Their song, though irresistibly sweet, was no less sad . . .
—Walter Copland Perry
We all attend Sunrise County Public Schools, which is a conglomeration of five regional schools, and Lara drives us there, smushed like sardines, in Dad’s old pickup truck. The truck always smells like smoke and peppermint and isn’t meant to have more than three passengers, so I sit half on Lula’s lap. My sisters are all in high school now, but I just started middle school, so they have to drop me off first. On our way, Lily turns on the radio, and they all start singing along. They harmonize with each other so well, it’s like they share a brain. I just sit there and look out the window.
We pass the library, the elementary school, and the village green. And then we pass the new graveyard and I hold my breath.
The new graveyard is located in the center of town, near the town hall and the Presbyterian church. It’s surrounded by a wrought iron fence and full of trimmed hedges and big gleaming tombstones. It is a very nice cemetery. Still, we prefer the old graveyard.
The old graveyard is set back in the forest on a hill, and most of the gravestones are crumbling and half-broken, irregular and misshapen like a set of crooked teeth. Our mother, especially, thought it was beautiful. “All those poor exiled souls,” she used to say. “The witches and wanderers. Unwelcome, even in death.” She’d take us there and play her guitar sometimes, and we’d lie in the grass and my sisters would sing, and we’d eat the wild strawberries that grew up between the gaps in the stone wall. Since she died, though, we haven’t been back there at all.
We pull up outside the main entrance of the school, and Lula tilts the rearview mirror to apply her lipstick. I swing the passenger door open wide, and Lara passes me my bag. “Do you have everything?”
“I think so. My stomach sort of hurts.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“I wish I was going with you guys.”
Lula grabs my hand. “Make a fist!” I do, and she uses her lipstick to draw a bright pink heart on the top of my hand.
“What are you doing?”
“So you can keep us with you all the time,” she says. “So you won’t be afraid.”
I slide down from the truck and wave to them.
“Have a good day!”
They beep the horn a few times to say goodbye, and then they pull away.
Without my sisters around, I always feel a lot smaller. Or maybe it’s just that the world seems a lot bigger. I shoulder my bag and climb the front steps, and then I push open the heavy double doors and hurry inside. I’m definitely late.
After the bell rings, the main hallway at school transforms into the loneliest place in the world. It’s like being on Mars. All of the classroom doors are already shut, and a sea of checkerboard floor stretches before me. It’s so quiet that I can hear the fluorescent lights buzzing, and the ticking of the clock on the wall. 8:20. It’s only the fourth week of school and I’ve already been late seven times.
I hurry past the big corkboard that announces important events, including the upcoming folk festival and sailing tryouts, and that features a picture of the school’s mascot, the Lobster, beneath the school’s slogan: SUNRISE MIDDLE SCHOOL—EXPLORING NEW DEPTHS!
Each spring, Sunrise Middle School hosts its annual Lobsterfest fund-raiser, and all of the eighth graders dress up in bright red lobster suits and serve people corn on the cob. You’d think at Lobsterfest people would notice that a red lobster is a cooked lobster and realize it shouldn’t be smiling or serving anybody corn, but if they do, they don’t seem to mind. As our dad always says, reality isn’t nearly as important in this town as tradition.
I hook a right at the water fountain, and I try to run in Lily’s too-big rubber boots without making too much noise or tripping over my bag. Still, just as I’m about to reach the doorway of my classroom, the boots get the better of me, and the bag swings forward around my waist and the weight of it drags me right over onto the floor. I fall hard on my elbow. Pain shoots through my arm, and all I want to do is curl up and hide in the supply closet for the rest of the day. But that’s not a thing you can attempt around here more than once. In fact, as I found out last week, you can get in a lot of trouble if you do.
First period is history, and Ms. Cross is already standing at the blackboard. She’s got our textbook, The American Vision, Volume One: New England, propped open in one hand and yellow chalk dust all over her pants. As usual, her pants are tucked into waterproof boots, like she’s ready to go duck hunting at a moment’s notice, and everybody’s scrambling to keep up with the notes. She doesn’t even say anything about me being late; she just takes off her owl glasses and gives me her disappointed look. Then she pops the glasses back on her face and picks up her chalk. “All right! Where were we, scholars?”
The thing about Ms. Cross is that her ancestors were witnesses for the prosecution during a famous witch trial in Maine and she’s never really gotten over it. She teaches history now with this sort of supernatural determination, as if it were her destiny, as if every time she tells the story to another group of kids, she’s getting closer somehow to setting things right and erasing the stain on her family’s history.
Emma Bishop, my mortal enemy, already has her hand up, and she’s waving it around, desperate to be called on.
“Yes, Miss Bishop?”
“We were discussing Judge Bishop’s ruling in the trial of Hannah Martin.”
Unlike Ms. Cross, Emma harbors no remorse whatsoever about her own family’s ruthlessness during the witch trials. In fact, ruthlessness is a trait that she, newly appointed captain of our middle school’s gymnastics team, seems to share with her infamous ancestor.
“Yes. Now, look.” Ms. Cross taps her chalk against a map of Maine. “The thing to remember when we talk about witches is always this issue of who gets labeled a witch and why. You see, sometimes labels tell us less about the person being labeled and more about the culture that assigns them a label in the first place.”
Last week, in preparation for the Salt and Stars Folk Festival, we skipped ahead in The American Vision, all the way to chapter 35, to a section called “Multiculturalism: Folklore and Rituals Around the World.” Ms. Cross told us to pay special attention to the similarities between the rituals we found there because they prove that “some questions are universal and essential to the human experience.” My favorite was the Japanese Obon festival, when family members light lanterns and float them on the water to guide the spirits of the dead and help them find their way home. Ms. Cross even had us make our own paper lanterns and place them around the classroom so we could see what they looked like.
I heard some parents complained about that unit, but I thought it was the best we’d ever done.
The worst was chapter 1, “New Beginnings,” which was about colonists coming over from England seeking religious freedom and a better life. I swear, we couldn’t get through one single paragraph without Emma announcing which prominent colonial figures she was related to.
“I have a very historical family,” she told us.
“I mean, who doesn’t?” I muttered.
But I knew what she meant. She meant she has the kind of family that gets written about in a textbook.
I kept thinking we’d eventually get to something on my own ancestors, but the further we read in chapter one, the bleaker it looked. In the end, all we got was one small sidebar titled “Native Americans,” which might as well have been titled “Magical Tree Sprites” for all the useful information it provided. I mean, I’ve never met my mother’s family, but I do know that they are members of the Penobscot Nation and that they currently live on a reservation outside Old Town, not too far from Starbridge Cove. Also, I’m pretty sure their ancestors didn’t just magically appear in the forest when the colonists arrived. Like, I’m sure they had their own things going on, just like the colonists did. Things they worried about, and things they loved, and things they were building, and things that scared them. We just never read about that in school.
Right now we’re up to chapter 3: “Witchcraft Comes to New England.”
“Now, let’s return to the deposition of Samuel Peach. You will find his original testimony, in Colonial English, reprinted in your textbook on page eighty-two. For now, to expedite our discussion, I will read you an abridged version.” Ms. Cross pushes her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose and begins to read: “ ‘Sworn May the eleventh: 1692:The deponent saw Hannah Martin come in at the window. She was in her hood and scarf and the same dress that she was in before at meeting the same day. Being come in she drew up his body and lay upon him about an hour and half in all which time this deponent could not stir nor speak, but feeling himself beginning to be loosened or lightened he put out his hand among the clothes and took hold of her hand and brought it up to his mouth and bit three of the fingers (as he judge) to the breaking of the bones.’ ”I
“Now.” She looks up. “Who believes this testimony? Anyone?”
“Judge Bishop did.”
“That’s right.” She takes a step closer and her glasses slide a little down her nose.
“But what about you, Miss Salt? Do you believe Samuel Peach found Hannah Martin in his bedroom that night and broke three of her fingers, bit right through them, because she cast a spell on him that he was trying to escape?”
