Mary Underwater

by Shannon Doleski

  I hate it.

  “What do you want me to say?” I cross my arms.

  “He didn’t mean to. He feels awful about it.” She says what she always says, but I’ve never heard him speak those words. Never heard an apology leave his mouth.

  “Sure he does.” It hurts to roll my eyes.

  “He had a hard day out on the water. They ran out of gas and needed someone to haul them in.”

  It is not a reason.

  “And then you got out of a cop car with that Dwyer boy.”

  “This is not Kip’s fault.”

  “You never got in trouble before him.”

  It’s not Kip’s fault, and it’s not my fault. I push past her and stumble out the door.

  My goal for the day is to pass by as seamlessly and silently as I usually do, gliding in and out of classes so the other kids can’t remember if I was in school. But I forget that nothing changes at Our Lady Star of the Sea, and my hair—the braids I’ve worn every day since kindergarten—is different. I thought no one would notice.

  At my locker, I get a visitor. Lydia. She hasn’t talked to me since the gazebo. “I thought we had a new kid.” Her voice is soft. “Your hair.”

  My back is still to her, my face buried in my locker. I have to tell her. If I don’t, it will burst out of me. “My dad came home. He’s been back since March. I should have told you then. You’re right, I don’t tell you anything, and I should.”

  “How’s it going with him back?”

  I turn around. It looks dramatic, I’m sure, because Lydia curses.

  “Mary, you can stay with me. Just stay with me. Just live with us.”

  It’s so easy to say that. Just move. But Lydia’s family is perfect. She doesn’t understand. She’s never understood.

  While she’s staring, Kip bounds up. I face the chip in the navy blue of my locker, my hair a protective shield. I don’t want him to see me. My broken, damaged pieces. My stomach burns. At least Lydia’s been here before. I don’t even know how to explain to him.

  “My dad’s kinda annoyed,” Kip says, “but he knows it’s not your fault. He turned red, but I can still work on the sub.” He laughs. His voice is light, and he leans his body against the row of lockers. I was able to keep it from him for two months. For two months, Kip Dwyer liked me, and now . . . well. He will see what I am. I am the devastation after a storm. Flattened. Wreckage. Branches strewn and splintered.

  “Did you wear your hair like that for me, Murph? Are we working after school?”

  “Maybe,” I whisper. If he still likes me, when he sees.

  “What are you two talking about?” Lydia asks. I catch a glimpse of her staring at Kip, one eyebrow raised.

  “We’re making a submarine,” Kip says. “Even though we got arrested.” He starts humming and singing the song, “We all live in a—”

  “What?” Lydia puts an arm on my back, and I’m quiet. I wish I were louder. “Have some compassion, Kip.”

  He’s quiet, like he’s trying to figure out her words. “What’s going on?” he asks.

  I turn and drop my chin to my chest. Blink at my too-tight shoes, the toe scuffed and gray, raw and dull against the shiny black. I push my hair away from my face.

  “Mary?” he whispers. “What happened?”

  My throat aches. I clench my fists. I do not want to look at him. Or cry.

  “Robert Murphy happened,” Lydia says.

  “Your dad did that?” Kip opens his mouth, shuts it, and rubs the back of his neck. I like when he does that. I like him, but he’s not going to like me. I know it. His eyes are still on my face, which makes me want to break apart.

  “He can’t do that. He can’t do that to you,” he pleads. “Did you tell someone? The police? Sister Eu?”

  “Please don’t,” I tell them both. “Please? I just want to take my finals, okay? And then it will be fine.” My eyes are hot. Please stop looking at me, Kip. Please. I don’t like when his face is somber. Grave.

  “I hate him,” he whispers.

  The first bell rings, and Lydia takes my hand. “Come on, Mary. Let’s go to the bathroom. I’ve got makeup in my bag.” I feel Kip’s eyes on us as Lydia leads me down the hall.

  She steers me into the girls’ bathroom and walks to the mirror with her makeup bag. She wipes her eyes off with a little sheet. On her lashes, she swipes mascara, puts it back, and rummages around until she pulls out a white tube. “Concealer,” she says. “This is about Kip? And getting arrested? You’ll have to tell me about that.”

