THEY WOKE EARLY.
Morning light poured through the eastern windows.
The sun lay scarlet-and-gold on the horizon like a jewel on pale blue velvet.
The temperature had dropped sharply. It was Maine again. Chilly and windy.
Christina got out of bed shivering, and went to the window. It was low tide. The rich smell of the sea rose to greet her. Far out in the water the motors of lobster boats buzzed. She could not see as far as Burning Fog, and it was not one of the mornings in which the fog burned. Only bright, tossing waves quivered against the sky.
On a rock not quite large enough to be called an island, cormorants were spreading their wings to dry. These birds soaked up water when they dove for fish, and, eventually, as they paddled, sank so low in the water they were in danger of drowning. Then they had to mount a rock and hold up their wings for the wind to blow them dry. Christina had always thought it must be a very tiring way to live.
Anya rolled over and over until she had mummified herself in the sheets. “I hate getting up,” she informed Christina. “Someday my life is going to begin mid-afternoon instead of dawn.”
Christina just smiled. She loved mornings. The sun rose as early on Burning Fog Isle as any other place in the United States. In her bedroom back home, she liked to think she was the first American to see the sun coming over the horizon.
Anya sat up slowly, arching like a gymnast, hair draping her back. She yawned and stretched. Goose bumps rose on her thin, white arms. “Oh, no,” she wailed. “It’s cold out! Now the clothes we picked are no good. They were for hot weather.”
The girls scrambled through their drawers, holding up sweaters, pants, and blouses, as if the correct choice would make or break the entire school year.
Christina settled for brand new jeans, a soft yellow shirt, and a cotton sweater with darker yellow cables. She tugged at the collar until she was satisfied with the way it poked up. So schoolgirl, she thought. She looked enviously at Anya, whose silver necklace and earrings glittered against the soft folds of her navy blue shirt.
Christina loved the way Anya’s white throat showed where the blouse opened, and how the silver rope lay carelessly, and how Anya’s cloud of black hair flowed over the clothing. Christina had never owned any jewelry to speak of. Now suddenly she wanted it — chains and ropes and bangles — a jewelry box that chimed when you opened the lid — blouses with open necks instead of T-shirts and crew sweaters.
Anya tied a long, dark cranberry red belt around her waist and adjusted the tulip flare of her long skirt. She looked like a magazine ad. She was every adjective: romantic, tailored, seductive, and scholarly all at one time.
They went to breakfast, remembering to walk down the stairs. No guests appeared, although it was just after Labor Day weekend, and Christina thought if there were any hope of winter guests, there would surely be early September guests.
Christina was used to a huge breakfast. Her mother generally rose at four A.M. to serve the fishermen going out for the day. Today a single piece of dry whole wheat toast, a small bowl of cold cereal onto which half a banana had been sliced, and a tiny glass of orange juice were laid in front of her.
Christina got up and poked around in the refrigerator for jam to spread on her toast. She was leaning way down inside to inspect the back of the bottom shelf when something hard and cold jabbed her in the middle of her back. It felt like the tip of a gun, or a knitting needle. It dug between two of her vertebrae. Christina straightened up slowly.
Mrs. Shevvington removed her long, thick fingernail from Christina’s spine, “Too much sugar is bad for you, Christina. Learn to eat your toast dry.”
Mrs. Shevvington was wearing a royal blue suit with a lacy blouse. It covered her thick body as if she had zipped it off a store mannequin and zipped herself back in. She hardly seemed to be wearing the suit; it was just hanging there: It could as easily have been hanging on a closet door. Mrs. Shevvington’s hand was still in midair, like a sea gull drifting on wind currents. The fingernail that had left a dent in her flesh was thick and hooked, like a hawk’s toe.
Fingers, thought Christina.
She tried to remember last night, and Anya, and the voices Anya had heard. But the memories were slippery, like seaweed.
She had had no supper. Now she was supposed to have dry toast. Christina had a large appetite. “We have lots of time,” she said, glancing at the clock. “I could make waffles. Who wants waffles?”
Mrs. Shevvington moved closer to the girl. Under the protection of her shirt and sweater, Christina shivered. If that fingernail had touched her bare skin, it would have slit her spinal cord.
Yarning, she thought, why am I yarning every minute now? I have to get a grip on myself. It’s only a fingernail, she’s only a seventh-grade teacher.
How could Christina have English with this woman? What could she ever write — what paragraph, what essay — that this woman would understand? What book would Mrs. Shevvington ever assign that Christina would want to read?
“Christina, I don’t hear the others complaining about a perfectly nutritious breakfast.”