“No.” I pull my braid back over my shoulder and start twining my hair around my finger. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Well, I should think not. And what made her so vulnerable, to him and to the town’s hysteria?”
“She . . . well, she lived by herself, and she didn’t have any family in the village. Also, she wasn’t born there or in England. She was from Barbados.”
“And what about the trial? What exactly did Judge Bishop have to say about the whole thing?”
I glance up. “I don’t know.”
“Well, did you finish reading the chapter? On what are you basing your information, Miss Salt?”
Emma turns around in her seat. “Maybe she’s a witch.”
Ms. Cross keeps her eyes on me. “Miss Salt, take out your book. And for goodness’ sake, take out something to write with! How do you people ever expect to learn anything if you don’t have the proper materials? This is middle school.”
I take another deep breath and open my bag. As a siren-in-training, I’m always losing things and running late, so I use the same bag for everything. Inside, I have the usual school stuff: binders, folders, a collection of pink pens, crumpled papers, tissues, a travel mug, vanilla hand cream, cherry ChapStick, watermelon gum, hair bands, and gym shoes. But then I also have my siren stuff, things we’ve scavenged from shipwrecks for the Sea Witch: buttons, and sea glass, and antique jewelry. Plus a few stolen library books to read if I get bored during algebra. When I finally locate my copy of The American Vision, the entire thing is coffee stained and ripped apart.
Ms. Cross has completely abandoned the board and is now standing directly in front of me, staring in horror. “Miss Salt,” she says, “that bag is bigger than you are. How do you ever find anything?”
“Yeah,” Emma agrees. “And her American Vision is a total disaster.”
“That’s quite enough, Miss Bishop,” Ms. Cross shushes her. “You keep your eyes on your own American Vision. Now, Miss Salt, I’m going to need to see you after school.” She pops the glasses back on. “And for goodness’ sake, don’t be late!”
“Okay.” I pull the rubber band from my braid and let my hair fall in front of my face.
The bell sounds then, and class is over. That bell is another thing I hate about middle school. First of all, it’s extremely alarming. You’d think there was a major bank robbery in progress every time it goes off, which is exactly eight times per day. Also, when it rings, everybody stops what they’re doing and starts shoving books and binders back in their bags, no matter what’s going on. Even if the teacher is telling you something important.
“Students!” Ms. Cross holds up her hands. “Wait until I dismiss you, please.” But it’s useless. That bell is more powerful than any teacher, and the teachers sort of know it.
We all pour out into the hallway and stream along to our next class. For me, second period is gym, and I dread it. It’s not the physical activity that I mind; it’s the ten minutes we have to spend changing into sneakers and shorts. The thing about our type of sirens is that in addition to our silvery hair, we all have these gross green scales on the bottom of our feet. As we get older, our scales get brighter and thicker, and then they extend out in a spiral pattern and wrap all the way up our ankles. According to my research, the scales are supposed to make it easier for us to climb and navigate the slippery rocks of the northern New England coastline. They do not, however, make it easier to navigate a middle school locker room.
I think my scales are basically the most embarrassing thing in the world, and I spend a significant amount of time planning my outfits to conceal them. Of course, my sisters wear their scales proudly. They tell everyone they’re some kind of artsy tattoo, and everybody believes it and admires them. Up at the high school, girls are painting snakeskin patterns on their ankles and gluing green glitter on top of their feet. But I’m not nearly brave enough to try that myself. I stick to kneesocks.
The locker room is all concrete cinder blocks and steel lockers, with wire mesh over the windows and clocks. It’s sort of like a jail cell, except the air is thick with the scent of artificial fruit from everybody’s body lotion. I always change in the corner with all the girls who have stuff to hide, like if they’re not wearing a bra yet or they don’t use deodorant or shave their legs.
Today, instead of a real gym class, we’re having a dress rehearsal for the festival. The whole school is going to be marching in the parade and participating in an interpretive dance choreographed by our own Coach Bouchard. Each grade has a different theme, and although he probably wouldn’t admit it, I’m fairly certain that Coach Bouchard assigned us all parts based on our personalities and physical characteristics. The seventh-grade theme is “Sea Mammals and Shellfish.” I am playing the role of a snail.
Of course, Emma changes right up front, by the mirror. She gets to be a mermaid in the festival, which doesn’t even make any sense. Coach Bouchard overheard me telling Jason about it the other day. The eighth-grade theme is “Indigenous Foliage,” and Jason was dressed up as a pinecone. “You know,” I told him, “mermaids aren’t even shellfish.”
Coach Bouchard shook his head. “They’re mammals, I guess.”
I looked up at him. “They are?”
“Of course.”
“How do you know?”
He chuckled and flipped his hair back. He’s tall and has really long hair that he usually keeps tied back in a ponytail. He also rides a motorcycle around town on Sunday afternoons, and he’s been known to say things like “groovy” in response to the girls’ lacrosse team winning the state championship. I think the ponytail and the motorcycle are a little silly, but the thing I like about Coach Bouchard is that he never gets too mad when I complain about stuff or have a bad attitude—which, I have to admit, is pretty much always. “Lolly, part of participating in the festival is learning to be a team player. Now, you go out there and do the best you can with the part you’ve been given. Play the hand—or, in this case, the shell—you’ve been dealt.”
As a mermaid, Emma gets to wear a sparkly clamshell bikini top and a long, gauzy skirt, and she’s even started bringing her own cheerleader pom-poms from home, because, she explains, she likes to “go the extra mile.” I, on the other hand, have to wear antennae and a cardboard shell strapped to my back. Anyway, I’m pretty certain that nobody ever heard of a mermaid cheerleader.
Today, Emma changes into her costume and then hops up on the bench to tack a flyer to the highest point of the bulletin board.
IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENTS!
SAILING TRYOUTS: TODAY!
HOMECOMING DANCE: FRIDAY NIGHT!
HALLOWEEN REGATTA: OCTOBER 31ST!
Then, instead of just climbing down from the bench, she decides to perform a cartwheel that ends with her in a full split on the concrete floor. Everyone gathers around and applauds.
“I can do that,” I whisper.
Emma gets up and puts her hands on her hips. “What did you say?”
I finish rolling up my kneesocks and straighten my antennae. “I said I can do that.”
“Yeah, right. You’re just a snail. Anyone who can do that would be on the gymnastics team and playing a mermaid in the festival.”
“First of all, mermaids can’t even do gymnastics. They don’t have legs. And secondly, I was on the gymnastics team. I had to quit.”
“Why?”
“Because I—I had other things to do.” I turn away from her and start struggling into my shell.
“Oh.” She sniffs. “Things.”
“I have to help at my family’s diner.”
“That’s cool.” You can tell by her tone that she doesn’t think it’s remotely cool.
“Just watch.”
She stands back. “Go ahead.”
I put my shell down on the floor and sink into a split to match hers.
“Whatever,” she says. “Any snail could do that. That just means you’re flexible. That’s not gymnastics.”
I stand up and brush my hands off on my shorts. “What do you want me to do, then?”
“I dare you to do a back walkover. Here. Down the aisle.”
“Fine.” I look at the floor for a second, calculating, and then I turn around and arch my back until my hands are planted on the floor. It’s a move I’ve done a million times before and on much trickier surfaces than this. But then, right as I kick my legs up and start to flip over, my injured elbow sends a wave of electricity up my arm, and the next thing I know, I’m lying on the ground with my cardboard shell crumpled beneath me.
Everyone is watching.
Emma is standing there shaking her ponytail. “That was a total disaster,” she says, like I don’t already know it. “I really think you should just stick to being a snail.”
“What’s going on in here?” Couch Bouchard is suddenly on the scene, shoving his way through the crowd, blowing his whistle in sharp, short blasts. “You girls were all supposed to be out there five minutes ago! Lolly, why are you on the floor?”
“She tried to do a back walkover,” Emma explains. “But she didn’t make it.”
“Thanks, Emma.” Couch Bouchard pats her on the shoulder. “That’s useful information.” Then he bends over and blows his whistle in my ear. “Lolly! Did you hit your head?”
