Bad Graces by Kyrie McCauley

Author:Kyrie McCauley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2024-04-09T00:00:00+00:00

15

When I finish telling Celia the truth about the condition we found Vincent’s remains in, she is pissed.

“That is not okay, Liv. Not out here.”

“No, you’re right. We didn’t—Celia, it didn’t seem real.” We are making our way back to camp. “It was just so messed up. We didn’t know what we were dealing with.”

“We still don’t,” Celia says. “But there was something . . . terrible . . . in there. And we can’t afford to be hiding things. No more secrets.”

Terrible. It is the same word I thought a few moments ago. I don’t know what it was about the pond in the forest, only that it made me feel cold, and lonely, and like I’d already plunged into that crystal-clear water, even though all I’d done was touch the tip of one finger to it, creating the tiniest ripple on its smooth surface. But even that small movement was enough to stir the thing below. The terrible, nameless thing.

When we return to camp, Rosa is sitting out on the rocks, with her legs submerged in the ocean.

“She says it’s soothing,” Miri says. She’s tending our little fire. It isn’t large enough to work as a signal; we’ve been too scared to build it large after what happened to Vincent.

Celia and I set down the fish. My whole abdomen is cramping from hurrying down the beach, swinging the weight of it between us. Every muscle in my body is tense and aching when we finally drop the fish next to the fire. At least the pain from my arm isn’t as bad. Or rather, it blends right in with all the other pain now.

“Ew, what is that smell?” Miri asks, crinkling her nose. “Oh, gross. Fish?”

“Miri, I swear to Christ—” Celia starts.

“None for you, then,” I tell her. I stomp over to the pile of dry branches we’ve been collecting as we find them and start to build up our fire bigger so we can cook the fish.

“Oh my god, real food,” Paris says, walking over to help. “Thank you!”

If she’s grossed out by the idea of cooking and eating something we just caught, it doesn’t show. Meanwhile, Miri is sitting crisscross on the sand, pouting.

We manage to get the fish turning on a spit over the fire—it is clumsily put together. Effie has her hands on one side, and Paris has hers on the other, just to keep it from collapsing into the fire. But it’s working.

I grab the nail clippers from my bag. I can’t spend another minute in jeans with wet, sandy bottoms dragging around this entire island, and I use them to cut the material midway up my thigh. I pull the extra material off, tossing it away until I can find a use for it later.

I collapse on the sand, sick and exhausted. Someone plops down next to me, and I open one eye to make sure it isn’t Miri.

“How is your foot?” I ask Rosa.

She stretches out her leg to show me.

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