“You need your birthday dunking. Twenty seconds underwater. That’s nothing. Even for a little bitch like you.”
“I’m ready to go in.”
“Are you serious?” Spenser said in disbelief. “Dude, just when I thought you were being cool. You’re telling me you can’t handle a few seconds underwater?”
Tripp knew it was a trap, but … what if it wasn’t? What if he just did this thing and then he and Spenser would be okay, they’d be friends, like Spenser was friends with everyone. I thought you were being cool. He could be cool.
“Just put my head under water for twenty seconds?”
“Yeah, but if you’re too much of a bitch…”
He’s not going to drown me, Tripp thought. He’s an asshole and he’llhold me under for a while, but he’s not actually going to try to kill me. He’sgoing to try to scare me and I’m not going to let him. Tripp liked that idea a lot.
“Fine,” Tripp said. “Twenty whole seconds. Time me.” And he dunked his head under.
He felt Spenser’s hands on his shoulders right away. He knew Spenser wanted him to struggle, but he wasn’t going to do it. He was going to be still, hold his breath, stay calm. He counted the seconds in his head, slow.
He knew Spenser would hold him under longer and he was ready for that too.
Spenser shoved him lower, got his foot on Tripp’s chest. Don’t panic, stay still. His other foot pushed down on Tripp’s belly, trying to drive the air out, and Tripp had to give up a little, the bubbles escaping to the surface.
Spenser’s right foot traveled and Tripp understood what he was doing seconds before he felt Spenser’s heel grind down into his crotch, his toes digging into Tripp’s balls.
Now Tripp was wriggling, pinned to the bottom of the pool, trying to push Spenser off. He knew Spenser was enjoying it, and he hated himself for reacting, hated the way his flesh crawled at the feeling of that foot with its seeking toes. His mind wasn’t cooperating anymore. His chest hurt. He was scared. Why had he thought he could handle this? He’ll let me go. He has to let me go. Spenser was mean, not a psychopath. He wasn’t a killer. He was just a jerk.
But what did Tripp really know about how far Spenser would go? Spenser liked to mess around. He’d put chili powder in their dog’s food and laughed until his eyes watered when she whimpered and cried. Once, when Tripp was really small, Spenser had kept him from getting to the bathroom, knocking him into the wall again and again, shouting “Pinball! Pinball!” until Tripp had wet himself. So maybe Spenser really was bad, the kind of bad in books and movies.
He’d be laughing now, enjoying the way Tripp tried to buck him off.
What a dumb way to die, Tripp thought as he gave in, as he opened his mouth and water flooded down his throat, the chlorine sharp in his nose, the terror complete as he tore at Spenser’s calves, and the world went black.
The next thing he knew he was looking up at his father’s suntanned face.
Tripp was coughing and he couldn’t stop, the pain in his lungs hot and tight, as if his whole chest had caught fire and the burn had hollowed him out.
“He’s breathing!” his father cried.
Tripp was on his back in the grass, blue sky above, the clouds small and perfectly contained like a cartoon. His mother’s hands were balled into fists she’d pressed against her mouth, tears on her cheeks. He saw his cousins above him, his uncle, Spenser’s father, and Spenser too, his eyes narrowed.
Tripp tried to point to him, to speak the words as his father sat him up.
Spenser did it on purpose. But he was coughing too hard.
“That’s it, buddy,” his father said. “You’re all right. Just breathe. Take it slow.”
He tried to kill me.
But Spenser’s cold eyes were on him and Tripp felt like he was still pinned to the bottom of the pool. Spenser wasn’t like him, wasn’t like any of them. What wouldn’t he do?
As if in answer, Spenser burst into tears. “I thought he was just joking around,” he said, swallowing back sobs. “I didn’t realize he was in trouble.”
“Hey,” Tripp’s father said, clapping a hand on Spenser’s shoulder. “This was an accident. I’m just grateful you got to him when you did.”
Someone must have looked over to the pool, must have shown too much interest. Spenser would have acted quickly, pretended he was trying to save Tripp. And who would think otherwise? Who could imagine?
“Should we take him to the hospital?” Tripp’s mother asked.
Spenser gave the faintest shake of his head.
Everyone was staring at Tripp, worried about him. Only Spenser’s mother was standing away from the circle; only she was watching her son. There was worry in her eyes. Or maybe it was fear. She knows what he is.
“I’m fine,” Tripp said hoarsely, and Spenser’s lips twitched in a smile that he covered with another sob.
Nothing changed after that. But Tripp was careful never to be alone with Spenser again.
Even at eight years old, Tripp knew he wasn’t smart or charming or handsome like Spenser. He knew that if he’d pointed his finger that day, told the truth, no one would have believed him. They’d say he’d misunderstood, maybe even that there was something wrong with him to think such a thing.
He would be the monster. So maybe something had changed after all,
something inside Tripp, because now he saw that Spenser would always win, and worse, he knew why. Spenser would win because everyone liked him better. Even Tripp’s own parents. It was that simple. That understanding sat in his chest, lodged against his heart, a heaviness that stayed with him, long after his lungs had stopped hurting and the cough had gone. It made him fearful, awkward, and it was why, ten years later on a sailboat caught in a minor storm, Tripp was the only one who saw it when Spenser went into the sea.
It happened quickly. Spenser liked to sneak up on Tripp, startle him, try to get him to drop something or just give him a sharp jab in the side. So Tripp tried to always stay aware of where Spenser was, and he was watching when Spenser strode across the deck and ducked under the boom. His body was hidden behind the mainsail, only his legs visible, and for a second Tripp couldn’t figure out what he was doing. Everyone else was focused on their own jobs, on getting through the storm. Tripp glanced back at his father, who was taking his turn at the helm now, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
Tripp saw Spenser reach down, bending over the railing to grab for a line that had slipped off the deck and was trailing in the water. That wasn’t good—a trailing line could get sucked under the ship, mess with the tiller or the keep—but Spenser should have called for help. Instead he was hanging over the rail, both hands outstretched. Tripp had time to think, One hand for yourself, one hand for the ship, before the wave struck, a gray wash of water, a cat’s paw batting at a toy, and Spenser was gone.
Tripp stood frozen for the briefest second. He even opened his mouth to cry out. And then he just … didn’t. He looked around, realized everyone was still absorbed in their own tasks, shouting at each other, tense but enjoying the wind and the wild rain.
Without running, without haste, Tripp followed the path Spenser had taken, ducked under the boom, then straightened up, hidden from the others as Spenser had been. He saw Spenser in the gray waves, his red windbreaker like a warning flag, his head appearing and disappearing. And Spenser saw him too. Tripp felt sure of that. He raised his arm, desperately waving, shouted, the sound snatched away by the wind. Tripp was close enough to