I sit up slowly. “No. I fell on my shell.”
He blows his whistle again to signal that he’s finished dealing with our nonsense, and then he waves everybody out of the locker room. “Okay, let’s go, ladies! Emma, you take Lolly to see Nurse Claire.” He reaches into the pocket of his wind pants and pulls out a blank pad of paper and a miniature pencil. “I’ll write her a note so she knows what happened.”
“Is she coming back?” Emma asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Lolly. I mean, she looks pretty hurt. She should probably take her bag and stuff in case she needs to stay with the nurse all period. Or even, like, go home or something for the day. I’ll carry it for her.”
“Sure, Emma. Thank you. That’s good thinking.”
We make it about three quarters of the way to the nurse’s office before we get in a fight. I’m still wearing my snail antennae and Emma’s still wearing her sparkly mermaid bikini. She’s carrying my bag like she can’t wait to toss it out the front door. “You might have been a big deal in elementary school,” she explains. “You know, because of gymnastics and your sisters. But it’s not the same here.”
“I don’t think I’m a big deal.”
She glances at me. “I know what you said about me.”
“What are you talking about? What did I say?”
“Don’t try to deny it. Jason told me everything. He and I are really good friends now, in case you didn’t notice.”
We reach Nurse Claire’s office and stop walking.
“But I didn’t say anything!”
“I think you’re lying.”
Lula always tells me that if I’m ever in an argument with a really mean girl, I should just look her in the eye and say, simply: Ew. I’ve never tried it before, but this seems like the right time.
I narrow my eyes and put my hands on my hips. “Ew.”
It works. Emma is momentarily speechless, and you can tell she’s racking her brain for what to say next. But then she thinks of something. “You know the whole town thinks your mom drove off that bridge on purpose.”
“What are you talking about? That’s not true.”
“It said in the police report that she was speeding. She was going, like, fifty miles an hour when she plowed into the barrier. My parents read about it in the paper. I mean, my cousin works at Sunrise County General, and everybody knows your mom was checked in there half the time you said she was on tour, so it all kind of made sense. And now your dad won’t even live in the same house as you.”
“He does too live in our house! He has an apartment upstairs from the diner because he needs to practice his music.”
“Yeah, sure. Everybody knows that your dad doesn’t want anything to do with you guys. He’s, like, too cool for you.”
“He’s not too cool for us!”
“Whatever, snail!”
“I’m not a snail!”
“Girls!” Nurse Claire opens the door and glares at us like we’re a couple of sea monsters that just crawled out of the cafeteria sink. That’s the worst thing about turning twelve. Suddenly adults stop looking at you like you’re a harmless little kid and start looking at you like you’re a potentially explosive device and they’re not sure whether to disarm you or duck under a table. “There are students in here trying to take naps! Now, what is all this commotion? You can’t just walk down the hallway yelling like this.”
Emma hands her the note. “This is from Coach Bouchard,” she says. “Lolly fell on her arm.”
Nurse Claire leans against the doorjamb while she reads the note. She’s recently started wearing high heels and dangly silver earrings with her lab coat, which I think looks really weird. “Wait here, please,” she tells us and shuts the door.
Emma and I sit next to each other on the bench between the nurse’s office and the principal’s office with our bodies aimed as far from each other as the bench will allow. She has her arms folded across her chest and her legs crossed, and I have my feet up and my arms wrapped around my knees. We hold on to ourselves and look off in separate directions.
I try to concentrate on how much I dislike Emma instead of on the throbbing pain in my elbow. Her parents own Bishop’s Fish, a big company that exports lobsters and “other fine seafood” to places like Las Vegas and Cleveland. We’ve always competed against each other in gymnastics, but we officially became mortal enemies on the first day of coed volleyball. Jason was captain, and he chose us both to be on his team. But he chose me first. And then Emma proceeded to serve a volleyball into the back of my head. Coach Bouchard ruled it an accident, but the whole class saw, and we all knew what it meant. First of all, Emma Bishop is the most athletic person in our grade. There’s pretty much zero chance of her not being able to serve a volleyball over a net. And secondly, she might make it look that way, but Emma never does anything by accident. It was, as Ms. Cross would say, “a shot over the bow.”
Finally, Nurse Claire returns. “Emma,” she says. “Your mother will pick you up after sailing practice today, and she’ll be stopping by for a conversation with me about all these little fights you’ve been getting into.”
“What little fights?”
“We’ll talk after school. Lolly, nobody is home at your house. Please have your father call me at his earliest convenience.”
Emma raises her hand, very professional, like we’re still in class. “May I return to gym now?”
Nurse Claire nods and avoids making eye contact with her. Sometimes, even adults are scared of Emma. “Yes you may.”
Emma walks away without giving either of us a second look.
Nurse Claire waves me into the office. “Come on, Lolly,” she says. “Let’s fix up that arm.”
I follow her into the office and climb up on one of the plastic cots. My legs dangle over the side, and my antennae bob up and down.
Nurse Claire starts pulling supplies out of the cabinet. A flashlight. A sling. A thermometer. She works part-time at my old elementary school, so we’ve known each other forever. When I was little, I used to love going to her office. Whatever was bothering me, a fever or a scraped knee, she’d make it better. And then she’d let me take a candy from the ceramic dish on her desk. Sometimes I’d even pretend to be sick just so I could go and see her. Of course, things are different now. Nurse Claire doesn’t even keep candy on her desk at this school. It’s all business here.
Nurse Claire takes my arm in her hands and extends it gently, feeling the bones with her fingers. I close my eyes for a second and pretend she’s my mom. I can’t help it.
“Gosh, you’re cold,” she says. “Your skin is like ice. Are you feeling sick?”
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s always like that.”
“Lolly, I’m actually glad you’re here. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about something. Several of your teachers have mentioned your recent”—she lowers her voice—“behavior problems. There’s talk of attention issues, sleepiness, organizational difficulties. Skipping class. Now, you’ve always been such a good student. What’s going on?”
“Oh.” I’d like to tell her that there is a very simple explanation for all of those behaviors and it’s a little thing called “becoming a siren.” Excuse me, I’d like to say, but I’m becoming a siren. I’m becoming a siren, and I want desperately to stop. Can you help me with that? But I obviously can’t say that. And anyway, this isn’t a problem that she can fix with tongue depressors and candy. Things aren’t that simple anymore. “I guess I haven’t been sleeping that well lately.”
She lets go of my arm.
“How are your sisters?”
“Fine.”
“Lily’s doing okay? Settling in at the high school?”
“I think so.”
“Well, here. Before I forget—” She goes to the wall and retrieves a pamphlet with a picture of a dead tree on the cover. It’s called Grief: The Significance of the First Year. “I’ve been meaning to share this with you. I think you and your sisters might find it helpful.”
“Thanks.” I slide the pamphlet into my bag.
“Will you be going to the dance on Friday?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Oh.” She laughs, and her earrings dangle. “I was just checking. I’ll be a chaperone this year.”
“I think I have to work. I mean, I have to help out at the diner. Friday nights are busy for us.”
“I see. Well, this is just a bruise.”
“Can I keep it in a sling?” I point to the half-open cabinet where she keeps ACE bandages and tape. “I think I’d feel safer that way.”
She nods. “If you want to. Don’t be afraid to move it around, though, you know? You don’t want it freezing up on you.”
“I know,” I tell her.
“Lolly.” She pauses for a moment with the sling in her hands. “Remember in fourth grade when your mom had to go away for a while? You insisted that your leg was in excruciating pain and kept coming to my office wanting to borrow a set of crutches.”
“Yes,” I tell her. “I remember.”
“But really,” she continues, “there was nothing wrong. Your leg was perfectly fine.”
“This isn’t like that,” I assure her. “But if you don’t want me to use the sling, I won’t. It’s fine. I just want to go back to class now.” Before I fall off this table and die of embarrassment.
