Derek said, “You might want to rephrase that. I’m the one with a hatchet.” To prove his point, with a few solid whacks he cut a vine from off a tree.

“You never cease to amaze me with your weirdness.”

“What’s weird about me getting a tool? You understand how I just helped you? Helped all of us?”

“Look at what you did to get it.”

Derek turned to Ryan. “You know what’s weird? I keep thinking, like a bad habit, your football friends are gonna have your back. Like you and Conlin. That he’s hiding behind some tree, just waiting for me to look the other way and then boom! Push me to the ground. Or knock shit out of my hands. Or if he’s feeling really generous, pretend to rape me. That’s what you and he liked to do. For ‘fun’, right?” He turned the metal piece in his hands. “Then it hit me, he isn’t here. He isn’t coming. He won’t be coming. Your asshole friend Pete Conlin is never coming.” He held the metal like a knife. “What do you say to that, fucktard?”

Ryan stood, taking in this turn of events, and I couldn’t tell what was written on his face. Fear? Karma?

Nico said, “Why don’t we all just calm down. No one’s thinking straight.”

Something changed in Ryan’s face and he stepped forward, crutch and all, and knocked the metal piece from Derek’s hand. It fell to the ground. Derek’s face fell with it.

“Don’t ever mention my friend again. Not from your mouth.”

Derek stood a moment, considering his options. He said defiantly, “Pete. Conlin.”

“Derek,” I said, imploring. “Stop.” I didn’t want to see him get hurt. I didn’t want to see a fight. Not after everything we’d been through.

But it was Derek who wouldn’t back down. “Enough of the threats. If you want to beat me up so bad, do it. There’s no principal to get in the way. No fear of getting kicked out of school.”

Ryan shook his head and did nothing. “You’re not worth it, Wart.”

Derek said, “Thought so.”

Ryan hopped back to the front of the group. “Let’s keep going. Those bodies are only gonna attract more wildlife.”

We didn’t stick around to see if he was right.

###

The sun began to set, and it created a blanket of rose in the sky. At least some things were the same no matter where you were.

“We’d better make a shelter,” said Derek. “Once the sun goes down, it’ll be dark. And I mean dark.”

Viv spoke up. “Shelter?” The implication was clear. We thought we’d be in the jungle only a few hours at most before being rescued.

Derek said, “You see any planes? Helicopters? Flares?”

We hadn’t. We were on our own.

I kept trying to convince myself we were going to be all right. I kept failing.

Nico sat near the base of a gnarled tree, its trunk nearly ten feet thick, surrounded by a tangle of roots. “I think I’ll just sit here.” Ryan and Viv followed Nico’s lead.

“I wouldn’t do that. You’ll be covered by bugs come morning.”

Scared of the idea, Viv stood up. So did Nico. Ryan stayed put.

I asked Derek, “What do you need?”

He scanned the area, his eyes settling on tall stalks of bamboo, thick and round. “Help me cut this stuff.”

For the next half hour, we helped him hold bamboo as he cut it with his makeshift hatchet. He cut four posts and rammed them vertically in the ground, the soft mud giving way easily, each about a foot high, which made a base. Then he placed two longer pieces of bamboo on them. From there, he placed cross pieces. Suddenly, from nothing he had created a bedframe. Though he explained as he went along using words like “bamboo nodes” and “V-grooves,” I couldn’t follow it all. I was just impressed that here in the jungle was the closest thing to civilization – a bed – that I’d seen.

Finally, he added layers of bamboo across the whole thing and created a kind of mattress. Satisfied with his work, he lay back on it and theatrically crisscrossed his legs and placed his arms behind his head. He sighed deeply. “Home, sweet home.”

After a moment he got up. “Actually, Molly, this one’s for you.”

“Really?”

He nodded. Molly sat on the bed, made herself comfortable and watched us. Maybe being pregnant had its perks.

Viv asked, “What if they don’t come?”

Nico replied, moving his dark fop of hair out of his eyes, “They’ll come.”