Michael was crunching away at his cereal. He had dressed as carefully as the girls. He obviously wanted to look like Blake. He had untied the laces in his dock shoes, wound them in upright spirals, and gone sockless — this year’s way to establish style.
Anya, who never ate anyway, was sipping from a thimble of orange juice. This was her kind of meal.
Benj was eating Anya’s dry toast for her, having already wolfed down her cereal and banana.
“I’ll cook the waffles myself,” Christina said. “It wouldn’t be a bother to anybody. I’ll clean up, too. And I’m a very good cook. My mother taught me everything.”
“She did not teach you manners,” Mrs. Shevvington said. “It would be most unfortunate if, because of a bad attitude, you were not able to board here after all, and had to be moved alone to some other location.” She smiled at Christina. None of the others could have seen that smile. Christina wished she had never seen the smile, either. It was the war smile. Just try to oppose me, Christina, it said.
Board alone. What did that mean? Without Anya and Michael and Benj? Then she really would have no friends!
Christina tried to eat the toast dry. It crumbled in her throat. She tried to enjoy the banana. It was too ripe and slimy.
Michael said to her, “Now don’t let them get you crying. Those town kids like to pick on island kids.”
“I never cry,” said Christina, who was very close to it.
Anya gave her a queer, tight smile. “You might today,” she said.
“They can be mean,” Michael told her. “Everybody needs somebody to pick on.”
“Nobody picks on me,” Christina said.
“You mean nobody ever has picked on you, Chrissie,” Benj told her. “You haven’t experienced it yet. You’re going to experience it today. All week. All September.”
“Some of us,” said Anya, “experience it all year, year after year.”
People picked on Anya? How could anybody look at Anya and not feel a rush of pleasure in her beauty and her presence?
But there was one silver lining in this. Michael cared. For all his summer speeches about how if Christina tried to hold his hand he would flatten her, here he was, trying to give her courage.
“Now, you will need house keys,” said Mrs. Shevvington. She handed each of them a shiny new duplicate. “The front door is to be kept locked at all times.”
Christina held her key, feeling its unfiled edges, staring at the jagged profile. I’ll get home first, she thought, and open that huge green door myself. I’ll be the grown-up.
Mrs. Shevvington gave them instructions for cleaning up the kitchen. Then she made it clear that although Mr. Shevvington had a car (and had left much earlier) and although she too had a car (and was leaving now) the children were not going to be offered rides with either Shevvington. “You children have two choices. You may walk. It is only a quarter mile.” She filled her lungs with air, making an exercise out of it, as if she were doing push-ups. “Good for you. Brisk. Or you may go down Breakneck Hill and catch the school bus at its last stop by the Mobil gas station.” She waved good-bye as if she were a half mile from the children. “Have a satisfactory first day.” She walked out of the house.
“Satisfactory?” exclaimed Christina. “That’s the best wish she can give us? What happened to wonderful, terrific, friend-filled, or rewarding?”
The others did not pick up her lines. They neither joked nor contradicted. Was school so awful that Anya, Benj, and Michael already knew the best it could be was satisfactory?
Or were they on Mrs. Shevvington’s side? Did they, too, think Christina had a bad attitude?
The girls got light canvas jackets because it did not look as if the day would warm up; the boys scorned protection from the elements and sauntered outdoors in shirtsleeves. Anya had a lovely briefcase with her initials on it, and pockets for pens, pencils, and a calculator. Her purse was a tiny dark red leather bag on a long thin spaghetti strap, which exactly matched her belt. Christina had only a five-subject spiral notebook with a yellow cover, and two pencils crammed into the spiral. The boys carried nothing. “Wait for me,” Christina said. “I have to get my purse.”
She raced upstairs, taking the steep steps two at a time. This was how stairs should be climbed! Her purse, so carefully bought with summer earnings, was not something she could leave behind. She had waited all these years to be old enough to have a purse at all.
But back downstairs, her precious purse felt clunky and dumb next to Anya’s tiny bag. She was not used to holding it and it banged against her and took up space.
Outside Benj checked to be sure the door had locked behind him. He attached his house key to his Swiss army knife and jammed that into his pocket. Michael fastened his to his belt. Anya had a tiny zip pocket on her tiny purse into which she slipped her key. Christina’s mother had made her a key ring, her name embroidered onto canvas in a leather oblong like a luggage tag. Christina and her mother had been so proud of the key ring. Now Christina thought, It’s too big. And dumb. Nobody else bothers with anything like that.
She was suddenly horribly afraid.
Afraid of all those other children, all those rooms and corridors, all those times when she would have to walk alone, sit alone, eat alone. And be different, with her dumb fat key tag, and her dumb fat purse, and her strange tri-colored hair the other kids would say she dyed.