“No, here.” She hands me the sling. “You’re welcome to it. It’s just . . . there’s nothing wrong with looking for support and attention, you know, in other ways. It doesn’t always have to be a physical problem. We could talk about other things that are bothering you too.”
“Okay, well, thank you.” I slip into the sling and grab my bag with my other hand. “This will be good enough for now.”
I’m never coming back here again.
“And, Lolly? Try not to let Emma get to you, okay? You girls—it’s like you hit twelve years old and you all become little monsters.”
At the end of the day, I walk to Ms. Cross’s classroom and lean in the doorway. She’s just sitting at her desk grading papers, but I can’t figure out what to say to let her know I’m there. Hi? Excuse me? Nothing seems right. It’s like the connection between my brain and my mouth has been cut, and all I want to do is turn and run away. It’s funny how I was never this nervous around my teachers in elementary school. There, I was always just myself. And I knew exactly who that was, too. Lorelei Elizabeth Salt: vocabulary quiz champion, proud member of the highest reading group, rising star of the JV gymnastics team. But here I have all these secrets to keep. I have to pretend to be somebody I’m not, and honestly, it’s exhausting.
Thankfully, Ms. Cross looks up then and sees me standing there. “Miss Salt.” She glances at the clock. “You’re right on time! Please, come in.”
“I can’t.” I nod at my elbow. “I just came to tell you that I have to cancel my detention. I’m injured.”
“I see.” She glances back down at her desk and shuffles some papers. “You realize, of course, that students are not allowed to cancel their own detentions.”
“Yes,” I tell her, even though I actually didn’t know that.
“Well,” she continues, “I’ve been here for a long time. I have a little leeway with the administration. How does tomorrow sound?”
“I don’t know.” I look up at my Obon lantern, hanging slightly apart from the others by the far corner. I had to climb a bookshelf to get it up there, but I wanted it as high and as close to the window as possible. “I’ll have to see how I feel.”
She looks at me for a moment with this wondering expression, like she recognizes me from some other place and she’s waiting for me to explain how exactly it is that we know each other. “All right, then.” She picks up a pen and starts circling things. “Come back when you’re ready.”
“I will,” I promise. And I mean it. There’s something about how calm and unhurried she is that actually kind of makes me want to stay, that makes me think maybe this is a place where I could sit for ten seconds without a bell ringing, or a locker slamming, or a volleyball flying at my head.
“Have a good evening, dear. Feel better.”
“Thanks, Ms. Cross. You too.”
On my way back down the hall, I stop by the water fountain. Outside, the sun is starting to set, and the hallway is filled with dusty, tangerine-colored light. It’s already starting to get dark early. Soon the cold and the blizzards will set in, and then people won’t even want to leave their houses. I think that’s why the Salt and Stars Folk Festival is so important around here. It’s like our last gasp of summer.
There’s a boy standing by the lockers. He looks familiar, but his profile is in shadow. I move a few steps closer and realize that it’s Jason. “Hey!” I call to him and wave. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You’re still here?”
“Yup. Sailing tryouts start in fifteen minutes.”
And then Emma comes around the corner. She’s traded her cheerleader-mermaid attire for a red polo shirt, shorts, and a matching visor. Emma has the right outfit for everything. She’s a lot like Jason that way. “Ready?”
I feel like I’m living some sort of nightmare. “Ready for what?”
“I’m not talking to you, Lolly.” She loops her arm through Jason’s. “We’re going sailing.”
“Wait, you’re going sailing—together?”
Jason clears his throat. “She’s on my team.”
“You have a team?”
“Yes, we have a team. And we’re going to win the regatta too.”
“You know . . . Jason doesn’t even like sailing.” I can feel myself losing my temper. It happens to me all the time lately, like the world starts speeding up and all I can feel is how mad I am, and then I blurt out the first thing that comes into my head. “He gets seasick!”
Jason’s eyes grow huge and his face turns pink. “Lolly, stop!”
“Well, I just thought she should know.”
Jason pulls his arm away from Emma and retreats to the safety of the boys’ bathroom.
Emma rolls her eyes. “Nice work,” she says. “You know, we’re not little kids anymore. Just because you and Jay were best friends in elementary school doesn’t mean you are here.”
“Whatever.” I say it as if it doesn’t bother me at all, as if I couldn’t care less about their budding friendship and their winning team. I sound pretty convincing, too. I mean, if I overheard myself, I’d probably be intimidated. Maybe. But still, as I turn and walk away down the hall, my stomach hurts.
She called him Jay. I can’t stop thinking about the new nickname. When did that start? Do other people call him that? How did I not know about this? I pause in front of a shoe store on Main Street and pretend to become absorbed in a display of high-heeled shoes. Instead, I stare at my reflection in the display window, at the silvery streaks growing brighter and brighter and the dark hollows under my eyes. A woman in a long flowered dress strolls past, strumming a painted guitar, and I watch her reflection too. Another singer rehearsing for the festival. She’s playing an old French folk song, one of our mom’s favorites, which just makes me feel even worse. Mom used to say that’s the problem with living in a town full of folksingers: somebody’s always singing the blues.
Five o’clock rolls around and there’s no sign of Jason. I wait by the kitchen door for a few minutes, standing on tiptoe, searching for the flash of his blue raincoat against the orange maple leaves. But he’s nowhere to be seen.
Lara comes up behind me and pats my shoulder. “How’s the arm?”
“It hurts a little.”
“How long do you have to wear the sling?”
“Nurse Claire said probably till tomorrow. You know, just to be safe.”
Lara nods. “No visitor today?”
I shake my head. “No. Guess not.”
“Think you can still carry a few sodas for me?”
“Sure.”
“Take these up to the register, then.” She slips three dripping cans of soda into my hands. “Ms. Cross is here for her order.”
Ms. Cross comes to the diner almost every evening on her way home from work, and every night she orders two Diet Cokes and two turkey sandwiches on whole wheat bread, and she always leaves a tip even though she takes them to go. I haven’t figured out yet who the other sandwich is for.
I balance the cans against each other, which is a trick my sisters taught me for carrying multiple beverages without a tray, and hurry out of the kitchen. A few tables from the front, I skid to a stop. Jason’s stepfather, Mr. Bergstrom, is sitting at the counter on the other side of the frosted glass divider, talking to Emma’s dad and holding an upside-down ketchup bottle over an order of fries. The two of them are bulky in knit caps, jackets, and layers of flannel shirts, perched like seagulls on their stools.
I wouldn’t call us mortal enemies exactly, but Jason’s stepfather and I don’t get along. Not since the afternoon he discovered a secret stockpile of junk food I’d created in Jason’s bedroom. Mr. Bergstrom has this thing against store-bought snacks and he doesn’t allow them in his house. And when he married Jason’s mom, he decided that Jason wasn’t going to be allowed to have store-bought snacks anymore either. As he explained, “You’re not living in a trailer anymore, and you’re not going to eat like you are. Your mother will be providing us with home-cooked meals now instead of all that junk.”
Jason probably would have gone along with the snack embargo, the way he goes along with most things. Only, I decided it wasn’t fair. I mean, Jason is a very picky eater, and store-bought snacks are some of the few foods he likes. So I started getting Lara to buy them for us: sleeves of cookies, and brightly colored bags of chips, and treats in shiny blue foil. And soon, Jason had an entire drawer filled with secret emergency snacks.
Everything was working out fine until one afternoon when Mr. Bergstrom opened the door to Jason’s room and caught us opening the secret snack drawer.
We thought maybe he would yell at us or throw things. We’d seen what he was like when he was angry at his own kids. But he didn’t. Instead, he just went and got a garbage bag, and then he scooped up all of our snacks and sent me home with them like a disgraced Santa Claus. And then he called Lara and told her that he hoped I’d learned my lesson because if I broke any more of his rules, I’d be banned from their home faster than a sleeve of cookies.
“This is nothing to do with the safety of the port, Tom,” he’s saying now, whacking the ketchup bottle with his palm. “Starbridge Cove is still a fine place to dock a ship and has been since the seventeenth century. There’s history here.”