“What if they don’t?”

More insistent this time, Nico said, “They’ll come.”

She looked up at the sky, or what she could see of it. “Then why aren’t they here?”

The question went unanswered until she repeated it.

“Because,” Ryan said, as if the answer was obvious, “it’s the Amazon, not America.”

The sun seemed to set in time with our falling hopes.

Derek was right: the dark wasn’t just lack of light; it was a presence – a suffocating presence. The sounds that had emanated from behind the wall of green during the day, the drone of crickets and insects, seemed louder. Closer. Ominous.

There were a total of five thin beds, one for each of us, save Ryan. He rested against a tree and closed his eyes.

I didn’t want to sleep alone, so I snuck next to Viv, feeling her warmth.

She whispered, “Tell me a story. You’re good with stories.”

The only thing I knew by heart was a stanza by Henry David Thoreau. It was “Friendship,” and I whispered to her:

Two sturdy oaks I mean, which side by side

Withstand the winter’s storm,

And spite of wind and tide,

Grow up the meadow’s pride,

For both are strong

Above they barely touch, but undermined

Down to their deepest source,

Admiring you shall find

Their roots are intertwined

Insep’rably.

Viv was sound asleep.

As I lay snuggled next to her, I took a deep breath. While the air was oppressive during the day, at night it cooled. It was as fresh and pure as I have ever breathed. In a day filled with horrors, the air provided the one and only sense of pleasure.

Looking up, I saw the moon through the canopy. I wondered if my mother was seeing the same view from back home. Did my mother know about the crash yet? Or was she living in a comfortable haze of normalcy?

I hoped so. Enjoy those moments, mother. Someone should.

I covered my face in the folds of my shirt to avoid the buzzing of mosquitoes and closed my eyes. The jungle screamed in protest.

Chapter Four

“Emily….” It’s my mother’s voice. She gently shakes me and I open my eyes. She hovers over me in the hospital room, her face inches from mine. I can smell the lingering scent of menthol cigarettes in her hair, on her breath, a combination of mint and smoke. She must have started smoking again.

“You were having a nightmare.”

I didn’t remember it. “What was I saying this time?”

“The same thing…. ‘Viv, come back.’”

“I’ll be okay, mom.”

I see her glance down at the sheets, eyes filled with concern, and she presses her hand against the mattress. I’ve wet my bed again. I’m ashamed to admit, but in the jungle I didn’t get up at night to go to the bathroom. I was too scared. So I held it until I couldn’t hold it any longer.

“Should I call a nurse?”

I shake my head. I just want to sleep. In the grand scheme of things, a wet bedspread is nothing. Losing a best friend is another altogether.

###

I first met Vivian Liu on a sunny summer day under the bleachers at a local park. I was stretched out, legs in front of me, my body resting against a beam, reading. Behind me, kids shrieked, joining the music of whistles and drifting voices, but as I turned the pages, the world around me fell away.

It was the summer after seventh grade, and my mother, worried that I hadn’t lost my baby fat or scared at my blindingly pale skin, figured signing me up for the local soccer team would give me a dose of athleticism I wanted no part of. That soccer didn’t interest me didn’t seem to matter. “Getting outside will do you good,” she’d said. I had no intention of chasing after a ball while trying to avoid getting kicked in the shins. But being a dutiful daughter, I dressed the part, gym bag in hand, and as soon as she dropped me off, I’d wander over to the bleachers. Hidden in my bag was a book, and I proceeded to read until she picked me up later in the afternoon. I did that every time. By the end of the summer, still pale, she told me to stop wearing so much sunscreen.

“What’re you reading?”

I looked up to see a girl I’d never seen before standing in front of me. She seemed about my age, dark hair falling to her shoulders like silk, with naturally tanned skin. She, too, wore a girls’ soccer uniform, but she wasn’t from my team. Her tone wasn’t accusatory, just curious.

“It’s Beowulf.”

Her eyes knitted together. “Are you in summer school or something?”

