Tragedy Girl - Christine Hurley Deriso Page 0,7

kinda like me, especially now that my hair’s short. A lot like me, actually … same almond-shaped eyes, same high cheekbones … It’s kind of eerie. I squeeze my arms across my chest and resume reading:

Cara Costwell, a rising junior at Cloverville High School, was reportedly swimming in the ocean on the north side of the island late Saturday night, June 14, when friends noticed she hadn’t returned to their bonfire on the beach as promptly as they expected. Blake Fields and Jamie Stuart, rising seniors at Hollis Island High School and friends of the victim, boarded Stuart’s nearby jet ski to look for her. After a fruitless fifteen-minute search, they returned to the beach and called the authorities.

Local police contacted the Coast Guard at 1:15 a.m., reporting Costwell as missing and possibly carried out to sea by unusually strong rip currents. Responders searched throughout the night and Sunday morning.

At noon Sunday, the rescue mission turned into a search for Costwell’s remains, which have yet to be recovered.

“It’s just devastating suspending a search when someone is still missing, particularly a teenager,” said Capt. Harold Roland, commanding officer of …

“Anne?”

I minimize the screen as Aunt Meg creaks my bedroom door open while knocking on it. I’d love to suggest that the knock precede the creak from now on, but hey, it’s her house.

“Hi, Aunt Meg,” I say, pushing my chair away from the desk.

“How was your second day of school?” she asks.

“Good,” I say, managing a smile. “A couple of girls invited me to join them at lunch, which was really nice of them.”

“Great!” Aunt Meg says, her face brightening. “What are their names?”

“Um … Melanie and Lauren. I have some classes with them. They’re really nice.”

Aunt Meg’s beaming face seems to prod me to add more adjectives, superlatives exuberant enough to match her expression, but I’m already surpassing my perky quota.

“Well, good for you,” she says, punching every word. “And, honey, you meant what you said last night at dinner about being willing to talk to a therapist? You don’t mind having just a few sessions to discuss your … to talk about whatever?”

I clench my fists but nod. “Yeah, Aunt Meg, it’s fine. Whatever you need me to do.”

“It’s what you need,” she assures me, walking over and stroking my hair. “Anyway, you’ve got an appointment next Monday at four p.m. Work for you?”

I swallow hard. “Yep. That’s fine.”

“Good.” She holds my gaze just long enough to make me excruciatingly uncomfortable, then winks and walks out, closing the door behind her.

Okay. Time to bang out my homework. But first …

I return to the Google search and click on another article:

Memorial Service Lauds “World’s Sweetest Girl”

—By Ted Hardiford, Hollis Island Tribune Reporter—

High humidity and soaring temperatures made June 28 one of the hottest days so far this summer, but mourners at Cara Costwell’s memorial service huddled together midday at Peachtree Park as if they couldn’t shake the chill from their bones.

Some literally shivered; others simply wept. But their collective body language spoke volumes: she can’t really be gone.

Yet the three-hundred-plus attendees followed Cara’s parents’ lead in facing the reality of her demise, her unrecovered body notwithstanding.

“We’ve clung to hope as long as we could,” her mother said in a quavering voice as she welcomed the throngs to the service. “But it’s time to say goodbye to our little girl. She loved the sea, and now she’s there for eternity.”

Several of Cara’s friends spoke at the service as well, including classmate Rebecca Jowers, who called her the “world’s sweetest girl.” Hollis Island High School seniors Blake Fields and Jamie Stuart, the two who searched in vain for Cara on a jet ski after realizing she was in peril, were scheduled to speak but sobbed quietly at their seats instead, too shaken to go to the podium.

“I know some of you struggle with guilt,” Cara’s father said, looking directly at the two young men, “but Cara wouldn’t want that, and neither do her mother and I. You were wonderful friends to Cara, and you did everything you could to help her that night. The best way to honor her memory is to move on with your … ”

My cell phone rings, and I smile when I see the call is from Sawyer.

“Hey, Sawbones,” I say, x-ing out the computer screen.

“’Sup, E. I miss you like mad.”

I smile, walk over to my bed, and snuggle against the pillows. “Miss you more. Hey, have you gotten up the nerve to ask Paul out yet?”

Sawyer