leaving other simple details untouched. The effect is unsettling, frightening, and intriguing all at once. I don’t even know who I am. Beyond that, I don’t like who I seemed to be all that much. And I don’t know what happened to make me that way. But I get the feeling I’m going to find out.
“Right,” Joe says, writing in his notebook. “And what about the drugs? Pot? Coke?”
“Jesus,” Richie blurts. “No coke. Nothing like that. A little weed, that’s all.”
“So you were partying,” Joe continues, “getting drunk, getting stoned … and then what happened? Someone get in a fight with the birthday girl?”
“No,” Richie says. “I don’t know what happened. We went to sleep. We all went to sleep.”
Richie Wilson: almost eighteen. Also known in school as Famous Richie Wilson. He’s my only friend who’s never worn braces; his teeth are naturally perfect. He is the smartest person I’ve ever met. He exudes confidence. I might have been pretty and popular, but I understand—I always understood, even in life—how lucky I was to have Richie. He is an all-around nice guy and the love of my life. I feel more drawn to him than anyone on this boat.
Right now, though, his confidence, that self-assured coolness that drew everybody to him, is nowhere in sight. Instead, he looks deflated. He is shaking. Somehow, I know that he’s dying to go home, to lock himself in his bedroom and smoke weed until he can barely remember his own name. Richie has a drug problem—it’s his major flaw. But it didn’t matter much to me; I couldn’t help but love him regardless.
“And when we woke up, Liz was gone,” Josie says. “We thought maybe she went up to the house, for food or something. She gets spacey when she doesn’t eat. She gets hypoglycemic.” Josie’s gaze flickers to my dad and Nicole. “She’s had problems with passing out. She’s been in the hospital because of it.”
Josie Valchar: seventeen years old, a full six months younger than me. Even though she’s my stepsister, she and her mom took the last name when our parents got married. Although some people don’t believe we’re stepsisters. People who don’t know any better. Other than Richie, she has been my best friend since elementary school. Josie believes in ghosts; like her mother, she frequently goes to the Spiritualist Church in Groton. She claims she’s always felt a connection with the spirit world, but it’s obvious to me, right now, that she’s full of it. She’s just a scared kid, like the rest of my friends, devastated and horrified. I don’t know what she’ll ever do without me.
“Hypoglycemic?” Alex asks. “What’s that?”
“It’s nothing,” I say. “It’s just low blood sugar. It happens when I don’t get enough to eat.”
“You mean like diabetes?”
“Sort of. I’m not diabetic, though. But I get dizzy a lot. Like Josie said, sometimes I pass out.”
“Well, that’s interesting.”
“Yeah,” I agree, “it is. I was in the hospital last year because I fainted on my stairs. I got a concussion,” I say, almost brightly, encouraged that I remember the detail. “And I was drinking last night—I’m not supposed to drink.”
He nods. “And now look what’s happened. You’re dead. Did you learn nothing from health class?”
I give him a cool stare. “It’s no wonder you weren’t popular. You aren’t very nice.”
He stares right back. “Being nice doesn’t have anything to do with being popular. You of all people should know that.”
I close my eyes for a minute. He’s right. I should try to be nice. As politely as possible, I say, “Well, I’ve asked you twice now. Please shut up. I’m trying to listen.”
Joe is looking over the notes he’s made in his tiny spiral notebook. “So … all right. Is everyone telling the same story here? You fell asleep, and when you woke up, Liz was gone.”
“That’s right,” Mera says.
“And then someone decided to go look for
“Right,” Joe says, writing in his notebook. “And what about the drugs? Pot? Coke?”
“Jesus,” Richie blurts. “No coke. Nothing like that. A little weed, that’s all.”
“So you were partying,” Joe continues, “getting drunk, getting stoned … and then what happened? Someone get in a fight with the birthday girl?”
“No,” Richie says. “I don’t know what happened. We went to sleep. We all went to sleep.”
Richie Wilson: almost eighteen. Also known in school as Famous Richie Wilson. He’s my only friend who’s never worn braces; his teeth are naturally perfect. He is the smartest person I’ve ever met. He exudes confidence. I might have been pretty and popular, but I understand—I always understood, even in life—how lucky I was to have Richie. He is an all-around nice guy and the love of my life. I feel more drawn to him than anyone on this boat.
Right now, though, his confidence, that self-assured coolness that drew everybody to him, is nowhere in sight. Instead, he looks deflated. He is shaking. Somehow, I know that he’s dying to go home, to lock himself in his bedroom and smoke weed until he can barely remember his own name. Richie has a drug problem—it’s his major flaw. But it didn’t matter much to me; I couldn’t help but love him regardless.
“And when we woke up, Liz was gone,” Josie says. “We thought maybe she went up to the house, for food or something. She gets spacey when she doesn’t eat. She gets hypoglycemic.” Josie’s gaze flickers to my dad and Nicole. “She’s had problems with passing out. She’s been in the hospital because of it.”
Josie Valchar: seventeen years old, a full six months younger than me. Even though she’s my stepsister, she and her mom took the last name when our parents got married. Although some people don’t believe we’re stepsisters. People who don’t know any better. Other than Richie, she has been my best friend since elementary school. Josie believes in ghosts; like her mother, she frequently goes to the Spiritualist Church in Groton. She claims she’s always felt a connection with the spirit world, but it’s obvious to me, right now, that she’s full of it. She’s just a scared kid, like the rest of my friends, devastated and horrified. I don’t know what she’ll ever do without me.
“Hypoglycemic?” Alex asks. “What’s that?”
“It’s nothing,” I say. “It’s just low blood sugar. It happens when I don’t get enough to eat.”
“You mean like diabetes?”
“Sort of. I’m not diabetic, though. But I get dizzy a lot. Like Josie said, sometimes I pass out.”
“Well, that’s interesting.”
“Yeah,” I agree, “it is. I was in the hospital last year because I fainted on my stairs. I got a concussion,” I say, almost brightly, encouraged that I remember the detail. “And I was drinking last night—I’m not supposed to drink.”
He nods. “And now look what’s happened. You’re dead. Did you learn nothing from health class?”
I give him a cool stare. “It’s no wonder you weren’t popular. You aren’t very nice.”
He stares right back. “Being nice doesn’t have anything to do with being popular. You of all people should know that.”
I close my eyes for a minute. He’s right. I should try to be nice. As politely as possible, I say, “Well, I’ve asked you twice now. Please shut up. I’m trying to listen.”
Joe is looking over the notes he’s made in his tiny spiral notebook. “So … all right. Is everyone telling the same story here? You fell asleep, and when you woke up, Liz was gone.”
“That’s right,” Mera says.
“And then someone decided to go look for
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