Winthrop Summer Maker Program—Day 18
We stand in a tight cluster, high above the lake. I couldn’t say how long we’ve waited here. Minutes? Hours? There’s no way of telling time, aside from the sun’s descent toward the horizon and the growing ache in the arches of my feet. The breeze feathers my hair, but otherwise I remain completely still—as unmoving as the shelf of solid granite beneath my tennis shoes.
I shouldn’t be here. Maybe I should go back down…
They warned us not to come, said not to leave our rooms. The program director’s email declared the whole campus under lockdown, but we gathered anyway. One by one, we made our way up the narrow trail to this forbidden spot—this place where beauty and danger intertwine. Now, we stand shoulder to shoulder, watching and waiting. Nineteen summer students.
All but one.
No one makes a sound. Hushed words and nervous laughs have long since given way to silence. I can only hear the whisper of the wind and the crackle of the yellow caution tape fluttering against the rocks.
That tape wasn’t there the last time I came to this place. Its presence feels unnatural—too bright, too glaring—slashing through my view of the white, cotton ball clouds that fill the sky and cast their shifting shadows across the landscape.
///CAUTION///CAUTION///CAUTION///
The bold, black warning seeps its way into my consciousness. It reminds me of that feeling during a dream, right before you wake—that flickering ember of doubt that catches hold and slowly spreads before the dream goes up in flame, that little voice inside your head that whispers: “Hey, Nora… Nora? Nora! Has it occurred to you that none of this is real?”
If only my brain would say that to me now. I keep waiting for it to happen, but the sick feeling in my stomach tells me I won’t get out of this nightmare so easily.
I’m toward the back of the group behind the juniors and seniors. I can’t tell what’s going on in the water below from my vantage point, but I have a view of Maddox’s profile. For once, his eyes aren’t covered up by glasses. He stares straight ahead, rigidly expressionless, casting his eyes downward over the cliff’s edge. A tic vibrates at the corner of his jaw. His face gives away no other hint of the emotions churning beneath the surface.
I wonder what that blank stare signifies. Hope? Fear? Guilt? I can’t begin to guess. I hardly know him, after all. The thought curdles inside my throat like sour milk. Last night, I thought I might be in love with him. What a joke. It’s only been a few weeks since the day we met—the day I first arrived at Winthrop Academy.
The girl beside him clasps Maddox on the arm, her fingers digging into the flesh above his wrist. I press forward and go up on my tiptoes to catch a glimpse of the water down below, as a whisper runs through the group.
“They found something… What is it?… Can you see?”
We all inch forward, craning for a better view. The surface of the lake looks calm and unbroken, except for the presence of the boat. From this distance, it reminds me of a bath toy I used to play with as a kid—a white, plastic replica of a powerboat with dark blue lettering across the hull.
POLICE
We’re too far away to see the expression on the officers’ faces or to hear the words exchanged. But we can see the search diver emerge from beneath the water in his black wet suit. His flippers disturb the pristine surface as he paddles his way toward the boat. He swims with one arm stretched before him, holding out the sunken treasure he’s exhumed from the depths below.
“Is it…” the voices all around me murmur. “Is it…is it her?”