The Fog

by Caroline B. Cooney

  Oh, how she yearned to see him! She thought of him so often and yet sometimes she could not quite remember his features; the more she thought of him the more his face eluded her.

  Blake’s scrape with death had been too much for Anya. The fingers of the sea had truly grabbed him. Christina was unable to convince Anya that the fingers of a real person — a birder walking by — had rescued him. That real people won! And so could Anya, if she got tough with her fears.

  There was no toughness in her.

  She had quit high school. She was working at the laundromat. Her parents had come to talk to the Shevvingtons. The Shevvingtons had very graciously agreed to keep Anya with them even though she was no longer going to public school and not rightly an island boarder. Perhaps she needs a year off, said the Shevvingtons sympathetically to Anya’s horrified, heartsick parents. Every morning now when she left for the laundromat, in her ill-fitting jeans and unmatched blouse and sagging sweater they said to her, “This is good for you, this is right for you.”

  And Anya believed them.

  Christina, remembering what Robbie had said, looked very hard into Anya’s soul. She was not sure there was one left. Anya was empty, like an old Coke bottle in the recycling pile. The Shevvingtons were recycling her, all right. But into what?

  Christina had made Robbie come to the laundromat to look at Anya. “Yes,” Robbie had said, “that’s just like my sister. Nothing left.”

  “Do your parents blame the Shevvingtons?” asked Christina.

  “Of course not,” Robbie had said bitterly. “They think the Shevvingtons are the ones who helped her last as long as she did. They think the Shevvingtons are kind and understanding.”

  All parents are alike then, thought Christina, looking at hers. They are actually grateful to the Shevvingtons! My own mother and father are probably going to end this dinner by thanking them!

  Mr. Shevvington continued. “Christina knew better than anybody when the tide would come in; Christina is obsessed by that tide and by Candle Cove. She even pretends there is a tide right in her bedroom,” said Mr. Shevvington sadly. “Brought us a piece of seaweed she claimed landed on that window sixty feet above the highwater mark.” Mr. Shevvington paused. He had a wonderful sense of timing, Christina would grant him that. He said to her parents, “Christina knew Blake would reach that ladder just as the tide thundered in.”

  Nobody talked about that terrible sentence. It just lay there, implying terrible things.

  Christina said to her parents, “Listen to me! Listen to me!”

  But it never occurred to Christina’s parents that the Shevvingtons might lie. The Shevvingtons were Authority, they were The Principal, and The Teacher, and The Innkeeper. They told The Truth. They Knew Things, they had Experience, they were Understanding and Caring.

  Her mother, weeping, said, “We have spent thirteen years listening to you, Christina. I guess we made a lot of poor choices. Now it’s time to listen to the people in charge of you.”

  Her parents went back to the island. Without her. They cried, and they hugged her, and they promised to write and send her presents and they begged her to “shape up” and they said they loved her … but they left.

  Christina thought, some people on islands are naive and innocent. Not me — but my own parents. There is evil in this house, and they didn’t feel it. It took Anya, as it took Val, and now they’re going to try to take me. Well, they won’t. I am granite.

  In English Mrs. Shevvington discussed a poem by Carl Sandburg. It was very short.

  Christina did not consider it a poem. It was called “The Fog.” She made a face at it.

  “Christina?” said Mrs. Shevvington. “You have a thought to contribute?”

  They waged war unceasingly now. The class knew it was war, and had divided into teams. Gretch and Vicki of course joined Mrs. Shevvington, bringing along with them every other girl in the class. The boys just loved a fight, any fight, and goaded Christina continually.

  Christina thought she might not actually be the loneliest person on earth, but it certainly felt like it. She had had Dolly for a best friend all her life. To have nobody, nobody at all — and yet rows of girls sitting inches away from her! — it was the worst thing on earth.

  “Fog comes like wall to wall carpet, suffocating the view,” said Christina, who had known more fog, more intimately, than any of them. She remembered vividly the day when she was five, out with her parents, suddenly caught at sea in a fog so thick they couldn’t see each other, let alone navigate. Her parents began story-telling to keep their little girl calm; that was the day she learned about their courtship, how they saved money to buy their first couch, how her grandmother had given them the family’s only wonderful antique, the Janetta clock.

