Felice can’t see any sign of his friend. She glances ahead, up the beach; the moon lights the sand like a trail of silver minnows. She starts walking again, a bit more quickly, just to see what will happen next.
“Fuck, girlie. Don’t test me now. Trust me on that.” His voice is tense. Felice speeds up, moving faster, feet arched and silent, until she’s running, heading toward the firmer wet sand. She moves well on the beach. Almost flying. Skating. Behind her, Marren yells, “God — fuck. Fuck. Stop. Fucking stop now.” Her lungs broaden in her chest, her wiry arms whip at her sides: perfect, coordinated action. She can see in the dark, she can run like this forever, like the free divers who slice through miles of ocean on a single breath.
There’s a sound: something breaking or snapping — metal on metal. Then the explosion is so loud the night seems to wang inside out like a steel drum. Stunned, Felice trips, pitches face forward, sand grinding into her mouth and eyes, her ears scorched with the aftershock of noise.
FELICE DROPPED OUT of orchestra. She couldn’t bear the sight of Mr. Rendell, his shambling, apologetic manner, his way of glancing at the sixth-grade girls. And Hannah had allowed him — that slack, pale body, arms like rolls of baguette dough — to touch her. The next morning, Hannah came right up to her after homeroom. “Hey, pretty stupid last night, right? Thank God you saved me.”
“Yeah,” she mumbled. Bella caught Felice’s eye as she slipped past them in the hall, her friend alerted to some crucial shift in Felice’s posture. “I’ve gotta — I better go,” Felice said, moving sideways, as if someone were tugging on her arm.
Hannah stared, her lips parted, then tightened, bravely. “We’ll hang out later, right?”
Felice didn’t speak to her again after that day, not once. Her old friends welcomed her back as if she’d been away on an ocean passage. No one mentioned or seemed to resent the way she’d abandoned them for Hannah, no one questioned the way that relationship had abruptly ended. They spoke of Hannah in vaguely sympathetic, sorrowful tones. “It’s so sad, the way she is,” Yeni lamented. “It’s not her fault, really.”
“She’s kind of pitiful,” Marisa said.
“She could actually almost be pretty,” Coco chimed in. “Like, if she straightened her hair and lost six or seven pounds to start.”
“Quit slumping!” Bella proclaimed. “That’s what I always want to say when I see her. And wear some actual colors for once. Enough with the black sweater. But she’s just so scary?” She darted a glance at Felice.
At the lunch table, Felice ducked her head. “Did you know about her and Rendell?” There were gasps. And then a look — such a look — of sumptuous pleasure came over the girls’ faces, like biting into éclairs.
All week, Hannah tried to approach Felice between classes. Felice moved to a desk near the front of the class in French. She felt Madame Cruz’s scrupulous gaze take in the change. Then there was a substitute music teacher — no one knew what had happened to Mr. Rendell. Felice’s friends traded rumors. Bella speculated that Hannah might’ve threatened to report him herself. “That’s pretty brave — I mean, if it’s true,” Coco said.
“But honestly, she should leave you alone now,” Bella said. She sat up straight in her chair. Her features were so delicate they were almost miniature — a small nose, lips like cinnamon candies, and mild blue eyes — so she always looked a little prim. “The way she’s chasing you around — she’s just embarrassing herself.”
Felice was relieved to hear someone say this. Hannah’s longing gaze evoked in her a guilty impatience tipped with anger.
Someone came up with the idea of the letter — Felice could no longer remember who. A couple of the girls dictated, and Marisa transcribed it in a flowing hand on scented stationary. It was filled with observations and recommendations about Hannah’s “attitude” and ways she could improve her hair and clothing. It concluded by saying that they, the undersigned, were warning her to stay away from Felice, that they were tired of Hannah and her “weirdness,” and that if she didn’t respect this warning there would be “consequences.” Seven girls signed the letter. And then, in enormous, bold letters at the bottom, Felice’s name. They slipped it into Hannah’s locker on a Friday. Idana Demetrius, a ninth grader who wasn’t even in their group, ran up to Felice and Bella to say she’d seen Hannah reading the letter in social studies. “Her lips were moving,” Idana reported. “She must’ve read it like thirty-five times.”
Over that weekend, Felice began to feel anxious; her sleep was filled with broken, crackling dreams. She woke early on Saturday, looking around the still-dark room, a profound sense of dread snaking through her, un-wellness like static trapped beneath her skin. At breakfast, the egg her mother had poached — to Felice’s usual specifications — seemed to be staring back at her, a glazed eye. She mashed it with her fork, then scraped it all into the garbage. She helped Stanley clear the table and dried dishes while he washed, which was so unusual he frowned at her. “What’s up?”
“I don’t know — I like to dry. No biggie.” She rubbed the towel over a glass, circling the rim, then holding it in such a way that, light-struck, it seemed to brim with some brilliant ectoplasmic fluid. She let out a little cry and almost dropped the glass.
“What is wrong with you?” He didn’t say it meanly. Her skin felt hot. “I don’t know how to do it right,” she said, rubbing again at the glass.
“It’s fine,” he said. “No big deal.” The window was open: it was a windy day; she stared at that light, bouncing white diamonds of it, and tiny bits of shadow like musical notes, and the fronds like splayed-open green blades. They moved, murmuring and waggling, then suddenly went silent and reserved.
Felice felt a little better on Monday. She’d forgiven herself for signing that stupid letter: someone as tough and smart as Hannah would laugh it off. She was almost glad that she’d signed it. Something had to be done, didn’t it? She couldn’t have Hannah moping behind her forever. Stanley dropped Felice off — he’d recently gotten his license and their mother let them use her car while she was working. As Felice walked up the wide stone apron to the main entrance, she noticed Ms. Muñoz, her guidance counselor, waiting just inside the door. She’d never seen Ms. Muñoz outside of the main office. “Felice,” she said, “can you come to my office, please?”
The air seemed to evaporate. She stared at her and almost burst into tears, almost cried, I didn’t write the letter! It wasn’t my idea! She scanned the hallway, bustling with students, waiting for Hannah to appear, her look of justified hatred.
In the office, Ms. Muñoz did not get behind her desk but sat beside Felice on the soft cotton love seat. She looked frightened as she touched Felice’s shoulder, saying, “I understand you were good friends with Hannah Joseph?” Felice didn’t make any reply, she simply waited, frozen. So Ms. Muñoz said, “I’m sorry to have to — to be the bearer of such terrible news, but Hannah passed away over the weekend.”
Felice rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand; her throat felt sore. She wasn’t sure of what she’d just heard.
The counselor’s eyes searched the walls of her office; she knotted a tissue in her hand, touched it to her nose. “It’s terrible. Just awful.”
“Hannah?” Felice echoed. She was still thinking about the letter. “What did you say again?”