Prologue
Later
The water claps along the marshy shoreline, its calming ticktocklike the clicking hands of a metronome.
Under the spotlight of the full moon, though, the normally placid lake roils, its metallic surface disturbed by both the torching summer breeze and the body recently thrust there.
It’s not sinking fast enough. Not as fast as I imagined it would.
And from the car speakers twenty feet away, I can just make out the lyrics to the song the local station has been playing on repeat all summer, a song that seems perfectly summoned for this moment:
Michael Hutchence singing about every one of us having the devil inside.
Part 1
1
Nellie
Now
I twist the knob on my car stereo, silencing it.
Just moments before, I was blasting Prince while cruising out here, driving too fast on the backcountry roads, sun bleaching the wild grass a pale yellow, searing the top of my head, the wind whipping my hair into a knotted mess. But I don’t care. It’s summer. Ihaveto drive with the top down. Why else would I have this cherry-red Beamer convertible?
Mom thinks I like fluffy music like Madonna, and her songs areokay, but Prince is the tasty little secret I keep from her. Well, one of many. She thinks she knows everything about me; she practically does, but I keep a few things to myself. And Prince is one of them. When I listen to his music, I don’t feel like the little rich bitch who lives in Longview’s biggest mansion, whose mommy buys her every crisp new Esprit and Guess outfit she wants, and also buys her friends.
I feel free. Wild. Capable of anything.
I kill the engine. It crackles as it cools, little pings of noise, bacon popping in a skillet. I don’t want them to notice me, the crowd that’s gathered down on the dock. No one turned in my direction when I pulled into the dirt lot, so no one has spotted me yet, thank freaking God. I’m too stirred up, not ready to face them.
I planned on springing from the car, making my way down there with a freshly lit cigarette wedged between my lips, when the crowd parted and I glimpsed her, hands above her head, dancing like she’s some freaky hippie from Woodstock. She was showing off some move, and when she finished, she threw her head back, laughed that rough laugh of hers.
Jane Swift.
What the fuck is she doinghere?
This isourspot. Miller’s Swimming Hole. Only the rich kids come here.
Who the fuck invitedher?
Rage builds in the back of my throat, and I want to scream, but instead, I take a nice, long pull of my drink, a cherry limeade from Sonic, packed with their pellet ice, spiked with vodka—lots of it. The alcohol feels good as it slides down, burning away the rage. Or at least numbing it.
She and her weird family moved here a few weeks ago, right before school let out. Who does that? Moves at the end of the school year? We’re both juniors, about to be seniors, and there she was in my trig class, the cute new girl soaking up all the attention.
I don’t have any friends—not any real friends—but I’m used to it. It’s been this way my whole life. I’m a bully, a mean girl, people say, and Mom’s always had to bribe my way into acceptable society. People basicallyhaveto be friends with me. So I’m in with the rich bitches, even if they don’t like it. Even if they try and exclude me. Even if they’re distant.
It doesn’t bug me much—most everyone in town is an idiot anyway—but watching Jane just now, parading in the spotlight, makes it glaringly obvious what an outcast I truly am.
When they first got here, Mom and I were downtown, shopping at Ritz’s, the high-end clothing store. We spotted her and her mother on the sidewalk, heading toward Smithy’s—basically the feed store. I snickered as they passed us, both of them wearing sad little homemade dresses. But Jane walked with this strut of confidence that pissed me off.
Who the fuck does she think she is?I thought to myself.
As soon as they disappeared inside a store, I said in a low voice to Mom, “I don’t like her.” Meaning Jane.
“I don’t like her either,” Mom said.
That’s just how we are with each other. She knows to always agree with me.
