Shining Sea Page 4

  I push aside a book about lighthouses. Open one on marine biology.

  When I was ten, Dad was hired to captain a large research vessel. He was going to be gone for an entire month. Before he left, we spent the weekend on the boat with the group of scientists, professors, and grad students who were preparing to study the complex waves of a particular inlet in Turkey. Listening to their conversations, I desperately wanted to understand everything they were talking about. Over the weekend I became a mascot of sorts and decided I wanted to study oceanography.

  Here in Maine the ocean is my front yard, but handling slides of salt water in the lab is the closest I’ve been to the sea . . .

  When I first started seeing Dr. Harrison, he said I was suffering from depression. I didn’t want to go on medication, and he was fine with that. He told me that if I paid attention, I’d be able see a bout of depression coming, and then I could handle it appropriately.

  That made sense to me; Nick Drake wrote a song calling depression the “black-eyed dog,” which definitely sounds like something you can see coming.

  But Dr. Harrison also warned that “an episode” might be preceded by a loop of obsessive thinking, and that’s the thing that still trips me up sometimes. He said what I need to do is break the loop—because the loop can work like a lasso, and anxiety and depression can swing it like a couple of cowboys and catch me if I’m not careful. I’m careful, but . . . guess I’m not always quick.

  Another thing Dr. Harrison said was, “Having a social life without your sister is going to be a big change.” Which is why when Logan asks me over to his house, or out to the movies, I say no. Mary told me I should go out with him, that she loves him. “Like a little brother, of course.” She’d laughed. “But still. You should go.”

  At home I’d always been Lilah’s little sister. Everyone wanted to be friends with Lilah Rush. Piano prodigy, precocious child, gifted young woman. “Oh, isn’t she the one who—”

  After the accident, the phone at our house literally stopped ringing.

  I run my hands over my face. What about him? is all I can think now. The boy that Lilah met here; did he ever call her? How am I going to find him?

  If I could just go back, ask her again—What are you writing? Can I see it? I’d snatch the book from her hands when she laughed, run off and read it and insist she tell me the boy’s name—because even though Lilah’s accident took place off San Francisco, I can’t shake the feeling that he was involved. I close my eyes. I’m so, so angry.

  Lilah. The anger turns to heaviness, as if I’m weighted down everywhere.

  But the reality is, she said no, so I didn’t grab the book away, I just—backed down. Lilah’s way or no way, that’s how it was with us. I was—I am—just her little sister.

  Although here in Maine . . . nobody knows that. Here on Rock Hook, I’m not anyone’s little sister. I’m not anyone’s anything, and somehow that makes me feel . . . hopeful. About what, I have no idea, because after the accident, hope makes me suspicious, gives me the sensation of being on one of those floating docks, where your feet tell your brain that you’re standing on solid ground, but your body senses movement.

  Thinking of the surfer, tourist or not, gives me that same hopeful feeling for some reason. But that little bit of optimism is like an atrophied muscle. It needs exercise, fresh air. Sunshine.

  Despite the fact that I arrived at the library early due to the half day at school, the leaden sky outside the expanse of windows makes it feel like five o’clock. No sunshine here, although now I sense a strange change in the light. But the clouds aren’t clearing, despite the wind that pushes the pines, the wind that sounds . . . musical.

  The back of my neck prickles.

  Someone is standing in the stacks to the left of me.

  I twist in my chair—

  Surf’s up.

  The boy from the beach faces the tall bookshelves, his profile toward me. His shoulder-length hair creates a shimmering shield of gold, hiding his face as he concentrates on—what? Reading the title of a book? How long can that take?

  I have a strange urge to stand up, to go to him and push aside the curtain of hair, as though seeing his face is of some kind of crucial importance. Luckily I can’t move.

  He seems frozen too, or lost in thought; he’s holding his hand on the spine of one large book, like he’s trying to absorb the information through osmosis.

  Clearing my throat, I say, “You might actually have to open it.” My voice sounds loud, startling in the silence of the library. “The book, I mean.”

