Mistwalker Read online

  Leaning over the rail, Zoe grinned down at me. “I got something good today.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, already climbing aboard.

  Lamps illuminated the cabin. Everything inside gleamed, dark wood polished to a sheen. From the stern, I could make out the galley and the table. The rest of Zoe’s floating condo required an invitation.

  “I’ve been pulling traps for damn near thirty years,” she said, opening a cooler on deck. She reached inside, hefting a lobster out with her bare hands. Its claws were already banded, so the worst it could do was wriggle at her. “And I’ve never seen one of these.”

  In the dimming dusk, it was hard to make out what kind of wonder she had. The lobster was kinda big, but nothing special.

  Then Zoe dipped him into the light that spilled from the cabin. A spark of excitement raced through me. He was blue. Not kinda sorta, if you squint at a green lobster, you might see some bluish spots. No, this was a deep shade, halfway to navy. Midnight freckles and powder blue joints, even his eyes were a hazy shade of midnight.

  “Hot damn, Zoe, that’s something else.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  More than a little irritated—he’d probably been passed around to half of Broken Tooth by now—Old Blue the lobster curled his tail under. Flailing his claws, he wanted to pinch me. He just couldn’t. I trailed a finger down his segmented tail and hefted him in my hand. He was eight pounds, easy.

  “You taking him back?” I asked.

  Nodding, Zoe leaned against the rail. “Yeah. He’s bigger than legal, but I wouldn’t have kept him anyway.”

  She didn’t have to explain. Lobsters like these, we shared them. Took pictures, handed them around. Then we gave them back to the ocean. It balanced things; it reminded the water gods and the universe that we appreciated all of it. That we weren’t so greedy to keep every last creature we pulled in our traps.

  And it meant somebody else might find him later. Nobody knew how old a lobster could get. In fact, left alone, they might live forever. Every year, they shed their shells and grew a new one. Nothing limited how big they could grow.

  Up in Nova Scotia, they found one that weighed forty-four pounds. Forget losing a finger to a lobster—that thing could break arms with its claws.

  So if we gave back the big ones, the blue ones, the ones that were special, there was a little bit of immortality attached to it. In two days, or two hundred years, somebody else might haul it up. Take pictures, pass it around. Past to present, lobsterman to lobsterman.

  I watched Zoe put Old Blue back in the cooler. “You see Dad and Seth out there today?”

  “This morning,” she said. Straightening, she dried her hands on her jeans. Nodding toward the cabin, she invited me inside. “Past the Rock, heading on out. You want some coffee?”

  Back home, the house sat empty. Mom was at work, and Daddy was still out. There was nothing in that house but unnatural quiet, so I took a cup of Zoe’s coffee, and another one after it. Just to stay on the water a little longer.

  Just to be close to the sea.

  ONE

  Grey

  Someone out there is thinking about me.

  I feel it, as surely as I feel the wrought-iron stairs shake beneath me. It’s a quickening, a bright silver sting that plays along my skin. It bites, it taunts. I measure my breath and hurry downstairs in spite of it. Or because of it. I don’t know anymore.

  The brick walls around me weep, exhausted from keeping the elements outside, but it’s only fair. I’m exhausted too. I hold off a great deal more than wind and salt spray.

  As ever, the table is set with linens and silver. As ever, the candles are lit. My prison is an elegant one. I don’t remember when that started to matter.

  When I was alive, I hated shaving each morning. I hated vests and breakfast jackets, cuff links, tie tacks, looking presentable. Now they’re ritual. Acts I perform as if I could walk back into my world at any moment. And I can’t. I never will.

  Not even if she is thinking about me.

  Sinking into my chair, I tell myself very firmly: stop wondering about her. Her thoughts aren’t formed. They aren’t real yet. She’s not a possibility; this is not the end. And if I’ve learned one lesson in one hundred years, it is this: anticipation is poison.

  So, instead, I consider the wrapped box at my place. It, too, is elegant—gold board, gold ribbon, a sprig of juniper berries for color. There’s a clockwork movement inside, the heart of a music box.