  But she said none of this. Anything she said would be used as a weapon against her.

  “Time for our weekly extemporaneous essay, class. Put all books beneath the desks or on the floor. Take a fresh sheet of paper and a pencil.” The class obeyed with the speed that always followed Mrs. Shevvington’s requests, as if they were infantrymen saluting. Mrs. Shevvington got out her stopwatch. “Ready?” she said.

  “Ready,” they chorused, although none of them were. They hated spontaneous writing. Mrs. Shevvington had scheduled it every Friday until kids starting getting sick on Fridays just to miss it. Now she would spring the essay any time.

  The topics were chosen to upset Christina; she could tell by the smirk on Mrs. Shevvington’s face.

  The fourth week in September — the morning after Blake — Mrs. Shevvington had said, smiling at Christina, “Two page essay. How Will It Feel to Die?”

  The whole class looked at Christina — had not Mrs. Shevvington foretold what would happen? Had not their respected teacher told them how Christina was descended from murderers?

  The following week, which was the first week in October — “One page essay. Noises in the Night.”

  Now it was the second week in October. The children shivered, knowing the topic would be scary. Sometimes Christina thought they liked it — it was kind of like participating in a horror movie.

  “What if,” said Mrs. Shevvington, pausing suspensefully, “what if your parents … decided … to abandon you?”

  The class shuddered in delicious fear.

  But what was Christina to write? Because her parents had abandoned her!

  One parent of one child — only one — had come in to argue about the choice of writing topics. The parent left convinced that Mrs. Shevvington was a very creative teacher, with meaningful topics that made children think and produce. Now the parent went around town telling people what a splendid teacher Mrs. Shevvington was.

  Sick, thought Christina, The Shevvingtons are sick. She looked at the blank piece of paper in front of her. What to write about? She had to pass in a paper or her failure to cooperate would be one more thing to tell her parents. She ignored Mrs. Shevvington’s topic and titled her essay, “What is it like to live on an island?” It was important to write something that could be shared with the class, because Mrs. Shevvington always picked Christina’s paper to read aloud.

  She wrote, “Anything that happens on an island is important. A broken plank on the town dock, a large mail delivery to the Swansons, a litter of kittens at the Rothrocks, a new rope on the tire swing at the school. Everybody knows, and everybody cares.”

  The timer went off. Mrs. Shevvington picked up the papers with her sick, gloating smirk. Then she did an unusual thing: she read and corrected each paper on the spot. “Why, Brandi,” she said, “I like this sentence. ‘If my parents deserted me, I would collapse.’ Now I want you to add two more sentences of description to that. How would you collapse? Describe your body and your mind in a state of collapse.” She handed the paper back to Brandi. Her eyes were bright, hoping, perhaps that Brandi would collapse right then and there.

  Brandi, however, had broken the point on her pencil and could think of nothing to add and the mood was not conv
eyed to her.

  “Why, Christina,” said Mrs. Shevvington, frowning over what Christina had written. “Having trouble?”

  “Why, no,” said Christina. “Whatever made you think that, Mrs. Shevvington?”

  The rest of the class sat up in anticipation.

  Not one child had ever told their parents about this war. Not one ever would. It was just something that happened in seventh grade — one person got picked on, and at least Christina could give back as much as she got. Besides, she was different anyway; she was from the island and probably expected to be picked on.

  “A great big reader like you, Christina, ought to enjoy writing as well,” said the teacher.

  Christina thought this was ridiculous. Why should somebody who liked reading books also like writing papers? That was like saying somebody who liked watching basketball should also like playing it. What if you were three feet tall and crippled? Which was how Christina felt when she had to write something down.

  The door to the classroom opened.

  The class turned as one to look.

  It was the eyes you saw first: eyes like drowned Peg’s — blue husky dog eyes. Eyes like a doll’s, rotating mindlessly in the sockets. It was the clothing you saw second — leathery, heavy stuff, like armor. And third — third — you saw the hands. Hands that were twin to Mrs. Shevvington’s. Hands that curled and beckoned like a hawk’s talons. Heavy with rings, shining stones that sparkled, the fingers laced across the chest, ten spikes looking for something to stake.