  “I will.”

  Lydia studies my face, then squeezes the tube out on the back of her hand. She dips her finger in the makeup. When she taps lightly around my eye, I wince. “Sorry,” she says. “This is darker than you are, but at least it’s a skin color. Purple isn’t supposed to be.”

  We haven’t talked in so long, but it feels like no time has passed. I start to cry.

  “I’m almost done,” she says softly.

  “It’s not my cheek. I miss you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

  She stops and screws the top back on. Her shoulders fall. “I missed you too. Do you want to stay with us for a few days? I’m sure my parents won’t care. I’ll text my mom.” Lydia pulls out her phone and waits for me to answer.

  “Only if she doesn’t call anyone. Please?”

  Lydia purses her mouth and scratches her arm. “Okay.” She sends a message, then shoves her phone away. She puts on her backpack and pulls on one of her twists in front of the mirror.

  “Lydia? Thanks.”

  She hugs me lightly. “We’ve been best friends since we were babies.” She squeezes my hand. “I’ll see you seventh period. Good luck today.”

  I’m definitely going to need it.

  I think I’m pretty inconspicuous, stealthy even. Mr. Fen stands over my table a little longer than usual, but when I snatch the review material out of his hand and fix my eyes on it, he shrugs and says, “New do, new Mary. Got it, kid,” and moves on to the next pair.

  The next five periods are the same, and I’m not even sure my French teacher realizes that it’s me in the front row.

  But Sister Eu is different. I should have known. The nun asks me to stay after religion class, and I silently curse. This, historically, has not gone well for me.

  I lean against the desk and let my hair fall forward to cover my cheek.

  “Mary,” she says, watching me carefully, “I have a confession to make.” I can feel her gaze even though my eyes are on the floor. I slide my hand in my pocket and hold the card tight.

  “My confession is a little embarrassing.”

  “Okay, Sister.” The longer she takes, the more uncomfortable I get. What could she possibly confess, and why to me? It doesn’t make any sense.

  “Yes, and it’s silly. I am, after all, a grown woman. It is perfectly reasonable for me to want to go there.”

  Aunt Betty always wants to talk about the nuns. She finds them fascinating. She says they aren’t feminists, but I disagree. Other than Jesus, they aren’t dependent on any man. Just like Betty’s always talking about.

  I need to talk to her about the summer. I need that job. I need money for the sub.

  “What is it?” I glance up briefly. Sister Eu looks uncomfortable, which I find mesmerizing. How can I see that when she is covered up by a whole habit?

  “I’m sorry. You must be curious, Mary. This is so much easier in front of Father Mike.”

  She waits and smooths out her habit. “Sometimes I go to the Tavern.”

  “The Tavern?” I’m not sure how she wants me to react. Sister Eu gave me the Joan card. Sister Eu bought me supplies when I got my period for the first time, in September. A drinking Sister Eu doesn’t fit the ink smudge of dress in front of me. I don’t like it.

  “Yes.”

  The seconds between words are hours, and my head bounces from one idea to another. The silence makes me squirm. “Okay.” I’m not sure why adults always expect kids to know
what they’re talking about, like we’re mind readers. I wiggle my leg, sweating in my heavy skirt.

  “I was there yesterday, and I heard your father talking about Kip. And I held that in my brain until today.” She taps her temple. “And now I see your . . .” She waits. “Hair.” The word hangs in the air, waiting for me to catch it.

  My mother’s words hang there too, and I’m afraid the two will collide.

  “Is that all, Sister?” I stand up abruptly, and my side aches. I need more medicine.

  As soon as she says, “Yes,” I turn and head toward the door.

  “Mary, I just . . .” The nun sounds like she’s trying to find words. “If you need anything, or need to tell me something, please do, child.”

  “Thank you, Sister.” I briefly look back, but when my feet cross the doorway, I bolt.

  I make it to math class on time and sink into my seat in the back, the same seat I’ve had the whole year. Lydia’s up front, so she’s in my class but not really, because Mr. Wisniewski hasn’t moved us all year and we don’t work in groups.

