chapter six

We don’t leave that day.

We don’t leave the next day either. Or the day after that. In fact, Mama never even brings it up, which means I don’t either.

After Mama came in from writing and Peach woke up, we all sat down to eat the French toast I made. I kept waiting for Mama to tell us we were moving on so I could bring up going home. I kept waiting for her to say anything about the previous night, but she just gazed at me over her tea mug and asked Peach what she wanted to do that day.

Thankfully, a storm rolled in while we were eating, all blustering winds and angry sea, so Peach’s excited declaration that she wanted to go to the beach and swim was quickly put off for another day.

That’s what Mama said—We’ll have to save that for another day, Peach Fuzz.

Now, three days later, Mama still hasn’t mentioned a thing about leaving, and the storm that kept us locked up safe in Sea Rose Cottage is clearing out. We wake up this morning to a sun fighting its way through the thinning clouds, pushing all the dreary away until there’s nothing left but blue and bright.

“Beach day, beach day!” Peach chants in the kitchen, the remnants of her avocado toast still all over her mouth.

Mama laughs—laughs—while she rinses her plate. She peers out the window over the sink. Then she dries her hands on a tea towel. “It’s certainly a good day for it.”

My toast gets stuck in my throat. I try to envision what a beach day might look like. Sand castles and sunscreen, fizzy drinks in a cooler, paperback books dappled with seawater. A pretty picture if it didn’t end with Peach drowning in the ocean every single time.

Before I have a chance to come up with some alternate plan, though, there’s a knock at the front door. Then, while Mama hangs the towel by the stove and heads to the living room to answer it, there’s another knock. Then another.

I know who it is before Mama even opens the door.

“Hi!” Lemon says.

There she is, Claire right next to her, their red hair like flames in the sun.

“Fruit friend!” Peach yells, leaping out of her chair and running to wrap her arms around Lemon’s middle.

“Hey, you two,” Mama says.

“Sorry to just drop by,” Claire says. She’s watching Mama nervously, her smile barely there.

Mama waves a hand. “Totally fine. I was just thinking of walking down to say hi myself. I guess we forgot to exchange numbers the other night.”

Claire visibly relaxes, her shoulders dropping. “Well, let’s fix that right now, shall we?”

Mama nods and takes out her phone, handing it over to Claire as Claire does the same with hers. I watch it all happen, like I’m watching a car accident in slow motion.

“We came over because I had the greatest, most wonderful idea,” Lemon says. She’s looking right at me, Peach still attached to her like a barnacle. I have a feeling her greatest, most wonderful idea is actually the complete opposite.

“And what’s that?” Mama asks.

I get up from the kitchen table and take my plate to the sink.

“Well, you see, every summer—”

I turn the water on and run it at full blast. The white noise fills my ears, Lemon’s voice nothing but a dull mumble.

“Really?” I hear Mama say loudly. “That’s actually—”

I flip on the garbage disposal. It eats up my bread crusts with a rumbling gurgle. I stare into the white porcelain sink, resting my fingers on the faucet, wondering how long it’ll take for Lemon to tire out and move on. A slender hand whips into my vision, slapping the faucet off. I look up at Mama, her eyes tight as she looks back at me.

“You’re being rude,” she says quietly so only I can hear her.

“I’m cleaning my plate,” I say.

“It’s clean.”

She wraps her arm around my shoulders and turns me so I’m facing the living room, walking me over until I’m in front of Lemon. She’s got that stupid camera around her neck again, wild hair like a bird’s nest, a short-sleeved blush-colored tee with a mermaid printed on it over jean shorts, and a backpack on her shoulders.

“Lemon, can you say that again?” Mama says, keeping her arm around me.

“Um… well…,” Lemon says. “Every summer, the library has all these programs for kids. Reading clubs and art clubs, some sports and drama clubs. This year, they’re doing an Ocean Club every weekday from nine to one, and it’s really fun. We just started last week, but I’m sure you can still join. I thought… I thought maybe you’d like to go with me?”

“Me?” I say.

“Yeah, you,” Lemon says. “It’s just for kids our age, and you can meet some new friends. A real oceanographer teaches it. Her name is Amira and she’s awesome. We learn all sorts of ocean facts, do some arts and crafts. We’ll have a few field trips too, like to the aquarium. And of course, we go to the beach every day for lunch, then do some exploring and digging and looking at stuff under magnifying glasses.”

I blink at her, my mind snagging on words like oceanographer and facts and aquarium. Words that used to make my heart beat faster with curiosity, even happiness. I think about the other posters that used to hang on the walls in my room, among all of Mum’s ocean paintings and sketches. Fact-filled infographics about the sea and sea life, full-color drawings of mollusks and shells, cetaceans and sharks, complete with labels and diagrams. I’d spend hours soaking up all the information, then even more hours diving deeper, days devouring my favorite book, the Ultimate Oceanpedia by National Geographic, which Mum got me the Christmas before she died.

A swell of something that feels like interest fills my chest, but it deflates just as quick, because my mind gets caught on other words too. Beach and ocean and kids.

Friends.

“No thanks,” I say.

Lemon’s smile drops. She fiddles with her camera strap. “Oh. Um.”

“I want to go, I want to go!” Peach says. She gazes up at Lemon like she’s the goddess of the sea herself.

“Oh, man, I wish you could, Grapefruit,” Lemon says, smoothing Peach’s hair. “It’s only for middle schoolers, though.”

“Well, I think it sounds lovely,” Mama says. “Hazel, you go ahead.” She pushes on my shoulder, just a little. Just enough.

I glare up at her. “I said no thank you.”

“And I said it’s a lovely idea.”

We stare at each other. I fill my eyes with desperation, but if Mama notices it, she’s totally unmoved. Tears start to tickle my nose. “But Peach—”

“I’ll take care of your sister,” Mama says. “We’ll go to the beach, won’t we, Peach Fuzz? Maybe Claire can join us?”

“I’d love to,” Claire says, ruffling Peach’s hair but gazing at Mama. “Sounds like a perfect day. I have to work tonight, but I’m yours until six.”

Mama smiles. No, she grins. “Wonderful. It’s settled, then.” She finds my shoes by the front door and pushes them into my arms. “We’ll see you this afternoon, okay?”

“Wait, my Safe—”

“You don’t need it, sweetie,” Mama says softly, still trying to maneuver me toward Lemon, toward the door.

“Yes, I do!” I yank my arm out of hers, and the room goes quiet. There’s just my breathing. Loud, panicked breathing.

“Okay, honey,” Mama says gently, calmly. “All right, we’ll get it.”

I look up at her one more time. Don’t dare look at anyone else. Even Peach has gone silent. “Mama, please.”

Her eyes go soft, but her mouth is still a firm line. She reaches over and plucks my Safety Pack from where I left it on the couch and loops it over my shoulder. As she pulls back, her fingertips graze my scars. “This will be good for you. You’ll be fine. I promise.”

And then she’s making plans to meet Claire on the beach in ten minutes, telling Lemon thank you so much for inviting me, instructing Peach to go get her swimsuit on, chattering on and on while I just stand there, Mama’s words echoing between my ears.

Because if there’s anything I know for sure, it’s that promising someone they’re going to be fine is never a promise you can keep.