This pact is not ours, p.1
This Pact Is Not Ours, page 1
Zachary Sergi
Tiny Ghost Press
Copyright © 2023 Zachary Sergi
www.tinyghostpress.com
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,
without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN:
E-book 978-1-915585-05-9
Paperback 978-1-915585-06-6
Hardcover 978-1-915585-07-3
Cover Art by: Dri Gomez
Dedication
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Stone One
Chapter Seven
Stone Two
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Stone Three
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Stone Four
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Stone Five
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Stone Six
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Stone Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Prologue
My three best friends are about to die.
We were so sure we could do better, but the awful truth is revealed now, crackling and clear. How can I deny it here, kneeling in this mess? With dirt caked on my skin, flung aside in wild clumps. With my fingers broken, clawing at the ground, searing with each handful.
One of us is down there, buried alive. My favorite person, dying a custom-designed death, unable to move, unable to see, suffocating as the air is crushed from his lungs. He can’t even scream, his mouth filled with earth.
So I scream for him.
I dig and I scream and I dig, desperate to defy our failure. Still, I know the truth: we were never going to win, not when we couldn’t even fix the things that broke between us this summer.
Now we’re all going to die, everyone—but first it’ll be the four of us, drowned and diseased, infested and crushed…
We never really stood a chance, did we?
TWO WEEKS EARLIER
Chapter One
Every summer, it’s the same.
Mom turns off the air conditioner and rolls down the windows, releasing the preserved air from the five-hour drive. There’s nothing like that first breath of Copper Cove: the crisp breeze off the lake, the clean cut of the grass, the sap and pine from the trees. But it’s not just the smell—what really makes that first breath so special is the flush of familiarity. The rattle of relief, to have returned.
This is my eighteenth summer at Copper Cove, one trip for every year of my life, and this stay is going to be the best yet.
It kind of has to be.
~
Our first stop is always checking into Hemlock, the red-oak dorm that sits atop the campus hill. Every year it surprises me how Hemlock manages to feel so welcoming, with its twin-sized bunk-bed cots and paper-thin sheets, or the tiny bathroom that attaches Mom’s room to mine. Yet somehow Copper Cove’s humble accommodations only make everything feel comforting. The simplicity is calming. Being here, my ties to the outside world are already melting away, stripping away the traces of my normal, tattered life. For the next three weeks, this basic dorm is once again my palace.
My fortress.
My reigning perch.
“Hemlock Eighteen,” Mom sighs, appearing in the doorway of our shared bathroom. “I remember standing in this very room with my own dad. I can’t believe I’m old enough to have a college-age child.”
“Not college-age yet Mom, at least not for another month,” I say. “By the way, what happens when I make it to twenty-five and the Hemlock rooms run out? Where do we stay then?”
“Make it to twenty-five and you’ll find out.”
We Piccones have many long-held family traditions when it comes to Copper Cove, and one of them is to always live in the present and not dwell on the future. This ends up rooting us a bit too firmly in the past, but I’ve never minded that much.
I drop my bags in my room and walk back out onto the balcony running along the front of the rooms, a large swath of the campus below. Copper Cove is the brand of idyllic you might see on a postcard, a lakeside retreat center that doubles as a seasonal vacation spot. Right now, it’s all here for me, every roof tile and tree top immortalized in my memory. There are the summer cottages painted blue and red and yellow. The stained clapboard bell tower of the Auditorium, rising above the treetops. The sloping grass hill that leads down to the tennis and basketball courts. And of course, the shimmering blue bay of Lake Charlie, which stretches for miles underneath a chain of forest green mountains.
“Okay, it’s way too hot up here,” Mom says, joining me on the balcony. “I’m going to get my butt in that lake as soon as humanly possible. Sure I can’t convince you to join me before you meet your friends?”
“You already know the answer to that question.”
“It was worth a shot,” she shrugs. “I suppose I’ll see you later then, figlio mio.”
Mom hugs me, squeezing me a little tighter than usual. She always becomes more protective whenever we return to Copper Cove. It’s like we both revert to younger versions of ourselves, and as she lets go, she inevitably gives me that look. A combination of love and sorrow, of adoration and…something I can’t quite place. It always makes me a bit uneasy, but that’s probably because of what happened to Mom during her own teenage years here, that summer one of her best friends died. Maybe I’d feel better if she actually talked to me about what happened back then, but she always freezes over when I bring it up, says we’ll talk about it when I’m older.
I’m pretty sure this is just code for “we’ll never talk about it,” but I don’t push. There are already enough ghost stories told about Copper Cove.
And I’m sick of being haunted.
“You’d think five hours of road tripping with me would be enough exposure for you,” I say, turning out to take in the view.
“No such thing,” Mom answers, turning too. “But I know you have places to be and people to see.”
