Poppy woke to an unusually silent house. She didn’t need to look at a clock to know she’d slept in; she could tell by the dusty light streaming in through the old wood blinds. She’d always slept her hardest and best on the Cape, as if she were double-sealed in her dreams under the perfect weight of her great-grandmother’s handmade quilts. She loved to sleep, loved the heaviness of it, the ability to lose herself. She’d dreamt that her teeth were falling out, although she hadn’t realized it until a stranger, a nondescript nine-year-old boy in a hunting cap, opened his palm and showed them to her. They’d crumbled, and looked like piles of sand.
She saw Ann’s empty bed and wished she were around so she could ask her sister what she thought the dream meant. Poppy consulted the dream dictionary she kept under her pillow: it said teeth are used to bite, tear, gnaw. Losing your teeth in a dream represents a fear that you are losing power. If her teeth had dissolved to sand, she’d never get her power back.
She found her mother sitting in the living room with her twisted ankle propped on the hope chest. She’d tripped on a lobster trap on the pier a few days earlier, and seemed perfectly happy to have an excuse to take it easy for a while. On the table next to her were a stack of plastic-covered library books, a cup of tea, and the stationery she used to write to her friends and relatives back home. Her mother loved to stay in touch with everyone she knew. She had a million friends: other teachers, her former students, parishioners at the Unitarian church, the old lady down the street she made meals for, her book group, and the feminists who joined the potluck salon she hosted in their house once a month. Back home, everyone in town knew Poppy as Connie’s daughter. But here on the Cape, her mother retreated into a more private, less social life. Wellfleet was a place where she could nurture her introverted self, as if storing energy for the social whirlwind that waited for her upon their return.
“Where’s Ann?” Poppy asked. All her life, this was the first thing she needed to know each day. You set your clock to Ann, as her father said.
“She’s off babysitting for the haute bourgeoisie, as usual. Today she’s taking the boys all the way to Plimoth Plantation for an ancestor role-playing workshop or something.”
“God, that sounds totally horrible.”
“I know, doesn’t it? Those boys aren’t going to know what to do with themselves when they’re set loose in the real world.”
“What’s Dad doing?”
“He took Michael to the Historical Society.”
“He’s taking Michael to the Historical Society?”
“I guess the poor guy is getting dragged into your father’s ‘research.’”
He and Poppy used to visit the Wellfleet Historical Society with a pile of yellow legal pads, taking notes and stuffing them into the accordion files with folders labeled HOUSE, LAND, COVE, LORE, and RANDOM BULLSHIT in his distinctive block handwriting. Her father was always asking questions: Why did they stop farming on the land? Why’d they dredge the pond and turn it into a cove? Was it called Drummer Cove because that was the local name for a type of flounder, or was it named for the traveling salesmen who used to stay at the old inn on the property next door, who were called “drummers,” as in “to drum up business”? And what about the house? The Barnstable County Courthouse had burned down sometime in the 1800s, so there was no way for him to confirm the date it had been built. There must be documents to authenticate the age, he said. There must be.
Poppy wasn’t that interested in his research—or rather, she was, because she loved the house and the cove, but it was summer, and the last place she wanted to spend her morning was in that dark building filled with old ship captains’ relics, whaling gear, and dour black-and-white photographs in chipped mahogany frames. She preferred to practice tai chi with her mom in the yard. Before she messed up her ankle, they’d gotten better at memorizing the movements, and at moving gently—as if with the wind and the water, as Lu, her mother’s instructor, had taught them. Poppy had even gotten to the point where she could still her mind when she was deep in her practice, or find jing.
Poppy found the serenity amazing, the integration of the mind with the body. Ann thought it was all a joke. She made fun of them when they practiced. She’d sneak up behind Poppy and yank down her shorts, or spray water at her through the hose when she was most absorbed in their poses, laughing her infectious laugh.
Now her mom couldn’t do anything and Michael was monopolizing her dad, as usual. The other day she’d found them in the barn together, her father introducing him to all the old tools Poppy and Ann had never gotten excited about. Her father put his arm around Michael’s shoulder and said, “Makes me feel good that you’ll know how to use this stuff. After I kick the bucket, these tools will be yours, and trust me, they’ll come in handy. An old house like this doesn’t take care of itself.” It hadn’t occurred to Poppy until that moment that Michael’s adoption meant that the tools, and even the house, would also be his. Michael beamed from ear to ear.
She loved Michael, so why did she feel so selfish? She wanted to tell Michael that the house was theirs, and summer was her time with her father, because during the school year she had to share him with his beloved students. They all thought Mr. Gordon was the epitome of middle-age coolness. He swore and told inappropriate jokes. When students raised their hands to answer a question, he’d call on them and say, “Speak your piece.” He showed his students how history is complicated and biased. He taught in a game show format, had his students analyze the lyrics to Bob Dylan and Woody Guthrie protest songs, arranged field trips to tour ethnic neighborhoods, and invited Holocaust survivors and former socialist mayors to speak to his classes. Until she started high school, she had no idea how much everyone loved him: jocks, preps, and geeks. They high-fived him when they passed him in the halls. “Yo Gord-O!”
