Prologue
Don’t think it, don’t say it.
Everyone knows about the tragedy that happened on Clementine Street. It’s impossible to reside in the quaint fairytale-like town of Waverly Peak without knowing the story about what happened that frigid winter in that house, to that family, that struck the town to its very core, like lightning slicing through the bark of a sturdy oak.
Little children clasp tighter to their parent’s hands as they walk past on their way to the elementary, men roll up the tinted windows of their luxury cars as they drive by, and teenagers glance down at their feet, holding their breath— but my friendsand I? We avoid Clementine Street altogether. Like a hand to a burning flame, like north to north poles, like an electric cable in water.
The house on Clementine Street leers over Waverly Peak like a cruel reminder of what happens when even the most pristine, innocent, and upright angels fall from heaven, shredding their dove white wings in the process. A cautionary tale of sorts that even the grandest of palaces—three stories high, tall Victorian-style windows, endless winding hallways, Grecian balconies and cherrywood floors—have cracks in their walls, that if not tended to, grow and demand that the foundation crumbles altogether.
Perhaps one may find it difficult to believe that a small town somewhere in Monterey with a twisted ending like this one was once a safe haven of sorts for many, an escape from the hustle and bustle of the city where most of us resided anyway. For most, Waverly was a summer vacation spot, streets lined with lavish vacation homes, each more extravagant and glamorous than the next, almost as if there were some competition etched into the construction. Of course, there were locals but most of us were merely imposters. They called us summer people, those who show up just as the sun rises at its peak in the sky in June and disappear just as an August fall sweeps around in time for the academic year to commence.
Waverly was a kaleidoscope paradise of a town, bursting forth with colour and dreamlike gentleness. It was all crashing waves, Fourth of July fireworks, sticky fingers from honey pies at Trudy’s Diner, harsh sunlight rays, even harsher tan lines, pool chlorine, salt of the sea, lifelong friends, and infinite warmth. It was always said by my family and me that even in the depths of winter, Waverly Peak remained still, forever in an infinite summer. Every house on every street had its own personality, every home painted in pastels almost uniformly.
Perhaps all along it was a disguise to shield one’s eyes from the inevitable truth; it was not only gulls searing across the horizon but a grim tragedy.
Perhaps I merely hadn’t noticed it back then, but I realize now that it was always certain that something wicked of sorts was afoot. Maybe it was the way the sea waves crashed into the rock with such vehemence, almost as if calling for a second flood of the earth to wash away whatever sins lurked beneath the surface. Maybe it was the way the parents’ discussions began the very instant they thought us children were in bed and hushed the moment any of us wandered into the room, their wine glasses stilled and smiles painted on. Maybe it was the way the sun had no intention to tan, only burn so mercilessly, and the winters sought not to merely chill, but to freeze to the bone.
In a town endlessly in anticipation of something brewing above—far more than the grumbling thunderous skies—I just don’t think anyone, even me, knew what was to come. The wood in the cherrywood floors of the house on Clementine Street had been chipping away for years, and it had nothing to do with termites and everything to do with the weight pressing down on everything and everyone in that house.
I remember the morning everything fell apart as though it were yesterday. It was an early summer morning, my father was always an early riser and even he’d decided to sleep in that day. The waves on the little beach in front of Mirrorball House (our house) was eerily still, which was entirely out of character. Gusts of wind had blown the bay windows to my room open, demanding my attention. I waited at my window as I usually did, but no one came—which was strange. I had been unable to sleep the entirety of the night due to this impending sense of doom wasting away in the very pit of my stomach.
Which is why when I heard the police sirens driving onto our street, Clementine Street, I immediately knew somethingterrible had happened. I felt it in my bones, right down to the marrow, and what was worse? Is that I knew it was all my fault. I watched as everyone came out of their houses, wrapped in blankets and nightgowns, eyes still raw with sleep. My siblings and my father, Jurie, made their way to the front porch to watch the scene unfold. I remained in the discomfort of my room, merely observing from a bird’s eye view as the scene unfolded in front of me, like something out of a true crime documentary.
I lifted my head and watched as my cluster of friends stood together and expressed deep concern and distress wondering what had happened within the four walls of the happiest house they’d ever come across. It was the kind of place that was the light at the end of a tunnel, a bright yellow sunflower in a field of evergreen grass, it simply stuck out like a needle in a haystack and demanded your attention. Perhaps the house on Clementine Street was merely an optical illusion; from afar it appeared elegantly frozen in timeless grace, eternally beautiful, exuding warmth and welcoming. But once you got closer, you’d see the ravenous vines that contorted both around the ground of the home and around the necks of the family that lived there.
