Ahkai salutes, hides the book behind his bag, and speed-marches toward the library.
This time, instead of watching from the stands, Mariss sits on a bench next to the tamarind tree, avoiding the shade from its bright green leaves. Her amber highlights shimmer in the sun, which is already fiery hot even though it’s only after nine in the morning.
Coach Broomes introduces the representative from the West Indies cricket board—a large, bored-looking man who examines us while picking his teeth with his fingernail. I don’t have my games clothes and I stick out like a bubblegum stain on a white wall in my horrid blue-and-pink uniform. I can’t even be mad at the snickering behind me when I walk out onto the field in my long pleated skirt and a helmet.
My starched cotton blouse clings to my body, soaked in sweat, but I try to ignore my discomfort. I make four feeble attempts to hit the ball, making sure to miss every time.
The bowler sprints toward me, sweat flying off his arms as he does his run-up. I prepare to miss the ball again, but then there’s a tingling sensation on my arm. Huh? I peer down and see beads of salty sweat trembling like Jell-O and moving down to my fingers like a parade of dancing spiders.
Before I can process the bizarre experience, the bowler releases the ball. I move my bat away, but the ball swerves and collides with my bat so hard my teeth rattle.
CRACK!
The ball sails over the boundary, out toward the tamarind tree. Coach Broomes drops his clipboard in shock.
“Six runs!” The West Indies rep breaks the stunned silence with loud applause.
It’s like the ball had a mind of its own. There’s no way I could have hit it that far. The ball disappears into the thick branches and then falls into Mariss’s waiting palms.
She gives me a slow smile before tossing the ball onto the field.
This has to be her doing, but how is she controlling cricket balls? She’s a saltwater spirit, and unlike the waves and fish, balls are not related to the sea in any way.
Another bead of sweat rolls down my ear, and the droplet shivers, tickling my earlobe, and then makes a sharp U-turn into my earhole. I slap the side of my head, and just like that, I understand.
Sweat.
She’s using sweat to manipulate the ball.
It makes sense because it’s just another form of salt water. She can guide the ball in any direction, once there’s enough sweat on its surface. And Mariss has more than enough supply from this drenched bowler.
The bowler runs up again and bowls the ball. I dig my heels into the ground, determined not to move, but the ball crashes into my bat again without my help, going over the school walls, so far past the boundary it could be counted as twelve runs.
“Cheese on bread!” The West Indies rep is beside himself, beaming and scribbling in his notepad.
When it’s my turn to bowl, Mariss may use my sweat to direct the ball into the stumps. If I don’t do something fast, I’ll be on my way to St. Lucia and leaving Daddy to her mercy.
I stomp off the cricket field and fling my helmet onto the floor in the girls’ changing room. How am I supposed to fight Mariss when the sun and my own body heat are on her side?
“Think think think think think,” I repeat, rocking on a bench and clutching my head. How do I stop sweating? I’m sure there is some scientific way to block the pores. I think about Mr. Atkins’s science classes and wish I had paid more attention to the notes on the blackboard.
And that’s when a solution hits me.
I sneak into Coach Broomes’s equipment room. This has to work … I can’t leave Daddy alone with Mariss.
When it’s my turn to bowl, I walk to the end of the pitch, my pockets heavy. I can already feel the tickling around the back of my neck and along my arms as Mariss works her sea powers, but this time I’m prepared.
I swirl my right hand around in my pocket. When I pull it out, it’s as white as a blank page, covered in powdered chalk, courtesy of the gymnastics students. I’ve seen them dusting their hands with the powder to help absorb sweat and also to get a better grip on the bars. I pat the powder on the ball and along my arms. Now most of my skin is as dry as ash.
Mariss gets up from the bench. She’s not smirking anymore.
Every bad ball I bowl chips away at a piece of my soul, and my ego gets smaller and smaller, until I feel as worthless as the mud underneath my sneakers. There’s no way I’ll be chosen for the camp now.