  “Ah, yes, Miss Frisch,” said Mrs. Shevvington, her s’s hissing like snakes or sea water. “Christina? This is your mental health counselor. Misssssss Frisssssch.”

  They had brought the counselor right into the classroom.

  Right in front of Vicki and Gretch and Robbie and Jonah.

  “Christina?” said Mrs. Shevvington. Today she was wearing an emerald green suit. The green was a splat in front of the chalkboard. “I am so sorry you will be missing the rest of English class. Vicki will bring you your assignment. Vicki, she will be in the nurse’s office.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Vicki. “Are you sick, Christina?”

  Christina sat locked to her chair. It was the souvenir creature, or her sister. I can’t get up, she thought. I can’t go anywhere with that.

  The class was staring at her. Their eyes were wide, accusing holes, saying, Are you sick? Crazy sick, demented sick, deranged sick?

  “Why, Christina,” said Mrs. Shevvington. “I seem to recall you saying one day that you were a horse in the granite.” She laughed. “Island children have such quaint sayings. Come, Christina. Be a horse in the granite for us.”

  She managed to slide out from under the desktop and straighten up.

  No seventh-graders spoke.

  They just watched.

  And smiled.

  Christina wet her lips. She tried to find her books on the floor beneath her seat, but they seemed too far away to reach. Her hands were too chilled to move and would not close around the edges of the texts.

  Robbie got out of his seat to retrieve the books for her. The class giggled and became seventh-graders again, teasing cruelly in loud, high voices. “Robbie likes Christina, Robbie likes Christina, nanny nanny boo boo.”

  Robbie whispered, “Christina, that’s the one they sent my sister to. Be careful.”

  Chapter 12

  CHRISTINA WALKED BESIDE THE thing. They moved past the other seventh-grade rooms and into the stairwell. Christina stayed on the landing, holding onto the heavy fire doors.

  “Christina?” said Miss Frisch.

  “I don’t feel like talking,” said Christina. She forced herself to look into the blue eyes.

  “But we have so much ground to cover,” said Miss Frisch. Anya had been right: Those were Peg’s eyes. Husky dog eyes.

  “Did you have the souvenir shop on Burning Fog?” asked Christina.

  The creature’s face changed expression. It seemed to be laughing. “Run a souvenir shop?” it repeated, amused. “On an island?”

  “Are you the tourist who threw a hot dog to Peg, so Peg would go overboard and drown?” said Christina.

  A body pressed up against her from behind. A flat hand in the center of the spine. It pushed lightly. Her heart screamed, her soul turned to ice; it was going to push her into the blue eyes, push her into the dead —

  She turned to face it.

  She would never let it get her from behind.

  It was Mr. Shevvington.

  But he did not speak to Christina. He was too busy smiling. “Did you get that taped, Miss Frisch?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “The parents will be most interested to hear those insane statements,” said Mr. Shevvington. “Now Christina, let’s all go downstairs together and talk for a while about your problems.”

  She was only thirteen. She was only five feet two inches tall. She weighed only ninety-four pounds. She was a little girl. Their shoulders were wide, their bodies tall, their strides long.

  Mr. Shevvington’s hand closed around her left wrist, and Miss Frisch’s talons closed around her upper right arm, and they walked her down the stairs like a prisoner or a prize.

  Christina thought, Somebody be with me! Please. Somebody. Mother, Daddy, Anya, Jonah, Blake, somebody!

  But nobody came.

  There was nobody to come.

  Nobody believed in her.

  Mr. Shevvington said, “You have destroyed your parents’ love for you, Christina. Love is a fragile thing. You broke that love.”

  “They still love me,” she said. “I know they do.”

  “Then why aren’t they with you?” said Mr. Shevvington.

  “Because you made them go!” she cried.

  Mr. Shevvington frowned. “Christina, what parent would abandon a little girl just because somebody says so? Your parents have given you to us. Because you killed their love by being such a bad girl.”

