Shining Sea (3 page)

MIRROR

On the first day of school I walk into homeroom chanting a silent mantra—
this is not my real life, this is not my real life
—just in case Rock Hook Harbor High sucks.

The first person I notice is a boy at the back of the room. Not only is he sitting alone while most of the students mill around in small groups or pairs, he’s somehow solitary. Sitting back in his chair with his head lowered, shaggy black hair nearly covering his eyes—which are focused on the small paperback book in his hands—he looks like he’s trying to hide. He also looks . . . familiar. I’m not sure if this is the reason I can’t tear my gaze from his face. It’s bruised along one side, and sculpted, almost delicate, although the strong-looking shoulders and muscled arms beneath his white T-shirt are not. His eyelashes are so long they cast shadows on his cheekbones, and below the hollow of his cheeks a hint of darkness runs along his jaw, setting off the full bow of his mouth, a curved crescent lifting a little at the corners now—

Our eyes meet—
sadness, loneliness. Like looking in a mirror
.

The impression is unnerving, then suddenly gone, as if a sheer curtain has dropped, so that I find myself staring into startlingly light-gray eyes, their only expression one of amusement. The slight curve of the boy’s lips grows into a grin.

Hurriedly making my way to an empty chair, I sit down, shaken and embarrassed.

“Jeez,” someone behind me snickers. “Just ask for her number.”

Glancing over my shoulder I watch a girl with long dark hair slide behind the boy. Her coloring—fair skin, blue eyes—and something about the way she moves remind me of Lilah.

His grin gone now, the boy pulls his chair in, making room for her to pass. But even with the extra space, she manages to bump up against him as she heads toward the next chair over in order to retrieve a purse that’s nearly large enough to be mistaken for a slumping student.

Then she sidles back toward the boy, stopping directly in front of him. “She might actually answer her phone, unlike some people I know.”

“You don’t know me,” the black-haired boy says, voice low.

She swings the big bag to one side and leans down to whisper something in his ear—

He tips his chair back, putting distance between them, muttering something I can’t hear.

She gives a dry laugh. “I’m sure you’d like to.”

“Actually, no. I wouldn’t.”

At the desk next to mine a pretty girl with an auburn braid and orange-rimmed glasses says something in a soft voice. It takes me a moment to realize she’s speaking to me.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“I said, you’re new, aren’t you? I’m Mary.” She smiles. “Mary Garrahy.”

I force myself to smile in return. “Arion Rush.”

“Can I see your schedule?”

“Sure.” I hand over the crumpled piece of paper I’ve been having difficulty deciphering.

“Hey.” The girl with the long dark hair parks herself on the edge of Mary’s desk.

“What’s up?” Mary asks.

The girl lifts her chin. “New Girl should give Logan her phone number. He totally needs to get—” She stops and runs her eyes over me, then they go lazy, her cool, appraising gaze becoming apathetic. “You know what? Bet he asks you for it himself. Just—don’t hold your breath waiting for him to call. No charge for the advice.”

Before I can say anything, the girl hops off the desk and heads out of the room, her large bag catching on the door, causing it to rattle in her wake.

Mary and I look after her for second, then at each other, before we burst out laughing.

“What was
that
about?” I ask.

“
That
was about Alyssa. So sorry I didn’t get to introduce you.”

“Why do I feel like that’s a good thing?” I muse, smiling for real now.

“Because it is. Not that I can save you from her for long, but no one should have to deal with Alyssa Saffer on their first day.” Mary hands back the schedule. “It’s almost exactly the same as mine.”

The bell rings and the room bursts into motion just as an older man in a jacket and tie hurries through the doorway. “Everyone’s here, Mr. A,” Mary tells him as she stands. The man—presumably our homeroom teacher—thanks her several times. She replies that it’s no problem, then says to me, “Come on,” and starts for the door.

Relieved, I follow. My sense of direction defies description.

THE THING CALLED LOVE

Friday, I pull into the crowded lot at school and find a space. Almost through week two at Rock Hook Harbor High, and things are actually going pretty well.

But not for the
Lucky
, which . . . wasn’t so lucky.

The night Dad went out to look for the missing boat, I’d gotten ready for bed, then huddled under a blanket on the living room couch, waiting. Dad came in after midnight, tired and discouraged. He didn’t even scold me for being up late, only shook his head and said good night. I stayed on the couch, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.

Last night, just over two weeks since the
Lucky
vanished from Coast Guard radar screens, Dad went out again. Two divers had discovered a small fishing vessel and contacted the Coast Guard. The boat had been anchored—in a way—tethered by a thick chain to a nearly impossible-to-reach rocky outcropping close to the end of the peninsula. The boat was the
Lucky
.