Wind lifted out of Candle Cove, billowing Anya’s skirt and making a black storm cloud of her hair. Christina and the boys in their jeans and sweaters were as untouched by the wind as if it had steered around them. The first day comes only once, she told herself. No other day can be as bad as the first one. So tomorrow will be fine. Stop being jittery. Don’t yarn. Don’t make it worse by exaggerating. Mrs. Shevvington is right; aim for a satisfactory day.
Christina bumped her fingertips along the wire fence that kept people from falling into Candle Cove.
Down in the mud flats, in almost exactly the same place as the day before, stood somebody in a brown wet suit. There was no water there to swim in. There was no boat to get into or out of. There was no bucket for clams. It was just a wet suit, gleaming.
It walked in the children’s direction fluidly, as if being poured. Mud sucked on its feet. Christina could hear the sucking. She could see the mud, reaching up above the toes, grabbing the ankles. The wet suit came to a stop. It lifted its right hand, very slowly, very high, and beckoned.
“Listen to his fingers,” whispered Anya. “It’s not a wave. Not a hello. Come here, say the fingers. Come down here and drown with me.”
Out in the Atlantic, the waiting ocean chuckled and hissed.
The wet suit raised the other arm, as if to embrace them.
Christina was already suffocating in the embrace of her own fear and loneliness. She wanted to be hugged. The wet suit would hug her. She listened to the fingers, like Anya.
Come here, said the fingers. Come here and drown with me.
But her sneaker tip hit the fence and a button on her jacket caught on the wires.
I almost walked over the edge, thought Christina Romney, disengaging her button. Some guy down there waves, and I start believing Anya’s yarns. She said the sea knew we were here. She said the sea kept count. She said the sea wants one of us.
Down in the mud the arms leaned toward them, longingly.
Christina wrenched her eyes off the wet suit.
Very slowly a car drove up Breakneck Hill. It was tiny and bright red, gleaming new, as if the driver were on a test drive from the showroom. It was shaped like a long, thin triangle, with the pointed end ready for take-off. The headlights were hidden under slanting hoods. Inside, the upholstery was even redder.
The driver stuck a casual sleeve out the window, followed by a casual turn of the head.
It was Blake.
How handsome he was! A catalog Maine model featured among the hunting equipment and camping accessories.
“Hi, Anya,” said Blake. He did not smile. His heavy eyebrows lay neatly on his tanned face, and his deep set eyes matched them perfectly, as if they too had been ordered from the catalog. “Would you like to ride to school with me, Anya?” he said. He was nervous, as if she might say no.
He planned this, Christina thought, filled with romantic appreciation. He timed it. He probably test-drove the route so he’d arrive at just the right moment. Or maybe he’s been sitting at the bottom of the hill, waiting to see the front door open, and Anya, whom he loves, emerge!
Anya smiled at Blake. Her whole face smiled — even her body seemed to smile. Shyly she touched her stormy hair, and the wind responded by covering her fingers as well as her face. From beneath the black mist of her own hair, Anya whispered, “I’d love to, Blake.”
Blake’s smile broke through his face like the sun through the fog, dazzling them. He bit his lip, a childlike expression that Anya returned with a wild, loving laugh. In this world of smart cars and fine clothes, only Anya could make Blake happy. Christina could tell by their lips, which were desperate with the need to laugh, kiss, and beg at the same time. Anya danced around the car to slip in beside Blake. He leaned toward her, as if to kiss her, and she held her face up, but in the end he did not, and Christina was disappointed. Instead Blake pushed the pedal to the floor and took off in a squeal of tires. From the back the car had no shape at all; its triangle was pointed away from them and it was nothing but a red cube.
Michael and Benj walked on. Michael’s posture said, This is where I stop knowing you, Christina. Remember not to bother me.
They’ve abandoned me, she thought. I’ll have to walk into the school alone. When I go up those steps, I won’t have a single friend on the American continent.
Alone.
It was a word so horrible she seemed to hear it in the waves, repeating over and over, saying, You’re alone, Christina, alone, alone, alone.
The school itself was plain; brick rooms squatting around a courtyard. But the front steps were pink granite from Burning Fog Isle — fifty feet wide, impressive as a state capitol. In fair weather, half the school sat on the steps to eat lunch. What if hundreds of teenagers, all with their best friends, leaned against each other, talked to each other, shared with each other — but left Christina alone? What if she, and only she, had to stand in the sun, shunned and unwanted?
Clutching her notebook and purse like a sword and lance, Christina looked back at the Cove.
It was empty. There was nobody in a wet suit.
There was nobody there at all but a little cormorant, drying its wings.