BLAIR’S BOOK PROPOSAL: A BIT OF LIGHT STALKING, WITH SUBTERFUGE
Dear Meredith Payne-Whiteley,
As you know, this is my first book proposal. So in all honesty, I’m not entirely clear what I’m doing here, or which parts of this will be interesting to you.
All of it is interesting to me, because it’s my life. I guess you’ll have to help me sort out what belongs in a book and what should stay in my head.
I skipped track practice again to pursue a lead. I like track practice—running in circles is the only time I feel like a normal person, which tells you a lot about me—but Mattie told me Luke only has two shifts scheduled this week, and the other one is on Saturday, which is too long to wait. You said to move swiftly. And I can sometimes be impatient. Not as impatient as Cam, but still impatient.
No, I did not tell Cam I skipped. Yes, by “pursue a lead” I mean “stalk Mattie’s brother at his part-time job,” but this is my book, so I get to frame the narrative in a manner I find suitable.
Do you think people who write about true crime are presenting an objective narrative?
Please.
I’m seventeen years old, and I know there’s no such thing as objectivity.
Luke works at the fancy seafood restaurant in the harbor. In Oreville, there’s only one. It’s the kind of place your parents take you when they want to tell you they’re getting a divorce and your prom date takes you when he wants to be sure you’ll give it up.
I’ve never been there personally.
And I didn’t go in blind. You’re like Philip Marlowe, Mattie said when I asked them what Luke’s into. Doing the research. I’ve only read one Chandler novel, and from what I remember, Marlowe researches little and gets beat up a lot. Mattie told me Luke’s into whales, sailing, weed, and reading. I don’t know anything about sailing, I don’t smoke weed, and whales I’m not so sure about.
But reading, I can do. I sent Mattie into Luke’s room to text me a picture of his bookshelves. And on my way to the restaurant I stopped by the bookstore to find one of his favorites (I guessed by the number of creases on the spine—maybe I have a future as a PI after all).
So that’s how I ended up at Luke’s restaurant on a slow Wednesday afternoon, with a copy of Nick Pyenson’s Spying on Whales tucked under my arm.
I doubt you’ve ever been to humble Oreville, Meredith, so let me set the scene for you.
Our harbor is the part of town that would be featured on postcards, if anybody made postcards of Oreville. Pretty wooden sailboats bob in their slips, along with a handful of less-picturesque fishing boats and a few flashy new speedboats.
If you stand facing the water, the horizon behind you is ringed with mountains and trees and more mountains, and past the shelter of the harbor’s stone breakwater (I had to look up the word “breakwater”) the Straits stretch all the broad blue way to Canada, which you can see sometimes in the summer on clear days.
This isn’t summer, and clear days are a long way off. In December, the sky comes all the way down to the treetops, and you can barely see past the edge of the jetties (I had to look up the word “jetty” too).
Luke’s restaurant, like I said, is what passes for fine dining in Oreville. It sits at the edge of the water, with big picture windows looking out on the view. I showed up right after school—early enough in the day that there was hardly anyone else eating there. A middle-aged woman in a pressed white shirt leaned heavily on the hostess stand, looking bored. She didn’t look any less bored when she saw me, but she did seat me by a window, which was nice. Outside, a couple of seagulls the size of cats battled over a french fry. Behind them, the water was socked in with fog.
Luke had the same uniform as the hostess. He looked the same way he looked at Lola’s party: tired and sad and kind of stoned. The circles under his eyes are hollowed so deep they seem permanent.
He’s cute despite all that, objectively speaking. As a writer, I notice detail.
Objectively.
“Can I start you with something to drink?” he asked. And then he saw the book where I had left it conspicuously face up on the table, and his whole face changed. Like somebody turning the lights on in a darkened house.
“I love that book,” he said.
“I just started it,” I said.
That was the last entirely truthful thing that came out of my mouth for a while.
And then I said, “I’m thinking about majoring in marine biology,” which is not a lie, since I was thinking about it at the moment I said I was thinking about it, although what I know about whales could fit on an index card. (They are big, they live in water, some of them have teeth, and some of them have that other stuff that works like a strainer.)
And then I said, “Wait, have we met? You’re Mattie’s brother, right?”
“I thought you looked familiar,” he said. “Sorry about that party. My family is…” He waved one arm vaguely.
“Whose isn’t,” I said. That made him laugh.
There was no one else in the restaurant, so we started talking about other things: yes Oreville is so boring (that much is true), yes at least it’s beautiful (also true, once you get outside the city limits), yes omg I’ve always dreamed of sailing!!!! (I get seasick on the ferry), there’s a Deep Water rerelease at the Oreville independent movie theater??? No way!!!! Of course I want to see it! (I have lived in Oreville since kindergarten and had no idea we have an independent movie theater, and I also kind of hate Ben Affleck movies, but it’s all for the Cause, right?)
And that’s how I ended up with a date with Luke Brosillard for Friday night.
For investigation only. I swear.
And I will investigate. Because he offered to pick me up, but I said my parents are strict about boys (this is not true at all; I don’t think my parents would notice if I was dating forty people at a time, as long as I showed up each night at family dinner) and why don’t I pick him up instead.