“No. Just reading for fun.” I could see the incomprehension on her face, as if I’d told her I was from the moon, so I dog-eared the book and handed it to her. “It’s a graphic novel, see?”

“Like a comic book?”

Not wanting to explain the difference, I said, “Kind of. It’s about a monster, Grendel.” I watched as the girl turned the pages, genuinely interested in the blocks of art like a movie captured in print. “There. And he attacks this great hall. But, to me he’s not really a monster, ‘cause his mother is a dragon. If you flip forward….” She did. “Yeah, her.”

“Cool,” the girl said.

“And that’s why Grendel is the way he is. At least, that’s what I think.”

“So, you just come out here and read?”

I nodded. “Supposed to play soccer, but I ditch.”

“You do?” She laughed. “Really? I didn’t think that was possible. I mean, of course it is. I want to everyday, but I just never….” She blew a strand of hair out of her face. “Soccer’s not even about having fun. My mom and dad just want me to be able to say that I did it.”

“Why?”

“Colleges love extra-curriculars. As if I care.”

I couldn’t tell if I was jealous that her parents were pushing her towards a goal, or relieved that my mother wasn’t. “Aren’t you supposed to be playing now?”

“Can I tell you a secret?” She whispered. “I. Hate. Soccer. With. A. Passion.”

This time I laughed. “I thought it was just me.”

“Getting all sweaty. Running around, banging into each other. And some of those girls? They’re into it. Like, they’ll scratch your eyes out. They’re like that dragon. And the coach? You should see him. He’s Stacey’s father – she’s a girl on my team. So annoying. Both of them. But you’d think coaching was his reason to live. I’m like, it’s only soccer! There’s more important things, you know. Like keeping my skin nice. Look at this.” She pointed to a scab along her calf. “Some girl did this on purpose.”

“She did?” I was even happier now to have ditched.

“It’s like being with animals. They’re feral. And these.” There were splotches of bruises up and down her shoulder and arm. “Surprised I’m not dead, yet. I took a bathroom break. Didn’t really have to go, just had to get away.” She paused and looked over at the field and then back at me. “Mind if I stay with you awhile?”

“Are you gonna get in trouble? For being late?”

“What are they gonna do? Kick me off the team?” She put her hands in prayer position. “Please, please, please!”

I patted the ground next to me, inviting her to sit.

She plopped down. “I’m Viv, by the way.”

“Emily.”

She still held the book in her hands. “Can I borrow this sometime?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ve got a ton of others.”

That’s how I spent my summer. Meeting Viv at the bleachers. Sometimes we’d read, other times we’d walk around. But mainly we just talked. Hours and hours and hours, from topics stupid to serious. We were very different, I would learn. She came from money; she lived in a different neighborhood with big homes and better yards; and worse, she went to a different junior high.

Yet, we became inseparable.

That summer we each earned the title Best Friend.

Later, when Viv went to Riverdale Academy, I made it my mission to go there, too. My mother may take credit for it, but it was always my idea. It wasn’t the educational opportunities, though that’s how I sold it to my mom. It was friendship. It was necessity. I made sure Viv and I were together. With a life where I’d had to work hard for everything, where I felt as if I’d raised myself, to have someone who was there when I needed her – it meant the world to me.

###

The world howled in pain.

I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or not. When I opened my eyes, Ryan was flailing, hopping as if he was on fire. “Get ‘em off! Get ‘em off!” It’d be funny anywhere else – this strong guy, screaming like a girl. He finally hopped one-legged into the water seeking escape.

By now all of us were up.

Ryan emerged, soaked, a cluster of small welts rising from his arms. Something had bitten him. Out of the water, his body was taut, his hands fists, and he let out a throat-clearing scream that echoed through the jungle.

Nico asked, “You all right, man?”

He continued to clench in agony.

“Ryan?”

He uttered one word: “….pain….”

“What happened? What bit you?” My feet dangled over the bamboo and I quickly pulled them up. I peered over the bed, but only saw dirt.