  If I assemble it correctly, it’ll play the “Maple Leaf Rag.” Carved lovers will spin around each other; silk maple leaves will wave. A merry addition to my collection.

  I put the gift aside. And between blinks, my plate fills with salt cod and cream. This is my least favorite breakfast, and it’s my fault I’m having it. Some girl and her unborn wishes distracted me, so I forgot to want baked apples and oatmeal. Or broiled tomatoes on toast. Or anything, really—birthday cake and shaved ice, cherries jubilee, Irish coffee and hot peppers.

  Tomorrow, the gift box will have silk leaves in it, and galvanized casing nails so I can finish my music box. The day after, four new books on any subject, none of which matter, as long as I haven’t read them before. They’ll appear on my plate, then make way for my breakfast. This will happen again at noon and at five. Lunch and dinner.

  They’re regular as the clock I built, a mechanical sun chasing the moon across its face. It never slows. It never stops. I hear it toll every hour of every day as it marks the minutes to the next meal, the next box filled with nearly anything I desire.

  And it doesn’t matter that, lately, I let those boxes pile up in my study, unopened. Nor does it matter that I take one bite and wish my plates away. Sighing, I unfold my napkin and consider my silverware an enemy.

  In the end, I’m afraid, it’s a curse to get everything you want.

  TWO

  Willa

  Since she was caught up worrying about the SAT instead of paying attention, Bailey stepped on the back of my shoe again. I stopped in the middle of the walk. As I expected, she kept going and crashed into me.

  All betrayed, she asked, “What?” like I’d pulled a gun and rolled her for her iPhone.

  “We’re not sitting the test until May,” I told her.

  “But I have to be ready by then. You don’t just waltz into the Ivies, Willa. I have to think about it now.” Bailey waved her hands. “I don’t even have a subject. I need one for apps, and you know I suck at essays. I don’t get along with them, Willa! I choke!”

  I stepped to the side so she could walk with me to school. “Write about lobstering. Or growing up all quaint and whatever. Hell, write about being the only lesbian in a fishing village!”

  “I’m not the only one,” she said.

  “Cait lives in Milbridge,” I replied.

  Folding a stick of gum into her mouth, Bailey shook her head. “It’s not interesting. Dear Harvard, I’m unique and not a soul is bothered. Boo hoo hoo. Love, Bailey.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “You’re not applying to Harvard.”

  “That’s not the point!”

  With a huff, Bailey picked up the pace. I gladly followed, because we were both going to be late the way we were dawdling. It’s not like it was a long walk. The Vandenbrook School was our town school. K through 12 went there, to this Victorian mansion perched on a hill.

  Mom said when she and Dad went to Vandenbrook, they had to climb uneven granite stairs set into the dirt. Talk about a mess of fun in the winter. Sometimes it would get so cold, the earth would spit one out like a baby tooth.

  But right before I started kindergarten, the town trust paid to pave the walk. They even put warmers beneath the concrete to keep it clear. Come December, we’d be tromping through knee-deep snow to get anywhere except school.

  Everybody argued about why they did it and how they found the money for it. But I guess people were making noises about busing us to Narraguagus, and pride set in. Like everything else in Brok
en Tooth, it came down to tradition—we always had schooled our own, and we weren’t about to stop without a fight.

  I liked it. I liked that I could find the place my dad scratched his initials in the old servants’ stairs when he was seventeen and sick of school. My granddad had done the same, and his father, too, back when it was just ten boys taking lessons with the rich owner’s son.

  That wood contained one slice of me, the same way the Jenn-a-Lo claimed one, and the coast, and the jack pines, and the sea. I had planned to wait until graduation to add my initials. Instead, I broke in this past summer, the day of the funeral, to do it. It was too sunny outside, but nice and dark in the back hallway.

  Bailey snapped her fingers in front of my face. The crack dragged me out of my thoughts, and I cooled my cheeks with my hands.

  “Sorry.”

  “Where’d you go?” she asked. She clasped the back of my neck and pulled me in roughly. It wasn’t a hug. It was a good shake, but it meant the same thing. I leaned into her, long enough to get her perfume on me, then threw my shoulders back.

