Meg said I could write another. Mom said I needed to forgive. Even Beth—my baby, my ally—suggested wistfully we should make up after Amy had apologized.
They didn’t understand. I’d worked on that letter forever, one day, one page at a time, making it the best I could, polishing it like a college application. And Amy deleted it all out of spite because Trey and I wouldn’t take her with us to a stupid party at the Gardiners that she was too young for anyway. Before I sent it. Before I printed it. Before I backed it up.
I couldn’t forgive myself for being sostupid.
Or her, either.
“No.” It was easier to be mad at Amy than to blame myself.
“She’s got the canoe.”
I looked indignantly toward the dock, where ourNO TRESPASSINGsign was stapled to a tree. “She can’t take that. It’s Dad’s. Anyway, she can’t get it into the water by herself.”
We both watched as Amy half lifted, half pushed the upside-down canoe from its rack and dragged it to the splintery dock. Squatting, shegripped the gunwale on both sides. I felt a moment’s unease. Amy was not an experienced canoer. Or a strong swimmer.
“She’ll give up when she figures out she can’t paddle solo,” I said. To Trey? To myself?
But Amy, undeterred, shifted her weight over the boat’s centerline and put one foot, then the other, into the canoe. Without a life jacket.
I cupped my hands and yelled, “Don’t! It’s not safe.”
“So come back!”
“Go away!”
She pushed off from the dock. “I want to talk to you!”
The canoe wobbled into the current. Amy paddled ineffectively, digging too deep. She was sitting, not kneeling, which made her center of gravity too high. The canoe turned sideways, scraping close to a gnarled log jutting out of the water.
“Be careful!” Trey shouted.
“Go back!”
She grabbed for an overhanging branch. The abrupt shift in weight tipped the canoe. It flipped, dumping her into the freezing water.
Amy shrieked. Trey swore.
“Amy!” I cried. She thrashed. Splashed. The cold water sank into her clothes, darkening them. Amy sank, too. “Grab the canoe!”
She reached for the hull. The upturned boat spun, bumping her. Her head went under. Resurfaced. Trey was rowing, pulling powerfully toward Amy, who was gasping and struggling in the water.
I fumbled with the buckles on my life jacket. “Don’t hit her.”
“Take an oar. Quick, quick!”
I scrambled to hold the boat steady with one oar while he stretched over the side, trying to reach Amy with the other. Her hands kept sliding off the paddle. She was clumsy with cold. Her lips were blue, her eyes wild.
I sobbed. Pulling off my life jacket, I threw it at her. She struggled to raise her arm.
Trey jumped into the water beside her. She gripped him like a monkey as he hauled her to the rowboat. I grabbed her under the arms. Together, we pushed and lifted her over the side; she was sputtering, freezing, crying.
My heart constricted with fear and shame. It was all the fault of my shitty temper. My fault my sister almost died.
I should have gone back.
My chest burned. My breath made little clouds in the air as I ran along the High Line.Ha ha ha. Hee hee hee.
I pushed harder, my heart pounding, my soles pounding the path. Two miles and turn. A combination of cold and sweat stung my face like tears. Three miles. Four. My emotions tangled, my brain on some stupid treadmill, covering the same ground over and over again, spinning and spinning and going nowhere.