Derek said calmly, “Probably bullet ants. They hang around the base of trees. And their sting is….” He motioned to Ryan as evidence.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did.”

“Not that they bit! Not that they – ” He clenched again, his body contorted as if being shot by an unseen laser beam. If Ryan Wray felt pain, then those bites must’ve been off the Scovell scale. Ryan made his way back to the base of the tree and took his revenge. He kicked and scraped his foot against every bullet ant he found. “Take that you ugly shits.” He used his crutch and made paste of their bodies.

When he finally calmed down, he asked, “What else is dangerous out here?”

Derek smirked. “Pretty much everything.”

That was the understatement of the year.

I had slept, but my body was thrashed. Waking crystallized what I’d feared: I was bruised and sore, as if my body had been turned inside out. Anything for an aspirin. Or dry clothes. Morning came with a new malady: hunger. My stomach rumbled. The last meal I’d had was the terrible airplane food, which I’d barely touched. My mistake. How I’d love a piece of that congealed patty they called meatloaf.

Then I realized what I was really suffering from: disappointment. I thought we’d wake up like a collective Sleeping Beauty to find a handsome rescuer next to us. But we were alone. On our own.

I looked at the blue sky and saw no planes. Not even a vapor trail. Who knew how far we were from the crash site?

I could feel the weight of despair descend on me. I didn’t want to move from my bamboo bed. I didn’t want to move at all. Viv scampered over to me. “Come with me.” Even here, under these conditions, she seemed effervescent.

“Where?”

“I have to go….” She nodded towards the privacy of the jungle. “I didn’t want to ask Nico.”

Making sure to avoid any ants, we carefully made our way a few yards into the jungle.

Viv said, “You always know how to fix things. Tell me it’s going to be all right.”

I wanted to believe it. “It’s going to be all right.”

She squatted and did what she needed to do. I looked away. A mist hung in the trees, like diffused cotton balls, and for a second it looked like the beauty of a postcard. I hated that image for seducing me with its splendor, its false sense of security.

When Viv was done, she pulled up her pants and covered the spot with dirt.

“I’m not cut out for this, Em.”

“None of us are.”

She said, “The jungle…it’s everywhere. There’s no where else to look.”

“Look at me.” I forced a smile for her benefit. “Remember how I helped you pass Algebra II?”

Her eyebrows rose in apprehension. “You’ll tutor me out of here?”

“We’ll call this Survival 101. With your charm and my…I don’t know, what do I have?”

“Brilliance.”

“Of course. We’ll be just fine.”

My mini-therapy seemed to help. We walked back to the group when we heard rustling nearby. Leaves trembled a few feet from us. A black boar snuck its head from the undergrowth, short tusks at its side and it sniffed. This was no cute pig. I’d read they were carnivores and could attack if provoked.

Viv saw it and turned, ready to run. I reached out and grabbed her. “Don’t move,” I whispered. “Stand your ground.”

Viv’s eyes were huge, and for once I felt how her size must have terrified her.

“Just walk slowly backwards, okay? Don’t make any jerky movements and we’ll be fine. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand.”

The boar turned its head and looked at us.

We slowly took a step backwards. Then another.

The boar held its ground.

Once we were a few feet away, it sniffed, finding something else it was more interested in and trotted away.

Viv released her breath. “Ohmygod. I wasn’t breathing.”

I tried to calm her down. “I think you just passed your first pop quiz.” Looking further, I saw the group was up and about. They were waiting for us.

Viv ran to Nico. “There was a boar!”

Molly rose, freaked. “A boar?”

Nico held Viv, offering comfort.

Derek said, “Boars won’t attack a group. He was probably just looking for easy prey. He’ll leave us alone as long as we stay together.”

Ryan tried to joke. “I wouldn’t mind some bacon right about now.”

We congregated near the river. “Where are you going?” I asked.

Ryan said, “We gotta keep moving.”

Anxiety rose within me. “We’ve got beds here.”

Ryan said, “We need to find a village.”