  “I’m all right.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” And to prove it, I tugged my bag onto my shoulder and said, “I think you should write about worm digging to pay for college. Make up some stuff about how cuts and worm bites get you good and tough. Ready for the world.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “It doesn’t have to be true,” I told her, and started up the stairs. “It just has to get you by.”

  Some days pretended to be normal.

  Because our school was a mansion once, it had good places to sit. The elementary kids hung out in the solarium. They were allowed to run in there and get their ya yas out. Plus, it let them soak up what little sun made it through the trees up here.

  The foyer was for us, the high school kids. When I walked in, Seth had already staked out our favorite corner. The far edge of the window seat, where the light was the warmest. Great, weighted oaks cast their shadows, and by lunch, the foyer was dark. In the morning, though, it was quiet and kinda pretty.

  Sliding into Seth’s lap, I looped his arms around me the way I always had. Solid and warm, he melted to match me. He rested his chin on my shoulder, brushing his nose behind my ear. Everything fit.

  “Morning,” he murmured. His voice buzzed on my skin.

  “Yessir, it is,” I replied.

  Seth smiled. He always did when I played literal with him. Holding me tighter, he fell quiet. He shifted and twitched beneath me. Fighting back a smile, I let him squirm. He was waiting for me to ask how it went with Daddy, and I wasn’t about to. It was a sore subject, and anyway, he was going to tell me whether I asked or not.

  “Yesterday was good,” he finally said.

  Reaching back, I trailed my fingers through his hair. “Catch anything?”

  “Nope.”

  It wasn’t a surprise. The traps had been out too long. Yesterday was an exercise in baiting and dropping, a chance for Daddy to get used to a sternman who wasn’t a Dixon. I tried to push that aside. Twisting to look at him, I asked, “Everything run smooth?”

  There was a hitch in Seth’s answer, a little hesitation. “He kept coming on deck. I know how to gaff a buoy, but he kept wanting to show me.”

  Secretly, that made me feel good. When I was on the Jenn-a-Lo, Dad barely slowed down between traps. It was up to me to keep up. And I had no problem doing it. There was nothing better than hauling a string in record time. Well, if the pots were all full, that made it a little bit better.

  To soothe Seth, I turned in his lap. Draping my arms over his shoulders, I tugged at the short hairs on the back of his neck. I kissed his downturned mouth and ignored it when one of the Eldrich boys hooted from the stairs.

  “You did good, though.”

  “Think so?”

  I nodded, our lips skimming when I spoke. “I do. And when you go out Wednesday, just tell him to get his ass back in the cabin where he belongs.”

  Seth snorted. “That’s gonna go over.”

  “It will with me.”

  He’d known me my whole life. So he knew when he could pick me up. Picking up meant spinning. Used to be, I’d press my face against his neck. Breathe his after-shave and get my thrills from the smoothness of his smooth skin. All of a sudden, though, whirling in the foyer seemed like too much.

  “Stop. Enough,” I said, and I wasn’t laughing like usual.

  To his credit, Seth did. He tipped me so I could hop to my feet again. There was a space between us, one I filled by brushing my hair back and staring at the floor. In all the spots inside me that happy tried to fill, guilt pushed it out. I couldn’t be playing at school. Laughing and copping feels. I just couldn’t.

  Looking past Seth, I stared down the hall. It was full, and one of the kindergarteners, Kenzie Fisher’s kid sister, skidded along the slick floor. She crashed into Kenzie’s legs. Without warning, Kenzie hauled her up and tossed her over her shoulder. Fat cheeks turned red, and the little Fisher’s eyes bugged out.

  There was only ever two years between me and Levi. I couldn’t have held him upside down if I wanted to. But stupid me, stupid, irrational me—right then, I wanted to, so bad. Seth’s rough hand skimmed across the back of my neck. Leaning over, he kissed my hair. He turned me, subtly, because he knew me too well.

  “It’s okay,” he murmured.

  It wasn’t, but I said “I know” anyway.

