The Different Girl

doing. We knew we weren’t supposed to see the girl, but the girl was being kept from us as well. We hadn’t noticed that our singing on the steps had been skipped three nights in a row—we’d all just gone to bed early. Eleanor and I had told Isobel and Caroline about the footprint. We knew the girl had seen us twice—us by her bed, and her standing over ours. We would have mentioned the footprint if Irene or Robbert had asked, but for those days it was as if the girl didn’t exist, and we were just too good at focusing to talk out of turn.
    But that night, after the woods, we were helping Irene with dinner—folding napkins and setting out chopsticks and spoons—when Robbert came in. Irene said everything was almost ready, but Robbert just poked his chin up at Irene’s room, then climbed the stairs ahead of her. Irene sighed and turned down the burner flame and wiped her hands and followed. Since there was no door, we could still hear, even though they spoke quietly.
    “What’s wrong?” she asked.
    “We have to decide.”
    “We have another week, don’t we? I thought we agreed . . .”
    Their footsteps went farther from the stairs. We could only hear murmurs and the purr of burning gas.
    Irene hadn’t run out of mustard yet, but I wondered if another week meant the next supply boat. I didn’t know what else could happen in a single week, unless another storm had been predicted.
    From the darkened yard behind us came the faintest squeak, a metallic sliver of sound we all recognized as the screen door of the classroom. The murmurs kept going upstairs. They hadn’t heard.
    All four of us crept to our screen and looked out. The girl was outside. She slipped down the classroom steps into the yard, and then she stopped, hunkering down. She looked at our door, maybe even at our shapes, shadows with the light behind us. In a burst, like a rat from under a palm frond, she darted toward us, right under the kitchen porch and out of view. Robbert and Irene were still talking. The water had begun to boil.
    “Watch the pan,” I said. I opened the door.
    “What if they come down?” whispered Eleanor.
    But I didn’t answer. I’d already seen the girl and she’d seen me—so what could be the harm? The others caught the screen so it closed without a sound. I went down the stairs, holding the rail like always. At the bottom I looked under the building. She was on her knees in the weeds, peeking past the middle stilt. We watched each other.
    “Hello,” I finally whispered. “Are you feeling better?”
    The girl didn’t answer.
    “I found you on the beach,” I said.
    She kept crouching there.
    “I’m Veronika.”
    “What are you?” Her voice was as different as the rest of her, close to a croak.
    “I’m Veronika. This is our island. What’s your name?”
    It took her a little while to decide, but she finally did. “May.”
    “That’s short,” I said. “Our names are longer. Are you sure that’s all of it?”
    “What are you?” she asked again. I had no idea what to say.
    “I’m Veronika. The other girls are Isobel and Eleanor and Caroline.”
    “Girls?”
    “Why don’t you come into the kitchen?”
    “He told me not to.”
    “But you already did, didn’t you?” She nodded. I nodded back to be friendly. “Don’t worry. Now you’re safe.”
    “Who are they?”
    “Irene and Robbert. They take care of us. Why don’t you come out?”
    I’d been too long. When I looked up, Irene and Robbert stood in the doorway. I went back to my crouch and called to her.
    “Everyone wants to meet you, May. And it’s dinnertime. Aren’t you hungry?”
    • • •
    Irene and Robbert left it to me. Eventually May came out and up the stairs. I waited and held out my hand for her to take, which she did, hesitating and looking at Irene and Robbert to see if it was okay. I knew not to squeeze (or pinch) and just let her fingers do the feeling. She looked different than she had in the beach grass or on the bed, much closer to how she looked in the photograph, even if she didn’t smile. Most of the zebra bandages were gone from her arms, but her feet still had a few, so she wore the flip-flops from her bag. Her shirt had been in the bag, too, short-sleeved with colored flowers, so someone must have washed it. We climbed into the light and I saw her more clearly than ever. May’s hair was as black as Eleanor’s but thick and curled where Eleanor’s just hung. Her skin was almost the color of