At the inn’s front desk, I drop my duffel and my aunt’s elephant-sized bags.
“Reservation for Kittle and Harmon,” I tell the sweet-looking woman behind the desk. “They might be reserved under the name Bill Brogan.” He paid for all the contestants’ rooms. “My aunt can sign us in.”
I spin around, about to introduce Aunt Charlotte. But she’s leaning into some painted portrait by the front door.
“Is this Blackbeard?” she asks. “He looks like a very unsavory character. I’ll bet he’s haunting the rooms.”
The sweet-looking woman steps out from behind the desk. For somebody pushing sixty, she’s got a fast walk. “He is dastardly looking, isn’t he? That’s as close a resemblance as anyone can—”
I do not have time for this.
Sprinting out the door and down the inn’s front steps, I race toward the ocean, hang a sharp right on Tuttle Lane and get smacked by the wind gusting off the Atlantic. The air smells of salt and sun and sea minerals. I run past three beach houses high on their wooden stilts and a big white lighthouse. It faces the ocean like a calcified column. I keep running along a long stretch of beach and dunes and stringy grass and finally see a large wooden structure in the distance. Not just large. Enormous. I slow to a walk.
Yank out my ponytail. Wipe the sweat off my forehead. Comb fingers through my long hair.
And pray.
One word. It’s all I have. Help.
A wide wooden staircase curves above the stilts and some kind of carport and takes me toward a gigantic wooden door. It opens before I’m even halfway up the stairs.
“You could’ve saved yourself some trouble by just staying in the truck.”
His mirrored sunglasses are gone and the salt-and-pepper hair brushes back from his tan forehead.
He extends his hand. “Bill Brogan.”
“Raleigh Harmon.” The words leap from my mouth before my mind kicks my butt. Dummy. He already knows who you are. Already flushed from running, my traitorous body sends up a fresh blush so my face can look like somebody on the verge of an aneurysm.
“You’re the last to arrive,” he says.
Perfect. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
He opens the door wider and I step into a soaring foyer. Another man stands behind Brogan, to the left. He wears a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. His caramel-colored hands are extended to me, like I’m supposed to give him something.
“Luis,” Brogan says, “I don’t believe Miss Harmon has a jacket or a purse.”
Luis bows, walks away. His rubber flip-flops snap the air.
“My apologies for the surprise.” Brogan closes the big door. “I need to protect my identity as much as possible. Never sure who can keep a secret. No offense to your aunt.”
“None taken. And you probably made the right call.”
He smiles. The radiating star-wrinkles deepen around his eyes. They are blue eyes, bright as glitter. And I’m really trying not to stare, but this is Bill Brogan. In person! Nobody even knows what he looks like. The media’s forced to use photos from his days at Harvard because he lives like a recluse. Very rich. Very generous. And wearing faded clothing and driving a work truck—
“Ready?” he asks.
No. “Absolutely.”
“Excellent. Follow me.”
The house is air-cooled and laid out so that each room blends into the next open space. In some kind of dining room, Luis arranges books and papers on a huge table. That area leads right into another space. Some kind of man-cave—antique swords crossed on the walls, a full suit of medieval armor, an empty glove gripping a golden lance—and I’m so taken with the metallurgy that I basically stumble into the next area.
Big mistake.
The far wall of glass—all glass—frames sunlight on the ocean. So bright it blinds me. I can barely make out people sitting in the room. I blink, and blink again.
“Alrighty!” Brogan claps, his voice loud as thunder. “Our fifth contestant has arrived. So let’s begin.”
It’s some kind of living room, far as I can tell. Two guys are seated on a leather couch. Two girls sit opposite them in leather chairs. Each one faces Brogan who stands in front of a fireplace big enough to fit all of us and Luis too. Brogan gestures for me to take the last unoccupied chair next to the girls.
“But before I get to the introductions,” Brogan says, “I want to thank each of you for keeping your promise of confidentiality. I’m certain the temptation was tremendous. You wanted to tell the world what you’d won. And where you were going. And who was sponsoring this contest. But you didn’t and I’m very proud of you all. It tells me I chose real winners.”
My heart sinks. I hold my breath, trying to slow my racing pulse. I don’t know their names, or where they’re from, but I assume these four competitors all received the same two-page packet. First page was congratulations and a short explanation of the First Annual National Science Competition. A chance to compete for a $50,000 college scholarship. Second page was a legal request for confidentiality. Once I signed that, I got a second package. The contest would be four days in March on Ocracoke Island, sponsored by Bill Brogan, a man who owns everything from airlines to NFL teams to New York City skyscrapers. For all I know, he owns Ocracoke Island. We each had to provide our own transportation. But he offered to pay for our hotel rooms.
Unfortunately, I let Aunt Charlotte pick our place. I’m already regretting that.
