Sea Change

by Aimee Friedman

  “My parents are divorced, too,” I blurted, surprised that T.J. and I had something else in common.

  “That’s too bad,” T.J. replied, tapping out a brief beat with his tan loafer. “I guess happily ever after isn’t such a reality anymore.”

  “I’ve never believed in happily ever after,” I replied truthfully, and T.J. squinted at me as if I’d spoken a foreign language.

  “Hey, you girls have good timing,” one of the boys announced, and I looked away from T.J. to see Lyndon or Bobby smiling, his arm around CeeCee’s waist. “T.J. was just about to open his package,” he added.

  My heart skipped a beat. “Um, what?” I asked, and looked at T.J., who grinned.

  “No Heirs party would be complete without the package,” T.J. intoned; it was clear he was referring to a tradition not unlike the summer picks. Then he swung open one side of his blazer, revealing two silver flasks tucked into the inside pocket. The others exploded into cheers, and a few partygoers glanced at us, amused.

  “Theodore Illingworth, Junior,” Virginia pronounced as she turned away from Rick, her hands on her hips. “You always come through for us.” Her eyes glinted and I wondered if she really was as over T.J. as she had said.

  “Gather around, gentlemen, ladies,” T.J. said, removing one of the flasks and obviously enjoying the attention, “for the finest rum north of Cuba.”

  I hung back, feeling foolish for believing that these pampered kids would be content with drinking straight soda. I’d never been drunk, never had more than a sip of beer, not even at Greg’s parentless pregraduation party in May. I was sure I wouldn’t enjoy the sensation of being out of control.

  As everyone, including CeeCee and her girlfriends, held out plastic cups to be filled, I took several more steps away from the glowing group. I noticed then that they were all equally matched, the girls with their thick hair and the boys with their strong jaws. T.J. swiftly uncapped the flask and poured clear liquid into a cup, and Jacqueline laughed and kissed Macon on the cheek. What had I been thinking? Yes, I was technically an heir, but I was not a part of this crew.

  “Where are you going, Miranda?” T.J. asked, glancing up at me midpour. He seemed insulted that I was walking out on his moment of stardom.

  “Aren’t you going to drink?” Virginia asked, judgment in her voice.

  “I’ll be back,” I fudged, determined now to track down Mom. I wanted to ask her why she hadn’t come to rescue me yet.

  When I turned around, I got my answer. Mom was standing near the band, holding a glass of white wine. She was laughing, and her face had a rosy tinge. And the person who was standing at her elbow and making her laugh was none other than T.J.’s father, Mr. Illingworth. I drew in a big breath, suddenly remembering how Mom had fled the docks yesterday. And then Delilah’s coy remarks today. Was there something my mother wasn’t telling me?

  I couldn’t stand the kind of chaos that was happening in my head. I turned back and looked beyond the young heirs toward the beach, at the waves that swelled and broke onto the shore. The beach, I reasoned, was where I belonged—among the seashells and barnacles that neither laughed nor flirted nor judged. I could return to the party once my whirling thoughts settled.

  So, as the wind billowed my skirt up, I made my way down the boardwalk steps and started across the sand. And the human sounds of glasses clinking and conversation were swallowed up by the ocean roar.

  Five

  DISCOVERIES

  I wasn’t expecting to see the boy.

  I had been walking along the beach for longer than I’d intended, trying to make sense of my interaction with T.J. and the image of Mom talking to Mr. Illingworth. The kids building sand castles and the couples frolicking in the water barely registered. I only noticed the shards of seashells and the cawing seagulls, and before long, that was all there was to see. As the water grew rougher and slammed into jagged rocks, the beach grew less populated, and I realized that The Crabby Hook and the boardwalk itself were quite a way behind me.

  Which was why I was startled by the sight of a tall, tanned guy with dark blond hair striding toward me from the opposite end of the beach. He was carrying a bundle of rope and a fishing rod, the muscles in his arms visible under his faded red T-shirt. He wore ragged carpenter pants that had been hacked off at the knee, and his sun-browned legs were as muscled as his arms. I guessed him to be around my age, but he did not look like someone the kids at the Heirs party would know.

