The Fog

by Caroline B. Cooney

  If I were granite, thought Christina, I would be heavy enough to hold her.

  She had nothing: no talisman, no quilt, no cap, no arguments.

  And no strength.

  She was sapped.

  “Blake needs you,” Christina told Anya. Even as she spoke, she thought, If only Blake could need me! Even as the water covered her thighs and the terrible steps they were taking were hidden beneath the waves, she saw his catalog Maine clothes and his windblown hair, and heard his warm voice, and wished that just once more, she could have his hand over hers. But Blake does need me, she thought. To save Anya.

  Sea foam spun over them. Anya caught it in her hands, like lace to be measured for a wedding gown.

  “Blake loves you!” Christina cried. “I don’t have the quilt and I don’t have the cap and I don’t have the strength of granite, but I still have love. Come on, Anya, we’re leaving the sea behind. It won’t take us. Now or ever. It has all the dead it needs.” She gripped Anya’s hand with both of hers and lunged into the wind.

  Anya fought.

  The sea curled around Christina’s bare feet. The seaweed clinging to the rocks was brown slick. The barnacles tore her flesh.

  “Anya, we have to go back up,” shrieked Christina. “We’ll die here! We don’t want to die, we don’t even want to catch cold!”

  “Die?” said Anya, surprised.

  “What did you think would happen under water?”

  “I am of the sea.”

  “So am I, but mostly I’m of the island. Climb, Anya, climb!”

  Christina looked back at Anya to smile at her, give her courage, but she saw only what Blake had seen: a wall of black water coming to get her. The sea was a mathematician. The sea kept count. They were the island princesses, marked out for sacrifice.

  “Well, I’m not coming!” Christina Romney screamed. The wave hit her as hard as a boxer, filling her face and mouth with sea water. She spat it out. Gripping Anya, dragging her up, Christina stretched for the torn metal fence. She needed another hand; she could not hold onto Anya, and to the rocks, and to her own life, all at the same time.

  The next wave knocked them back, down toward the honeymooner’s ledge. Amidst the colors of darkness and storm she seemed to see a glitter of gold and silver, as if the ribbons from Dolly’s package still danced on the waves.

  My hair. Silver and gold.

  Anya was right after all: the sea did follow me. It does want me.

  Christina sobbed. Her fingers lost their tenuous grip. Anya, who had never tried anyway, slid feet-first into the sea.

  Christina tried to shout at Anya, but her mouth filled with salt water.

  “It’s no use,” said Anya, saying good-bye to the world.

  “It is so!” said Christina. “Now I’m mad. Now I’ve had enough. Get up, Anya Rothrock! Don’t you fade into that water like some dumb honeymooner. Don’t you slip down like some stupid kid on a bike. Get up, Anya Rothrock!”

  Rage propelled Christina forward, up over the rocks, up over the fence, into the sodden street.

  The only place in town that was open all night was the laundromat.

  It was warm in there.

  In a lifetime of swimming, diving, and boats, Christina had never been so wet. She was wet from her skin to her bone marrow. Her tri-colored hair ran like a river. She shuddered over and over, remembering the roofs and the rocks. Where did I get the strength to do that? she thought.

  In the black glass of the laundromat door she saw her reflection: a small child. A seventh-grader. Nobody impressive.

  Anya held out her hands to the warmth of the tumbling dryers and whispered, “Did we win, Chrissie? Did we defeat the sea?”

  Where evil is, it multiplies, Christina thought. But goodness also multiplies.

  “It wasn’t the sea that was the enemy,” said Christina. “The sea is just there, Anya. It never changes.” Christina rummaged among the neat, still toasty-warm stacks of folded clothing Anya had left behind. She pulled on a pair of Anya’s jeans, turning up the cuffs several times to shorten them.

  The fogged-up door of the laundromat opened.

  The Shevvingtons stood there. They were wearing yellow mackinaws. They dripped their own ocean of water onto the floor.

  Anya was toweling her hair dry. She looked up vaguely. “Oh, hi there,” said Anya, sounding sane, although rather forgetful. “Isn’t it awful out?”

