Page 132 of What Boys Learn
Her face crumples. “No!”
She hurries over to my side of the stern, looking down into the water. Behind her, Dr. C smirks approvingly. I look away, because I can’t see his face anymore without imagining how it would feel to put a finger in the smirky side of his mouth and pull hard, like he’s a fish caught on a line.
Lenora spins around, hands on her cheeks. “I justgotthat phone.”
“Don’t worry, dear,” Dr. C says. “We’ll replace it.” He touches her knee. My face feels hot. Time warps. His fingers on her knee, squeezing in slow motion. His blink, slower yet. Her startle reflex, his eyes opening again, his grin spreading. Slow, slow, slow. Then just as my hatred is cresting like a wave, everything returns to normal speed.
Lenora looks at me, smiling cautiously. I know what she’s doing. Trying to make me feel less bad. Even though I’m the jackass who dropped her phone, supposedly.
I can’t bring myself to smile back. I just keep staring, watching her expression change. Another wince, as if something is hurting her.
“Are you feeling seasick?” Dr. C asks, sliding even closer, arm around her shoulder. “You should go inside. Try resting for a bit.”
The sails are down. Dr. C pulled them in when the wind died. Now we’re in choppy seas, wallowing in the stifling heat, the fancy sailboat about as elegant as a hippo, the outboard motor glug-glugging along, gassy smell in the hot still air.
“No,” she says, “that’ll make it worse.”
She cradles her forehead in her hand, face pinched. Her orange bikini top pooches forward in that position, so she has more cleavage. Her belly has three creases only because she’s folded over, too sick to be self-conscious, and that makes me like her more than I’ve liked her since she boarded the boat, because she’s not showing off and trying to pose or be pretty, she’s just trying to get comfortable. “My stomach hurts. I think I need air.”
Dr. C pulls hard on the long tiller and the sailboat leans into the waves, forcing Lenora to push back into her seat, bracing herself, head up, bare legs extended out in front of her to maintain stability. I feel tired, too, and queasy, but I had only a sip of the lemonade. She had two cups.
“Take her inside,” Dr. C says firmly, fussing with the tiller again, slipping it into a locking gadget that keeps us moving straight even after he lets go.
“She doesn’t want to.”
He fake smiles, all his teeth showing. “We need her to be safe. The waves are picking up.”
“You’ve been saying that all day.”
He frowns. “If you both go inside, you can help her find the life jacket she’s been looking for.”
“Good idea,” Lenora says, groggy.
She tries to get up but manages only a half crouch before stumbling forward. I leap up in time to grab her arm before she falls. With one free hand she reaches toward the cabin doorway, insistent now.
“I thought you wanted fresh air,” I say, tugging her away from the cabin.
“I wanna . . . I need . . .” She pulls away from my grip and rushes to the side of the cockpit, vomiting over the side. “Oh.” A few seconds of recovery, and she vomits again. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, apologizing. “I’m so sorry.”
Dr. C points to a streak of vomit inches from his foot. He glares at me. “Clean that up.”
“I’ll get it,” says Lenora, eyes half closed, struggling against another rising tide of discomfort.
Dr. C stabs the air with a finger. “I changed my mind. Stay here. I don’t want you vomiting inside. Dennen will go get a rag.”
She ignores him. “Sorry. I need to lie down.” She stumbles toward the cabin doorway, gripping the edges with both hands.
Lenora trips as she enters, landing hard on the inner cabin floor, just barely missing the edge of the table. When she moans, I lock eyes with Dr. C, trying to understand. What is theleastI can do to please him, so that he’ll sail back to the marina?
For all his talk of “finding my extra,” he’s never put it into words, exactly what he wants me to do, other than not get caught. When I asked him about Christopher Weber the last time, yesterday, he ranted again about Weber’s mistakes. Then he started talking about all the favors he’d already done for me, like planting the pills in Weber’s car, pills like my mom’s, but not exactly my mom’s, after he drove Weber off the road. That way, when the toxicology from Izzy ever came back, they’d just trace the clonidine back to Weber. He’s going to be holding that over my head forever.
Half of my time is spent covering for you boys, he said, like a martyr. But he also seemed pleased. For once, I felt like I was getting him, because he’s like guys I’ve met before. The whiny overworked teacher. The underappreciated coach. The guy who’s just trying to teach you lessons for your own good. Lessons Dr. C never got.Look at my marriage. If he’d known what he knows now, he wouldn’t have put up with his wife as long as he did. Women cost a lot, he reminded me sternly, but they cost the most when you don’t handle them right from the beginning.Disposal is 90 percent of the problem.
Which is why, he keeps telling me now, this sailing plan was so much better than his original plan, taking that Veronica girl from the sports bar and locking her up in a room, just because I said she was hot after seeing her photo on my mom’s phone. I never should have told him that. Never should have showed him Veronica’s photo. He kidnapped her for me! I never asked him to do that. I hadno ideahe was going to. But he didn’t blame me for that one. He admitted it was a weak plan, since I wasn’t involved from the start.Kittens must catch their own mice. Fucking weirdo.
“I think we should sail back,” I say, now that Lenora is in the cabin and can’t hear us talking over the wind and the rough water. “If I do anything, she’ll tell.”
“She won’t. You’re not going to find an opportunity like this again. No one knows where she is. No one saw us leave with her.” He gestures in a circle. “And when you’re done, the next step is easy.”