  For some reason, I stopped walking, my flats sinking into the sand. Behind the boy, the beach seemed to disappear into a well of fog, and I realized how alone I was. I felt a quick twist of fear and considered turning and racing back to the boardwalk. Then I chided myself; why was I getting so irrationally spooked lately?

  “You lost?” the boy called, waving one arm at me.

  “Not at all,” I replied defensively, squaring my shoulders. “I was just exploring.”

  The boy came closer. “It’s not a great idea to go exploring by yourself on Siren Beach,” he said. His voice was deep but a little raspy, and his Southern accent was different from CeeCee’s and the others’ in a way I couldn’t quite define.

  “Why?” I demanded, suddenly annoyed that this boy had appeared out of nowhere to break into my thoughts. I could feel my patience running low, like an uncharged battery. “Because of the ’sea serpents’?” I asked, making air quotes.

  “You know about the sea serpents?” He was standing before me now, a smile tugging at his full lips. His eyes were a clear, brilliant green, unmuddied by traces of brown or gray.

  “I know they’re nonsense,” I replied, crossing my arms over my chest.

  The boy swept his gaze over my face, and my heart flip-flopped. What was he thinking? First T.J., now him. Trying to figure out the inner workings of boy-heads was a daunting task; two boys in one hour felt impossible for a novice like me.

  But, back on the boardwalk, T.J. hadn’t studied me as intently as this boy was studying me now. Almost against my will, I remembered the funny looks Greg—shaggy-haired, bespectacled, chess-team-captain Greg—used to sneak me back in February, when I was no more than his physics tutor. Then, one night, as I’d been explaining the principles of electromagnetism, he’d kissed me, and I’d understood what those glances had meant. And it had seriously freaked me out.

  “It’s your first time on Selkie, right?” the boy asked, his tone slightly teasing. For some embarrassing reason, the phrase first time made my skin catch fire.

  “Is it that obvious?” I asked, giving a nervous laugh.

  “Well, I would have recognized you,” the boy replied, his smile widening.

  “Miranda! Miranda, what are you doing?”

  Relieved and disappointed, I turned toward the sound of my mother’s voice. She was jogging across the sand, holding her sandals in one hand and the bottom of her dress with the other. Her face was flushed, as it had been at the party.

  “Like The Tempest,” the boy said behind me, so softly that I almost didn’t hear him over the crashing waves.

  “Excuse me?” I asked, glancing back at him.

  “Miranda is a character in The Tempest. The Shakespeare play,” he explained with a slow smile. He had a dimple in each cheek.

  “I try to ignore Shakespeare as much as possible,” I replied, surprised that a boy who looked so rough-hewn would know anything about fusty literature.

  “That’s a mistake,” he said as Mom came to a stop at my side, out of breath.

  “Miranda, what’s gotten into you?” she snapped, sounding frantic and unlike her usual even-keeled self. Her eyes were very big. “Why did you disappear like that? You had me so worried. One of the boys with CeeCee told me he saw you start off this way.”

  T.J.? I wondered.

  “Sorry,” I said, unable to look at my mother full-on. I knew it was irrational, but she suddenly seemed like a stranger to me, a stranger who laughed with handsome men. “I wanted to take a walk.”

  “A
walk?” Mom repeated, arching one eyebrow at the boy standing next to me. Suspicion darkened her gaze. “Were you planning to tell me?”

  “You don’t tell me everything,” I muttered, wishing we weren’t having this conversation in front of this boy.

  Mom seemed to feel the same way. “Pardon us,” she told him, her tone brisk, and she tugged on my arm, pulling me in the direction of the boardwalk.

  I looked back to see the boy hoisting some of the rope onto his shoulder and watching us, his expression unreadable. Then I faced forward again.

  “This isn’t like you,” Mom declared, her feet kicking up sand as she all but dragged me along the shore. She didn’t bother to push her windswept hair out of her eyes. “Wandering off, talking to some strange boy on the beach, catching an attitude with me.”

  “We weren’t talking,” I protested, my blush coming back for a second. “We exchanged, like, two words.”

  “You were fine when we got to the party,” Mom went on as the first sunbathers came into view ahead of us. “What happened?”