Which means I can get back into that house.
To investigate.
The beautiful green eyes of Luke Brosillard have nothing to do with anything. I am an undercover agent, working on my book proposal.
I had no idea I was such a good liar.
Maybe that’s not a good thing for my conscience, but it’s a great thing for my story. Meredith, you would be proud.
Cam, maybe not so much.
But I just want to see Lola’s room, and then I’ll leave Luke Brosillard alone.
Unless you tell me not to.
Sincerely,
Blair Johnson
PAINTING TIME
“So,” Irene says.
School’s out, and for once Irene has an afternoon off. She’s in their small living room, trying out paint swatches on the landlord-cream walls.
Cam’s sitting on their cozy old sofa, sock feet tucked up underneath her, going through AP practice exams.
“The dark blue,” Cam says without looking up.
Irene’s been talking about repainting the living room since Cam acquired language. The paint-swatch trials of years past are hidden behind crammed bookshelves and dusty milagros and a battered poster of Poly Styrene, Irene’s idea of home decor.
“Not enough light in here,” Irene says, dipping her brush in a can of sunny yellow. “But I was going to ask you about winter break.”
Cam looks up from her laptop. “What about it?”
Irene eyes the daffodil-colored streak she’s made.
“Looks like the inside of a Burger King,” Cam says.
“Why is this so hard? It doesn’t look this hard on the internet.”
“People on the internet are rich,” Cam says. “And have a lot of free time. And personal assistants.”
“Personal assistant,” says Irene. “Now there’s an idea.”
“Not me,” Cam says.
“No,” Irene agrees. “I’d need someone competent. Is Sophie coming home for break?”
Cam gets the silly look that always comes over her whenever she talks about Sophie. “Yeah,” she says. “On the nineteenth. She has all of January off too, but she’ll only be here a couple of weeks. She’s volunteering with a Land Back collective fighting that pipeline.”
Irene looks thoughtfully at her sample-size mossy green. “I could put her in touch with some explosives guys,” she says. “Although it’s been a while.”
“I know Sophie is willing to go to prison,” Cam says, “but I would prefer she didn’t.”
Irene smiles her private anarchist smile to herself. “Give me a few minutes alone with her anyway,” she says. “Things are good with Sophie, then?”
“She’s all the way across the country,” Cam says. “I wouldn’t call that good.”
“You’ll be out there soon enough. Heard anything yet?”
“Um,” Cam says.
“Cameron P. Muñoz.” Irene drops her brush with a wet smack. “When were you planning on telling me?”
“They updated my application portal this morning,” Cam says.
“Good news?”
“Full ride,” Cam says.
“Holy shit!” Irene shouts. “Cameron!” Irene scrambles for the couch, grabs Cam up in a bear hug, nearly knocking Cam’s laptop to the floor. Cam squeaks in protest and then submits to her mother’s embrace.
When Irene finally pulls away, her face is wet.
“Are you crying?” Cam asks. “Don’t cry!”
“I’m so proud of you,” Irene says, wiping her eyes with the back of one hand. “I can’t believe what kind of a kid I raised. Look at you. My brilliant terror.”
This display of emotion is so out of character for Irene that Cam is at a loss how to respond. She lurches off the couch, stumbles to the bathroom, and reemerges with a handful of toilet paper, which she thrusts at Irene. Irene blows her nose with a loud honk, restoring something of a sense of normality.
“Get yourself together, woman,” Cam says, trying for stern humor. Irene laughs and then starts sobbing again. Cam stands there in horror, arms dangling, until she lunges forward and hugs her mother again. Irene clings to her.
“I wish your father was here to see this,” Irene wails into Cam’s shoulder. “He would be so proud of you. I’m so proud of you. I’m proud enough for both of us. Look at you! My magnificent child!”
Cam makes what she hopes is a soothing noise and pats Irene on the back as if Irene is a colicky infant Cam is trying to burp.
At last, Irene squeezes Cam tight one last time and releases her. Blows her nose again with her sodden handful of toilet paper. Takes a deep breath and shakes her head.
“Good god,” she says in wonder at her own outburst.
“Good god,” Cam agrees uncertainly.
“We should celebrate,” Irene says briskly. “I’ll take you and Blair and Sophie out to dinner. How does that sound?”
“Olive Garden!” Cam says happily.
“I was thinking somewhere a bit fancier,” Irene says, laughing. “Maybe that place in the harbor.”
“Endless breadsticks are plenty fancy,” Cam says.
“It’s your party,” Irene says. “Have you told Sophie?”
“I haven’t talked to her,” Cam says.
Irene gives her a sharp look.
“It’s fine,” Cam says. Irene waits. “It’s weird,” Cam allows. “She’s so far away. She has this whole new life I don’t know anything about. She’s busy all the time. Like, all the time. We don’t talk as much. But only because she’s so busy. There’s nothing wrong or anything.”
When Sophie first left for school, she and Cam talked every day.
Then, once every few days.
Then, once a week.
Now, less. Cam was surprised Sophie answered her call on Monday, and she hasn’t heard a thing from Sophie since.