“Why? We’ve got a camp. We can stay….”

“Emily, it’s not close enough to the crash site, and it’s not close enough to a village. We’re in the middle.”

The middle of nowhere, I thought. The middle of hell.

Before we left, we wrote in large block letters in the mud: HELP US. We included an arrow the length of a room pointing in the direction we were heading. It looked like footprints on a sandy beach, and I wondered if anyone would ever see it.

###

We trudged through the overgrowth, careful to hold the branches in front of us so that they didn’t snap back to hit the person behind us. My body felt as if it mutinied against me.

Nico came up behind me. “How are you holding up?”

He made me uncomfortable. “Okay, I guess. Why aren’t you up with Viv?”

“Just used the bathroom, that’s all. On my way.”

As he passed me, I saw the silver watch on his hand. “Does it work?”

He took it off. “Nope. Broken as all get out. But my dad gave it to me when I got straight As.” He looked at me pointedly. “I like to think some things can be fixed.” With that, he passed me.

The mood was dreary and after a few minutes, Nico busted out with a chant. “I saw a birdie flying in the sky.” He motioned for us to repeat it after him. “C’mon, people, get with the spirit.”

Ryan said, “You’re talking nonsense.”

“No, man,” Nico said. “My grandfather was in the Army. He taught me a bunch of these. Should hear some of the dirtier ones.” He said it louder: “I saw a birdie flying in the sky.”

I replied, weakly, “I saw a birdie flying in the sky.”

Nico smiled. “Now, was that so hard? I got some white stuff in my eye.”

This time Viv joined in with me. “I got some white stuff in my eye.”

Nico was on a roll now. “Is that water? Is that spit?”

We repeated, Ryan joining us. “Is that water? Is that spit?”

Nico said, “Oh, no, it’s birdie shit!”

One by one we joined him in his marching chant: “Oh, no, it’s birdie shit!”

From then it was a game of Nico chanting and us repeating: “Oh, birdie birdie in the sky/Why did you do that in my eye?”

Against all odds, we laughed. It was my first genuine smile and the small piece of joy reminded me of how I felt around Johannes – that sense of aliveness. I lost myself in the memory of our first kiss.

Since I’d seen him at the poetry reading, something invisible had been building between us. I’d felt a shiver of anticipation when his finger would linger ever-so-briefly on mine as he passed back our graded papers. How I looked forward to those moments, eternities of waiting followed by explosive Big Bangs.

He’d arranged a one-on-one with me to talk about my short story assignment. I could tell he was nervous, energy radiated from him, around me, around us. It was chemistry, that elusive quality that makes no sense unless you’ve felt it yourself. We were pulsing.

I could barely concentrate.

He handed me back my short story. “I think this is a real contender for Shades of Light.” It was our school’s literary magazine.

“I guess that means it’s a shoe-in if you’re the Editor-in-Chief.”

“I wouldn’t want you to get a big head.”

He was so close. His eyes were green and flecked with shards of gold. I could lose myself in those eyes.

Surprising myself, I lunged forward and kissed him. His mouth tasted of honey and saltwater taffy. I don’t know where I got the confidence to do it. It was so outside who I was. But when you know, you know.

This is how I knew he felt the same: he didn’t pull away.

Not right away.

He pushed back a lifetime later, breathless and looked at the open door. No one was there. He stepped back from me and there was fear in his eyes. “You’re underage.”

I felt stupid. So so stupid. What was I thinking? I tried to soften everything. “I’m seventeen.” As if that made it any better.

“I’m your teacher.” He whispered, “I could get fired.”

“I won’t tell anybody…I’m sorry.”

I ran to the door when he reached for my arm. “Emily, wait.” I turned and gazed at him.

“Are you recording this?”

“What? No.” I showed him my phone. It was off.

“I didn’t know if someone put you up to it. Like a joke. Or a dare.”

“No. Never.” This was making everything worse. He was going to make me say it. He wanted to hear me say why out loud. “Please, Mr. DeKoning. I’m embarrassed enough.”

