The Different Girl

wasn’t sure if this was the answer—an answer we would understand—but hoped it was. But I understood her offer of an exchange to be an equation, a balance. “All right,” I agreed. “We won’t say anything, and then you will do something for us.”
    “What?”
    “You’ll tell us if anything happens when we’re asleep.”
    May stood and looked at me and then at Caroline, who nodded. May nodded, too, all three of us making a deal. I held out my other hand.
    “Just a minute.” May hiked up her shirt and balled it over her fingers. “You’re still covered in sand.”
    • • •
    When we got back to the beach path, Irene was crouched with Isobel and Eleanor over the grass. Irene saw us coming and stood, taking Isobel’s hand.
    “We found a bird!” Eleanor called.
    We gathered round: a dead gull, its feathers stuck together, stained and slick.
    “It’s a year old,” Caroline said to Irene, and Irene nodded to let Caroline know that she was correct and also that Isobel or Eleanor had already said this.
    “Look.” Isobel gently flipped the gull to its other side, the soft neck lolling. “We found it high up, almost to the grass.”
    The other side of the gull was burned, feathers blackened and curled, the stubbled skin beneath blistered red.
    “With the flotsam from the storm,” said Eleanor, looking at May, as if she might have something to add.
    But May only said, “Poor bird.”
    “How can a bird get burned?” I asked. “What can be on fire in a storm?”
    We waited for Irene to explain. She stood with her hands in the pockets of her skirt. She took a deep breath, which she sometimes did standing in the wind—because of the fresh air, then she would let it all out with a smile. This time it came out through her nose.
    “Who can answer Veronika’s question? What burns?”
    “Everything burns,” said Eleanor. “But not in water. Not in rain.”
    “Something could burn and go into the rain afterward,” said Isobel. “Something set on fire inside, where it’s dry, and then thrown outside.”
    “The gull flew inside and then flew out again,” suggested Eleanor.
    “Inside where?” asked Caroline. “There’s no fire here to burn a bird.”
    “Maybe it floated here on the tide,” said Eleanor.
    “But when?” asked Irene.
    “During the storm,” said Isobel. “This is the high-water mark.”
    “It could have been burned somewhere else,” said Eleanor, “and during the storm it came here.”
    “How long has it been dead?” said Irene, in the way that meant this was a clue.
    We saw things being dead all the time, mainly crabs and insects, but also birds and eggs and jellyfish. The gull hadn’t begun to fall apart or even smell, and its feathers were still intact. I flipped it back to the side we’d first seen.
    “What is that, all over its feathers?”
    “Oil.” Everyone looked at May. “Probably diesel.”
    “What is diesel?” asked Eleanor.
    “It’s fuel for the engine of a boat,” said Irene, when May didn’t answer.
    “Uncle Will’s boat?” asked Eleanor. “But May didn’t say anything about a fire. Was there a fire, May? Was there a bird inside your boat?”
    “Of course not,” said May. She stood up and stepped away. “I don’t know. I didn’t see any fire. I don’t know what happened to a stupid bird.”
    I stood up, too, wanting her to come back.
    “I doubt a seagull was inside the boat,” said Irene.
    “Then how did it burn in the rain?” asked Isobel. “Was it inside another boat?”
    “Seagulls aren’t like parrots,” said Irene. “You know that. Think again. May, what do you remember about when you woke up.”
    May turned to her, the wind whipping her hair across her eyes. “I don’t remember anything.”
    “Did you see anyone?”
    May shook her head.
    “You called out for your uncle. For Cat. Didn’t you? But they didn’t answer.”
    “I wasn’t loud enough.”
    “What woke you up, May? Was it a crash? A big bang?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Irene turned to the rest of us. “What do you think?” Her voice was impatient, but also something else. We almost never heard it—and only when Irene forgot we were awake or thought we couldn’t hear—and that was her being sad, wanting something that she couldn’t name. “What do you think, Caroline?”
    Caroline blinked and cocked her head. “The oil.”
    “The oil caught fire!” said Eleanor quickly. “And the oil got all over the bird.”
    “And the rain put it