Both Jared and Coach Broomes are looking at me with suspicion, so for my last ball I bowl as fast as I can, but I make sure it is off target. The batsman swings and misses, the pace too quick for him, and the ball goes wide of the stumps and rolls down to the boundary.
Everyone probably thinks I am chasing after the ball, but I run past the boundary and to the closest place of isolation I can think of—the toolshed at the back of the school.
I collapse at the edge of the small swamp and hide my face in my knees. I sniffle, thinking about the disappointment in Jared’s eyes, and water slides out of my nose. I welcome the mosquito bites as some form of punishment.
I’m feeling so sorry for myself that at first, I ignore the small splashes. But when I raise my head there are hundreds, maybe even thousands, of tiny brown fish popping out of the water. They move toward me like a swarm of bees drawn to an island of honey. Like they want to engulf my body and feed on my skin.
I gasp and scramble away from the edge, unable to take my eyes off the fish. I didn’t even know that fish lived in the swamp—the most I’d seen were frogs and tadpoles. The small fish reach the edge of the water, and to my surprise, they fling themselves into the mud, beaching themselves like whales, desperate to reach me. No normal fish would behave like this, but then I think about the flying lionfish in the Hot Pot.
This has to be another warning from Mariss. I need to find out how to stop her.
I take one last look at the fish in the grass, their tiny mouths gasping for air, and dash toward the library.
I race through the corridors, trying my best to avoid colliding with other students strolling down the halls like they’re taking a walk on the beach. It’s hard to process that they’re still children leading normal lives, only stressing about homework because they’ve never been attacked by gasping zombie fish.
I slide to a stop before reaching the end of the building; there’s an exposed space ahead. I’ve crossed the path countless times to get to the library, but never once realized I’d be in full view of the pasture. Until now.
If Mariss is still on the cricket field, I’ll be in her line of sight.
I peek around the corner and recognize the back of Coach Broomes, but from that angle I can’t see if Mariss is on the bench. I lean forward as much as I can, then nearly fall flat on my face when someone bangs on the piano in the music room.
Just go for it, I urge myself. I draw deep breaths and then sprint toward the library. I can’t help but look over my shoulder, and I get relief at the sight of the empty bench before disappearing inside.
Mrs. Edgecombe is at the counter with the folklore book open in front of her, and there’s no sign of Ahkai. She shoots me an annoyed look when I rush up to her.
“Josephine, I told you to take care of this book!”
“Ma’am, I swear it wasn’t me.” I catch my breath and cross my heart to prove I’m not lying. “I’ll explain later, but I need to know what was on that page.”
Mrs. Edgecombe removes her glasses and leans over the counter. “Well, I do happen to have—”
“Josie Sweets.” Mrs. Edgecombe pauses at the sound of Mariss’s sultry voice behind me. I grip on to the counter, and would have leapt over it to escape if Mrs. Edgecombe weren’t blocking me.
Mariss glides toward us in her white wrap dress, looking like an angel to all unsuspecting victims. Her smile does not reach her eyes.
“I just wanted to see if you were okay, after your … performance.” She rests a hot hand on my shoulder and I make a strangled sound.
&nbs
p; Mariss extends the hand to Mrs. Edgecombe. “Greetings, sister.”
Mrs. Edgecombe shakes Mariss’s hand, but oddly enough, doesn’t let go. Mariss looks down at the folklore book, and then into Mrs. Edgecombe’s eyes, giving her famous wide smile.
“I love books, but be careful,” Mariss says, resting her other hand on Mrs. Edgecombe’s curved back. “Reading can be dangerous.”
Mrs. Edgecombe’s hunched back straightens like curly hair with a hot comb. They finally break their handshake, and Mrs. Edgecombe lowers her head, as if bowed in prayer.
All this time I am tense, afraid to breathe, now that Mariss is making threats in broad daylight. Thank goodness there are no fish in the library.
“Well, I’m off. Sorry I can’t spend more time with you, Josie, but you know what they say.” Mariss softens her voice. “There’s no rest for the wicked.”