  He turns—

  And walks away.

  Whoa—so rude. Besides, that was funny, right? Or had it sounded sarcastic? Critical? No, that comment had definitely been funny. Lilah would be cracking up if she were here—and still herself. She’d be teasing me now. I can almost hear her: Were you trying to hit on that guy?

  But no, I wasn’t trying to hit on Mr. Black Board Shorts. I just want to know who he is. Not that he’s wearing the trunks today. I looked at every inch of him. Now, behind closed eyes, I play the image like a video: jeans faded to the palest blue, broad shoulders under a black cotton surf shirt—the old-school kind with a band of tropical flowers across the chest.

  But fine. I snap my eyes open. Whatever. I don’t need to know who he is—he’s obviously a jerk. What I need—is to go outside and get some air. I gather my things.

  But then, I go over to the shelves where he had stood.

  I pull out one volume, then another—

  Yoga?

  Huh.

  Sliding out the biggest book—the one he’d held his hand over—I’m surprised to discover it’s mostly about yogic breathing techniques. Pranayama.

  Deciding to check it out, I head toward the front desk, arms straining to carry what’s become a wobbly tower—

  A rush of heat warms my cheeks.

  The fact that I can recognize him from behind, that the tall, broad-shouldered frame standing before the counter is already so familiar, is disturbing, makes me feel . . . kind of stalkery. Stalkerish?

  I turn around, wanting to move away before he notices me, only to find a line forming behind me. I turn back, and hearing the librarian thank him, step forward—

  At the same time he steps backward.

  The sound of our bodies colliding is practically audible, we hit so hard. My books avalanche, my nose presses into his back—and I can’t help it. I inhale. I take a deep breath in—

  That comes out almost immediately as a sigh.

  A microsecond passes. Then he turns to me, a look of horror on his face, as if my sigh heralds some kind of terrible event. And before I can even make out the color of his flashing eyes—blue? Green?—he’s gone.

  The bang of the books hitting the floor echoing in my ears, I stare out the double doors.

  Somebody sniggers.

  Another voice says, “Can you move it along, Miss? There’s a line.”

  Fingers clutching one last book that threatens to join the rest down by my toes, I look around and see Pete Hill and Bobby Farley, guys from school who hang out with the Kevins.

  “Oh. Hey. A little help here?” I ask.

  Pete fakes a groan as he heaves the giant volume onto the counter.

  “Yoga.” Bobby nods sagely. “That explains a lot.” He gathers a few of the books.

  “Working in the Wet Field: A Handbook for Aspiring Marine Biologists,” he reads aloud. Pete chuckles as Bobby puts an arm around my shoulders and says, “You know—I’m into that stuff.”

  Removing his arm from around me, I give him a bland smile, nothing like the gorgeous grin on the face of the boy from the beach, who’s driving past the glass doors of the library at an unthinkable speed in a midnight-blue Mercedes. My head seems to turn of its own accord, eyes following the car.

  “Seriously.” Bobby waves a hand in front of my face. “We should study together.”

  Unable to stop seeing the boy’s stunning smile, I blink at Bobb
y uncomprehendingly.

  “Hey, Farley, I’m out. You coming?” Pete strides over to the doors, pushes one open.

  “In a sec.” Bobby holds up a book—the last of the ones that had fallen—as if it’s an incentive, or maybe a hostage. “So what do you think? You, me—a few books, a few beers.”

  “Pardon me,” a woman with black-rimmed glasses says from behind the counter. “May I please have your library card?”

  “Ah—” Reaching for the book, I shake my head. “No. Thanks.”

  With a shrug, Bobby relinquishes the book. “Your loss.” He follows Pete out.

  “No?” The woman behind the counter folds her lips into a sober line.

  “Oh—sorry, here.” The librarian looks dubious as I hand over my card but returns it a moment later with a prim nod. She watches as I carry my awkward armful away.

  Outside on the steps Pete and Bobby are talking with Alyssa. Despite the fact that she must not be able to breathe in those jeans, she looks great as usual. She gives me a wave that somehow uses her entire body, but I hardly see it. That guy. His eyes. The way he smelled, like—

  “Arion! Hold up.”