  Down the stairs they went, through the doors, out into the hall near the cafeteria. The cafeteria was empty, chairs stacked on tables for the janitors to mop. The school was silent, as if every class had been dismissed or were taking final exams behind closed doors.

  Mr. Shevvington was happy. Miss Frisch was smiling.

  This is how they talked to Val. To Anya. And Val and Anya believed. Well, I don’t believe. I will never believe. And I won’t go into the nurse’s office either, thought Christina. She said loudly. “What are you doing to try to get Anya back in school, Mr. Shevvington?”

  “Unfortunately getting back into school is not easy,” said Mr. Shevvington. “A girl nearly eighteen who leaves of her own free will. … We can’t just re-enroll her.”

  “If Anya had the flu, she’d be out for a week and you’d let her back. If I can get her to — ”

  “You,” said Mr. Shevvington, “are going nowhere near Anya. I’ve seen what happens when you and Anya are together, with your jealousy and your violence.”

  She lost control. “I am not violent!” shrieked Christina, hitting him with her book bag.

  Miss Frisch dictated into her cassette, “The patient punctuated her statement that she is not violent by hitting the principal with all her strength.”

  Christina began laughing hysterically. Hysteria had never happened to her before, nor had she ever witnessed it. The laughs that bubbled out of her were creepy and frightening. She wanted to stop herself, to cut the laugh away, like the crusts off bread, but the laughter continued. Miss Frisch held her cassette right up to Christina’s face, like an oxygen mask, and dictated over the sound of the crazy laughter. “The patient laughed at Anya’s predicament.”

  Past the art room.

  Past ninth-grade history.

  Past the foreign language labs.

  That must be where the fear forms are, thought Christina. In the nurse’s office. They’ll make me fill out one of those forms and then they’ll know what I’m afraid of, and they’ll attack, just the way they did with Val an
d with Anya.

  I must not go into the nurse’s office!

  They passed the first set of auditorium doors and the row of pay phones in the lobby.

  They passed Miss Schuyler’s room. Christina’s math teacher sat alone, correcting papers. She waved at Christina.

  Mr. Shevvington coughed, politely putting a hand up to cover his mouth. The hand that had gripped Christina’s arm. She was half free. She considered biting Miss Frisch to make her let go the other arm, but the thought of that creature’s leathery skin against her tongue, inside the privacy of her mouth, was too terrible. She stomped on Miss Frisch’s foot instead.

  Miss Frisch cried out, wincing — and let go.

  Christina ran into Miss Schuyler’s room.

  “Why, Christina,” said Miss Schuyler. “You’re here early. But never mind. I have it all ready. Good morning, Mr. Shevvington. Good morning, Miss Frisch. How nice of you to bring Christina for her tutoring.” She smiled at them sweetly. “You need not stay. Christina and I will be fine.”

  Fine? Christina ached from fear. Her knees hurt, and her spine seemed fractured. It was hard to stand, impossible to walk. Miss Schuyler kicked a chair beneath her and she collapsed on it.

  “Decimals,” she said. “Quite simple, really, Christina. Begin on page forty-four of this workbook.”

  Miss Frisch said, “Christina is scheduled to have mental health counseling this period, Miss Schuyler.”

  Miss Schuyler laughed incredulously. “I could believe Christina would teach a class in mental health, but she certainly requires no personal assistance, Miss Frisch.”

  Christina held onto the workbook. Was there more than one war going on in this school? Was Miss Schuyler at war with Miss Frisch?

  “Christina has been having a difficult time lately,” said Mr. Shevvington, turning his serene, convincing gaze upon Miss Schuyler.

  But nothing happened. Miss Schuyler was not convinced. She merely raised her eyebrows and touched her old-fashioned, honey-colored braids. Christina wondered how long the braids were. So thick that Miss Schuyler could be Rapunzel, and let them dangle out of a tower window. Miss Schuyler said, “Really, Arnold. I hope you have not been listening to rumor. That is the mark of a poor administrator.” She turned away from him and said, “Christina, dear, page forty-four, please.”