I can’t help but touch the dark circles under my eyes.
“Goodbyeee,” Mariss sings in a fake sad voice.
Mrs. Edgecombe and I stare after her as she floats to the exit, and as soon as she’s out of sight, we both exhale.
“Listen to me, Josephine.” Mrs. Edgecombe is flustered, her voice raspy. “If you upset someone like that, you gotta make amends. You hear me?”
“But, ma’am, what if it’s too late?” I whisper, pleading with my eyes. “What was on that page?”
Mrs. Edgecombe looks at the exit, then down at me, all sorts of emotions flashing across her face. Fear. Pity. Sadness. Fear again.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Mrs. Edgecombe replies in an extra-loud voice, as if we’re being watched.
She grips the folklore book and hurries away, her back straighter than a cricket stump.
“Please, ma’am, please help me.” I follow her until she locks herself in the bathroom. But I continue to bang at the door, until there are annoyed cries from other students.
I press my forehead against the door. “Ma’am, I can’t lose my daddy too.”
A few seconds later, a piece of paper slides out from under the door. I grab it and hurry to a secluded area in the library. After checking to make sure I’m not being followed, I unfold the paper.
It’s a printout of the missing page! Mrs. Edgecombe must have preserved a digital scan of the book for her records. I feel a rush of gratitude for the librarian as I devour the words:
The only means of escape is to revoke the invitation into one’s life by returning the gift to her underwater kingdom, a journey that is certain death unless taken at a time when a sea spirit is most vulnerable. Until then, she has the power to maintain control of one’s mind through fantastic dreams and entice one to her, and they will follow her to their death at the bottom of the sea. It is best not to make trouble with a sea spirit because the captive’s release often hinges on some sort of priceless demand, ranging from total devotion to the spirit to the death of a loved one.
I slide down to the floor, still staring at the page. The paper shakes in my hand as I focus on the words “certain death.” A repressed memory rises up and pulls my mind underwater; I’m drowning and reaching into empty darkness, this time not for a silver dollar but for my daddy.
I will have to go somewhere deep in the ocean, but before I make that journey, I have to relinquish Mariss’s control over Daddy.
I have to find the gift.
I swallow my fear and rack my brain, trying to remember Mariss’s gifts. My guess would have been the necklace with the spiral pendant, but I threw that into the sea and she’s still here. Maybe I didn’t throw it in the right spot?
Unlike the original book, there’s no scrawled handwriting in the margins. The book must have been scanned before the annotations. I don’t know what Mariss’s gift is. I don’t know the exact location of her underwater lair. I don’t know when to go—“most vulnerable” isn’t a time on my watch.
I feel so hopeless … and there’s no one to help me.
Then, I spot Ahkai, rushing toward me like a brave hero coming to save the day. I expect good news, judging from the eager look on his face. When he gets close, he waves the burnt piece of paper in front of me.
“I used glycerin in the science lab to restore ink from the burnt page,” Ahkai says in an excited manner.
The words “full moon” are clear in the blue scribble on the charred page. The scrawl lifts the fog of confusion in my brain.
Is Mariss most vulnerable at the full moon? Last full moon Mariss was outside after dark; I get chills when I remember Daddy’s trance-like state. And the full moon before that—wait, Mariss wasn’t even around. It’s hard to believe so little time has passed since she began wreaking havoc on my life. Nothing special happened on that full moon—
I gasp as I recall the image of the jeweled brass comb in the moonlight. That’s the night Daddy had his nightmare … about fangs. I remember the magical way that comb glided through my curls.
That’s the gift. I have to return the comb during a full moon! BUT where? I glance over at Ahkai. He’s already lost interest in the burnt paper and is deep in a book about marine life. He’s not going to indulge me right now.
Still, a tiny spark of hope ignites in my chest. I have a lot of unanswered questions, but at long last, I have a path to getting rid of Mariss, and the first step is simple.
Find the comb.
And Daddy should know where it is.