“I think I can spare another five minutes for the woman who gave me life,” I answer, leaning my head against her shoulder. “And who brings me back to the best place on earth every summer.”
“Oh, you’re quite welcome,” Mom says, kissing the top of my head. “Things are going to be better here. You made it through, Luca.”
I feel a swell building beneath my ribcage, so I do what I always do to make it stop: I close my eyes, and for a moment, I imagine myself as an embattled prince, returning to my enchanted home after a long and harrowing year. Back in this private kingdom where I am safe and loved and free, where every mundane path, every battered stone, every weathered tree is coated thick with memories.
Then, opening my eyes, I remind myself—just like any true Piccone—I have traditions of my own to uphold.
It’s always been hard for me to pinpoint exactly what makes Copper Cove so special, even though I know it is just a bit more special than anywhere else in the world. Part of it is the campus’s beauty, sure—its endlessly peaceful and restorative vibe. But for me, what really makes this place magical is the people who return summer after summer.
And at Copper Cove, I most definitely have my people.
Chapter Two
“That may very well be your finest work yet.”
I hear the voice behind me and resist the urge to tense. Normally I hate the idea of anyone looking over my shoulder at an unfinished sketch, but this situation isn’t normal—and that voice doesn’t belong to just anyone.
I turn to find Hazel standing behind my Adirondack chair and leap to my feet.
“Scoops!” I exclaim. “You look positively marvelous!”
“And you’re an absolute artistic smash as usual, my dear Mops!”
Hazel wags a fake cigarette and blows an imaginary plume of smoke before rushing to hug me. We acquired these 1920s wealthy-affected accents one summer when we became obsessed with Grey Gardens, and we picked up the stupid nicknames after exchanging TY Frizzys for one of Hazel’s birthdays. Somewhere along the line these two gags merged and persisted above the sea of ridiculous inside jokes Hazel and I share.
“It is so good to see you,” I say in my normal voice, my face already lost in the tangle of Hazel’s curly black hair.
“You too,” she answers, giving me an extra squeeze. “How is it that you always manage to smell like amber and bergamot, no matter how many years go by?”
“B ecause I believe things that work don’t ever need changing. And because my signature scent is timeless.”
“Indeed it is,” Hazel says, stepping back to look me over. “And hello, shoulders! When did they get so broad?”
“I’ve been…swimming much more than usual,” I answer, my eyes falling to the ground. My body, and my reasons for swimming, are two of my least favorite subjects. “And you look radiant as ever, my dearest darling.”
It’s true—Hazel has always possessed a kind of easy poise, with her copper-brown skin and the dark eyes that are her namesake, but she seems to have grown up even more in the past year. Still, I see instantly she’s the same Hazel, wearing a faded hoodie and jean shorts, with the little black notebook she always carries sticking out of her back pocket. Hazel’s big brain never met a thought it didn’t consider capturing, like she’s always hunting in her own mind—and these identical notebooks are her weapon of choice.
“You flatter me, kind sir,” Hazel answers, picking up the sketch pad I left on the arm of the chair. “Drawing the beach through an archway portal view? How very Narnian of you.”
“Yeah, I’ve been on a Chronicles kick lately. Plus, the beach where they filmed that scene is called Cathedral Cove, so it felt fitting.”
“Ugh, you and your movie trivia,” Hazel fake-sighs, handing back the pad. “When am I going to convince you to power down the screens and actually read some source material?”
“I imagine when hell freezes over, or some other dramatic disaster.” A new voice comes from further up the strip of sandy beach where Ariana suddenly appears, striding towards us. “We all know better than to try and separate Luca from his sacred traditions.”
It isn’t long before both Hazel and I are enveloped by Ariana, swept up in a fury of sturdy limbs and untamed brown hair.
“Seriously, remind me why I have to trek all the way across campus the moment I arrive here just to swim in the same old lake?”
“Because our inaugural sunset swim is a time-honored activity!” I say. “Plus, you love us damn Yankees.”
“Yes, well, I’m a bit of a Yankee myself these days,” Ariana says, finally releasing us from her bear hug. “I swear I love my parents, but I cannot wait to go to college and stay in one place for more than two years at a time.”
Hearing Ariana’s ever-evolving swirl of accents is music to my ears. She might have lived everywhere from South Africa to South Carolina in the fifteen years we’ve known her, but Ariana’s family has never missed a single Copper Cove summer. So I know Ariana secretly loves the continuity of our traditions just as much as the rest of us.
Before I can say as much, I’m suddenly swept off my feet and carried into the lake while fully clothed. My mind immediately flashes to my phone, but then I remember I left it in my room. There is no cell service or internet to be found here, sequestered in the middle of a mountain range. Which means Copper Cove is one of the rare places where you can be truly, blissfully unreachable.
