I turn. Breaking into a military base has to be a crime punishable by death, I assume. I pull on the ruffle at the bottom of my nightgown and try to bring it down past my knees. The pink fabric is worn and frayed in spots. “What does that have to do with me?”
“I want it to be a surprise, Murph! Please come with me across the bridge. It’ll be worth it, I promise!” Kip starts moving across the front yard, and I see the curtain move in Mrs. Arlyn’s house, the old gossip. Why is she awake now?
I want to follow him. I want to sneak across the grass into the dark night.
“Wait, Kip! I’m not even wearing shoes. Hang on.”
I run back up the steps to grab my tennis shoes and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the living room. I see what Kip sees. I look happier with my hair down, and also a little like a witch. I like it.
Outside, I feel happy and mischievous, and my cheeks hurt from smiling. “I’m ready.”
“Looking a little devilish there, Murphy.”
“I feel a little devilish.” I pull my hair off my neck.
“Good,” he says. “Maybe I’ll get a kiss.”
I panic again and only manage a loud, nervous laugh that lasts a lot longer than a normal laugh is supposed to last.
“Murph, we don’t have time for making out. How many times do I have to tell you? I’m in a hurry.”
Quietly, we race the five minutes to the bridge, stopping when we get to the concrete. A warm wind blows, making the bridge sway gently like a hammock. I glance over at Kip. Is he scared too? It looks like there aren’t any sides, like a car could drive an inch to the side and plummet into the water.
“I’ve never been on this before,” I say. My fingers tingle.
“There’s a walkway.” He points. “Not a big deal.”
“I don’t like that it’s moving.” I know why it sways. It’s like we learned in our physics unit. If it were rigid, it would break. Shatter like glass into the twinkling water below.
My mother is terrified of the bridge, even boycotted it during the planning stage at the county board hearing years ago. I don’t think she’s driven over it yet.
“You can sneak out, but you can’t walk across a bridge?” Kip asks.
“That’s because I hate my parents,” I say. The words slip off my tongue, out of my control.
“Yeah, me too. My dad’s been cheating on my mom for years, and I have to keep it a secret from Babe and Mon so they don’t find out. My parents are like two robots.”
“Oh.” The Dwyers seem so perfect. I had no idea. “I’m sorry,” I tell him.
He shrugs, but he’s tense under his T-shirt. If I were braver, I’d hug him. “That’s okay. Wanna talk about yours?”
Something about the dark makes me think I should. It would feel nice to let it out, let down my guard, and for a second, I think about allowing the words to leak out of me like tears. “Aren’t we on a countdown? Don’t we have to go see something?”
I march up to the bridge and take a confident first step. Well, confident-looking. I think. I turn. “What are you waiting for?”
The walk is long, more than a mile, and when the bridge moves in the breeze, I grab the railing with clenched fingers. And Kip teases me. But the view of the Bay from the top is beautiful. The moon gleams, and the lights of houses reflect magic on the dark water.
“It’s so pretty,” I whisper. It’s so quiet. So quiet I can hear Kip breathing lightly next to me. I could kiss him. So easily, just kiss him. Okay, it might not be that easy, but still.
He nudges me, and we jog down the decline of the bridge. At the end, breathing hard, we stop. To the left is the inlet to the creek, and beyond that is the fence for the base.
For a while, we walk along the edge of the fence, and with each step my nerves get more and more erratic. My heart pounds so loudly, I’m sure the entire Navy hears it, like they’ve already called in the helicopters.
Lydia’s dad used to be in the Navy, and they drive over here to shop at the commissary. But I’ve never been on the base before, so I don’t know what to expect. I know they have to show identification, so we can’t just walk through the gate. Are there guards everywhere? Will they be waiting for us?
Behind the cover of loblolly pines, I see a small opening in the fence. Kip pushes through the gap and waves his hand for me to follow. His hair is so bright, I’m certain we’ll be spotted immediately.
This is a test. I follow the rules. Passing through the fence will change that, and I debate the outcome in my head. My gut tells me it’s a terrible decision, but I clench my fists and duck under the wire.