But only because she’s so busy, Cam thinks firmly. Which she’s just said out loud to Irene. As if she’s trying to reassure herself.
If something were wrong, Sophie would tell her. Wouldn’t she?
Except, if she and Sophie never talk, when would Sophie say that?
“Distance is hard,” Irene says, watching her daughter. Cam would not be a difficult person for Irene to read if Irene were as perceptive as a refrigerator, and Irene is a lot more perceptive than an appliance. “Especially when so much is changing for Sophie. It’s not easy to give someone the space to grow when they’re already so far away.”
“Do you think Sophie needs to grow?” Cam asks.
“Of course. You do too.”
Cam sits back down on the couch. Irene sits next to her and puts her arm around Cam’s shoulders. Cam leans into her mother. This is a lot of emotion for one day, but maybe it’s allowed, given the circumstances.
“Do you think Sophie has to grow—” There is something stuck in Cam’s throat. She clears it irritably. “Do you think we’re going to—”
For some reason, she can’t get the words out.
“I don’t know,” Irene says matter-of-factly. No matter how many emotions Irene displays at once, she will never lie to make Cam feel better. Instead of making Cam sad, this makes her feel safe. “You might both need to grow in different directions. Or you might change in ways that make your relationship stronger. But whatever happens, Cam, both you and Sophie will be all right. You’re both very special people.”
“Sophie’s the most special person I’ve ever met,” Cam says.
“I know. But she’s not the last special person you’ll meet.”
“I don’t want a different special person,” Cam says.
“That’s an important place to start,” Irene says. “But you’re allowed to change your mind one day. And so is Sophie.”
“I don’t want Sophie to change her mind!”
“I know, sweetheart. But you can’t choose how other people feel. You can only choose what you do about it. Talk to Sophie when she’s here. Ask her what she needs.”
“I’m really bad at that,” Cam says.
“You don’t practice very often,” Irene says. Irene clears her own throat. “You know, you’re almost an adult. And I know her family’s strict.”
Sophie’s dad is white, ex-Navy, met Sophie’s mom when he was stationed in the Philippines. Cam knows enough about him to hate him with all her heart, though she’s never met him and probably never will.
“Her family’s homophobic,” Cam says. “And her dad makes her go to church all the time.”
“I’m saying, Sophie’s welcome to stay here as long as she wants,” Irene says. “And I trust you to be safe when I’m not around.”
“Are you planning to skip town?”
“I could stay with Brad for a few days if you, uh, wanted privacy.”
“Privacy?”
“With Sophie, Cameron. I am asking if you would like to have a few overnights alone with your girlfriend.”
Cam blinks. “Is this The Talk? Are we having The Talk right now?”
“I already tried that with you last year, remember? You said you knew all about sex with women.”
Cam covers her ears with her hands. “This ends now! Now!”
Irene grins, back on solid ground at last. “Don’t come crying to your mother if you get the clap one day.”
“I don’t think they call it ‘the clap’ anymore,” Cam says. “But thanks.”
“For the STI advice?” Irene cackles.
“For the offer,” Cam says. Cam takes a deep breath. Her throat is still strangely tight. Perhaps she is coming down with something. “I would like that. If Sophie wants to. Have some time. Alone. With Sophie. With me. Us.”
“We can play it by ear,” Irene says, ruffling Cam’s hair affectionately.
“How’s your patient, by the way?” Cam asks. Her heart thumps loudly enough that she’s sure Irene can hear it.
“Which patient?”
“That new girl you told me about.”
“She’s doing great,” Irene says. “She was released this morning. She’ll be back in outpatient therapy this weekend.” Irene pauses for emphasis. “Support group,” Irene says.
“Support group,” Cam says.
“Helpful,” Irene says.
“Happy ending,” Cam says.
“It’s not an ending,” Irene says. “It’s a beginning.”
“Right,” Cam says. “A beginning.”
Dear Mats,
It’s funny all the things you can learn about a family by paying attention. All the secrets that fall into your lap when you put your ear to the wall in the quiet of your room. You know all about that, don’t you? All those mystery novels on your shelves. I don’t have to be a therapist to figure that one out.
There’s so much I didn’t get to see of your life. So much I missed. As hard as it is for me, I know it’s so much harder for you. I know how badly you needed the girl who disappeared. Even though—forgive me—you hardly knew her. When I said there’s a simple trick to becoming the girl everyone wants you to be, I didn’t tell you about the flip side: how easy it is to see the girl you want in someone who is another person completely.
I think you’re going to have to learn that the hard way.
You will. And I don’t think you know this yet, but you’re going to be okay. You don’t need that girl as much as you think. It doesn’t feel good now, and it might not feel good for a long time. But you’ll be okay in a way I never will. Not because of the choices I’ve made, but because of who I am inside. Not because of what I’ve done. Because of what I am.
All those long years wandering, and they brought me back to you. Searching for something, someone—when home was right here all along. Don’t take it away from me yet, Mats, I’m begging you. I haven’t earned it, you’d say. I don’t deserve it, you’d say. Are you sure? Is that really how it works? The world for you is fixed at the moment your sister disappeared.
What if it was bigger?
Love,
Lo