  The Shevvingtons aren’t actually murderers, Christina thought. They spill no blood, stop no hearts. Instead they cut away pride, they cut away purpose. So Val’s body, or Anya’s body, goes on — while the girl inside flickers and goes out.

  Candle Cove.

  I thought “candle” referred to the tide and the sea.

  Perhaps it means the people who live by the edge: fragile flames struggling not to be blown out.

  But I am not fragile. I was not blown out.

  I saved Anya. Look at her, worrying about her hair like a normal person.

  Christina had a tremendous sense of her power. Like granite she was: stone and rock. Her small body did not seem like something from the seventh grade. More like something cut from the quarries of the islands of Maine.

  Christina drew herself up. She flaunted her power before the Shevvingtons. They seemed to nod, almost to bow, their yellow mackinaws bending in the middle, as if they had become her puppets. Now she, Christina, would pull the strings.

  “Is your car here?” said Christina to the Shevvingtons. She was almost laughing. The principal and the teacher were nothing. Tall, yes. In charge, no. “Pull it up in front,” ordered Christina. ‘Take us home. When we get there fix us something hot to eat. Make hot chocolate for Anya.”

  She was obeyed.

  They did not argue with her.

  I have won, Christina Romney exulted. She tossed her silver-and-gold hair like banners of triumph, and she swaggered out of the laundromat, leading Anya by the hand.

  She was only a seventh-grader. She knew nothing. She did not know that people do not surrender power so easily. She forgot the secret plans she had seen them make over her head during supper.

  She did not see how docile Anya was. That toweling her hair dry was the most that Anya could achieve; that Anya took Christina’s hand because Anya did not know where to go on her own. That Anya was alive … but emptied.

  Christina thought she had won.

  Chapter 16

  IT WAS A WONDERFUL week in school.

  There were no appointments with Miss Frisch. There was not a Miss Frisch at all as far as Christina saw.

  In English class Mrs. Shevvington did not read Christina’s paper out loud to sneer. The Friday essay was ordinary: Hallowe’en costumes they’d worn when they were little.

  Vicki and Gretch were still popular and still ignored Christina, but another girl named Jennie, whom Christina had not noticed before, sat with her at lunch. Jennie was loads of fun — perky and silly. Soon they were joined by Kathleen, and then somehow Jonah and Robbie got the courage to sit there, too. They were the first in the seventh grade to have boys and girls at the same table. The rest were envious; even Gretch and Vicki were envious.

  Jonah said he’d forgive Christina for refusing to go with him to the Getting To Know You Dance, as long as she promised to come to the Hallowe’en Party at the Y with him. Christina allowed Jonah to hold her hand for just a moment. Hand-holding looked glorious when seniors did it, but it was pretty icky for seventh-graders.

  Kathleen and Jennie giggled, ducking their heads and blushing and making incredibly dumb remarks.

  Christina said she would dress up as an island princess for the Hallowe’en Party: what would Jonah be?

  Jonah said since Christina thought he had a graveyard name, he was going to be his own tombstone.

  Vicki and Gretch said loftily that seventh-graders were too old for that kind of silliness.

  Three more kids, who felt being silly was much more fun than hanging around with Vicki and Gretch, moved over
to Christina’s table. Hers was now the most crowded. People offered her their desserts. They spoke wistfully of her hair, wishing theirs was three-colored, too. They even asked where she got her jeans.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if I can do anything, Christina thought. I will be able to get Anya back in high school. Blake will telephone me. Next time Michael and Benj go home for the weekend, I’ll go, too. Mother and Daddy will love me again. I will get proof for Miss Schuyler and we’ll get rid of the Shevvingtons for once and for all.

  It was too bad that Miss Schuyler was sick all that glorious week and they had a substitute teacher for arithmetic. Christina wanted to tell Miss Schuyler everything.

  Monday I’ll tell her, thought Christina. She’ll be proud of me.

  Christina sauntered home from school.

  The sky had cleaned itself up, swept itself clear.