“There had to be a reason. Something I did….”

What could I tell him? That it was everything he did? Even though I felt rejected, I knew the truth. I wasn’t crazy. This wasn’t one-sided. I’d felt it.

“Don’t you feel the same?”

He shook his head. “…I can’t.”

“What about all the books and poetry we read about forbidden love? How nothing can stop the human heart? Not war, not rules, not families. Think of Romeo and Juliet. Lady Chatterley. Lancelot and Guinevere.”

“And look how they turned out.”

It wasn’t an answer, but it was enough. We found each other’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t say sorry enough. It’ll never happen again.”

I saw something in him shift, like we were back at the café. “Won’t it?” He grabbed my face and kissed me and my world ended and began anew. From that moment on, I was his.

Chapter Five

I lay in Johannes’ bed, inhaling the scent of his floral laundry detergent. The journey from our first kiss to his apartment was faster than he wanted and slower than I did. I learned about the relativity of time: days or weeks were nothing to Johannes; to me they were unendurable infinities. Yet, most of the time, we would just end up cuddling. We kissed; we messed around, but we never slept together. Not like that. I think it was his way of drawing a line. He wanted to wait, and though disappointed, I was willing.

I’d had sex before – only once – but I’d never been in a relationship, and I wasn’t exactly sure how to act. I was learning by experience. I’d read books, seen movies, but those relationships were fictional; I never knew anyone that acted like people did on screen, so sure of themselves, so relaxed in their own skin. Where did that leave me?

I didn’t want him to think of me as a girl. I wanted to be a woman.

He napped next to me, his snores like a purring bunny. His apartment was small, purposely close to school to avoid a long commute, and it was lined with books, stacked Tetris-like along the shelves. He told me he liked the feel of a book in his hand, the smell of the pages, and the sense of history that people had actually touched it.

I rolled out of his bed and stood up. My toes curled into the carpet. There weren’t posters of rock stars or women in bikinis on the wall – this was a man’s room. Instead, there were photos. As I looked closer, they were of him in Africa, standing next to smiling young children. They appeared to be in a crudely built school. It must’ve been from his time in the Peace Corp. He seemed to live his life whereas I merely existed. I wanted what he had, to take his sense of purpose as if by osmosis. The only oddity in his room was a stuffed Mickey Mouse on his desk.

I heard him stir.

“How long did I sleep?”

“Not long,” I said. “What’s with Mickey?” I reached over and picked him up and imitated his cheery, chirpy voice. “Hi, Johannes. I’m a mouse that talks. Why am I in your room?”

“When my parents moved from Amsterdam to America they wanted to move someplace happy. Someplace sunny.” He shrugged. “They picked Disneyland.”

“You grew up in Disneyland?”

“Near Disneyland. Anaheim.”

I placed Mickey back on the desk. “I went there once. Saw the parade. I think it was my 10th birthday.” I plopped down next to him. “Maybe you can take me there. We’ll wear disguises.” I laughed. “I know exactly who we’d be.”

“Who?”

“Hubert Humphrey and Lolita. Oh snap!”

He mimicked a gut punch. “Low blow. Low, low blow.”

We fell into a comfortable silence and I wished I could stay here forever.

“Anyone ever tell you,” he said, “you smell like puppy?”

“I smell like a dog?”

“Puppy. There’s a difference. Like…mother’s milk and joy. Somebody ought to bottle and sell it. They’d make a mint.”

I tried to find the scent on myself, to no avail.

“I had a puppy growing up,” he said. “Smelled so sweet butterflies would literally land on his head.”

“I guess there’s worse things to be.”

“Nothing better.”

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

His face crinkled. “What an odd question.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“You’re beautiful.”

I hated when I heard my mother’s voice in my head telling me I was average. I hated the insecurities that bubbled up within me. I wondered what it would take for them to go away. “What happens when I turn 18?”

“What do you mean?” He pulled me next to him and kissed my cheek. “I think you turn into a pumpkin. Oh, wait, that’s at midnight.”