“Of course, Erik. Nobody’s denying that. And nobody wants to see this town succeed more than I do. But I have a business to run as well, and I cannot afford another wreck like this morning. You know how it is. The repairs cost a fortune. I’ll just take my business down to Portland if I have to.”
“Listen to me.” Mr. Bergstrom puts the ketchup bottle down. “There was a problem this morning. I’ll admit that. There is a problem out there right now. But I know what it is, and I will take care of it. Trust me.”
“Well, I’d like to. I sure would.” Mr. Bishop clears his throat and sprinkles salt on his own fries. “Money is at issue here, though, and I—”
Mr. Bergstrom looks as if he’d like to upend the fries all over Mr. Bishop’s lap. “Tom, I don’t want to see any more harm come to your fleet. That’s your livelihood, just the way the harbor at Starbridge Cove is mine. But how can you be so sure that if you take that step, if you take your business down to Portland, your fleet will still be safe? The coastline in this state is nothing if not rocky. Unpredictable. There’s no telling what could happen at any time.”
Mr. Bishop brings a fry to his mouth as if he means to take a bite, then thinks better of it and puts it back in the basket. “Are you threatening me?”
“My family’s owned this port for generations. Now, I’ve acknowledged there’s a bit of a problem out there right now, and I intend to take care of it. Let me do my job.”
“You think it’s sirens, don’t you? You believe the old stories.”
“Don’t you?” Mr. Bergstrom leans forward, and the glare from the neon sign through the window casts an ugly green glow on his face. His left eye is swollen and bruised. “You know it as well as I do. There have always been certain . . . forces in our midst.”
“Even if that were true, you think you can find them? And stop them?”
“I know I can.”
“How?”
“There is a certain type of young lady we’re looking for, a group of them, a group of girls with special musical abilities.”
“My daughter just performed a solo in the choir last Sunday.” Mr. Bishop starts eating again and speaks with his mouth full of fries. “That doesn’t make her a siren.”
“The sirens of Starbridge Cove are not singing in any church choir, I assure you.” Mr. Bergstrom lowers his voice and leans closer to Mr. Bishop. “Look, you know what I mean when I say that we are a certain type of community here. A close-knit community. When we talk about sirens, we’re not talking about girls like your daughter. These are outsiders, girls who lurk in the shadows. They’re sneaking around out there, watching us. They’re casting spells and composing songs. Little anarchists, plotting our demise. These are girls with the power to read your mind and craft a song, a lie, that speaks to the deepest, most secret wishes of your heart. Now, as I said, my family’s been dealing with these monsters for decades. From time to time, a group of them crops up and tries to cause trouble. It’s never lasted, though. We know how to handle them.”
Before I can stop it, one of the cans of soda slips from my fingers and explodes against the floor. It makes a sound like a gunshot. By the front door, Ms. Cross actually screams and covers her head with her hands.
“Lolly!” Lily rushes over with a roll of paper towels. She kneels and starts blotting the spill. “What is wrong with you?”
Mr. Bergstrom and Mr. Bishop both stand up partway and peer at us over the divider.
“I was just bringing these to the front,” I explain.
“Well, stop standing there staring into space.”
Lara comes over and swats at Lily with her apron. “Go get more soda, Lily.”
“But she—”
“Just go! Lolly, what’s wrong now?”
“I need to talk to you.” I grab Lara’s hand and pull her into the bathroom.
In the bathroom, under the fluorescent lights, Lara looks a lot older than eighteen. “We’re right in the middle of the dinner rush, Lolly. Lula’s gonna kill me if I leave her out there alone.”
“But there’s something really bad happening.”
She checks her watch. “You have seven seconds.”
“Mr. Bergstrom is here, and I just heard him saying that he knows all about sirens. He says he’s hunted them before and he knows that they’re back. He’s getting ready to hunt them again.”
Lara folds her arms across her chest and leans against the wall. She shuts her eyes for a second, and I bet she feels like she could just fall asleep right there against the cool green tiles. I know I could. Then she opens her eyes again and puts her hand on my head. “It’ll be okay,” she says. “The Sea Witch is stronger than he is. We are stronger than he is. He’s always acting like a fool. You know that. He’s all talk.”
“I don’t like him, Lara. He’s really mean to Jason and—”
“That’s not our business, Lolly. Now stop worrying, okay? Like I just said, he’s all talk. Look, your shift is almost over. Why don’t you go home and do some homework?”
“I don’t want to be home alone. Can I go to Jason’s?”
“Okay, sure. But stay out of trouble, all right? And stop antagonizing his dad. I don’t want any more angry phone calls from him about you.”
“Stepdad,” I remind her.
“Right,” she says. “Look, Mr. Bergstrom’s a jerk, but just because something’s unfair doesn’t mean you have to be the one to fix it. It’s okay to let go of things some of the time, Lolly. Stop trying to right all the wrongs, and just do your algebra homework.”
Back in the kitchen, I untie my apron and slip my arm out of the sling. I toss them both over the coatrack and slide a bag of potato chips into the pocket of my rain jacket because, despite what Mr. Bergstrom thinks, I have not learned my lesson.
Halfway to Jason’s house, when I can no longer see the lights from the town, I wander down toward the water. It’s getting dark out, and the wind off the water is cold. I pull my fingers into my sleeves and let the waves creep up to the toes of my boots. A little farther on, I stop to investigate a washed-up fish skeleton and pick up a seashell shaped like a star. I think my mom would have liked to see it. She and I had a whole seashell collection, and we did all these art projects with them, like taking a hot glue gun and sticking them onto mugs and plates. That’s the reason none of our kitchen stuff matches. It drives Lily crazy, but Mom and I liked it that way.
Overhead, seagulls float, calling to each other and dive-bombing the ocean. The outdoor stage is already set up, and I can hear the Ukrainian folk music troupe, Baba Yaga, rehearsing. I can’t understand exactly what the song’s about because they sing mostly in Ukrainian, but Dad says all folk music is really the music of the oppressed, music that expresses secret things, like subversive political statements and plans to overthrow the ruling class.
The lead singer of Baba Yaga stands about seven feet tall. He sings with his eyes closed while stomping his feet and playing an accordion, and the music cartwheels and flips from his body. It bends and splits and arabesques through the air. To me, folk music sounds just the way gymnastics feels, and I can’t help it: I throw myself forward into a cartwheel, planting my palms in the firm wet sand, and I let the feeling of flying take over. Just for a second, arms and legs outstretched, I completely forget where I am. Who I am. It’s like my entire body is mine again and I could come right side up and find that I’m just a normal girl, and my mom is still here, and Jason isn’t mad at me, and nothing is lost.
Then my arm starts to hurt, and I let myself fall onto the sand. The lead singer of Baba Yaga is watching, smiling at me. He gives me a wave and an enthusiastic thumbs-up, and I lift my hair out of my eyes and wave back.
I keep walking until the shoreline curves and the beach starts looking a lot cleaner and the houses start getting a lot bigger. This is the part of town where Emma Bishop lives. And now Jason lives here too. At Jason’s house, all of the walls are windows, and nearly every window has a view of the sea. The house is surrounded by a walkway made entirely of crushed shells and smooth white pebbles, like a moat.
Once upon a time, Jason’s mom was a waitress at the diner, which is how he and I met. But now she doesn’t have to work. Now she spends most of her time lying in a lounge chair on the widow’s walk that circles the third floor of the house. In summer, she sips cold drinks and reads magazines up there, and she always has her nails painted bright red and wears a bathing suit and sunglasses that match. After Labor Day, she trades her summer accessories for a monogrammed mug of tea and a fashionable plaid shawl, which she alternates wearing as a scarf, a blanket, and a cape, and which is made of the softest material I’ve ever felt in my life. Tonight, she has it draped over her shoulders, and she gathers it in one hand and waves when she sees me approaching, my footsteps crunching up the walkway. Her long, penny-colored hair comes loose and whips across her face.
I wave back. “Hi, Alice!”
I like Jason’s mom. She is like a princess in a fairy tale.