I expect some immediate reaction, but nothing happens. No alarm. No blinding lights. No military police.
“Okay,” I say, whispering. “What are we doing here, other than breaking a million federal laws?”
“Shh, felon.” He walks toward the water, phone away so we aren’t spotted. The ships are huge steel mountains rising out of the black water.
“Are we allowed near these?”
He doesn’t respond but keeps walking down different docks, like he’s looking for something. After a few minutes, he stops and points in the dark. “Look right there, Murph!” Without lights, I have to strain to see. I make out a faint silhouette against the inky sky.
I gasp. A submarine.
I glance in Kip’s direction and then back out at the water. Rising out of it, so it’s only partially exposed, is a matte-black submarine with USS New York in white stenciled letters on the side.
“Kip!”
“I remembered a boater told me they’re storing it here for a while before it’s repaired and makes its way down to the submarine base in Georgia. Cool, huh?”
“Very.” I take a few steps farther down the dock. “I know we saw pictures, but I didn’t think it would be this size. It’s as big as the whole island.” Like a killer whale coming up for air, the sub’s back is showing, its dull black sail like a fin.
I face Kip Dwyer as waves hit the dock. He thought of me. “It’s amazing.”
“I know you were upset about Ford Wallace. I wanted to cheer you up.” Kip steps close to me, and my stomach flutters.
He thinks we can do this—build a sub. Maybe we can. Maybe I can read Wallace’s book when I’m not volunteering at the library with Betty. Maybe I can even read it while I’m there, when the books are all put back on the shelves in the right order. And maybe when I get home, Kip and I can fix up the propane tank. I grin at him.
We don’t need anyone’s help.
Before I can thank him, lights and the sirens that come with them blare at the end of the dock.
Doors to a military police vehicle open and slam shut. Voices yell, “Don’t move! Hands up!”
“Then how are we supposed to put our hands up?” Kip mumbles.
The next few moments are a blur. We are asked questions. Kip answers with jokes. And then we are in the back of a police car. This is it. The one time I break the rules, I’m going to be thrown in jail. Murphy’s Law.
I’m praying and sweating and bouncing my knees so hard, Kip nudges me and whispers, “We didn’t do anything wrong. Relax.”
How could I possibly relax? The police take us to a small building a few minutes away from the docks. The two men in the front seat are quiet and don’t look much older than teenagers. When we stop, they each get out of the car, then open the doors to lead us out. Strapped to their sides are the largest guns I’ve ever seen.
This is what I get for breaking rules. I’m not even in high school. Can’t even drive. And I am going to prison. I don’t want to think about what my dad will do, but the idea punches me in the stomach.
I talk to Joan and then to the queen. Please, Mary, don’t let them use those guns on us. Amen. The more guardians watching over us, the better.
One of the sailors wraps his fingers around my arm, which makes me cringe, and walks me to the door of the brick building, his gun bumping against his hip. “Go get the lieutenant. Tell h
im we’ve got kids trespassing.”
“Yes, sir.” The one with Kip—the name tag on his chest says Smith—turns and leaves us in the front room of what must be the military police building. The jail. Maybe I’ll spend the rest of my life here. Joan did. And my father is certainly familiar with the cold cinder blocks.
From what I can piece together, Smith comes back with someone more in charge, the lieutenant. He’s older, tall and handsome like a movie star playing a military hero, with slick black hair and a trim mustache.
“Put them in there,” he says. He points to a door. I gulp, imagining various forms of torture behind it.
They make us empty our pockets into a plastic bowl. Well, Kip’s. I don’t have pockets. I have nothing. Not even my Joan card. Kip and I walk into the room, and Smith shuts us in, leaving just the two of us. Kip sits in a metal chair. “How should we plan our escape?” he asks. He leans back like he’s in the science lab.
I glare at him and stand in the corner.
“What? They can’t arrest us. We’re minors. The worst thing they can do is call our parents.”