  Usually, I don’t mind because it’s quiet, and I can turn off my brain. But today, I want to think about math. I don’t want to think about Sister Eu and her confession.

  Lydia turns around and mimes that she is going to write me a note. She hasn’t done that since she got a phone for her birthday in October. She writes something down, rips the paper out, and hands it to a boy behind her.

  The note travels back like a piece of driftwood, up and down the wave of hands. I glimpse at Mr. Wisniewski, his back to me, his hand a flurry at the board. He won’t care. I suspect a lot of teachers pretend they don’t see notes or phones.

  When it gets to me, I unfold the paper.

  You need to get a phone! How is today going? Anyone notice? Have you talked to Kip?

  Those are easy. I know! Okay. Maybe Sister Eu. No. Kip and I might never talk again. And never hold hands again. Never go on any adventures again. I try not to think about it or the nun. I refuse to. I don’t even want to tell Lydia about it, but that’s the thing about best friends. They make you talk.

  At the end of class, Lydia drags me down the hall to our lockers.

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “No, I’m not. Why do you think Sister Eu knows?”

  “My dad, weirdly enough. I’ll tell you more in a second.” I want to be outside first.

  “Your dad?” It looks like her head might explode. She scrambles to get her backpack filled and waits impatiently for me. When I finish packing up, we rush through the halls.

  “Let’s go, Murphy!” Outside the church, she skips steps ahead of me. I stop and smile. Maybe things are back to normal with Lydia. But then I feel guilty and uncomfortable. I wish my dad hitting me wasn’t my normal.

  I can’t let it be. From the top of the steps, I say, a little too loud, “I’m going to build a sub, Lydia.”

  She turns around and smiles up at me. “I love it!”

  “I’m going to build it, but I need help. I can’t do it by myself.” Or just with Kip, if he even wants to help anymore. I need Ford Wallace. I follow my friend down the steps of Our Lady. “I have to go to the Scientists’ Retreat, but I’ll meet you at your house after.”

  I take the long way along the shore, my heart a wobbly mess as I stand in front of cottage number twelve. Before I even knock, behind me, I hear “I didn’t think I would see you again, my dear.”

  Ford Wallace walks toward me from the driveway smiling, but when he sees my face, he stops. “Are you okay?”

  “No.” I shake my head slowly because it aches, and my hair swirls around me, a black cloud. “I am not okay.” It feels good to say those words. I’ve never said them. I’m fine. I’m fine, I usually say. But I’m not fine.

  I plant my feet and say, “If you don’t help me, I will die.”

  “Now, darling, that can’t possibly be true.”

  “I think it’s the truest sentence I’ve ever said.”

  Ford Wallace rubs the scruff on his jaw. “You certainly are earnest.”

  “Please help me.” My words vibrate through me. They start down in the soles of my feet and race through my body.

  Wallace sighs, his shoulders falling while he breathes out. “You have until August first. That’s when I leave for Japan.”

  My legs are weak. I keep nodding until he walks into the cottage. He’s going to help me. I press my fingers to my smile. I have seven weeks to build a sub.

  I spend the night at Lydia’s. I don’t call the Murphy house. I don’t need to. My dad disappears for a few days when this happens, and my mom will know I’m with Lydia. And Lydia and I talk, really talk, for the first time in months over our books and packets and notes. In her pink bedroom full of posters of bands and rappers I’ve never heard of, the two of us sit on her bed. I tell her the story about the base, and her jaw drops each time I mention guns.

  “Why do you want to build a sub?” she asks, hopping off the bed. “Like for me and my animations, I like making a new world. It’s socially acceptable pretend, but it’s okay because it’s creative and I get to share it.”

  I look around her room. Clothes and projects litter the floor, and one whole wall is covered in Lydia’s artwork. In the corner is her computer and video equipment, humming and blinking above her work in progress.

  She walks over to the new set. “I should finish this one by the end of the summer. It’s a princess story.” She holds up a clay dragon. “But there’s a twist. The princess saves herself. No need for a knight.” Lydia puts the small molded sword in my hand.