  With a pair of metal cutters in one hand, I turned my bead tray with the other. Somehow, I was supposed to turn a spool of wire and about fifty million little glass spheres into a bracelet, one with “depth” and a “point of view.”

  No idea what that meant, so I started with blue beads and figured I’d throw some silver ones in to go with.

  If anybody asked, I was going to say it represented the Milky Way. The way it looked on a lightless, cloudless night, when we were halfway to Georges Bank. There, surrounded by sea and not a thing else, you were a real tiny slice of infinity. From there, you could see the shape of galaxies, silver and flickering, forever out of reach.

  “Are you using those needles?” Brennan asked.

  His voice dragged me back to class, and I shook my head, handing the needles over. There were only six of us in Metalwork and Jewelry, and it was obvious everybody else wanted to be there.

  They swirled their fingers through bowls of lamp-work beads, choosing another color, caring what came next on their wire.

  When they twisted their pliers, their base wires became luxurious shapes, half-moons or Greek squares. They managed to suspend cheap seed pearls in loops and whorls. When they clamped off the clasps, no ragged edges remained.

  Mrs. Baxter had demonstrated all of that in the first week. Mechanical technique she called it. I didn’t have it.

  Give me sink rope or claw bands. Give me zip ties and bait bags. I knew what to do with those. I could drop a lobster pot like it was a French-hook earring; it was elegant, even. But with delicate little pretty things, I was hopeless.

  Don’t get me wrong, I liked wearing it just fine. For my last birthday, Seth gave me a pair of silver wraps that held on to the top of either ear. I wore those almost every day, just like the silver stud in the curve of my nose.

  I couldn’t do rings or necklaces or anything that dangled—too easy to rip off when I was working the boat. But what I could wear, I liked. I just wasn’t artistic when it came to making it.

  And it’s not like I didn’t know that. I was supposed to have Forensics during third period. The school was so small, we had only two electives a semester. Solving fake crimes with the double-duty science teacher sounded like more fun to me than beading necklaces.

  I don’t know who changed my schedule. Could have been the principal (also, the dean and guidance counselor). Or my parents. I guess they decided that after Levi died, the last thing I needed was twelve weeks of dead bodies and the torment people put them through.

  They were protecting me. And maybe
they were right. At least Mrs. Baxter didn’t expect me to be good at beading. I had a solid C for turning everything in on time, and she never asked me to explain my vision on critique days.

  The class turned out to be soothing, in a way. We were allowed to talk, but we didn’t much. It was all soft patter, pass me that knotter, and could I have that clamp? It sounded like distant rain, so many beads being poured from tray to tray, slipping easily on wires. They whispered, and so did we.

  When Bailey opened the door, it disturbed the rain. We all looked up at the same time.

  “From the office,” Bailey said, and crept to my table. She touched the coiled mess of my project and said “pretty” before getting to the point. Smoothing a note onto the table, she told me what it said. “Your mom tried to text you, but you didn’t answer.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. I took a quick look at my phone, but it was blank. No big surprise. There was only one cell tower and nothing but rock and cliff for miles. We were lucky when we got a signal at all.

  Bailey fished through the beads, pulling out a red and purple one to roll between her fingers. It would disappear into her pocket any time now; those were Cait’s favorite colors. “You have to go home straight after. The lawyer’s coming.”

  Not my lawyer, the prosecutor. I didn’t bother to correct her. Instead, I brushed her hand away so I could pretend to work on my bracelet. Staring down at the silver loops, I said, “All right.”

  “Do you want me to come?” she asked.

  Did I? Not really. “You can.”

  Rubbing her shoulder against mine, Bailey reached for another bead. “I’ll do community service with you.”

  “Good,” I said, frowning when my sight wavered, hot with tears. “’Cause I’ll probably need a ride.”

  “I’m not getting my brakes fixed for you, princess. Just so you know.”

  “Who asked you to?”

  She flipped me off behind Mrs. Baxter’s back, and left. I was glad she hadn’t looked too close. If I could get a couple breaths in, I could seal myself up. I wouldn’t break down in the middle of class. They already knew I was guilty and nobody blamed me, anyway.