Only If You’re Lucky

The rest of the week is nothing more than a blur: all of us sitting in the sand, eyes wet and red, watching the coast guard appear in the distance. The police crawling the island, spinning cobwebs of yellow caution tape as a bloated man named Detective Frank pulled us to the side, one by one, scribbling notes as we gave our statements.

It was a chaotic scene, frenzied from the start. None of us were able to answer his questions, not really, the details of the night fuzzy and fading. Conflicting accounts of who was where, and when, and why. The mud had swallowed our footprints; the shifting sand made it impossible to retrace anything. The tide the night before had been higher than normal—the full moon tugging at the water like it had tugged at all of us, the gentle pull of gravity like a curling finger daring us to indulge in our own intimate extremes—and as a result, any evidence, murky as it might have been, was washed away as it fell. Destroyed by Trevor flipping over the body; the grime covering Levi’s skin masking any prints, any clues. Any indication, other than those bruises, of how exactly this might have happened. Of what could have gone so horribly wrong.

By the time we made it back to land, I was shivering with shock, a trauma blanket wound around my shoulders despite the fact that I was still sweating. We were brought to the station next, every single one of us, where we were asked to repeat our statements again, and again. And again. Our hair crusted with salt; sand still stuck to the crooks of our arms, the bend of our knees. The hidden spaces tucked between our toes. Clothing damp and the smell of pluff mud permanently stuck to our nostrils so no matter where we went or how far we ran, we were still back there, back on that island. Looking down at Levi as it swallowed him whole.

By Monday, the news was everywhere: freshman Levi Butler died over the weekend at a fraternity-sponsored function. There was alcohol involved, dozens of empty handles collected from the beach and bagged as evidence. Crumpled cans bobbing with the waves and whispers of hazing, everyone remembering the way Trevor had treated him. That scary aura as he puffed his chest out. Officially, the boys swore pledgeship was over and Levi must have just drunk too much before stumbling away and passing out in the trees. That maybe he fell in the mud, his head too leaden and floppy to lift back up. Maybe he was smothered by it, thick and sticky as it lodged in his windpipe. Gagged him to death. Still, Kappa Nu was suspended indefinitely. The boys are still next door for now—most of them don’t have anywhere else to go—but the parties are over and the shed doors stay closed, that pathway between us irrevocably shut. They’re strangely quiet when they do venture out, eyes cast down and tails tucked tight. All of them afraid of attracting unwanted attention in a way that reeks of irony, oddly refreshing—but at the same time, we keep to ourselves now, too, because while the unfolding news is one thing, the rumors are another beast entirely. From the second we stepped off that island, they spread like wildfire set to a parched, hungry place: powerful, uncontrolled, ripping through campus with a speed that was startling.

Each one somehow both outlandish and believable and most of them, as always, revolving around Lucy.

She was with him, after all, splashing him in the water. Sitting next to him by the fire and trying to console him after Trevor humiliated him in front of everyone. Like Nicole had said as the night was just starting: “She’s not exactly subtle, is she?” People noticed the way she touched his leg and how he recoiled, flinging her arm back onto her lap. People noticed how he walked away and she stood up and followed.

Nobody saw him after that. Nobody saw him return.

“I picked up a shift tonight.”

I snap my neck up, unsure of how long I’ve been sitting, staring, sinking into my mattress even though it’s two o’clock on a Friday afternoon. Rutledge canceled class for the week, sent out emails encouraging students to sign up for free counseling, but as a result, every second since I stumbled across Levi has been spent in this house, what once felt like my sanctuary now more like a cell.

“I have to get out of here,” Lucy says when I don’t answer, clearly feeling the same. “I think I’m going crazy.”

I blink a few times, registering her in my doorway with the Penny Lanes logo pulled tight across her chest. Our conversations have been so surface-level lately, so stilted, a heavy silence settling over the four of us every time we find ourselves together, thick and impenetrable as we chew it over. The comfortable quiet we once had now accusatory and cruel as we wonder which rumors could be real, which could be fiction.

As we quietly develop theories of our own.

“Come by at close?” she offers, and I try to smile, even though it feels more like a snarl. “Margaritas on me?”

“Not tonight,” I say, registering the subtle hurt in her eyes. “Sorry.”

“Why not?”

She cocks her head, that same look of innocent interest I now know is anything but. It reminds me vaguely of a limping animal; something feigning weakness just to draw you close before whipping around and eating you alive.

“I’m just not up for it,” I say at last. “With, you know, everything.”

“Ah, yes,” Lucy says, crossing her arms. “Everything.”

“Rain check?” I ask, sitting up straighter and suddenly uneasy about the way she’s standing in the doorway, blocking my exit. Her eyes are drilling into mine like she’s trying to extract something from me, some buried truth I don’t want to give up, and I catch that little quiver in her lip like there’s something else she desperately wants to ask.

“Sure,” she says instead, though she’s still lingering there, drumming her fingers against the wall. She nods gently, finally, and turns to leave before suddenly twirling back around like whatever’s on her mind is still struggling to break free.

“You know, Margot, this is a difficult time for all of us.”

She’s choosing her words slowly, carefully, her mind soldering the sentence together before she reveals her thoughts to me.

“I know how you felt about Levi,” she adds.

I bunch my forehead, unsure of what she’s getting at. I hated Levi. She knows that more than anybody. There’s a temptation, once people are gone, to sugarcoat their qualities, inflate their attributes, all the other girls I used to see next door crying to their classmates about how he was such a nice guy—but not me, not Lucy. I literally told her I wanted him dead and I feel a rock lodge in my throat as it dawns on me, finally:

That’s her whole point.

“We should be sticking together, you know?”

She rests her head on the doorframe, reminding me of all the times she’s done the same thing to my shoulder, nuzzling her nose deep into my neck. The two of us on the couch, burrowing close in my bed.

“Yeah,” I say slowly. “I guess you’re right.”

“Okay, good,” she says, the darkness that settled over her expression before evaporating completely, flashing a smile that makes my blood freeze. “Because now really isn’t the time to turn away from your friends.”