I resurface quickly, wiping my hair out of my face to find Griffin, whose own wet blond hair falls across his shining blue eyes. One eyelid is creased smaller than the other, which I know only happens when he is laughing too hard or smiling too wide. Griffin is already shirtless, standing in the shallows where he dropped me, with water running down his flexing stomach muscles. I force myself not to stare.
“I meant for my sneak attack to get us in deeper, but someone is way heavier than he was last year,” Griffin laughs.
“Yeah, well, blame a late growth spurt and an addiction to gummy candy.”
I’m stunned that I manage to form words over the sudden jackhammering of my heart, but I’m happy to have played this reunion somewhat cool. Standing back up with a pull from Griffin, I’m also happy to still be wearing my shirt. I could swim a million laps and know my thin, lean frame would never stack up next to Griffin’s pitcher-cut arms or his superhero chest. I’m also incredibly pale—paler than any Italian has any business being, Mom always says—but a few weeks in the sun will set that straight. My ability to tan is the solitary physical advantage I have over Griffin, whose skin only goes from shades of pink to bright red.
“Man, am I glad you guys are finally here. Copper Cove isn’t the same without you,” Griffin says, hugging me. “Now, if I’m not mistaken, last one to the dock pays for pizza later?”
One smile from me is all it takes to send Griffin hurtling deeper into the lake. Looking to the shore, Hazel and Ariana are peeling down to their bathing suits, so I toss my soaked shirt into the sand and set out for the dock myself. I almost catch Griffin, but he makes it there first thanks to his head start.
It’s not long before we’re sitting in a row on the dock, looking out across the lake. The deep blue water is backlit by a purple sunset sky, and suddenly it hits me: we’re all here, the Copper Cove Core Four, together again for three glorious weeks. That’s why we’re all quiet for the next few beats—because we know we have the best weeks of the year at our fingertips. And because whenever we’re back together, it’s like no time has passed at all.
“So the last few weeks before college, huh?” Griffin says, kicking his feet through the water. He never could sit still.
“Anyone else completely thrilled and completely terrified at the same time?” Hazel asks.
“Nope. Just thrilled,” Ariana answers. “What’s there to be afraid of?”
“Not all of us are quite so used to new places and people,” I answer. “But still, I’ve been counting down the days until college. Or the days until Copper Cove, then college.”
“Of course you have,” Griffin says. “One of these summers you really should just come up early and stay with my family.”
“And break the generations-old Piccone family trip?” Hazel interjects. “Blasphemy!”
Griffin splashes Hazel’s leg with his foot and she splashes right back, giving him a shove. I know Hazel is right—I’m too obsessed with tradition to change anything about the three weeks we all get to spend here together. Though the idea of a month alone with Griffin doesn’t sound so terrible. Maybe then I’d actually have the courage to tell him.
I look back over at Griffin out of the corner of my eye, stealing a glance. I hope to catch one of his electric wattage smiles, or spot the scar on his left shoulder from that time we got lost in the woods playing capture the flag…
But instead, my glance falls on Hazel, looking over at Griffin with the same exact light in her eyes. And I am reminded of the exact reason why I’ve remained so silent—why neither of us has crossed that invisible line with Griffin. Hazel and I could never do that to each other, not after all these pining years.
Besides, I tell myself, Griffin is straight. Definitely straight.
Probably.
“Okay, I’m starving. Let’s go now?” Ariana declares, springing to her feet.
“You’re always starving,” Griffin responds. “I swear, you can eat as much as me.”
“And still, I look this good?” Ariana winks, striking a pose—which is easy for her, since she’s practically made of curves. “Beat you back to shore?”
Never one to turn down a challenge, Griffin scrambles to his feet as Ariana jumps back into the lake. He executes a flawless dive, his back muscles flexing as he disappears under the water’s slick, darkened surface. I take a moment to marvel, then turn to Hazel.
But I pause because I don’t recognize the look on her face.
“Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah, I just…” Hazel begins. I can tell her mind is turning and scrolling, searching for the perfect words. “We should tal—”
Hazel doesn’t finish, however, as a cascade of lake water hits her square in the head.
“I am so going to kill that boy,” Hazel says, wiping her face as Griffin cackles from the lake below.
Whatever Hazel has to say, it’ll have to wait.
~
Once back on the shore of Skinny Point, we towel off and grab our clothes. I don’t even mind that my t-shirt is still as soggy as my bathing suit. It makes both feel like summer, that dripping mixture of nature and freedom. The view from Skinny Point doesn’t hurt, either. Copper Cove’s campus hooks around a bay inlet and Skinny Point sits on a peninsula jutting into the water. There are sandy beaches along one side and patches of forest on the other, then the tip of Skinny Point stretches along with symmetrical stone ledges that end with a rectangular gazebo. The beach offers a full view of the main portion of the campus: the Inn and the Dining Hall and the Auditorium, all set into the large green hill and lit up with warm yellow light.
