Gray Wolf Island Read online

  “You do remember the cave-in, right?”

  “No, Elliot. I must have slept through it.” I sigh. “Look, right now it’s our only way out. But if the entrance into the cavern is blocked or the exit to the cliff has crumbled, then we’ll try another path.”

  Charlie nods. “And then we leave Gray Wolf Island.”

  The going is easier than the coming.

  I guess that’s life. Took sixteen hours of labor to bring Sadie into this world, kicking and screaming and red in the face, and six minutes to take her out, pale and broken but full of peace.

  “It seems unfair we made it out so easily.” Charlie’s voice is low and wet.

  We stare at the rumbling ocean. It hurtles into the cave below, and even from here—standing on the shoulders of the musical cave—I can hear its song. The melody is what comforted me as we climbed damp, stair-shaped rocks up the face of the island. It comforts me again as tears drip down my cheeks and I think of the boy we’re leaving behind.

  We’ll tell them where to find him. Across the island and into the caves and beneath a flowery grave. We’ll tell them he died saving Charlie’s life. Some might believe us. His mom will. But Wildewell likes to make up its own legends. Someday down the line, they might tell stories of pirates’ treasure and the boy who made the island cry. Some will say they knew from the start he was wicked. And some will say that with a birth like his, he couldn’t be anything but divine.

  Anne slips her hand into Charlie’s and says, “Bishop Rollins once said nobody could bake the way Gabe baked and be human. My great-grandma always believed he was something…other. Maybe part of the island. Maybe part angel.”

  Charlie raises an eyebrow. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Is it?”

  The western coast is a line of cliffs and jumbled rocks. We follow it for as long as we can before Elliot leads us inland. Past the waterfall, through a forest thick with birch. The woods deepen, then thin, and then we’re there: staggering, stumbling, running through the underbrush and over warm sand, shedding our shoes and splashing knee-deep in the cool ocean.

  “It’s like waking up from a dream,” Anne says. “Those first moments when you’re not sure if you’ve slipped into real life or out of it.”

  “Nightmare.” In the setting sun, Charlie’s face is ferociously orange. “It’s a nightmare when your friend dies.”

  He tears off his shirt, plunges under the waves. Anne jumps on his back and won’t let him go. Won’t let him feel the guilt and the pain. She clucks her tongue and Charlie’s lips twist into a mournful version of his Cheshire cat smile before he dives into the next wave.

  “Will he be okay?” I ask.

  Elliot nods.

  “Will you be okay?”

  “Half of me thinks I’ll never be okay. The other half thinks I’m already there.”

  Anne sits piggyback as Charlie wades to shore. They’re a huffing, soaking tangle of limbs.

  Elliot and I let the water lap at our shins, let the sand suck our feet under. I can hear Charlie and Anne making camp. Charlie wanted to leave tonight, but sailing with him or Anne at the helm is scary enough during the day. So we’ll eat a meal that makes us miss Gabe and sleep under the stars, then return home.

  But without treasure. We stuffed that back into the crevice. Gabe’s rescuers won’t find it. It’s not for them. It’s for the explorer who discovers Treasure Island. For a true believer.

  “What treasure did you take?” I ask.

  Elliot fumbles in his pocket. Pulls out a small sailboat. “I stole this.”

  “Are we calling it stealing now? That sounds so…illegal.”

  “Jud Erlich would say it is illegal.”

  I grin. “Isn’t the idea of a treasure hunt sort of finders keepers?”

  “Yes. But this isn’t part of the treasure. This I stole.” Elliot drops the boat in my hand. It doesn’t look special at all—more like a child’s toy. The kind you can get for ten tickets at the arcade.

  “You knew about them—the Buddha, the necklace, this,” I say, handing him the boat. “How could you know what the treasure was?”

  “I spent a summer working for Bishop Rollins.” He says the words like he’s taking them out for a test drive.

  “I remember.”

  For a moment he’s frozen. “Right. That happened. And I—” Elliot takes a breath so deep I half expect to go light-headed from too little air. And then he says, “I’m the one who hid the treasure.”

  My mouth springs open, but I’ve lost my words.

  “There was a horrible thing, and my mom tried to make me forget it. But she somehow wiped an entire summer from my mind.”

  I don’t doubt that. Sometimes the mind would rather forget the truth, even if that means remembering fiction.

  “I didn’t know the map was mine. I didn’t know…a lot. Then the island gave me a story twisted around the truth.” He runs a hand through his hair. “But all these new memories are still muddied up in my head.”

  “One day, maybe you’ll tell me about it.”

  “You might not believe me.”

