The November Girl
Lydia Kang
To Sarah
Who encourages my strangest ideas and
fuels the bravery to make them real.
The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound
When the wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the captain did too
’Twas the Witch of November come stealin’
“The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald”
Gordon Lightfoot
Chapter One
HECTOR
There’s a foolproof method to running away.
I know the wrong ones all too well. This time, there’ll be no mistakes.
I’d left my cell phone, fully charged, duct-taped beneath a seat on a Duluth city bus. If they track it, they’ll think I’ve never left town. Acting scared and paranoid is a giveaway. Wearing a hoodie is no good, either; they’ll think I’m a criminal. With my height and my brown skin, I get enough sideways glances as it is without more advertising. Nah. I make sure the clothes I’ve stolen from my uncle are clean and defy gravity, instead of sagging on my hips and shoulders. I carry a hiking backpack, not a high schooler’s version.
This khaki down jacket I got from the Salvation Army. It’s the nasty kind only worn by grown-ups with flat, worn-out souls. And I carry my armor of pleasantness like a plastic shield, pretending it’s the most normal thing in the world to board the ferry to Isle Royale on October 4, the last day it runs to the island.
I make them all believe I belong on this damned boat.
A line of people waits to board the Quest II at the dock. They’re all middle-aged, with that middle-aged sag that weighs them down. The air around Lake Superior is cold, but humid and acrid from the rotting wood of the pier. The sky hangs with clouds of pale gray. It doesn’t look like rain’s coming, but the color paints a thin gloom, and fog skims the lake. I zip my jacket up higher.
A bald white guy calls out names for passengers, his pudgy, callused hands gripping a clipboard. His belly’s softly round above his jeans. My name is fake, of course, and my fare paid in cash, to leave no trail.
“Goin’ alone?” he asks, friendly-like. The gap where he’s missing a canine tooth only shows when he smiles.
“No. Meeting my wife there. She works at the lodge,” I say, performing lines I’ve carefully rehearsed. Luckily, I’ve got a face that could be twenty-five or fifteen, depending on my clothes. So, I’ll let them think I have a real life. I’ve even got my dad’s old wedding ring on my fourth finger, but I hate how it feels on my hand. Confining. My palms get sweaty and I shove my ringless hand into my pocket.
“Don’t forget the last ferry leaves at one o’clock, tomorrow afternoon. It’ll be crowded.”
I nod, but my stomach dives into the center of the earth. I pray he won’t notice that I’m not on it. I try to walk by, when he points to my backpack.
“Hey. Next time you come, bring a different bag, will ya?”
I shift uncomfortably, conscious of the line of people growing on the dock. “Uh, why?”
“Black bags are bad luck. They sink ships.”
A passenger behind me yells through his beard, “Ignore him! Norm’s superstitious. He made my wife throw away a rose I gave her. Right into the trash, because they’re bad luck on boats. He won’t run the ferry on Fridays. Lucky they shut down in November, too.”
“Why November?” Ah, God, Hector. Shut up, shut up.
“The worst storms come in November,” Norm says quietly. “There’s a name for them storms, the ones that sink ships. The Witch o’ November.”
There’s something about how he says “witch” that bothers me. Some people love to say stuff for the drama of it. But this guy glances nervously at the lake, as if it were listening.
I nod at him. “Got it. No Fridays, no flowers, no Novembers. And I’ll bring my blue backpack next time,” I say with a smile, though the conversation is killing me. My hands are swampy with perspiration. The boat sways beneath my feet as I walk past the other passengers. This late in the season, they’re probably Isle workers helping to close up for the season. Because from tomorrow until late spring, the Isle Royale will be empty.
Except for me.
It’s the perfect hideout. No one will look for a runaway on an island that’s purposely deserted every winter. I’ve covered my tracks too well. I’ll hide out here until mid-May, when I turn eighteen. And then I’ll be free, and there will be no more leashes. No more living under that roof that punishes me with thoughts I can’t stand.
I’m doing my uncle a favor, really. He complains about the bills, how much it costs to raise me, how the money my dad sends is never quite enough.
But it’s not about the money. It’s what we never talk about that chases me from that house.
I’ve lived with him since I was six. I know he’ll report me missing when he finds out. I know that deep in his heart, he might hope I’m never found. By then, the island will be uninhabited. On Isle Royale, I’ll be where I don’t belong.
I’ll fit right in.
The two engines of the Quest II are already rumbling, water boiling to a hissing fury by the propellers. The mooring lines are cast off and the fenders secured. I sit in my corner seat inside the boat, itching to read the maps, notes, and pamphlets I stuffed into my coat pocket. I’m not supposed to look like a tourist. My phantom wife supposedly works on the island, after all. When the force of the engine pushes me against my seat, I glance up.
Lake Superior stretches out in liquid stillness, a yawning expanse of dark water that unsettles me and makes me sweat even more. Behind us, the sparse buildings of Grand Portage shrink farther away. The black forest swallows everything as the boat pushes us forward, until there’s no trace of humanity on the horizon.
For almost two hours, I fake like I’m asleep in my corner seat. It works; no one talks to me. The boat pitches up and down on the growing swells, the lake water occasionally spraying my face from one of the open windows, but I pretend I’m dead to the world. I’m hungry for sleep, but my mind is wrung too tight to relax.
I think of which part of the island I’m going to live on, how to stay warm, how to eat enough. Looking on the internet hasn’t been helpful. All I know is that pit toilets and leave-no-trace camping rules abound. Isle Royale isn’t exactly a popular or luxurious tourist destination. Then again, that’s why I chose it as my refuge.
Finally, a cramp in my thigh forces me to sit up and change positions. The second my eyes pop open, a voice chirps nearby.
“Takin’ a late vacation?”
I jump inside my skin. An older woman in head-to-toe khaki is sitting a little too close to me. There’s an Isle Royale National Park logo on her coat. Shit.