“Will we be able to, you know, go out in public?”

“Only after you graduate.”

That was an entire year away. A lifetime. “What if I transferred?”

“To another school?”

I nodded. “Or dropped out.”

“No. No way. This is your education. One of the best around. I won’t allow it. Not on my account.”

He sensed something change in me and said, “What?”

“I love you.” I’d never told anyone that before. But I loved this man, this gentle, smart man. I was amazed how easily it rolled off my lips. He looked confused. “You don’t have to say it back. I get it. I just wanted you to know.”

“I do. I most definitely do.” He rested his head on my thigh. “It’s complicated, that’s all.”

“Everything’s complicated,” I sighed.

###

When I had my period, my mother took me to an Olive Garden. We sat in a booth and she told me to order whatever I wanted. A handsome waiter probably a few years out of college gave recommendations and my mother was smitten. He took our orders and we were alone.

Our menus gone, the table felt empty. It was only she and I, sitting across from each other, Dean Martin songs playing in the background. It was unlike being at home where we passed each other, coming and going, muttering hellos and goodbyes. Actual conversation was an endangered species. Rather than feel excited at this mother-daughter bonding, I was uncomfortable. There was something forced, something fake. While I felt invisible most the time, at least it seemed natural.

“When I was your age,” she said, “do you know what my mother did after I got my period?”
“Mom,” I said, not wanting patrons to overhear.

“She didn’t do anything. It’s like she didn’t know. Or didn’t care. I knew if I ever had a little girl, I’d sit her down proper and celebrate her awakening.”

This was the thing my mom chose to celebrate? This biological thing I had no control over? Not my French horn recital or the spelling bee I almost won. This.

My mom was always on the dramatic side, given her interest in acting. It’s the reason she came out to Los Angeles in the first place. She was the belle of the ball at her Minnesota high school and once she graduated, came out West. Maybe I inherited some of her need to escape: I weaved scenarios where I was caught in a Cinderella story and my mother was just a placeholder. I would create alternate versions of my life, daydreaming.

“Do you have any questions? Anything you want to ask? The things I could tell you, believe me….”

I shook my head. I already knew the whole birds and bees spiel. She seemed disappointed that I didn’t take her up on her offer to relive her glory days.

“Well, there are a few pearls of wisdom I figured I’d share. I’d like to think somebody could learn from my mistakes. At least they’d be worth something. Are you listening?”

“Yes,” I sighed.

How could the person who raised me be such a stranger? I wondered if she would ever know me.

She asked, “Are you sure?”

“I’m right here.” What more did she want me to do?

She leaned in as if telling me secrets of the universe. She paused, waiting dramatically for maximum effect: “Never trust anything with a penis.” She sat back with a self-satisfied look. “If there’s any piece of advice that’s better, I haven’t heard it.”

I didn’t know what to say. I almost asked her to repeat it so I could laugh when she said penis.

Her warning wasn’t without merit. She never did find her star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Instead, my mother got knocked up by a musician who she never saw again. That is about as brief an explanation as I got as to my origin. (No, I’m not the daughter of a famous rock star. I am the daughter of a guy who sweet-talked my mom with a six-string and then disappeared. My own ditty of the event goes something like this: “This is what she told me, this is what she said, your father’s long gone, ‘tis better to think him dead.”)

“And the other thing,” she said. “You may not think it, but you have it better than me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, waiter?” She smiled and he smiled back (probably for a tip), but it was like catnip to her. “Can I get a lime in my water?”

“Sure thing.” He knew just how to work her. “I have to ask: are you sisters?”

Soooo lame.

But my mother ate it up. “Oh, I wish. I’m her aunt.” I don’t know why she lied. Maybe not to scare off potential suitors who were scared of dating moms. The waiter left.

This was supposed to be about me and like usual she made it about her.

“What was I saying? Oh, men.”

“No, that I had it better.”