  I sidestepped a strand of seaweed, wanting to ask Mom about T.J.’s father. But my bubbling resentment stilled my tongue. How could Mom accuse me of acting oddly when she wasn’t being herself, either?

  Instead of speaking, I glanced over my shoulder again, but the boy was gone. I couldn’t see him walking inland toward the dunes, nor could I spot him wading into the water. Had he disappeared into the fog? Jumped into a speeding fishing boat? Or had I—in a truly un-Miranda-like fashion—imagined him entirely? But no, Mom had seen him, too. I shook my head, dismissing him from my thoughts.

  We were nearing The Crabby Hook. From what I could see, the Heirs party was dwindling; the band had stopped playing, and only a few people milled about on the deck. I felt fatigue wash over me.

  “I guess the party got to be a bit much,” I finally told Mom. “Actually, do you think we can head back to The Mariner now?” The thought of returning to the crowd, of having to explain my absence to CeeCee, T.J., and the others, made me want to crawl inside a clamshell and remain there, pearl-like.

  Mom’s face softened, and she gave me a sheepish smile. “Sure we can,” she said. “And forgive me, my love. I didn’t mean to freak out. I think I’m still on edge from being back here, seeing all the folks I used to know…”

  Like Mr. Illingworth? It was the perfect opening, but I didn’t take it. I sensed that if I broached the topic with my mother right then, she’d only grow uncomfortable. Or, worse, she’d reveal something illicit, something I wouldn’t want to know. There is always that danger in research.

  So I nodded. “Maybe we can just avoid everyone else for the rest of the time we’re here,” I offered. Mom and I lying low in The Mariner, away from all the gossip, seemed like a logical solution. I could already feel the two of us reverting to our regular selves as we bypassed the party.

  Mom chuckled. “That’s not a bad idea. But good luck trying it out with CeeCee.”

  Sure enough, I was awoken the next morning by a cheery rapping on my door.

  “Five minutes, Mom!” I groaned, rolling over onto my back. A glance at the clock on the dresser told me it was ten o’clock.

  I was usually an early riser, and I was eager to tackle our tasks for the day, but I’d again had trouble falling asleep. I’d tossed and turned in the oppressive heat, wishing for air-conditioning and entertaining the notion of going downstairs for more of Llewellyn Thorpe’s tales. Thankfully, I’d drifted off before I could act on that plan.

  “Silly! It’s me!”

  With that, CeeCee flounced into the room, a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed belle. She was clad in a floral sundress and holding a covered tray.

  “CeeCee, what are you doing here?” I asked, scrambling to sit up while pulling the sheet tighter over my rumpled pajamas.

  “Bringing you breakfast,” CeeCee replied breezily, lifting the lid off the tray. “Mama was concerned that you and Amelia didn’t have proper food in the house, so we came to deliver some down-home delicacies.” With a flourish, CeeCee gestured to the strips of bacon, golden-brown hush puppies, and bowl of grits.

  “You know what? I’m great,” I said, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. Breakfast was always whole-wheat toast and a strawberry yogurt. I’d never tried grits, but their off-white mushiness didn’t appeal to me.

  “Mama says that a true Southerner always has stone-ground grits in the house,” CeeCee pronounced, marching over to my bed and ceremoniously setting the tray in front of me. “You eat up, and I’ll fill you in on everything you need to know.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. I was still half in my dream—something about a green-scaled fish swimming between my hands.

  “Well, first off, T. J. Illingworth wants to see you again,” CeeCee said, plopping down on the edge of the bed and beaming. “Before I left the party, he asked me if you were staying at The Mariner. You realize that means he wants to come and visit?” She widened her already huge eyes at me.

  “He does?” In my cotton-mouthed, sloppy-haired state, I couldn’t comprehend how a member of the opposite sex would find me attractive. Still, my stomach leapt at the thought that a boy like T.J. had asked about me.

  “Yup,” CeeCee said, pushing the bowl of grits closer to me. “Didn’t I say you two would hit it off? And that was a smart move on your part, sneaking away like that in the middle of everything. Boys love nothing more than mystery.”