“I appreciate your self-control leading up to this day.” He looks each of us in the eye. “Not only did you protect my privacy, you kept away the media that would have hounded the good people of this tiny island. But be prepared for it. When I announce the contest’s winner on Monday morning, my first call will be to the New York Times.” He turns, smiles at me. “You will be famous.”
What Aunt Charlotte said. My body sends up another blush.
I turn around, pretending to admire the house. The walls are covered with maps. Old nautical maps. Yellow with age. I act like these things are totally fascinating, while oh-so-casually wiping the sweat off my forehead.
“Raju,” Brogan says, “why don’t you stand up first.”
The guy who stands up from the couch is thin. Really thin. With skin the color of coffee and eyes shining like the black mineral known as jet.
“Let me introduce Raju Sandeeth.” Brogan paces in front of the wide hearth. “Raju’s project sprang from some recreational reading in National Geographic. The magazine reported that only ten percent of the ocean floor has been mapped due to mathematical and engineering constraints. So Raju developed a digital topography system that can combined with sonar. He’s already used it to map the ocean floor in San Francisco Bay. Did I forget to add anything, Raju?”
“My algorithms.”
Brogan grins. “Go ahead and explain.”
“I used three-D Gaussian functions to map the ocean floor. That decision resulted in nearly one hundred percent accuracy.”
Brogan’s smile stretches across his tan face. “By the way, why don’t you tell the other kids where you’re from.”
“Cupertino.”
Somebody lets out an appreciative sound. Raju glances around proudly. He must see the blank look on my face.
“Cupertino? California?” He waits for recognition to hit me. “My dad helped start a tiny little company out there. Google?”
“Oh. Right.”
Everyone laughs. Okay, so I don’t know where Google’s located. I can Google the location. But my face feels hotter than ever.
“Thank you, Raju.” Brogan turns toward the two leather chairs. “Now, please give your attention to Cady Cavendish.”
A blonde girl stands up. The Audi that blasted past me and Aunt Charlotte. This girl was in the back seat. Sneering at me.
“Cady’s experiments in water pollution are, quite simply, brilliant.”
Cady takes a small bow, kind of like humility. Doesn’t fool me.
“And, in the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you that Cady’s already ahead of everyone. After hearing the contest would be held on Ocracoke, Cady found the census numbers, then called all the restaurants on the island. And our one grocery store. Cady, tell them why you did that.”
“I wanted to calculate the number of people, on average, in Ocracoke. And then I calculated the sale and use of artificial sweeteners.”
Brogan grins. “And why is that important?”
“Most artificial sweeteners are not broken down by the human body. They exit the body in the same state they entered.”
“Wait a minute.” It’s the other guy on the couch. Next to Raju. “You’re telling me I’m pissing NutraSweet?”
Brogan ignores him. But he beams at Cady. The prized pupil. “Continue, please?”
“These artificial ingredients are chemicals that pollute lakes and streams and estuaries.”
Estuaries? Who the heck says estuaries?
“For instance,” she says, in a voice that sounds like fluttering birds, “in my hometown of Greenwich, I discovered concentrated forms of these very same chemical compounds in our municipal drinking water.”
Brogan holds his gaze a moment longer, as if expecting her to say more. But Cady’s smiling like Mona Lisa. Holding some secret.
“What she is too kind to say is, she’s already upset some money-hungry merchants in her hometown,” Brogan says with evident approval. “Can’t have people knowing their Diet Cokes are poisoning the environment.”
This time, Cady Cavendish doesn’t bow. She stands so perfectly poised, so freely accepting of Brogan’s praise, that despite Raju’s evident brains and drive, I pick her as the person to beat.
“Thank you, Cady, you may take your seat.” Brogan turns toward the wall of glass, gazing out at the bright glare of ocean. “Next, we have Marcus Conners. Although he doesn’t strike me as a Marcus. Mind if I call you Tex?”
The kid who stands up is tall. He towers over Brogan. But their skin’s an equally nice even brown tan.
“I can live with Tex,” he drawls.
Brogan chuckles. “Tex hails from Houston. His experiment proved that changing ocean temperatures are altering our modern climates. Like Cady, Tex has an innate understanding of the imminent danger facing human beings. We are tampering with Mother Nature and we will pay the price.” Brogan pauses to take in each of us. “It’s up to your generation to save this planet. I hope you will leave this competition with that conviction.”
The silence that fills the room feels somber.
“Anything you’d like to add, Tex?”
“Nope.”
“A man of few words. That’s fine. Let’s move to Lanette.” The other girl has been writing everything Brogan says in a stainless-steel notebook. She doesn’t stand up when he calls her name. She keeps writing. Twice I look, to make sure. But, yes, her notebook appears to be bullet-proof. On the other hand, she looks delicate. Straight black hair cropped at the ears. Petite body. Little wire-rim glasses resting on a small nose.