  There was something terrible, almost insane, the way there was never any trace of the weather in the sky.

  Earth and sea carried debris. Broken tree limbs, downed wires, sunken ships.

  But the sky was fresh and new, no ripples, no scars in its deep indigo blue.

  The air was a symphony of rustles and shivers: distant wings of migrating flocks, softly slapping waves, the humming of the Singing Bridge.

  Even the Shevvingtons realize, thought Christina, gloating, hot with pride, this time they tangled with somebody they cannot frighten. I can walk down roofs during gales. I can save people from drowning. What is a mere school principal to me?

  She swaggered a little, although it was difficult on the slant of Breakneck Hill.

  Mrs. Shevvington had gotten back to Schooner Inne before Christina.

  Mr. Shevvington, strangely enough, was also home early.

  Together they opened the great green doors, and, together, smiling, they welcomed Christina home. Because I’m in charge and they know it, thought Christina.

  She walked in between them.

  Behind her they closed the great green doors and turned the lock.

  Christina merely shrugged and carried her book bag up to her room. She had bought her own snack today; it didn’t matter whether the Shevvingtons thought there was too much sugar in it or not.

  She ran up the stairs, just to show them they couldn’t dictate anything to her, including the speed of using the stairs.

  In her dark green room, her mother’s quilt lay soft on her bed.

  Ffffffffffffff, said the house.

  Christina stood very still in the hall. She turned very slowly. She walked around the balcony. The boys’ room was the same as ever, Marilyn Monroe smiling down from the wall. But in Anya’s room, the empty second bed was now made. Suitcases sat unopened on the floor by the second bed. Another chest of drawers had been set by the dormer window.

  Her mother’s quilt had been taken down.

  The poster of the sea was exposed.

  No, thought Christina.

  The room stank of low tide, of clams and mussels and dead things. Christina reached for the wall but it slid away, like a fish under water. Ffffffff said the walls and the floor and the glass. She tried to stand up, but there was weight on her, as if she were standing under water, with a million tons of green ocean pressing down.

  It can’t happen again! she thought. The poster is only a poster. The sea is only water.

  She licked her lips and they tasted of salt.

  It’s Candle Cove, it’s the tide, she reminded herself. The house is just a house. I identified the evil, and it’s the Shevvingtons.

  She grabbed the banister.

  She could not remember the way downstairs. She smelled the sweat of the sea. Clinging to the rail, she swam down the stairs.

  “Christina,” said Mrs. Shevvington. She was laughing. The laugh rattled, like dried peas in a half empty jar.

  Christina turned the corner of the stair where the carpet began. She could see the Shevvingtons now. The surf inside her head ceased. Whose suitcases are those? she thought, confused. Not Anya’s.

  Mrs. Shevvington’s little corn teeth matched her laugh. “We have a surprise for you, Christina,” she giggled. The giggle was hideous and out of season, like Christmas tree bulbs in July.

  Why did the room seem colder? What draft curled around Christina’s heart?

  Christina reached the hall. Mr. Shevvington stood on her right, Mrs. Shevvington on her left.

  “You’re lonely,” said Mrs. Shevvington. “You need the companionship of another girl. One closer to your age than Anya, Christina.”

  “Of course, a principal has a certain amount of discretion,” said Mr. Shevvington. “Rules of school attendance can be altered for special situations. The rule is, Christina, that a child goes to school on the island until seventh grade. But we petitioned to have that changed, Christina. Your parents are so happy, Christina; they feel you’re going to be calmer now that you have a friend.”

  “I have plenty of friends,” Christina said.

  There was a patter of feet from the kitchen.

  The Shevvingtons turned, laughing, to see who came.

  It was Dolly.

  Sweet.

  Innocent.

  Another Val. Another Anya.

  How Dolly danced, red curls free from braids. Her body was elementary school size; a fragile collection of bones in bib overalls. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she cried to Christina. “Can you believe my luck? I’m off-island, too!” She turned her pixie smile into the towering faces of the Shevvingtons. “I get to attend sixth grade here!” She took the Shevvingtons’ hands and swung their heavy arms back and forth like a set from a square dance. “The Shevvingtons have been so wonderful to me, Chrissie,” she said. “I’m going to love living here!” She hardly saw Christina. She beamed into their eyes. Mr. Shevvington’s eyes were as blue as they had ever been, and, like the sky, they were swept clean of the past.