I’m glad when I see Jalopy parked outside the house that afternoon. Daddy’s at the table again, shifting through bills and tapping on the calculator. I’ve never seen him look so old—even the gray hairs have spread along the sides of his head. It’s like Mariss is draining the life out of him.
“Daddy, I want you to redo my hair,” I say, pretending to undo one of the plaits. “Where’s that comb you had? The one you found in the net.”
He doesn’t look up from the bills. “What comb?”
“The brass one, with the jewels,” I reply with a hint of frustration.
Daddy scoffs. “If I ’ad a comb with jewels it would solve all my problems.”
“But—”
He waves a hand to silence me, muttering numbers under his breath. For a second, I want to throw the calculator out the window, but then decide it’s better to first search the last place I saw the comb: his bedroom.
The inside of Daddy’s room has transformed. It’s like a page out of a lifestyle magazine. There are several red and white pillows on his bed, and light blue curtains by the window sparkle like the sunlight on the ocean. A strong lavender scent engulfs the room.
I try the closet first and I’m immediately drawn to a large, unfamiliar cardboard box on the lower shelf. I pull at the masking tape and rip open the flap.
“Josephine.”
I jump back, slamming against the closet door, and turn around slowly.
Mariss is in the doorway, her eyes bright with anger. My blood goes cold.
“Those are my belongings.” She takes one step inside, her eyes boring into mine. “What are you searching for?”
I move toward the doorway, my back pressed against the wall. All excuses die on my lips as we stare at each other, and my throat tightens, closing up like I’m deathly allergic to being caught red-handed.
Maybe this is the moment she’ll attack, now that she knows I know the truth about her identity. Can she look in my eyes and see that I know how to get rid of her? That I know once the comb is returned, she’ll lose all control over Daddy? Maybe she’ll claw my face apart while he’s downstairs doing math.
I jump as Mariss makes another move, but she goes over to the bed and sits on the crisp sheets. She breaks our eye contact, her gaze shifting to the closet. She stares at it and traces spirals with her fingernail across one of the white pillows.
I take a chance and dash to the door, expecting fangs to sink into my back, but nothing happens. I slam my bedroom door behind me, then buckle against it as I glance at the calendar.
The next full moon is tomorrow.
My eyes fly open at the same time the brass clock strikes three.
It’s been eight minutes since my last nightmare; seems like sleepless nights are part of my routine now. In the last bad dream, Daddy forced me through the departure gate at the airport, and when I turned to wave goodbye, the back of his head twisted into Mariss’s smiling face.
“Enjoy cricket camp!” Daddy-Mariss sang. Their arm flipped around like an OPEN & CLOSED hanging sign to return my wave.
From the window, the almost-full moon is bright and shimmering in the sky. Once before, its light brought me peace; now it’s like an eerie danger sign.
Just when I’m tempted to close my eyes again, a shadow covers the bottom of the door, blocking out the light from the hallway. I pinch myself to make sure it’s not another nightmare.
The doorknob turns, until click, the lock prevents it from going any farther.
Whew.
Then BANG! The doorknob swings all the way around. I scream at the top of my lungs.
“Bean?” Daddy yells. Now light appears from the hallway again, and Daddy rushes into my room.
“Bean, don’t worry, is just a bad dream,” he says, limping over to the bed. He groans when he sits down, and I bury my face in his chest.
“Don’t leave me, please,” I cry out.
“I’m ’ere. I ain’ going nowhere.” He holds me until my wheezing slows back down to normal breathing.
“Lookie here, I’m the parent again,” he jokes, and I can’t help but smile. “What you dream that ’ad you so frighten?” he asks.
I tell him the truth. “That you left me.”
“Oh, Bean, you know that won’t ever ’appen.”
“Can you stay until I go back to sleep?” I ask. It is a trick. Whenever he stays, Daddy always ends up falling asleep with me. Right now, I don’t want him out of my sight.
“To tell you the truth, I dunno if I can get up,” Daddy says, slapping his knee. “I think Mariss threw out the Benjie’s …” His voice trails off.
Josephine Against the Sea Page 13