Inside the house, the air-conditioning is still blasting, as usual. No matter how hot it is outside, that house is always freezing cold. And then it takes Jason’s stepdad about a month longer than the rest of the town to shut it down for winter. Jason even complained about it once, but Alice explained that because of his hunting trophies, Mr. Bergstrom is very sensitive about humidity. And very insensitive to the needs of everybody else, in my opinion.
I rub the goose bumps on my arms and head down the hall. Jason’s three stepbrothers are playing video games in the living room, shouting and pushing each other.
I walk up the massive winding staircase to Jason’s room and lean in the doorway. His room is neat, as always. His bed is made, his books are arranged in alphabetical order, and his walls are covered in nautical maps and posters from old marine biology textbooks, all displayed as precisely as if his bedroom were an art gallery. Jason has always kept his stuff like that, even when he and his mom were living in their tiny trailer and sleeping on a pullout couch.
Jason is sitting on the floor with a book and a strand of rope in his fingers. He’s bent forward in concentration, so his hair, the color of rust and grown too long, falls over his eyes. He’s needed a haircut for a while, but nobody around there ever seems to notice. His radio is on as usual, playing WCOD, the folk rock station.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He looks up at me. “Practicing. I need to be able to tie these sailor’s knots for the race.” He shuts the book and pushes it aside. “What happened to your arm? Why did you have it in a sling before?”
“Oh,” I tell him. “I fell. But it’s okay now.”
He nods and looks back down at his rope.
“So you made it, then? You qualified?”
“Yeah. We made it.”
I pull the door shut and slide his desk chair in front of it, just in case. Then I take a seat next to him on the floor and drop the bag of chips into his lap. “Sorry I was sort of mean before.”
He smiles and pushes the chips under his bed. “That’s okay.”
“I just don’t understand why you’re changing.”
“I’m not changing.” He runs his hands through his hair and it falls right back in his face. “I’m getting better.”
“Yeah, but you get seasick. You can’t help that.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe I don’t really get seasick. Maybe that’s not the real reason I don’t like being on the water.”
“Then what’s the real reason?” I glance at him, but he’s already looking the other way. I remember when we were little, Jason always had this extreme quietness about him, especially at school. He’d barely ever talk, and he’d sort of follow me around everywhere. He always seemed pretty content, though, just as long as he knew that his shoes were lined up, and his shirts were hanging the right way, and I was someplace nearby. I was like his protector.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It’s just time to stop acting like a little kid. I’m almost fourteen years old. I should be able to sail as well as anybody else. I shouldn’t be scared anymore. Right?”
No! I feel like stamping my feet and shouting. I want you to stay right here where it’s safe. On dry land.
But of course, I can’t say any of that. So I just pick up a ballpoint pen from the floor and start drawing snail shells on the soles of my boots. “Fine.”
Jason changes the subject. “Did you hear there was another accident at the marina last night? Actually, it was early this morning.”
I put down the pen. “No, I don’t think so. What happened?”
“My stepdad went down to help out and I guess he got hit in the head or something. Half his face is all banged up.”
“Oh, really? Well, how . . . how is he doing?”
“He was in the hospital this morning, but he’s okay.”
“Did they say what happened? I mean, what caused the accident?”
“The storm, I guess. The boat’s completely destroyed.”
“And he didn’t say anything about . . . well, about anything?”
“What are you talking about? What was he supposed to say?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. I’m sorry. I’m glad he’s all right.”
Jason shrugs. “Me too, I guess.”
A song on the radio ends, and the DJ comes back on. “Folks, this is DJ Burroughs and you’re listening to WCOD, the Cod. That was Bob Dylan off his 1965 classic Highway 61 Revisited, and now we’re going to play some new music for you. This is Oren Salt and the Walking Shades playing their new single, ‘On the Ghost Road.’ ”
“I like your dad’s new song.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you going to the dance?”
“Probably not.”
“You should.” Jason walks over to the closet and starts sorting his dress shirts by color. “I mean, it would be good for you to make some friends.”
“I guess.” I point to an old orange T-shirt that’s hanging in the back of the closet. “You still have that?”
“What?”
“Your Little League shirt?”
“Yup.” He smiles and takes it off the hanger. “The Starbridge Starfish. You want it? It’s too small on me now.”
“Okay.”
He tosses me the shirt, and I hold it close to my face.
“Are you sure?” I say. “I mean, you don’t want to keep it?”
“I’m sure. I was, like, the worst one on the team. Don’t you remember? I used to chase butterflies in the outfield.”
“You were cute.”
He rolls his eyes. “Great. Well, that’s not the look I’m going for anymore.”
Downstairs, a door opens and slams.
“Jason!” Alice calls from the kitchen. “Dinner in five minutes!”
“You can stay,” he tells me. “I mean, if you want to.”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I’ll stay.”
Dinner at Jason’s house has become an interesting event. What used to consist of him and his mom, and microwave dinners on collapsible TV trays, has become a formal affair complete with moose antler chandeliers, giant hunks of meat piled high on silver platters, and settings with lace place mats and three forks. Jason’s mom calls it “Viking chic,” which I think makes about as much sense as Emma’s mermaid gymnast.
Back when he and Alice first started dating, Mr. Bergstrom once had my entire family over for dinner, and he took us on a tour of the house, stopping to point out all the animals he’d personally killed and then hung up on the wall like paintings. “That deer weighed well over two hundred pounds when I got him,” he told us. “A real monster. I hunted him for days.”
“Hunted?” Mom had laughed at him. “But this isn’t hunting. Any fool can shoot a deer.”
Now everyone has assigned seats: Mr. Bergstrom goes at the head of the table with Jason’s mom right next to him, and Jason and I go next to her. Jason’s stepbrothers sit across from us. The chairs are like thrones, taller than I am, and somehow it always takes me twice as long as everyone else to pull mine out and sit down.
Tonight, Mr. Bergstrom watches me the whole time, shaking his head. “You again?”
Aside from his bruised face, he seems very much like his normal self.
Alice starts serving everyone while the stepbrothers try to catch food in their mouths and poke each other with salad forks. I know they all have names, but I can never remember which name goes with which brother.
“Don’t you have your own family to eat dinner with, young lady?”
“I invited her,” Jason says.
“Is that a thing we do in this family, Jason? Invite people to dinner in my house without checking with me first?”
Alice holds up one hand like she’s trying to stop oncoming traffic. “There’s plenty of food! Who wants soup?”
She grabs a ladle, and Mr. Bergstrom pats her as she leans over to serve him.
“Is this a gorgeous woman or what?”
Alice clears her throat. “How are you feeling, honey? Your eye looks pretty banged up.”
“Oh, much better. Good as new.”
“Well, take it easy for a few days, like the doctors said.”
“We’ll see.” He winks and gives her another pat.
Alice smiles. “Why don’t you carve the bird?”
“Good idea.” Mr. Bergstrom stands up and plunges a fork and carving knife into the chicken. Then he pauses and clears his throat. “Listen up, everyone! While I have you all here, I have some important news. Someone is going to be the master of ceremonies at this year’s Salt and Stars Folk Festival.” He waggles his eyebrows and takes a long, dramatic drink from his goblet to draw out the suspense. “And that someone is me!”
“Oh, honey!” Jason’s mom starts clapping. “That’s fantastic.”
“What does that mean?” one of Jason’s stepbrothers asks.
“Yeah,” another pipes up. “That sounds super embarrassing.”
“It means I get a place of honor on the lead float,” he explains. “And I make the big welcome speech. And I’ll finally have a chance to break out that little beauty.” He points to a locked display case across the room where he keeps his supposedly authentic Viking heirlooms, including warrior helmets and his prized crown. The crown is made of beaten metal, a sort of old, dirty-looking gold color, and you can see all these big round spaces where, back in the twelfth century, it supposedly was encrusted with jewels. Mr. Bergstrom claims it’s been handed down in his family for generations, but Jason has a theory that he actually got it at the Viking theme restaurant in Bangor.
“Dad!” one of the stepbrothers exclaims. “You’re not actually gonna wear that out in public, are you?”