She’d been sunk.

“Makes no sense,” Dad said this morning at breakfast, his voice filled with defeat. “A dozen fist-size holes, pierced right through the bottom of the boat.”

There’d been no trace of the four boys, but their identities were known now. Teenagers, kids a year older than me, the boys had been on a road trip, a long weekend before going off to college. Two days after the boat disappeared, relatives from out of state traced the boys, all no-shows by then at their respective schools, to Portland. The police connected their disappearance to the boat rental from Bay Place.

Rap, rap!
The sharp knock on my window makes me jump, my hands reflexively balling into fists. I’d barely registered the battered white pickup truck that rolled into the spot next to mine. Now as I turn, I see its owner, who flashes a wide grin, and opens my door.

“Miss Rush. Allow me.” Logan Delaine, the boy from the back of homeroom, stands with one hand on the door, the other outstretched, as if we have an understanding that he’ll take my backpack and escort me into the building. His mocking smile is dazzling.

“Logan, tone it down, will you?” Squinting, I hold my hand, visor style, to my forehead. “You look like a toothpaste commercial.”

The truth is, besides his smile—and his comedic efforts, which Mary said are strictly for my benefit—there’s nothing light about Logan Delaine. I unbuckle my seat belt.

“Fight club?” I ask, gesturing to the cut at the edge of his slightly swollen lower lip.

“You’re funny.”

“Seriously, what happened?”

“Unfinished business.”

“With who?”

He gives me a long look, and I feel the beginnings of a flush spread across my cheeks. Not wanting him to notice, I move quickly now, ignoring his proffered hand and slinging my pack over my shoulder as I get out of the car.

“Fine,” I say. “Forget I asked.”

“Wait.” He closes his eyes briefly. “My brother. The unfinished business—it’s his.”

“Oh. I’m—sorry.”

I’ve heard about Logan’s brother. You can’t live in Rock Hook Harbor and not hear about Nick Delaine. The water that sustains so many in this area—had drowned him.

Was it a freak current? A riptide? I don’t know. Don’t want to know. Ever.

“No worries,” Logan says. “C’mon. If we’re late Mary’ll give us hell.” He grins.

As we walk, Logan bends his body nearly double, as if his own backpack weighs a ton. “Hey, how come you never offer to carry
my
backpack?” he huffs.

Distracted, I don’t respond.
Nick Delaine. The
Lucky
. A dozen fist-size holes . . .

“Planet Earth to Airyhead. Wake up.” Logan nudges me, and I become aware of the crowds entering the school, the number of people staring at us: the new girl and the hunchback of Notre-Dame. Embarrassed, I yank the hem of his T-shirt.

He straightens his tall frame and shrugs. “Whatever.”

When we get to homeroom it’s more of the same. He bows low, ushering me into the room. And although I can’t help laughing, his faux chivalrous gesture attracts enough attention that it makes me uncomfortable. But once again, he doesn’t seem to care about the looks and whispers.

“He doesn’t care about anything—except maybe you.” That’s what Mary told me last night on the phone.

I told her, “That’s pretty heavy considering Logan and I have only known each other a couple of weeks.”

“Maybe,” she replied. “But I still think it’s a good thing. It’s like . . . he’s coming back to life or something. Losing his brother . . . that changed him. I just—I want him to change back.”

At that point, I said I knew exactly what she meant, and told her about Lilah.

“I am so sorry,” she responded. “I heard something, about an accident. People talk, you know? But I didn’t know the details. I’m really sorry.”

Neither of us mentioned the strange parallel with Logan and me. Maybe because it’s not really a parallel at all: my sister is alive. Still—the water. It hurt us both. I can’t help but wonder if he hates it like I do. Can’t help but wonder—if he’s afraid.

The morning passes quickly, and when lunchtime comes I sit down in my usual seat next to Mary at a table near the back door of the cafeteria that leads out to the patio.

“Finally, girrrl time,” she growls with a sneer.

I laugh. We’re far from riot girls. Like me, Mary’s focused on school. Unlike me, she has a boyfriend, Kevin Eaton. She has friends, but Kevin—a tall, serious guy who wants to be a doctor—is her priority. His lunch is next period, though, so Mary and I have eaten together every day since the first day of school.

The three Kevins in our little group love to rib Mary, asking her over and over if she’s sure she’s chosen the right one. She and
her
Kevin plan on getting married when they graduate. Not my idea of a good time, but I’m not about to criticize my new best friend. My
other
new best friend, I correct as I look up and see Logan leaning against the window of the radio station.

The station is housed in one corner of the cafeteria and run by students, and apparently Logan Delaine puts together a pretty good playlist. Two younger girls are gazing up worshipfully as they chatter at him—although the color in their cheeks suggests they may have something other than music on their minds. He nods at them but grins at me. He crooks a finger, but I shake my head.

