the reflection of my body in the long mirrors that were in the small locker room off the 
pool. By my sophomore year in high school, I had created — and mastered — a beautiful, 
strong body, and what average looks I had were masked by health and physical 
near-perfection. I didn't admire this because I believed in beauty.
  Beauty is for the lazy.
  I admired it because I knew the world admired it, and I wanted to own the world.
  Wrestling was my winter sport at school, and I did not excel at it, but I held my own. 
The girls loved me — and the boys, too. I never got too close to them, because I had to 
spend all my concentration on creating who I was. But the girls all cheered for me in the 
sweaty matches as I brought some great bull of a boy from a competing school down to the 
red mat. Because the psychological aspect to sports can’t be emphasized enough, I would — 
with each match — create some threat to my opponent. Something I could whisper in his ear.
  This took no small amount of planning, as it meant I had to do research on those I 
wrestled, so I would know just what button to push to take away their psychological edge. 
Dagon helped me; my god took me to books and ideas and notions, if you will, that showed 
me just what other boys would be most hurt by. Usually, it involved their sense of 
sexuality. After all, even I knew that showering with other boys all day, wearing 
jockstraps, cracking jokes about everything from dicks to pussies, was a veil across 
homoeroticism among adolescents. And who but wrestlers were closest to puncturing that 
veil? So, I would whisper to my opponent something about him, something perhaps 
his closest friend had told me — his closest friend, drunk, being taken out to a parking 
lot — his closest friend who, with six beers in him, would finally admit to something 
that my opponent would be happiest to hide for a thousand years.
  Sometimes, it was less interesting. My threat might be, “I know your little sister, 
Trey. I know all about her leg. I would hate for something to happen to her. I would hate 
for someone to do something to a little girl so sweet.”
  You may judge me for this if you like. It was a competitive edge, and this is what we, 
in athletics, were taught: to find our edge.
  Skill alone never wins.
  I wish it did, but lazy people think that way.
  Faith is necessary, too. I had found mine. It had grown within me.
  Now, this began rumors about me, but I had built up a loyal following of other boys and 
girls in school. I became head of the pep squad for the football team — team sports were 
never my thing, but I knew that I had to somehow attach myself to them. So, when kids 
from other schools began talking about me saying “crazy, psycho” things, I had friends 
who were willing to lay down and die for me rather than accept those lies. I really liked 
the kids I went to high school with; I liked the teachers. It was easy for me to like 
them.
  I think even being poor helped — teachers saw me as an underdog rising. I would tutor 
children in the local elementary school some afternoons; I took the coach’s daughter to 
the junior prom, just because I was a nice guy and I felt bad that she wasn’t pretty 
enough to get asked by any of the other guys. I was wellliked, and sometimes, that 
carries you.
  But I haven’t mentioned much about Jenna yet, have I? In all this talk of I, she has 
not yet entered not in the way she should’ve. She was not at my school. She was not 
within my sphere. She was outer, she was beyond beyond.
  How could I take her to the prom when she only arrived at Outerbridge Island in the 
summers?
  I would count the days until Memorial Day weekend, when the Outerbridge Majesty would 
arrive in Quonnoquet Haven, heavy with tourists and summer people, and there, on the 
highest deck, I’d see her with my binos and I would lay back in the muddy grass and look 
up at the paling sky and think: please remember what we promised. Remember everything and 
don't leave anything out.
  Remember why I came to you and why you let me and why it would make everything be the 
way it was supposed to, and why you’re the reason for my every breath.
  That’s what had happened when I was twelve and dedicated my soul to the god of dark 
places. By the time I was seventeen, I was a dedicated servant to the one I worshipped.
  And the only thing I asked of this divinity was:
  Give me Jenna.
  I found a cat over in town, and with just a pen knife, offered its soul to my god.
  9
  I’ll tell you now, that it’s safe, what really happened the summer that I discovered 
purity — genuine purity — in the shit of human existence. I can see myself as I was then, 
handsome, young, even pretty in a way with my thick hair falling to either side of my 
face, my blue eyes sharp, yes, but expectant. My shirt is an Izod, a preppie affectation 
— my mother never wanted me to look like the other islanders, she wanted something better 
for me, as did I. Khakis, no socks, Topsiders or sandals — my face burning from the 
beginnings of summer sun, my heart racing. It’s no longer me as I am, it’s that boy, that 
boy who is almost eighteen, a man at this point, a man who has nearly won in life.
  I, he, you, it doesn’t matter what I call that boy-man, he just is, I can feel his 
breath, I can smell the Old Spice on him, I can practically see the cap on his front 
tooth that cost his father a pretty penny after he fell and chipped it in sixth grade 
while he was running — I can practically see the fog lift between this day and that one.
  He watches for her.
  
  
  Chapter Two
  Memorial Day, restless nights, and an open window 
  1
  Let me take you there.
  Fly like a bird over the crotch of New England – that place where Rhode Island clutches 
at its small corner between Massachusetts and Connecticut, and out to the Sound, across 
the scattering of islands and islets and outlands until you see the One Man Rocks, the 
places where misanthropists going by the name of New Englanders lived two to three per 
islet – and then, beyond the beyond, as my mother would say, thar she blows – 
Outerbridge, Outerbridge, Outerbridge. The name conjures up older names, and for me – or 
for him, for the me who was, Owen Crites, the Dutch fighting the Indians, the 
pirates burying treasure beneath the land, and the people who built the walls. It 
even conjures all the names it must have had before, when the gods themselves had granted 
it some secret name. If Owen had known the secret name, he might have had power over it, 
but as it was, the island was master, and all who occupied its ground, servants.
  The island’s history began eons ago when some glacial giant swept the rocks and earth 
into the Atlantic and the world grew up around it. The Pequot and Narragansett Indians 
held it against the Dutch for as long as they could, and then the Brits wrested it for 
themselves. The island never provided much in the way of existence for any of its 
inhabitants; all that’s left of the early English settlers were walls made of stone and 
foundations of cottages that speckle the northern end of Outerbridge (originally called a 
Dutch name that had sounded to the English like Outerbridge although there was a 
movement afoot among the summer residents to restore the old Pequot name for the place.) 
The largest beach, called the Serpentine by the British for its snaky shape, runs the