  “I want to be my own knight,” I answer. “That’s why.”

  In the morning, Lydia borrows her mom’s makeup and helps me again. A blue stain on my face, the bruise refuses to be completely covered. It will get uglier before it heals, turning all shades before it disappears. Lydia’s mom drives us to school, where I have three finals, science my first and toughest.

  When I walk into class, I say hi to Fen and shake my head at his rumpled shirt. If I had money, I’d get him an iron for an end-of-the-year present. But any money I earn from the library will go to the sub.

  After morning prayer, Mr. Fen says, “Are you ready to fail this test?”

  Everyone groans, but Fen laughs. “You think I’m joking, but I’m not.”

  More groans fill the lab. Kathleen hands me the thick packet of questions, and I write my name on the front page. Mr. Fen reads the official directions, and I exhale. The room is quiet, and I open to the first question. I pat my pocket with Joan’s card. I can do this.

  A few minutes later, I hear the classroom door open. Sister Eu silently moves through the room. My heart drops when she walks to Fen’s desk and whispers. I clench my pencil. He looks at me—Oh Lord—and motions for me to come up. I look around the room and see everyone’s eyes on me, including Kip’s.

  My gaze at the ceiling, I walk across the classroom. Sister Eu points to the door, and I say, “But I have a final, Sister.” It might be rude, but there’s no way it’s a good thing I’m being pulled out of this test. And as awful as Fen makes it sound, I’m sure I’ll pass.

  I am less sure about Sister Eu.

  She ushers me out of the room silently.

  As soon as she shuts Fen’s door, she turns to me and says, “There’s someone who needs to speak with you in my office, Mary.”

  “Who is it, Sister?”

  She doesn’t say anything, only walks briskly in the direction of the main office, her habit swishing at her feet. I am a crab about to hit the steam pot. Pounded with a mallet. Picked apart. I hesitate.

  “This way, Mary.”

  I mutter under my breath and follow. The school office is freezing, the air-conditioning blasting, and Mrs. Rivers, the school secretary, is on the phone with a parent. It sounds like an angry one, because she keeps trying to finish a sentence but can’t.

  Sister Eu’s door is closed. I look at the nun’s kind face.

  “Go
in, please,” she says. “I will be right here if you need me.” She sits in one of the blue chairs lining the wall.

  Joan sat in front of rows of men, waiting for the inquisitors to tell her if she had broken any laws. “You are putting yourselves in great peril,” she warned them. They were terrified. I square my shoulders.

  I don’t have an option, so I open the door and step in.

  Sitting in Sister Eu’s chair is a man I’ve seen before, only, time has aged him in the last few years. Gray hairs have cropped up around the temples and a slightly bigger stomach pushes against his shirt. The same dark brown skin and soft eyes though.

  “Good morning, Mary.”

  “Mr. Harris.”

  “How are you? It’s been a while.” He pages through what I assume is the Mary Murphy case file. “Three years?” He smiles up at me. “That’s a good sign.” He shifts in his chair. Mr. Harris is my social worker. He carries a red nylon bag filled with other files.

  I don’t speak. It’s always best not to speak in front of social workers. If you’re not careful, they will send you to foster care. To some family that might be even worse than yours. To a new school where you know no one.

  Three years ago, the school reported the marks around my wrist, and I told Mr. Harris I was allergic to the metal in my bracelet.

  I cross my arms and sit.

  “I don’t come down to the island very much. Y’all don’t have much to say.” He laughs a little. “Hard to get a word out of you.”

  I lean forward so my hair covers my face more.

  “Do you know why I’m here, Mary?”

  “No.” Obviously, I do.

  “What happened Friday night?”

  I shrug. “Nothing that I can remember.”

  “Hmm,” he says. “That’s odd. Must have been a different thirteen-year-old Mary Murphy taken into custody by base police. I’ll have to follow up with Lieutenant Garcia.” He writes something down in his notes.

  “Okay, yes.” I roll my eyes. I know I’m acting like a brat, but I have a huge test that no one seems to care about.