Time to ask Mary about the suicidal surfer. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t go to RHHH, because I haven’t seen him, and I realize now, I’ve been looking. Scanning the hallways, the faces—I can’t stop thinking about him.

To be so consumed with someone I’ve never met—I’m worried Mary will think I’m a freak, which is why I haven’t said anything yet. But I’m hard up enough now for info about Mr. Black Board Shorts to reveal my obsessive-compulsive tendencies to her.

Something has kept me from asking Logan.

I turn to Mary, but she’s already watching me with a certain amount of glee. It appears she’s been following the silent exchange between Logan and me.

“Oh yeah,” she says. “I like it. Man, he is
staring
at you.”

“That’s just those ghost eyes of his, how they look.” I lay my head down on my arms.

“Oh right, like Logan looks at everyone the way he looks at you.”

“He does,” I mumble.

“Not. Come on, I’ve seen you two talking on the front steps after school. Every day, I might add. Why don’t you go out with him? He’s hot, his family’s nice, and plus, his dad’s a cop.”

“Mary, please.” The table smells like cleanser. I sit up.

“Hey, you never know when you might need the law on your side.” She gives a sly laugh.

“Um, I really can’t think about that kind of thing right now.” I’ve never had a boyfriend, never really dated anyone. Actually, I
could
think about it, only, not with Logan. “Mary, there’s a cove, over near the lighthouse—”

She cuts me off. “What kind of ‘thing’? The law? Or
The Thing Called Love
?”

We both start laughing.
The Thing Called Love
is one of my favorite old movies. It’s about a bunch of songwriters trying to make it in Nashville. Dad bought the DVD, but I claimed it. I told Mary about the film one day so she watched it. Now she loves it too. And she loves music, the one serious interest I have now that all water-related activities are banned from my things-I-want-to-do-when-I-grow-up list.

Someday, I want to go to Nashville to hear music and write songs, like in the movie. Mom and Dad took a trip to Nashville once. Inexplicably, Dad came home with the red cowboy boots. They were two sizes too big for me. When they finally fit, I started wearing them. I wanted to remind my parents there’d been a time when they’d gotten along, sort of. The boots are broken in now and feel like slippers. When I first showed up at RHHH, they definitely got a few looks.

Mary wants to hear my songs, and I told her she can—at my next gig, which will have to be in Portland, because Rock Hook Harbor doesn’t have a music scene. Somehow, I’m pretty sure the mainland doesn’t either. Kids around here drive all the way to Portland just to go dancing.

Lilah and I used to blast music in her room and dance.

Music. It saved my life when she nearly lost hers . . .

One of the Kevins shouts as he passes by, jerking me back to the moment. Mary’s leaning in across the table, gesturing for me to do the same.

Without waiting to hear what she has to say, I blurt, “Mary, this is going to sound stupid, but there’s this guy. I saw him surfing at the beach next to the lighthouse—”

“Hate to break up your girl
thang
, but it’s time for class.”

Logan. Hard to believe I hadn’t seen him coming.

“Oh yeah,
girl
thing.” Mary grabs my hand.

“Mind if I watch?” Logan slides onto the bench, the side of his body pressing against mine. The bell shrills and the noise in the cafeteria doubles.

I shove my shoulder hard against his—and get up. Mary stands too now. She’s headed to gym, the only period besides her art class and my music theory class that we don’t have together. Walking backward, she blows a stream of kisses at me for Logan’s benefit.

He arches one dark brow.

I say, “In your dreams, Delaine.”

“
My
dreams?” Laughing, he stands and takes my hand. “Hey, don’t blame me for Mary’s perverted ideas. Just—remember to include me in them.” He laces his fingers with mine.

And even though I’m not sure where his joking ends and he begins, the way our fingers are entwined—feels good.

But after we walk across the cafeteria together and out into the crowded hall, I ease my hand out of his. Because . . . the school feels stuffy. The weather is humid and my hair is doing its puffy frizzy thing. Plus my ears are ringing. Not ringing, really, but—I don’t know.

Pushing my hair back irritably, I’m twisting it into a knot when a group of boys passes by, one of them jostling me—

Logan grabs the kid who bumped me, slams him up against a locker. “Watch it, idiot.”

The boy’s eyes go wide.

Before I can protest—the boy’s shoulder had barely brushed mine—Logan releases him and starts walking. Almost reluctantly, I follow, catching up with him only when he slows, as if he’s suddenly remembering that we’d been going down the hall together.

“Sorry,” he mutters, “but I swear—some of these guys . . . It’s like they’re part of a different species or something.”