I’m equally perplexed. Judy Weir-Montgomery is the epitome of supermom. She’s never missed a school event, even though she has a busy career in politics alongside her husband, and she rarely shows up anywhere without a megawatt smile and a tray of fresh-baked brownies.
“Don’t be fooled by how she acts in public,” Farrah says. “She’s not like that in real life. I mean, she’s not mean or anything, we get along, but she’s always treated me more like a coworker than a daughter. I don’t remember a single time she ever gave me a hug. And when I was little and would scrape my knee, she’d just give me a brisk pat on the back and do this face like she couldn’t wait for the crying to be over. I don’t think she ever really wanted to be a mom.”
“Wow. She seems so together,” I say.
“Those are the people you have to be suspicious of,” Hartley says. “No one is that happy.”
“Not unless they’re on drugs,” Lyla says.
“Trust me, my mom is on a lot of drugs,” Farrah says. “Prozac. Xanax. Ativan. You name it. Her medicine cabinet is practically a pharmacy.” She sucks in a quick breath. “Oh my God, don’t tell anyone I told you guys that.”
“Here we go again,” Hartley says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Farrah asks.
“It means we all shared something personal,” Lyla says.
I tune them out, thinking about my own mom, my own complaints: somehow “she cares too much” doesn’t seem valid after what the other girls have revealed.
Farrah practically makes us all sign nondisclosure agreements about her mom, and conversation fizzles out after that. It’s a relief when we finally reach the swamp.
Lyla parks in the empty lot outside a small clapboard-sided cabin, and we file outside.
Despite its stillness, the swamp feels like it has a heartbeat. Twisted cypress trees dripping with Spanish moss reach through the sludge water like the gnarled fingers of an old woman. Crickets and bullfrogs sound from the dark, and the air is thick with heat. A chill chases up the back of my shirt, despite the humidity.
Not long after I moved to New Orleans, Ethan and I were walking around the park near his house, drinking Slurpees, when a gator crept out of the reeds around the pond. I screamed and jumped on a picnic table. When Ethan got control of his laughter long enough to talk me down from the table, he explained that gators were nothing to worry about so long as you followed some basic rules: don’t feed them; don’t swim in grassy, murky water; don’t go swimming at night, when they feed; and don’t take chances during mating season (whenever that is).
We’re breaking at least three of his four rules tonight.
Hartley jogs up to the cabin and climbs the patio steps.
“What are you doing?” Farrah asks, arms hugged over her chest. An owl hoots, and her whole body tightens.
“Checking things out.” Hartley cups her hands around her face to peer into the darkened windows of the cabin. It’s amazing how one conversation can change so much. Here she is, checking out all the dark corners, trying all the locks. Before, I’d have assumed she was looking for an opportunity to make trouble. Now I know it’s exactly the opposite. She wants to know where trouble might come from.
“See anything?” Lyla asks.
“Lots of pamphlets. And a shotgun.” Hartley tries to raise the last window. Locked.
“Guys.” Farrah’s standing on the grassy embankment below the cabin. We go over to see what she’s looking at. Beneath the wooden stilts that support the house, there’s a small, steel-framed boat turned upside down in tall grass, surrounded by gas cans and tarps and stacks of lumber. “Think this is for the dare?” she asks.
“And what? We have to row across the swamp?” Hartley says. “Not very challenging. Besides, the card said, ‘Look for the sign.’ I don’t see a sign here.”
Farrah rolls her eyes, pulls a tube of gloss out of her purse, and mechanically lacquers her lips.
Hartley watches, absently licking her own in response, then schleps off toward the water. “Hey!” she calls. “Come look at this.”
She’s standing at the edge of the swamp. I don’t see it right away. And then my eyes adjust and find the stick jutting out of the water six feet from the shore. Above it is a handwritten sign that says ENTER HERE, with an arrow pointing down.
“What does it mean?” Farrah asks, taking a mincing step back.
“Enter here,” Hartley says. “Pretty self-explanatory.”
“You think there’s some sort of an entrance?” Lyla asks. “There?”
“No way,” Farrah says. “They wouldn’t make us.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Lyla says.
“There’s one way to find out.” Hartley reaches back and pulls her T-shirt over her head, revealing a black sports bra and a surprisingly toned stomach.
“Jesus!” Farrah shields her eyes.
“You’re going in there?” I ask, which is dumb, because it’s Hartley: of course she is.
“Why not?” She yanks off her Converse sneakers, then starts to undo her belt.
“Would you do everyone a favor and leave your clothes on, please?” Farrah says.