I clasp my hands together. That’s what I’m afraid of.
“Murph, sit down. It’s not a big deal.”
He says it like he gets taken in by military police all the time. I ease onto the chair but sit on the edge, my toes pointed, knees tight together. I don’t lean back or get comfortable.
“It’s a great first date, though,” Kip says. He winks.
Only Kip Dwyer would consider this romantic. “You wish it was a date,” I mumble.
“Ah, there she is!” He laughs out of pure joy. He is so frustrating. “Worth it, Murph. Totally worth it. We’re gonna finish this sub as soon as we get out.”
He should say if. If we get out.
The older man walks in and sits behind the metal table. He drops a folder on the silver top. I don’t know how to act. He doesn’t have a gun like the younger boys, but still.
“I’m Lieutenant Garcia.”
“Lovely night, isn’t it, sir?” Kip asks.
If I weren’t terrified, I’d groan aloud. Instead, I turn and stare at him. This isn’t Fen. He has to be serious.
Lieutenant Garcia pushes his chin down and regards Kip for a long time, the silence hovering over the three of us. I hold my breath. Garcia looks at me. “No identification? No reason to be wandering the base at oh two hundred hours?”
I think he means two in the morning.
“Kids live on base,” Kip says. “You don’t know we don’t. You can’t arrest people walking around their own houses.”
“Were you at your house, son?” Garcia raises his eyebrow and leans over the table. “I wasn’t under the impression you were in housing.” He looks down at the papers that must include the information we gave to the sailors, like our names.
Before Kip can answer, I say, “No, sir.”
“Last week a group of teenagers graffitied one of the hangars. Any idea who that might have been? Did you vandalize federal property?”
My eyes go wide. “No, sir. We were looking at the submarine.” I don’t know if that’s illegal, but we didn’t destroy anything.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“We were on a date, Lieutenant. I took her to see the submarine.” The way Kip says it sounds sarcastic. Because Kip always sounds like he’s joking around. It’s the upturn of his nose or the gap in his teeth. I’m not sure which.
“You took your girlfriend to see a sub?” Garcia meets my eyes.
“I’m not his girlfriend,” I mumble.
“That doesn’t matter to me, miss.”
“Yes, of course, sir.” Embarrassed, I look down at my feet, and my hair spills around me. My outfit is ridiculous. I should have put on normal clothes, but then again, I didn’t know I would end my night in jail. It seems like I put my shoes on five years ago.
“I’m very romantic, so yeah, I took my lady to see a sub.”
I need him to stop talking. Or not be flippant. Or at least not say my lady.
“Son, you and your parents are about to be charged with a federal offense. I would shape up and tell the truth.” The lieutenant’s voice is sharp and commanding, a bark that may turn into a snap of jaws.
A federal offense. I don’t even know what that means. I really need my Joan card. I press my fingers against the frayed edge of my nightgown, but it doesn’t help.
And even though I can usually hold my sadness back, tears fill my eyes, then pour down my cheeks.
Next to me, Kip’s voice softens. “It’s my fault, sir. I knew she’d want to see the sub. It’s the truth. We just did a project on them, and she wants to pilot one across the Bay. I thought she’d like to see the USS New York. Mary didn’t do anything wrong.”
Lieutenant Garcia stands up and clicks his pen. He leaves. He doesn’t say where he’s going or when he’ll be back. He doesn’t tell us if he’s checking out our story or if he’s sending the sailors to find evidence that we painted on the hangar. Nothing.
I wipe my face.
“I’m sorry, Murph. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I shouldn’t have brought you here. It was a bad idea. You forgive me?” Kip asks.
I stand up and jam my arms against my chest. Make myself as compact as possible. I don’t know what I think.
“I haven’t decided.”
“Fair,” he says.
We are quiet for a long time. Quiet and alone. I sit back down and prop my elbows on the table, watching the seconds tick by on the clock above the door.
I must fall asleep, because the next thing I know, the clock says four and the door is opening, Lieutenant Garcia barging through. I rub my eyes and stand. In the chair next to me, Kip is still asleep, his head back and mouth slack.