“You’re darn right I am! I’m going to wear it all the way through the parade and into the auditorium for my speech. And I’ll tell you something else: I’ve got the set guy from the community theater working on building me a knarr.”
“A knarr. An authentic dragon ship, just like the one that brought our great ancestor, Erik the Red, to New England in the first place.”
“This festival is so lame.” Another stepbrother reaches across the table and grabs a roll from the bread basket. “Traffic was stopped for ten minutes on Seawall Avenue today, just so Mr. Hale could carry a giant papier-mâché fish across the street.”
“People take their floats very seriously, son.” Mr. Bergstrom starts carving and distributing the chicken. “It’s a time-honored tradition. Besides, summer only lasts for a short time around here. We need to give it a proper good-bye. Now, when the time comes to do so, I for one intend to be riding a knarr.” He stabs some meat with the serving fork and points it at me. “What about you, young lady? What’s your role?”
“My role?”
“In the festival. What’s your role in the festival?”
I look down at my plate. “I’m a snail.”
“A what?”
“A snail.”
“Oh.” Mr. Bergstrom barely conceals his disgust as he sits down to his plate. “That sounds unattractive. What is it with these ridiculous costumes this year? My own son’s a darn pinecone.”
“Stepson,” Jason murmurs.
Mr. Bergstrom says, “Ali, babe, can you pass the salt?”
“Sure, hon.”
Jason’s mom passes the salt.
Jason takes a sip of milk and doesn’t make eye contact with anyone.
“It’s that Coach Bouchard, isn’t it? I don’t see what teaching a bunch of kids to play lacrosse has to do with the kind of know-how it takes to pull together a really top-notch festival. He’s from Canada, right? Some sort of French Canadian or something?”
The third stepbrother groans. “Why do you care so much?”
“Because this is our heritage, son. We’re Bergstroms. We’re Vikings! And we’re proud of it. In fact, Jason, that’s what drew me to your mother in the first place, back when she was waiting on me at the diner.”
“What did?”
“Her red hair, of course. I could tell she was of good, hearty Viking stock. Just like us.”
“We’re not Vikings and neither are you.”
“I’m talking about our bloodline, son! There is pure Viking running through these veins. Why, every now and then I still get the urge to . . . pillage.”
Jason looks down at his plate, where he’s taken care to ensure that none of his separate food groups are touching. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”
“That delicate stomach of yours. Well, it’s time to toughen up.” Mr. Bergstrom pulls the ladle from a bowl of gravy and pours gravy all over Jason’s plate. “You know, someday you four boys will inherit my whole company. Viking Industries. The condos, the marina, everything! What do you say?”
Jason shoves the plate away. “I don’t want to work for you.”
“Then what exactly do you plan to do with your life?”
“I’m going to be a lobsterman, like my real father.”
Mr. Bergstrom starts laughing so hard he nearly chokes. “A lobsterman? You can barely set foot on a boat! They’ll have no patience for you, Jason.” He takes a drink from his goblet. “You think they’re going to let you wash your hands fifty times a day out at sea?”
I take a sip of my water. “Our history teacher, Ms. Cross, says it’s a source of debate, you know, whether there were ever actually Vikings in the Maine territories. It’s not actually been proven.”
“And what about you?” Mr. Bergstrom points at me again, this time with the sharp end of his knife. “What’s your background? Kind of hard to tell, if you ask me.”
Jason sighs. “We didn’t ask you.”
“Um, my mother was Native American, a member of the Penobscot Nation. My dad’s Jewish.”
“Oh.” Mr. Bergstrom looks even more disgusted than when he found out I was a snail. “No pure bloodlines there.”
“No.” I resist the urge to apologize for my role at their dinner table.
“Native American, eh?”
“Yes. She was born on the reservation near Old Town.”
“And your father’s family?”
“They came here a long time ago from Romania.”
“Peasants? That sort of thing?”
“I guess so. They used to run a store, like a supermarket, where the diner is now.”
“I see. Well, that explains your look.”
I nod, even though I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Yeah.”
“Her sister is Lula Salt,” one of the stepbrothers says. “You know her. She’s in my class.”
“Oh!” His eyebrows go up again.
“Actually, I have three sisters,” I tell them.
“Well, you don’t look much like your sisters, do you?”
“I guess not.” I keep my eyes on my plate. I feel like the picked-over chicken carcass.
“Four sisters,” he continues. “That’s . . . unusual.”
“Honey.” Jason’s mom lays her hand on his arm. “Why don’t we let Lolly finish her dinner.”
“Oh, sure.” He grins at her with a mouth full of poultry. “This is great, by the way. A meal fit for a Viking king.”
She smiles at him. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying it.”
Later, while Mr. Bergstrom is having his after-dinner drink and Jason’s mom is cleaning up the dishes, we overhear them talking. “You should be a little kinder to her, honey,” Alice is saying. “She’s had such a terrible time since Suzy’s accident last winter. They all have. And Oren’s no help. You know how he is.”
Jason and I creep closer to see into the kitchen. I have my hands full with his Little League T-shirt and a container of leftovers Alice packed for me to take home, even though I told her we have plenty of food at our house.
“Of course I do. We used to be on the planning committee together. He’s some kind of socialist weirdo.” Mr. Bergstrom swirls his drink, and the ice cubes clink against the glass. “Of course, I don’t know him as well as you do. You’re the one who went out with him.”
“Oh, goodness. That was thirty years ago. We were in high school.” She drops an armload of dishes into the sink and turns on the faucet.
“Well, from what I hear, what happened to Suzanna wasn’t exactly an accident. I never liked that woman, truth be told. She never fit in around here.”
“She was troubled,” Alice says. “She’d call it exhaustion, but sometimes she’d have to go into the hospital for weeks at a time. Between that and all the touring she and Oren did, the girls barely saw her. There were a few years where I practically raised them myself, and Suzy told me she thought it was better that way. She doubted her ability to be a good mother. Singing, she’d always say, was what she knew she was good at.”
“Well, I guess it all makes sense now. Those people. Lots of mental health issues.”
Their words turn like corkscrews in my stomach, and I wish Jason wasn’t standing right there next to me, hearing it too.
“Didn’t you say he met her at a bus stop or something? She was some sort of homeless person, right?”
“He saw her singing on a street corner in Portland and fell madly in love. She was barely eighteen years old, but that was that. Say what you will, she certainly was . . . talented.”
Mr. Bergstrom sets his empty glass down on the counter. “Well, that only gets a person so far, Alice. You need to be strong, too. That’s what I keep trying to explain to your son. There’s no room for weakness in a town like this.”
“Still.” She opens the dishwasher. “I worry about the girls. Jason tells me Oren’s hardly ever home, and they’re so vulnerable up there in that house by themselves. Nobody knows if they’re coming or going.”
“Is that right?” He pours himself another drink. “Do they sing too?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean like their mother. Do they also have a talent for singing?”
“Well, I don’t know. It’s been a while since I’ve seen the older girls. Why? Thinking about a part for them in the festival?”
“Maybe,” he says. “We’ll see.”
“I’m sorry,” Jason whispers.
My hands are shaking. Outside, the wind picks up and a bare branch scratches at the window. I start struggling into my jacket. “I should go home.”
Jason grabs a lantern from the hall closet, and we set off into the darkness of Ocean View Drive. In the off-season, the whole town shuts down after sunset, and we can’t hear anything now except the occasional car going past and the waves breaking on the shore. When we were little, we always used to hold hands in the dark. But that’s obviously not going to happen now. I walk on the sidewalk with my hands clutching my stuff, and Jason shuffles his sneakers along in the street, kicking at fallen leaves and swinging the lantern.