  “Um, I didn’t—” I paused, picking up a spoon from the tray. CeeCee wouldn’t understand why I had left the party yesterday, but there was a chance that she knew about Mom’s past with Mr. Illingworth. Before I could raise the subject, CeeCee spoke again.

  “It seems all the summer picks are taking off!” she exclaimed, then began counting on her fingers. “Once the rum started flowing, Virginia and Rick couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and after the party, Jacqueline and Macon snuck off to Macon’s house. And let’s just say Jackie wasn’t in the guest room this morning.” CeeCee winked at me, then plucked a strip of bacon off my tray.

  “Really?” I asked. Once again, I was innocently, immaturely surprised by Jacqueline and Virginia’s effortless conquests. “What about you?”

  CeeCee shrugged. “Lyndon and I kissed on the beach during sunset, and he was an awful kisser, so now I know Bobby’s the one for me,” she replied, flipping her hair over one shoulder.

  “But…what if Bobby’s a bad kisser, too?” I asked, genuinely curious as I dipped the spoon into the grits.

  Not that I would know a good kisser from a bad one; all I had to go on for reference was Greg. I briefly wondered what it would be like to kiss a boy on the sand as the sun sank into the water, and my legs tingled. At sunset yesterday I’d been sorting through Isadora’s filing cabinet while Mom prepared dinner.

  “You’re so negative, Miranda!” CeeCee observed, pouting at me.

  “Just realistic,” I corrected her, and tried the grits. They were soft and buttery, and surprisingly tasty.

  “You mean bo-ring,” CeeCee retorted, giggling.

  CeeCee’s opinion wasn’t of great importance to me, but all the same I felt a pang of hurt. Was I boring? I’d always prided myself on the fact that I hadn’t changed much over the years, maintaining the same style and interests with little regard for trends. Maybe that only made me…predictable. Ordinary.

  “Oh, I was kidding, Miranda!” CeeCee cried. Her mouth turned down at the corners. “I’m sorry, I say whatever pops into my head. Can I make it up to you today?”

  I shook my head, swallowing a big mouthful of grits. You can, by going away.

  “Come on, we’ll do something fun,” CeeCee wheedled. “We can get pedicures in town, or…whatever you’d like to do!” she finished graciously, smiling at me.

  “I have to help my mother sort through the study,” I said, and immediately thought, bo-ring. “And, you know, other things,” I added, taking my hair band off my wrist and looping my hair back into a p
onytail.

  “Well, I’m sure if you ask Amelia, she’d let you take a break.” CeeCee shrugged, getting to her feet. “I’ll wait downstairs with our moms, ’kay?”

  Mom would be impatient to get rid of our morning guests, so I quickly finished my grits, wondering if my Southern background made me predisposed to liking them. I threw on jeans and my yellow-and-green Bronx Science T-shirt. When I arrived in the kitchen, however, I found Mom sitting at the table, talking animatedly with Delilah. Their breakfast—a duplicate of mine—was spread out before them, and CeeCee, also at the table, was texting on her BlackBerry Pearl. Sunshine spilled through the lace curtains.

  “You’re awake, my love!” Mom said, smiling and swinging one foot, clearly relaxed. After the party yesterday, she’d been quiet and tense as we split up and tackled various chores around the house. “Wasn’t this a treat from Delilah and CeeCee?” she added, spearing a hush puppy with her fork.

  “Our pleasure,” Delilah drawled, patting Mom’s hand, and Mom shot her a grateful look. “What’s a treat is to sit here and chat with you, Amelia.”

  I hovered at the entrance to the kitchen, bewildered. What was up? In no way did Mom appear as if she wanted Delilah to leave.

  “So Virginia and Jackie are both too hungover to play with us,” CeeCee announced, setting her BlackBerry on the table, and Delilah made a tsk-tsk noise. “What?” CeeCee asked, blinking at her mother. “I know how to hold my liquor.”

  “That you do,” Delilah confirmed proudly, raising her glass of orange juice to CeeCee in a toast. “You’re a LeBlanc, after all!”

  I tried—and failed—to imagine having the same conversation with Mom. Or with anyone’s parent. But Mom only chuckled and rolled her eyes.