“Get up, Dwyer!” Garcia snaps.
Kip jumps up, dazed.
Garcia drops the same folder on the table. “Son, you’re lucky your parents confirmed your story.”
“I told you,” Kip says, rubbing his eyes. “Romantic.”
They called his parents. I ball my hands into fists. Did they call mine? I don’t want to ask.
“This is what’s going to happen. Seaman Smith is going to drive you home. You will show him the breech in the fence so this doesn’t occur again. If I hear you were disrespectful or rude, you will be back here for the remainder of the night until I see fit. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” we both say.
To me, Garcia says, “You need to pick better friends.”
In the dark, Smith drives us to the hole in the fence and parks on the road. Kip curses under his breath while we walk through the grass.
A few hours ago, we walked through the same grass, but now we’re accompanied by an armed guard. But Lieutenant Garcia is wrong. I don’t need to pick better friends. Kip might force me to move through the world louder than I want to, and without Kip, I wouldn’t have gone to jail. But without Kip, I wouldn’t be building a submersible either.
“Kip.” I touch his elbow while Smith talks on the radio attached to his vest. “Thanks for showing me the sub.”
He grins. “Told you it was a good first date.”
“We could have been shot.”
Back in the squad car, I smile out the window as we drive across the bridge back to our county. I know there are towering mountain ranges all over the world, but this has to be the tallest view. And the prettiest.
The car pulls up to the house on Bleecker Street, and I stop smiling. My father’s truck, absent hours ago, is now parked in the driveway.
And he is waiting on the porch.
It’s Saturday, so I sleep. I sleep the whole time, the whole day, buried under a blanket even though it’s the end of May and hot on the Chesapeake. Like clockwork, my mother hands me two ibuprofen and a glass of water every six hours. We’re a team when this happens. I take the medicine, drink the water, and hide back under the covers.
My mom calls Aunt Betty and tells her I can’t volunteer. That
I’m sick. Betty asks if I want to work at the library over the summer, with a real paycheck.
I can’t think about it yet.
On Monday morning, I finally wake up. My side hurts, but groaning, I manage to get out of bed without Mom’s help. I walk to the bathroom and refuse to look in the mirror right away.
After I wet my comb under the tap, I brush carefully, like I do every morning. But I can’t. I stop. It hurts too much. My eye pulses, and every time I run the teeth through my hair, a pain surges down the left side of my body. I put the comb down on the edge of the sink.
I have avoided this moment for forty-eight hours, but I fix my eyes ahead. In complete contrast to my colorless face is a bruise. Brilliant, purple, and dark on my cheek. Warm tears slide down the mark and fall on the bathroom floor. I’m mad. It is a punishment for happiness.
Joan wouldn’t let this happen.
Instead of putting my hair in braids, I run my fingers over my waves. If I keep my head down and hair forward, I might be able to hide it for the last week of school. I sigh. Only one more week, and then I’ll be stuck on Bleecker Street until August.
In my room, I pull on my uniform and wish the fabric were soft. On my desk, next to Wallace’s book, is the model sub Kip and I built. I touch the remote and imagine myself under the waves, thousands of miles away from Bournes.
My mom is waiting for me in the kitchen. “Don’t you think school is a bad idea? You could stay home for a few days.” Her eyes are still on the table, on the water stain in the wood.
I know why she doesn’t want me to go to school. I’ve skipped it before, many times, but I don’t want to today. “I can’t. I have five tests this week. Finals.” Science is first.
“I could call Sister Eu and ask her to drop them off. You could take them here.”
Like I would be able to take them in the house where my father is smoke that bumps against the ceiling during a fire. I need to crawl on my belly just to get any air.
“I’m not doing that.” If I don’t have school, I have nothing. “I need to review with my teachers.”
She points to my eye. “What will you say if anyone asks?” For my whole life, I’ve done what she’s asked. I took a few days off and said I was sick. I hurt myself. I fell.
Mary Underwater Page 5