  I rest my head on his shoulder. “You can’t imagine the impossible things I’m willing to believe. Like right now, I believe there’s more to us than on the island.”

  He’s looking at me like he’s discovered a treasure, like I was buried for years before he dug me up. “Was that ever even a question?”

  And then he dips down and kisses me so deeply it sinks the sun into the ocean and draws the moon up into the sky.

  I sit on a boulder under the full moon, knees tucked close to my chest. It’s the middle of the night and the boys are asleep. Anne says she’s reading a book, but she’s really watching me. I catch her sometimes out of the corner of my eye. She smiles like she knows what I’m thinking, and maybe she does.

  I’m thinking I love them all, these people who barged into my life and turned it upside down. It feels like there should be something supernatural about it. But there’s no magic in love, just a gradual giving of yourself and trusting that whoever holds a piece will transform it into something magical.

  “You were right,” I say. “You were right all along.”

  The wind whispers and it’s Sadie’s voice, looking for a different kind of truth. So I stare at the sky and I tell her all of it. Her laugh ruffles my hair, and I say, “You would have loved it, Sadie. You would have loved every last bit of it.”

  When I’m done telling my story, the breeze kisses my cheeks and it says, “This is the year you live, Rubes.”

  The voice is so bright, so full of love and joy and peace. I hold it in my heart, in the space I’ve always left for Sadie.

  I hold on.

  And on.

  When the wind dies down, I rise from the boulder and I tell the greatest truth of them all. Everything is going to be okay.

  I have known such kindness while writing this book. Simple letters and words are woefully inadequate (and a backpack of gold and gems unfortunately hard to come by), but I will do my best.

  My agent, Sarah LaPolla, is a treasure herself. Thank you for having confidence in my writing from the beginning and encouraging me through it all. I’d be a mess of nerves and hopelessly lost without you.

  I count myself among the very luckiest to have Karen Greenberg on my team. A thousand thank-yous for your brilliant feedback and unfailing support. You are the editor I dreamed of when I dreamed, all those years ago, of publishing a novel.

  I’m so fortunate to have an amazing team at Knopf, who pushed me to make this book better and smarter and more grammatically correct. Thank you, Jenny Brown, Artie Bennett, Alison Kolani, Melanie Nolan, Janet Renard, and Dawn Ryan. And much gratitude to Ken Crossland and Ray Shappell for designing a book that looks beautiful both inside and out, and to Mike Hall for his gorgeous map. Special thanks go to Julia Gray at the Abbe Museum for her thoughtful read and for help making my fictional people and made-up history authentic to rea
lity.

  This book wouldn’t exist were it not for the talented writers who read it when it was still a messy infant of a story yet loved it all the same. Riley Edgewood, Rebekah Faubion, Lola Sharp, and Katy Upperman—thank you for your excitement and especially your advice. You gave me confidence when it was seriously lacking, and for that I am truly grateful.

  Liz Parker has been on this journey with me, right from the beginning. Thank you, dear friend, for urging me to write this book, for your faith in my ability to finish it, for all the times you read this story and all the genius ideas you shared. It seems only fitting that, as I wrote about life-changing friendship, we were forming our own.

  For the words of encouragement, fellowship, and keen insight, thank you to Lindsay Currie, Kelly Jensen, Shannon Grogan, and Alice Fanchiang. To Nova Ren Suma, who, with unfathomable kindness, has taken me under her wing, thank you for being so very generous in every aspect of your life. I respect you all more than you probably know.

  I owe my sanity to my fellow debut authors, and the Class of 2K17 in particular. It is a privilege sharing this milestone with you.

  Once, when I wasn’t much older than Ruby and the gang, I traveled around an island with a group of girls who became forever friends. Thank you, each of you, for showing me why friendship is a lot like magic and for inspiring the strong bonds in this story. And much gratitude to the friends I made later who have proven that we can weather anything if we have the right people by our side.

  My family has been my first and most loyal supporters. To my grandfather, who can tell a tale like no other, thank you for fostering a love of storytelling in me.

  I am forever grateful to my mother and father for reading to me at bedtime—even if that bedtime came outrageously early. Thank you for never doubting my dreams and for believing, with the utmost certainty, that I would one day realize them.

  To my sister, Jill, who was there the day, so long ago, when I started my very first book and has been here every book since: sufficient gratitude seems like an impossibility. Thank you for the pep talks, the brainstorming sessions, and, most of all, your constant enthusiasm for my stories.

  And, finally, thank you to Matt, who always believed. Who captained our lives when I couldn’t. And with whom I feel the opposite of invisible.

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