“Shh. You’ll get us both in trouble.”
“I can’t do this,” I wailed, shivering.
She consulted the stopwatch. “You’re already thirty-five minutes in. More than halfway there.”
My side was cramping. One of my socks had slipped off, leaving my toes exposed to fangs and claws. Something was pulling me toward the bottom of the lake, I knew it. Whatever it was wouldn’t eat me in strips but in chunks, a half limb at a time. I felt the sharp teeth sever my arm, imagined the lake turning a rusty red. Quietly I cried.
Jack welled up too. She swiveled her chair so I could only see her profile. “Don’t be such a baby.” She wiped her face.
A baby? I’d seen Jack bawl her eyes out when Sir had pushed her into easier challenges than this. What did my sister know about being brave? Everything came easily to her: making friends, getting good grades, learning to swim. It was easy not being scared when you were good at everything.
A creature slithered through the water right by the boat. I screeched, thrashing backward, trying to get as far away from it as I could. I turned in circles, searching for it, my chin dragging through the water. Out of the corner of my eye I saw it again. I shrieked and paddled away from the spot, kicking hard until I lost my breath.
I pictured the thing touching my feet and curled my toes. How big was it? Did it bite? How bad would the pain be compared to losing a tooth? Sir made us use the string and doorknob every time, said wiggling was for wussies. Was getting eaten like that? Would the fear be worse than the pain? How long until I couldn’t feel anything at all?
Something brushed my right calf. I screamed again and slipped under the water. I was too afraid to open my eyes. I cried out, but it sounded like a mumble. I got my head above water and gulped air, gurgling and shouting and spinning, scanning for the boat. How had it gotten so far away? The chair at the back was empty. Where was Jack? I coughed before slipping under again.
This time I opened my eyes. The water was a cloudy vomit green. I swallowed more of it, making my throat burn and my head spin. My arms and legs were concrete. I couldn’t make them do what I wanted anymore. They were too tired. I was freezing, couldn’t see or hear anything, felt myself sinking, alone. Was this dying? I begged for numbness.
Everything went black.
I came to, already heaving, sucking in lungfuls of air. I opened my eyes and was blinded by the sun. Sir’s and Jack’s faces came into focus, hovering over me. I was lying on the boat floor. Jack’s eyes were bloodshot. Her soaking hair dripped on my face. I blinked.
With his hands on his knees, Sir grinned at me. “Looks like you’re taking them swim lessons after all, sweetheart.”
3
Natalie
JANUARY 8, 2020
THE BUS PULLS into the parking lot of the Rockland Ferry Terminal after a three-and-a-half-hour drive. Along the way we passed farm stands, diners, lobster-fishing supply stores, plus a craft store called Maine-ly Sewing. A sign next to a food cart boasted of selling more than five million hot dogs. Normally I would have appreciated the whimsy, but I couldn’t stop thinking about my sister.
Our last FaceTime had been standard fare until Kit announced she was leaving for Wisewood. We’d debated who would win the current season of Survivor. (We didn’t care that we were the last two fans of the show; our support for Jeff Probst was unwavering.) I had told her about a security app I liked since she’d lost all her passwords again. (It makes me stress-twitch too.) She mentioned a personal-styling startup that sends clothes to your house so you don’t have to put up with the exquisite torture that is shopping in a store. She was even-keeled, in good spirits. Until I lambasted her decision to leave.
Would you like to come tell your sister what you did—or should we?
I wince. The only thing worse than admitting my secret to Kit would be letting the e-mail sender or anyone else do it. I have to shoulder her pain, defend myself if she’ll listen.
That’s a big if.
I rise from my seat, legs shaking, and clamber off the bus into the sunny but cold morning. A few inches of filthy snow have been plowed to the outskirts of the parking lot. Immediately, I feel exposed. What if the Wisewood staff is already here, watching me? I squint at the few cars in the lot, then duck my head and rush with my duffel bag toward the terminal building.
After Gordon hung up on me two days ago, I replied to the e-mail, short and simple: Who is this? Please ask my sister to call me. Then I googled Wisewood. Up came an address and phone number, which matched the one I’d called, plus links to directions and three Google reviews. The first URL in the search results was ihatemyblank.com. I clicked it.
It took me to an empty black landing page. I stared at it, waiting for something to happen. After a few seconds, large white letters appeared one at a time, as though they were being typed onto the screen.
I HATE MY ___________
At the end of the blank space, the cursor blinked. Was I supposed to fill it in? I leaned toward my computer, squinting. The typing started again: j-o-b. As soon as “job” had been finished, a new word replaced it. Words filled the blank faster and faster, cycling so quickly I almost missed a few.
I HATE MY JOB
I HATE MY PARTNER
I HATE MY FRIENDS
I HATE MY FAMILY
I HATE MY SCHOOL
I HATE MY DEBT
I HATE MY ILLNESS
I HATE MY BODY
I HATE MY CITY
I HATE MY ADDICTION
I HATE MY DEPRESSION
I HATE MY ANXIETY
I HATE MY GRIEF
I HATE MY LIFE
At “life,” the letters shook, subtly at first but then more violently, until they exploded into a bunch of specks. Once all the specks had blended into the black screen, a new sentence appeared.
ISN’T IT TIME TO MAKE A CHANGE?
WHAT ARE YOU SO AFRAID OF?
WHAT WOULD YOUR LIFE LOOK LIKE
IF YOU STARTED LIVING IT?
COME FIND OUT.
A form field appeared, asking for my e-mail address with a submit button underneath labeled become fearless. I sat back in my chair and exhaled, imagining Kit watching this pitch. I tried to guess which part had sucked her in, what she had hated: Her job? Her grief? Our family? I left the website without signing up, not in the mood for weekly pep talks or years in unsubscribe-me purgatory.