“Crap.”
“My point!” He shot his hands in the air.
Marlow moved her hips back and forth. “It was a dance. Did they play music?”
“Shitty music,” he argued.
Sawyer sank into the sofa and patted his stomach. “I always get stuffed when I come over here.”
“Perfect!” Marlow said, turning to him with her hands out. “You can dance it off.”
He groaned. “Oh, no, no. And especially no to that song,” he said, pointing to the speakers as though they were guilty.
“C’mon. Show me how to dance.” She leaned down and pulled him up.
“You know how to dance.”
“Fine. Then dance with me.”
I bent under the ping-pong table to look for the stray ball. When I stood up, she had her arms wrapped around his neck, and his hands were on her waist.
“See? Not so bad.” She leaned her head into his chest.
Oliver twirled his paddle a few times and shrugged. The music kept playing but it seemed to grow louder and louder. I rolled the ball in my hand.
“Maybe we should play something else. Where do you keep your board games again, Isla?” Oliver scratched the back of his head and looked around.
“In the spare room closet.” I pointed and kept watching them.
Marlow swayed and burrowed her head even more. And then she pulled up and looked him straight in the eyes. She put her hand at the nape of his neck and moved her lips up to his. Her tongue slid in. His eyes were closed, but hers were open. They turned to me and never wavered as her mouth moved on top of his.
She was punishing me.
Sawyer pushed her back. His hands fell down heavily. “Marlow . . .”
“Just practicing.” She giggled, as if it had all been a joke. A big, sick joke only she was in on.
In my room that night, I pulled the drawer open and tossed the knight figurine inside. It rolled into its place in the back.
CHAPTER 27
ISLA
2004
It was late fall and most of the leaves had found their new home on the ground. I remember the swish, swish, crunch of Marlow’s steps. The black boots she wore had chunky heels that created wide imprints through the red and gold colors.
I had decided to take photos of her for my senior art project. At first, she loved the idea, exclaiming how she couldn’t wait to pose. But once in front of the camera, she became timid, nervous even.
I had never seen Marlow like this.
I clutched the Nikon I borrowed from the classroom, bouncing its heftiness in my hands as I tested the lighting with a few shots.
“What is this for again?” she asked, annoyed. A gust whipped some hair into her mouth, and she sputtered it away.
“My art class final. We have to use a medium we haven’t done yet. Photography is the one I chose,” I explained, snapping more shots.
“A few pictures of me and you can call it your final?”
“Well . . . I have to do a little more than that. It’s part of a bigger composition.”
She paused to tie her cream sweater around her waist and adjust her sterling silver cross necklace. The delicate chain made her collarbone look even smoother.
“Are we done yet?” she whined.
“Marlow,” I said through a sigh.
“Fine.”
She stood straight up and flapped her arms once.
“Maybe try walking toward me,” I suggested, keeping one hand on the camera as the other waved.
She took a few steps and then shook her head.
“What’s wrong?”
The wind blew her hair across her face again. When it fell away, I saw that she looked so . . . sad. As lost as she did the night we found her.