It was hypnotic. Captivating. It was almost what I’d imagined Eve had encountered with the apple amidst the garden of Eden—except it was no serpent that lured us all in but welcoming smiles, late-night dips in that serene pool, midnight snacks, pinkie promises, and whispers of force and fate. To my friends and I, to us, the lonely, painfully privileged, yet ever-so-despairing children of Monterey, it was a nirvana. It was safe, they were everything that we were not, everything we wished we could’ve been.
Everyone knew the tragedy would shake the once sturdy and upright town, tainting what was once lively and down to earth. It was something that no one, especially us, would ever forget.
But that was months ago, it’s been almost a year now since it all happened. I haven’t been to Waverly Peak since, no one has. We all did what we do best, diverted our attention, wiped our memories and never once looked back. Don’t think it, don’t say it. We’d always repeat to each other like a lingering cruel reminder of what might happen if we once again opened up Pandora’s box…just like we did that winter when everything changed. Petrified of what was waiting for us inside, of what we might unleash into our sheltered little world.
We’d repeat it to each other whenever we felt things slipping through the cracks; I’d be at recitals, lose focus and nearly lose balance. “Don’t think, it, don’t say it”, Sydney would whisper to me and I’d immediately straighten my back. My older brother, Cahya, would spill the milk over his glass, clearly staring into the void in distraction. “Don’t think it, don’t say it”, I’d remind him, and he’d grab a cloth for the counter. We were nothing if not a credit to the academy, at least during the academic year.
It might sound rather difficult to believe, as I stand here on Cornelia Street, picking up a crumpled-up flyer ripped from the front page of today’s newspaper marking the one-year anniversary of the Waverly Peak tragedy, offering even grander awards for any information brought forward. The police were desperate for any crumb, any mere kick of information, going through hell and high water to crack the code and unveil the mystery.
When I knew it all. Every minor minuscule detail of information about what transpired that night, because I was there.
I was guilty.
And to think it all started with childhood longing, a girl under pressure, a boy on thin ice, and the ink-smeared pages of that godforsaken diary.
Don’t think it, don’t—
No, this time I will be telling it all.
1
Meet Cute
Our story starts by the sea, the weight of the waves floating beneath me.
When I was born, somewhere amidst the evergreen white sand beach haven of Jakarta, life was simple. It was worn-out ballet slippers and late afternoon recitals. Bickering with my brothers over the television remote and other trivial matters. Nothing was ever serious with them, perhaps I much preferred it that way. It was scratchy church dresses in the early mornings, boots in muddy puddles during thunderstorm-ridden Januarys, warm bowls of custard and groundnut porridges. My mother,Pat, braided my tangled curls on the porch as my brothers played ball with our father, Jurie. It was everything to me, yet looking back almost nothing at all.
My name is Yesoh Yeo and I am the second of my name, my grandmother was the very first. My entire life down to my name was handed down to me, passed on, never cultivated by my own accord. I was not my mother’s first baby, but her second. Her first would be my older brother, Cahya, and we are three years apart—perhaps in months but never ever at heart. I was her second baby, her second chance, her do-over child that she could mould into her own image. My entire life I have been liquid smooth, I am rushing water, I move wherever the wind takes me, down mountainous terrain, Oakland paths, and fold into myself amidst ferocious waves. I take the shape of any glass I am poured into, yet remain half empty, half full. I am porcelain clay, I will bend to your will, I am not inflexible and certainly never stubborn. I am whoever and whatever you desire me to be.
I am a ballerina; no one has ever had to remind me to stay on my toes, I have perfect posture but not perfect feet, perfect timing but cool-toned skin from staying indoors. I have flawless flexibility, but bend me too far and I might snap. No, that doesn’t sound quite right. Ballerinas aren’t supposed to break in two, burst at the seams, and lose their balance. Forgive me, I’ll do better from now on. Just as I once promised my parents, I will now give my oath to you.
I am Yesoh Yeo, I am almond skin, that of my mother and hers before that, I am tawny undertones like that of the sands by Lake Tanganyika where my mother once frolicked. I am hazel eyes, like my father’s that glittered under the Jakartan sun when he met my mother here in her second year of university. I am that which lies between two worlds, a bridge in which every stone path is firm; it is steady, it is loved, it does not crumble despite the flimsy rope and cracking foundation. Or at least itwas never supposed to. I am Zambia and I am Indonesia, I am red and white sand beaches but also copper orange, and eagles of freedom. I am Nasi Goreng (fried rice) and nshima, I am salt oceans but also muddy waters and southern suns.