  They were nothing, they were blanks.

  On which to compose the storm that would take Dolly Jaye.

  Christina’s pride dwindled away like a ship vanishing over the horizon. She wet her lips. “I told Miss Schuyler,” Christina began.

  Mr. Shevvington’s smile spread wider and wider, exposing more and more teeth, like a crocodile. “Your little math teacher? I’m afraid she found another job, Christina. Out west somewhere. Such a loss.”

  Mr. Shevvington put his arm around Christina. It might have been a hug or the beginning of a strangle. “You’ll never be able to replace her, Christina. Will you?”

  Fffffffff, said the house.

  But only Christina seemed to hear.

  “Now, Dolly, remember, this is a special privilege,” said Mr. Shevvington. How caring he looked. How fatherly and kind. How blue his eyes were. “You must try very hard to prove that I am right to bring you among us a year early, Dolly.”

  “I won’t let you down!” cried Dolly eagerly. “I’ll do anything you say.”

  “I know,” said the principal.

  A Biography of Caroline B. Cooney

  Caroline B. Cooney is the author of ninety books for teen readers, including the bestselling thriller The Face on the Milk Carton. Her books have won awards and nominations for more than one hundred state reading prizes. They are also on recommended-reading lists from the American Library Association, the New York Public Library, and more. Cooney is best known for her distinctive suspense novels and romances.

  Born in 1947, in Geneva, New York, Cooney grew up in Old Greenwich, Connecticut, where she was a library page at the Perrot Memorial Library and became a church organist before she could drive. Music and books have remained staples in her life.

  Cooney has attended lots of colleges, picking up classes wherever she lives. Several years ago, she went to college to relearn her high school Latin and begin ancient Greek, and went to a total of four universities for those subjects alone!

  Her sixth-grade teacher was a huge influence. Mr. Albert taught short story writing, and after his class, Cooney never stopped writing shor
t stories. By the time she was twenty-five, she had written eight novels and countless short stories, none of which were ever published. Her ninth book, Safe as the Grave, a mystery for middle readers, became her first published book in 1979. Her real success began when her agent, Marilyn Marlow, introduced her to editors Ann Reit and Beverly Horowitz.

  Cooney’s books often depict realistic family issues, even in the midst of dramatic adventures and plot twists. Her fondness for her characters comes through in her prose: “I love writing and do not know why it is considered such a difficult, agonizing profession. I love all of it, thinking up the plots, getting to know the kids in the story, their parents, backyards, pizza toppings.” Her fast-paced, plot-driven works explore themes of good and evil, love and hatred, right and wrong, and moral ambiguity.

  Among her earliest published work is the Fog, Snow, and Fire trilogy (1989–1992), a series of young adult psychological thrillers set in a boarding school run by an evil, manipulative headmaster. In 1990, Cooney published the award-winning The Face on the Milk Carton, about a girl named Janie who recognizes herself as the missing child on the back of a milk carton. The series continued in Whatever Happened to Janie? (1993), The Voice on the Radio (1996), and What Janie Found (2000). The first two books in the Janie series were adapted for television in 1995. A fifth book, Janie Face to Face, will be released in 2013.

  Cooney has three children and four grandchildren. She lives in South Carolina, and is currently researching a book about the children on the Mayflower.

  The house in Old Greenwich, Connecticut, where Cooney grew up. She recalls: “In the 1950s, we walked home from school, changed into our play clothes, and went outside to get our required fresh air. We played yard games, like Spud, Ghost, Cops and Robbers, and Hide and Seek. We ranged far afield and no parent supervised us or even asked where we were going. We led our own lives, whether we were exploring the woods behind our houses, wading in the creek at low tide, or roller skating in somebody’s cellar, going around and around the furnace!”