Last summer, at Jason’s mom’s wedding to Mr. Bergstrom, something weird happened. The wedding reception was over, and we had just waved good-bye to Alice and Mr. Bergstrom as they drove off for their honeymoon in Montreal. Everyone was yelling and cheering, and we all had these little sparklers to wave around in the darkness. Then it was time to leave, and Jason and I walked down to the dock while we waited for my parents and sisters to get their coats. There was a full moon and the air was warm, but there was a breeze blowing off the water. I was wearing one of Lily’s old dresses, and the straps kept falling off my shoulders. I remember turning to Jason and saying, “It’s kind of cold out.” And then, suddenly, he leaned over, and he kissed me. Just like that. It landed right on the corner of my mouth. And then everybody else came outside too, and it was time to leave, and Jason and I never talked about what happened.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about that now, though, as we cut across Mr. Hale’s backyard and start walking up the part of Sea View Drive where the road is mostly dirt and gravel. I glance at Jason. “Did you like the chicken?”
He makes his totally disgusted face, a face reserved for things that really gross him out, like messy closets, and mayonnaise, and Mr. Bergstrom. “Are you kidding?”
I smile at the ground. Mr. Bergstrom’s words are still echoing in my mind, and I want to be someplace warm and bright and safe. I want to see my dad and my sisters. “Let’s stop at the diner. I’ll make you an egg and cheese.”
The diner stays open until midnight, but there aren’t many people there on off-season weeknights this late, just my sisters. We can see them now through the window in front. They’re all huddled together in the same booth, laughing and talking, and eating food off each other’s plates. I don’t think they would like Jason being here so late, because the Sea Witch might call, so he and I sneak around the back and in through the kitchen entrance.
“Hey, kids.” Dad is scraping the grill with a spatula. There’s a country song playing on the radio, and he doesn’t ask me any of the normal dad questions like where I’ve been or if I know what time it is. I’m not sure he would know the answer to that last question himself.
“Can we make some egg and cheese sandwiches?”
“Pass me the eggs,” he says. “I’ll make them for you.”
I’m already yanking open the heavy refrigerator door. “Thanks.”
Dad fries the eggs with chopped onions and garlic and the grease from whatever else happened to be on the grill recently. He slides some extra butter onto the grill, and then he bangs the side of the spatula against it and scoops the onions into a pile. Then he slips a slice of cheddar cheese on each of the eggs. Everything is hissing and sizzling and melting, and it all smells so delicious. “So what have you guys been up to?”
“Just hanging out,” Jason says.
My dad gives him a look. “That right?”
“Are you going to be at the festival, Mr. Salt?”
“Me? Of course! Suzy and I helped found that festival. Of course, back then it was all about the music. Now it’s all political.”
“Totally,” Jason agrees, although I’m not sure he knows what my dad is talking about. I’m not sure I do either.
“Well, here you go.” Dad smiles shyly as he hands us our food. “I hope these turned out okay.”
I smile at him. “Thanks, Dad.” You see, I think, it’s not that he doesn’t care about being a parent. It’s more like he’s just never sure he’s doing it right.
We pour ourselves sodas and assemble our straws and napkins and go outside to eat at our picnic table under the pine trees. After Mr. Bergstrom’s chicken, this sandwich tastes like the best thing ever. The bread is soft, the eggs are fluffy, and the cheese is perfectly warm and melted. I think that if Emma and Alice and Mr. Bergstrom could just taste these sandwiches, they’d take back every bad thing they ever said about my dad.
“I wonder what time it is,” Jason says. “It must be late.”
“Can I have a sip of your soda?”
“Why don’t you just get your own orange soda?”
“Because I don’t want that much. I just want a sip.”
“Fine.” He pushes it across the table.
“Are you sure?”
“It’s fine.”
“But are you still going to drink it after, or are you just going to dump it out?”
“I’ll drink it.”
“You’re totally gonna dump it out.”
“I won’t.”
“Fine.” I open the plastic lid and take a sip.
“Use the straw!”
“Why?”
“You’re, like, infecting the whole cup. It’s full of germs right now.”
I put the lid back on and push the soda across the table, and it sits there between us. Jason looks back and forth between me and the cup for about four seconds before he grabs it and dumps it out all over the grass.
“I knew it.”
Jason takes the wrapper halfway off one of the straws, and he aims it at me and blows. The wrapper flies off the straw and hits me in the face.
“Hey!” It’s something we all used to do when we were kids, when we were hanging out at the diner after school, waiting for our moms. We’d started some major food fights that way.
I pull the lid off my own soda, dip my fingers inside, and pull out a dripping handful of ice cubes.
Jason jumps up and starts running, and I chase him around the table, throwing the ice. He grabs a squeeze bottle of ketchup and aims it at me.
“No!” I drop my cup, spilling the rest of the soda on the grass, and hold my hands up in surrender. “We’re even!” That’s what we always used to say to stop the food fights when we were kids. Those were, like, the magic words. “Even! Even! Even!”
Jason hops up on the table and sits with his legs dangling, thudding his heels against the bench.
I sit on the bench and lean my elbows on the table. “What happened to marine biology?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I thought that was your dream. That’s what you always wanted to do.”
“I am still interested in marine biology. But I’ve been looking at old pictures and stuff from my real dad. Some stuff my mom keeps hidden in her closet. He was a lobsterman. And so was my grandfather. And lately I’ve been thinking maybe that’s what I should do too. I don’t know . . . that probably sounds stupid.”
“No, it doesn’t. It makes sense. I mean, I think it does.”
“Are you sure you can’t come to the dance, Lolly?”
I tilt my head up so I can see his face upside down. It’s pretty dark out, but there’s a thin sliver of light coming through the kitchen door, and I can hear my dad cleaning the pots. “Is Emma going?”
“Of course. She’s captain of the sailing team. Why?”
I slide a little way down the bench and pick up an ice cube from the grass. “I guess she’s, like, your really good friend now.”
“You know, people can have more than one friend.”
“But did you tell her stuff about me? I mean, did you tell her things that I said?”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.” I toss the ice as far as I can, and then I swivel back around so we can face each other. “I didn’t say anything. But she said that you said that I did.”
“Well, I didn’t.” He pokes my shoulder with his straw. “Why do you care so much about Emma?”
“Because she’s mean to me. And she thinks she’s better than me. And she is better than me.”
“Better at what?”
I look back at him and roll my eyes. “Better at, like, everything.”
He shakes his head. “But I mean, so what? Who cares?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you do.”
He thinks for a minute, and I keep my eyes on the sky and the way the stars stick out in these little glowing clusters between the pine trees. No clouds tonight. No storm.
“I just like hanging out with you because you’re . . . you. Why do you always think that’s going to change?”
Because it is going to change! All sorts of things I can’t say clamor in my head. Everything’s changing! I fold my arms across my chest and look at the ground. “I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you come to the dance too? I mean, I want you to be there.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you.”
“You do?”
He tosses a wadded-up napkin at me. “I’m not saying it again.”
Jason and I have been friends for a long time, but we don’t normally say stuff like that to each other. I mean, of course we like each other. But we like each other because we’ve always just been together and we don’t know any other way. Because I was there the time he got food poisoning and barfed on my bedroom rug. And because he was there when Lula gave me a really ugly haircut with bangs. Because we won a goldfish together at the town carnival by throwing Ping-Pong balls into fishbowls, and we rode together on the Cages ride that flips upside down, even though I didn’t really want to. And because I was there when he got cut from the Little League team and cried. And because our parents were friends before we were ever born.
But this is different. Hearing him say that, I kind of feel happy, and I kind of want to get up and run away.
I look over at his sneakers, the ones he’s worn for so long that the treads are smooth and the rubber is pulling away from the canvas. And yet they still don’t have a speck of dirt on them. I would know those shoes anywhere. It is him, after all, I remind myself. He’s still him. And I’m still me. Sort of. And if I go to that dance and the Sea Witch calls, well, what if I just ignore her? I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? I’m not even officially a siren yet.
I pick up the napkin and toss it back at him. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll go.”
I. Deposition of Bernard Peach: http://salem.lib.virginia.edu/texts/tei/swp?term=Bernard%20Peach&div_id=n92.12&chapter_id=n92. ( Essex County Archives, Salem—Witchcraft Vol. 1 Page 65 )