  Reluctantly, I turn. Pete. He’s stayed on the steps and I’m already halfway across the parking lot, so he’s pretty much shouting across the space between us.

  “Hey, what did you say to Bo Summers? He looked pretty freaked out.”

  Bo Summers.

  A long eternity of a second goes by. Nobody else seems to notice the time warp.

  “You don’t seem like a scary chick,” Pete continues. “Not to me, anyway.” He grins and takes a cigarette out of the crumpled pack in his top pocket. He lights it, and waits.

  Smoke of any kind grosses me out, but in this moment, Pete’s cigarette is my savior.

  “Pete, that thing in your mouth? You might want to watch it.” Barely balancing my books on one hip, I pull on a pair of sunglasses I don’t need. “It’s on fire.”

  Bobby laughs. Alyssa tosses her hair and says to Pete, “When was Bo here?”

  So Alyssa knows him. Makes total sense. Alyssa’s a transplanted New Yorker, same as Mom; maybe that’s why, despite her attention addiction, I find her interesting. But her big blue eyes—which ignore the line between polite eye contact and rude staring—always have some guy in their sights. Of course she knows Bo.

  I head for the Jeep, lifting one hand high after hearing a couple of goodbyes behind me. Stomach flip-flopping, I get in and drive all the way to the lighthouse—with no music.

  On our trip cross-country Dad had a hard time with the fact that I couldn’t drive without the radio blasting. Today, I don’t listen to anything, and feel like I could drive around the world.

  My mystery man has a name.

  CENTRIPETAL

  At the loud pop my head whips around—

  But there’s nothing to see. Backfire, that’s what the noise was, the Jeep acting up again. Dad’s truck—which is big and blue and has the words PARK RANGER stenciled on the sides—isn’t in the driveway, so I’ll have to tell him later. Fingers crossed he can take care of it.

  The earthy smell of damp stone permeates the vaulted hallway of the vestibule house. Closing the heavy inner door behind me, I start the spiraling climb, realizing as I heft the load of books that no one in the group back at the library had been carrying any. That explains the attention I’ve been receiving from the guys at school. They just don’t have enough homework.

  The kids at Blaine, Rock Hook’s private high school, probably get a ton of homework. Graduates of Blaine tend to go to Ivy League colleges. Although as excellent as Blaine supposedly is, its science program doesn’t hold a candle to the marine biology and oceanography classes at RHHH, thanks to the generosity of the Ocean Zone Institute—

  Bo Summers. Bet that’s why he’s such a snob. Professor Julian Summers—his dad, I’m guessing—is the founder of OZI. The man’s practically a celebrity.

  The sun’s breaking through the clouds as I drop the books on my desk. Would Bo Summers finally be out surfing again? I refuse to succumb. No deck, no binoculars. The guy’s stuck up. At least now I know why.

  In the green-tiled bathroom that was fashioned out of an old storeroom during the lighthouse renovation, I wash my hands and braid my hair. Then I head back down the stairs. The sound of my boots ringing on the metal steps reminds me that I probably have better shoes for hiking than Dad’s souvenirs from Nashville, but I don’t turn back.

  The trailhead is just past the sandy lot earmarked for visitor parking at the edge of the woods, and the path is already groomed in expectation of the tourists who’ll arrive next summer. Not a happy thought. They’ll ruin this place.

  But as I start up the wooded trail, it isn’t the park that’s on my mind. It’s the library. On either side of the library steps, nestled among the purplish sea grasses and Rugosa roses, I’d seen a small boulder with a modest bronze plaque.

  DONATED BY PROFESSOR JULIAN SUMMERS

  THIS LIBRARY IS OPEN TO ALL TO ENJOY.

  Surprised that two years of Latin made any impression, I recall the other words etched on the plaque: HOMO SUM, HUMANI NIHIL A ME ALIENUM PUTO.

  Google will know what that means.