“Right. See, being average is a blessing. You’ll never have to deal with problems that beauty brings. The lies and complications from men. The jealousy and cattiness from women. You must know by now that some women are the worst. There are those in the Sisterhood and those in name only. Always be a sister, Emily. There’s nothing worse.”

“Not Hitler?”

“Yes, Hitler. Of course he’s worse, smarty-pants. But honestly, not by much.” She bowed her head, grasped the armrests of her chair and let out a few breaths.

“Mom?”

She dug through her purse, finding a small orange medicine bottle and popped a pill. “Nothing. Just felt an anxiety attack coming on.”

Minutes later, our food came, noodles and sauce, meatballs and bread, lots and lots of bread. I pondered my future of being non-threatening to my girlfriends and in the perma-Friend Zone with guys. Wonderful, I thought. What a life.

As we ate, I could tell my mom settled into the calm haze I recognized that came from too many Ativan. Her eyes got glassy; her gaze, unfocused. She smiled more and acted ditzier. It wasn’t unpleasant, really; just not real. Not the truth. She was a fake version of herself.

I was never sure if my mother suffered from anxiety or not. I know it’s what she told me, but I think she just didn’t want to seem like an addict.

She twirled her fork in her pasta, circling and circling, making slow rotations. “You know, Em, sometimes I wish I wasn’t pretty.” Her voice was soft and dreamy. “Beauty is like wearing a mask. People only see the mask and nothing underneath.”

“Mom, are you going to eat?”

She seemed to notice her twirling for the first time. “Oh.”

She might have said she wished she wasn’t pretty, but I could tell she missed the way men used to look at her. My mother was beautiful once – I’ve seen the pictures – though life has clearly sucked the youth from her. She still holds up well, but her dark hair has slivers of grey, her face is prematurely aged (cigarettes, stress), and though she’s still thin, it’s not a flattering thin. Maybe it’s her posture; she always carries herself like someone’s about to steal her purse. Apparently, I didn’t get her genetic promise; I got my unknown dad’s: small breasts, stumpy legs and a face that gets passed over.

Watching my mother, I didn’t know what was worse – being beautiful and then aging out of it, or like me, never having been beautiful at all.

Sometimes I feel like I’m the embodiment of her failed dreams, the reason she works at a dog boarding facility and is nowhere near being famous. Or rich. Or any of the other reasons a person craves attention from strangers. Whatever hole she needed to fill only grew deeper as I grew older. I sensed the growing promise in my life contrasted to the dying promise of hers.

And when your mother’s life is more chaotic than yours, you find you don’t rebel. At least not in the traditional sense. I rebelled by not rebelling.

I grew up on my own. I took care of myself. I survived.

After a lifetime living with my mother, surviving in the jungle should’ve been easy.

###

YA thriller

Wreckage Synopsis

Logline: Having survived a jungle ordeal with her classmates after a plane crash, a girl must explain why she’s the only one left alive.

EMILY, 17, was making a trip with her prep school class when their plane crashed in the Amazon. Emily is the sole survivor. Plagued by injury and survivor’s guilt, she writes about the experience.

She recalls classmates VIV, MOLLY, RYAN, DEREK and NICO struggling past corpses in the river rapids. They must survive in the jungle until help arrives.

The premise deals with a class of prep schoolers who crash into the uncharted Amazon jungle during a field trip. Only six kids make it out of the crash. They must band together to survive until rescuers find them. The banding is loaded with conflict since their familiar pecking order is no longer in place, and the new order is rife with power struggles, betrayals and extreme actions, which reveal the inner lives of the kids. Further complications arise from secrets that several girls have on each other.

The story is told by the one girl who makes it back to civilization. She will reveal a tragic and heroic yarn to the world. In private, she sorts through the horrors she and the others imposed upon each other. Among other things, a Boy Scout takes the lead and avenges slights he’s felt from the top jock. The girls have intertwining histories involving sexual and romantic jealousies. By the end, we discover that the Boy Scout has gone mad and wants to create a jungle kingdom. Murder and betrayal become the order of the day.