Poppy stomped into the kitchen, angrier than she felt she had a right to be. Her niceness didn’t get her anywhere. It made her as invisible as her sister’s occasional bitchiness made Ann stand out. Ann, the queen bee, had the power to make everyone, including Poppy, feel both incredibly small and hugely important, depending on her mood. Ann was driven, hungry for a bigger life. Poppy, on the other hand, was usually agreeable and easy. She was the person teachers always paired with the new kids. She never got upset, never got angry, or at least she didn’t let her anger show unless it built up.
And it had been building up for a while now. She loved Michael. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that nobody had bothered to consult her. They figured she’d be fine.
Only she wasn’t, not lately.
Poppy threw the cabinet door open and slammed a mug on the counter. Michael was great, he was. He was! She poured the leftover, burnt coffee into her cup, and stirred in several tablespoons of sugar.
Poppy returned to the living room. Her mother was reading poetry—she always read poetry in the mornings, and recited it out loud in her annoying poetry-reading voice, like she expected whoever heard the lines to listen and gasp in wonder. Poppy couldn’t focus on the words—something about a house and Russia. “So what am I supposed to do today?”
“Anne Sexton. Isn’t it lovely?”
“I’m bored.”
“Only boring people get—”
“Just don’t,” Poppy said. She adored her mom. She’d memorized her, right down to the way her hair parted down the middle and the shape of her fingers. But sometimes her mother was too familiar, too predictable.
Poppy ran into her room, grabbed her tote bag, and did something she’d never done before: she went to the beach alone. The flame of her anger cooled into self-criticism. Who was she to complain about Michael? She was in the judge’s chambers when Michael signed his adoption papers, tears of happiness streaming down his face—they were all crying. She didn’t even want to go to the Historical Society. Her dad was great—why shouldn’t Michael want to hang out with him?
Poppy sat on the beach, alone, gazing at the families under their beach umbrellas and the kids playing together in the surf. The tide was going out. Everything felt like it was draining away.
A girl her own age walked up to where Poppy sat with her legs tucked under her. The girl’s hair was blond but dirty from the wads of seaweed that got stuck in it. The seaweed was all over her, clinging to her tanned skin and sticking out of her bra top. This was the summer of the red tide, when the usually clear, ice-cold water turned into a junky stew of slick ocean fauna, like boiled red cabbage.
The girl’s surfboard was twice as tall as she was. She held on to it loosely with one arm, like she was resting it around the shoulders of a dance partner. She had a long, lean torso and short, strong legs. “You surf?”
“No,” Poppy said, although she wished she had a different answer, because she’d always watched the surfers and wished she could join them. The closest she ever got to catching a wave was riding the Styrofoam boogie boards they bought at the junk souvenir stores that dotted Route 6. Real surfboards were expensive, and besides, she didn’t know anyone who could teach her. Surfing was out of the question, like charter fishing, regattas, and visits to Nantucket—all the stuff she’d heard Ann saying she wanted to do ever since she started babysitting for the Shaws.
The girl reached out her hand. Her fingers were short and stubby and covered in silver rings, even her thumbs. The rings looked like they were cutting off her circulation. “I’m Kit.”
“Poppy.”
“Like the flower. Gotcha.” Kit’s grin was crooked and revealed front teeth that were a shade yellower than the rest. Caps. Poppy figured she’d broken her front teeth on her board or a rock. Kit stared at Poppy with eyes that seemed to be in a perpetual squint. “Why are you alone?”
The way she said it implied that being alone was unnatural. “Everyone else in my family is busy.”
“Screw your family.”
Poppy smiled. That was exactly what she needed to hear.
Kit gestured at the orange dunes and the great big ocean. “You got good balance? You skateboard or ski?”
“Does cross-country skiing count?” She and her mom liked to ski on the trails through Riverside Park.
“Your name is Poppy and you fucking cross-country ski. God, you kill me. Where are you from?”
“Milwaukee.”
Kit let out a snort that made Poppy laugh. “That’s fucking rad. Of course you’re from Canada.”
“No, Wisconsin. Milwaukee is in Wisconsin.”
“Whatever. May as well be nowhere if there’s no ocean.”
“We have Lake Michigan.”
Kit snorted again. “A lake is no ocean.”
“You can’t see the other side when you look across it. It’s big.”
“You kill me, flower girl.”
Poppy liked Kit immediately.
“Not a lot of girls who surf out here,” Kit said.
“I’ve always wanted to try.”
“OK already, so I’ll teach you.”
“Seriously?”
“Sure.” She shrugged. “I brought my long board. It’s easier for beginners. The surf is ankle busters today. Waves are shit. They almost always are this time of year unless there’s a storm. But good for learning.”
Poppy looked out at the ocean. The waves were gentle bumps lumbering toward shore, nothing like the waves that scared Michael when they’d first taken him to this very beach last summer, when she found out her family was about to change forever.
“Follow me,” Kit said, walking toward the ocean. “Your gremlin days are over.”