  About to turn around, I stop short. It’s idiotic to spend another minute thinking about anything I saw at the library, including ridiculously handsome boys and obscure Latin phrases. I need exercise.

  The path splits off—or has it divided twice now? No matter, my irritation evaporates as I press on, the smooth bottoms of my boots slipping occasionally on the carpet of fragrant pine needles. The sound of waves crashing in the distance floats through the forest along with the water’s salty scent, and rays of sunshine poke through the branches overhead.

  The path grows steeper, the trail winding through the woods, the crashing of the waves far below me now. I gasp out snatches of a song I’ve been working on.

  The path forks again. Becomes harder to follow. Breathing deeply, I push through an overgrown tunnel of green, trip on a tree root, get a face full of spiderwebs, and—

  “Amazing.” The sound of my voice is snatched away by the wind that blows across the vast expanse of the granite plateau. The view of Rock Hook Cliff from the lighthouse had been misleading. The park is bigger than I thought, but the cliff? It’s much bigger. This summit is only the beginning of the long spine of a ridge that stretches away into forever.

  The huge, sunlit cliff top has woods on three sides. The fourth opens out into thin air. I start across what’s basically a flat field of stone dotted with sparse green plants and tiny purple flowers. As I walk toward the cliff edge, the wind cuts through my jeans, and I wrap my arms around myself. Looking up at the last of the clouds scudding across the blue sky, I wish Lilah were here. She’d love this.

  Or maybe not. The rocky land juts into the ocean, isolated, like her. Lilah eats, she sleeps. She showers on her own—dresses herself. Or she doesn’t. Some days, she doesn’t do anything but lie in her bed. Sit by her window. She won’t answer questions, can’t seem to hold a conversation. Doesn’t respond to anything—except for that black book.

  And now I’ve got it. Guilt.

  That scraped feeling, as if my nerve endings are uncovered, spreads through me. The surgery, will it work?

  Looking down at the pale patches of lichen and dark-green smudges of moss spotting the granite, I skirt the end post of a low wooden fence—

  And find myself at the threshold of another world.

  The ocean booms below me like a reprimanding voice, its waters extending endlessly. My ears begin to ring; no, the sound is more like humming, more like music. Coiling melodies shiver my skin.

  Something crosses the sky overhead, throwing a dark shadow onto the plateau.

  I think of looking up, maybe even start to—then feel the lightest touch, like silk, against my cheek.

  I pitch forward—

  And then,

  I’m flying.

  SPEED

&
nbsp; It’s not true what they say.

  Your life doesn’t flash before your eyes.

  My mind is blank. Still.

  But my body moves fast, plummeting through space with desperate speed—

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  The wind roars past my ears.

  SKIN

  In the next instant I’m shocked to find I’m not alone.

  Two arms, strong as stone, encircle me and draw me close against a smooth, bare chest that’s definitely not stone. The scent of salty skin surrounds me, along with the smell of springtime, at night. Something slaps against my back, against my hips, and the backs of my legs. Viscous satin blankets me, slick and wet against the side of my face that isn’t pressed against skin.

  Things might not be okay.

  We smash into the waves.

  SHATTER

  The steel embrace that holds me so tightly shields me from the worst of the impact—

  But the force of it knocks the breath from my lungs and pulls our bodies apart.

  Hands reach for me, fingertips slipping over my skin—

  And then the protective grasp is gone, and except for a shattering sadness, I’m alone.

  Alone—

  Underwater.

  IMMERSION

  I can’t breathe.

  I must be dead. Definitely. Dead.

  Sinking endlessly through the sea, I open my eyes. The world is water.

  But I can still see the surface—

  And beyond that—

  The sky.

  What am I looking at?

  White wings—a giant bird. Spiraling high above me, close to the place I’d fallen from.

  But—did I fall? Yes. No.

  Whose voice is singing?

  The wings—I’ve never seen wings like that. So big and white . . . It must be a sea hawk, an osprey. An eagle. Not an albatross, they’re not from here . . . I’m not from here . . .