“Lanette?” Brogan says.
“One moment.” She keeps writing. “Tex, can you spell your last name?”
Brogan’s smile spreads. Tex spells out Conners.
“Boys and girls, meet Lanette Yee. She hails from Newport, Oregon. Way, way out west. Lanette spent several months on the beaches of the Pacific Ocean and discovered some unsettling truths about the interactions between starfish and crabs. Sound like a big yawn, you say? Wrong. Lanette discovered war. Bloody war!” He laughs. She stands up, almost absently as if he’s not even talking. “Lanette discovered Sea Starfish were devastating local coral reefs. But one certain species of crab fought back. Lanette, tell them what those crabs did.”
She pushes her glasses into place. “The crabs patrolled the coral reefs, fighting the Sea Starfish.”
“But give us the gory details.”
“Whenever the crabs found a Sea Starfish, they pinched off the tube feet. Then, they ate the spines.”
“War! On the beach!” Brogan sounds thrilled. “And Lanette documented the entire battle.”
If his praise means anything to her, she doesn’t show it. Brogan seems to notice her reaction. And he seems a little nonplussed, too.
“Okay. Thanks, Lanette. Have a seat.”
He turns. “Lastly, we have Raleigh Harmon.”
Lastly. My face flushes. How perfect. I stand up, brush my hair out of my face.
“Raleigh’s entry combined two disciplines, geology and physics. A genius project, if you want my opinion. First, she devised several jetty designs to keep sand from eroding off North Carolina’s beaches. Sounds simple but Raleigh’s project required knowledge of ocean currents, sediment transportation rates, wave progressions, even local building codes. I was duly impressed, by both the geology and the physics. Here on the Outer Banks, shifting sand is a crucial issue. This project really hit home for me, Raleigh, in every sense. Tell us which jetty design you decided was best for Ocracoke Island?”
“Y-shaped.”
“Tell us why.” He gives that brilliant grin. “Pun intended.”
“Most of the sand on the Outer Banks is shifting in a southwesterly direction.”
“Explain a little further, will you?”
“Ocean currents around the islands remove sand on the north end and deposit it on the south end. Y-shaped jetties would reduce both the number of waves that reach the island’s shore and their force. That would both preserve the sand and stop further erosion.”
“Two-for-one prevention. I like it. Thank you, Raleigh.”
For the first time in what feels like an eternity, relief washes over my shoulders. Maybe I can do this.
“Now you see what kind of competition you’re up against.” Brogan begins pacing again. “I chose each one of you. From thousands of entries. And no matter who wins the ultimate prize, you’ve crossed a significant hurdle. You are a breed apart from your teenage peers.”
Raju raises his hand. “So what’s our challenge?”
“Enough with the niceties. Is that it, Raju?”
“I’m just wonder—”
“Don’t apologize, don’t defend. I like people who champ at the bit. I’ve been like that all my life.” He stretches out his tan muscular arms. “Look where it got me. And because I want the same for each of you, my challenge won’t be easy. Or simple. You will rise up, and present real solutions. For the real world. I don’t care about academic remedies. I want results. Practical results that can save the environment. Got it?”
The silence is so powerful I can hear the waves crashing outside.
“Ocracoke is my home. I love this island.” He gazes out the window. “I can fish off my deck. I haul up my dinner fresh from the sea. There is no other place like this.” When he looks back at us, his blue eyes hold the sunshine. “But this island has a serious environmental problem. The dune grass is dying. And nobody can tell us why. This is where you five come in.”
He waits.
“That’s our challenge?” Raju sounds annoyed. “Dead dune grass?”
“Yes, Raju. Dune grass is an integral part of a beach ecosystem. Grass helps keep the sand in place. Dunes grow around the grass. Those dunes provides safe habitat for bugs and birds and any number of oceanic creatures. The grass also feeds carbon dioxide into the atmosphere.” He smiles, but it’s almost sad. “I chose you five for fresh intelligence. I expect someone among you to solve the problem of dying dune grass.” He looks around, measuring us. “Is that really too much to ask?”
The silence remains.
“Good. That’s what I hoped. You may have noticed the island is fairly deserted right now. Almost all of our full-time residents are on vacation. Getting ready for the busy tourist season. It kicks off next week. So you have some latitude to navigate around the island, but I expect each of you to conduct yourselves with utmost courtesy and respect. I’ve lived here five years. This island is my home. I don’t want to be embarrassed by any of you. Any questions?”
Hundreds. Thousands. But no way am I opening my mouth.
“Alright then. Meet back here tomorrow for updates.” He gives one last brilliant smile. “Good luck.”