Sea

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G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS A division of Penguin Young Readers Group. Published by The Penguin Group. Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A. Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.). Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England. Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.). Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd). Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi -110 017, India. Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd). Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa.

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.

Copyright © 2010 by Heidi R Kling.

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. G. P. Putnam’s Sons, Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. Published simultaneously in Canada.

Text set in Legacy Serif.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kling, Heidi R. Sea / Heidi R. Kling. p. cm. Summary: Despite recurring nightmares about her mother’s death and her own fear of flying, fifteen-year-old Sienna accepts her father’s birthday gift to fly to Indonesia with his team of disaster relief workers to help victims of a recent tsunami, never suspecting that this experience will change her life forever. [1. Coming of age—Fiction. 2. Emotional problems—Fiction. 3. Tsunamis—Fiction. 4. Disaster relief—Fiction. 5. Orphanages—Fiction. 6. Aceh (Indonesia)—Fiction. 7. Indonesia—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.K679758Se 2010 [Fic]—dc22

2009028321

eISBN : 978-1-101-18826-2

For the survivors and victims of the tragic 2004 tsunami disaster; D, E, and A, the sweetest Orange Popsicle Haze of my life; and to everyone who has loved, lost and dared to try again.

I’m sitting alone on the other side of the world talking to a sea turtle that might be my mom. The boy I love is with the girl he loves, and the girl he loves may not be me. If I was halfway to Crazy before, I’ve fully arrived now. Fire ants swim over soggy debris and snake across the beach like tiny demons; I’m too hot to move out of their way.

Squinting through the sun, I watch the turtle as the sapphire sea froths into a thickening brown. I don’t trust my ears, but I swear, in the lapping waves, I hear echoes of drowning cries. Some sort of flying dragon buzzes around my neck; too late I slap it away, knowing full well it left a swollen bite. Flash on his smile instead. On the way his veins stick out of his arms, on the haunted look in his eyes when he says my name.

I’m dizzy. Dizzy from the tropical heat, dizzy from the spice-wet air, dizzy from everything. When the sea turtle stares me right in the eye, I cringe at the sound of my own voice.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“Sienna, can you hear me? Wake up.”

I jerked upright, grasping my dad’s arm hard. “Did I scream?”

Dad nodded, his glasses framing worried eyes.

“It was just a bad dream. No harm done,” he said, patting my arm. “When you get dressed, come on downstairs. I have a surprise for you.”

My fifteenth birthday and I still woke up in a cold sweat. “I’ll be right down,” I said.

 

Yanking on sweatpants, I twisted my blond hair into a ponytail. Under my tank top I pulled on the bra that was dangling over my chair and made my way down the stairs. My fingertips skimmed along the chipped banister as I carefully skipped the uneven bottom step that Dad swore he’d fix years ago.

“Here she comes, Siennnnnaaaamerica!” a familiar voice boomed as I rounded the corner into the breakfast nook.

Imagine Hagrid from
Harry Potter
with red hair. Now add an MD and faded Hawaiian clothes and you get my dad’s best friend, Big Doctor Tom.

My groans turned into awkward giggles as my godfather pulled me into a bear hug. “Stop. Please. Can’t. Breathe.”

“Fifteen years old.
Mamma mia!”
Tom rubbed my hair like he was trying to start a fire. I slapped his giant hand away and plopped into my usual seat at the farm table, retying my ponytail. “All grown up.” Tom shook his head. “Can’t believe how fast the time goes.”

“Where’s Oma?” I asked. Tom
couldn’t
be my birthday surprise.

As if on cue, the sliding glass door opened and my grandmother slipped into the house, bringing morning fog with her. Oma moved into our granny unit three years ago to help Dad with me, or, like she insists, “To keep us company.”

My grandmother smelled like pink jasmine when her silver hair grazed my cheek. “Happy birthday, sweet Sienna,” she said, giving me a kiss.

“Thanks, Oma.” I eyed the door for my surprise. What could it be? I was too young for a car.

On the edge of my seat, I nibbled a warm croissant. Then I noticed my grandmother eyeing Tom suspiciously.

“I’m surprised to see you here, Thomas. I thought you were in Africa,” she said, something deeper than curiosity stretching across her brow.

Tom shifted in his seat. He was still scared of Oma from when he and Dad were fourteen and he crashed his mom’s station wagon into her garage door.

Glancing at Dad, Tom said quickly, “I was in Africa, Mrs. Jones. I just got back last night.”

Then everything got quiet.

I looked from Dad, to Oma, back to Tom. Talking about Tom’s continuing international mental health relief work was sort of like talking about Mom. You could do it, but you’d regret the silence that followed.

I tapped on my juice glass, looking around the room. No decorations. Nothing to remotely hint that it was my birthday celebration. Just silverware and plates stacked on the counter buffet-style. Obviously this wasn’t a real surprise party at eight a.m., when my friends were still sleeping, enjoying their first day of summer vacation. I knew nobody else would come this early but my best friend, Bev. She was always up at dawn, jogging or studying or something. She would come if she were invited. So where was she?

Dad cleared his throat and asked Tom, “Jet lag bad, old man?” His voice had a lilt of joke to it, but I could tell he just wanted to change the subject.

Tom thumped his chest. “Nah. I’m made of steel.” Then his voice lowered a tad. “Just like falling off a horse, Andy. Gotta jump back in the saddle if you’re going to learn to ride again.”

I rolled my eyes. It was way too early in the morning for clichéd horse metaphors.

Oma frowned, stirring a mint tea bag into her mug. I watched it swirl around and around as the lines on my grandmother’s face deepened. I guessed what she was thinking.

After Mom disappeared, Dad stopped working abroad completely to stay home with me. With us. He joined a private psychiatric practice here in El Angel Miguel, our little beach town south of San Francisco. I guessed he thought I couldn’t handle the chance of him vanishing too. But I was fine now ... or at least sort of I spent a lot of time pretending I was, anyway.

“How was the beach, Mom?” Dad asked, his eyes dodgy.

“Lovely,” she said. Her voice was crisp and curt as she wiped her hands on her jeans. “The fog’s starting to break,” she added. “And I found many new birthday shells for my favorite girl.”

Oma set a bowl filled with sandy seashells in front of me. I thanked her and grabbed a bunch, inspecting them for flaws. I’ve collected sand dollars since I was a little kid. Whole ones were hard to find.

I eyed the stairs, considering dashing back to bed. No offense to Oma, but this was my surprise? Shells?

Then
she
knocked on the door.

The insides of my stomach stretched like a rubber band about to snap.

What was
Vera
doing here?

“G’morning, everyone, sorry I’m late; I stopped for bagels!” Vera, dressed from head to toe in a hot pink gym suit, held up a white bag as she let herself in. “Please tell me you have coffee, Andy! I have the worst headache coming on.”

“You addict,” Dad deadpanned, but his eyes were smiling. “Let me put on a fresh pot.”

“My hero,” Vera cooed before turning to me. “Happy birthday, Sienna.” Vera was my former therapist. Key word:
former.
I quit after five sessions and didn’t know how Dad could stand working with her. Never mind bumbling over himself to fetch her coffee.

“Thanks,” I mumbled into my juice.

Why in the world would Dad invite her to my birthday “celebration”?

Leaning over me in her typically intrusive fashion, she grabbed a handful of blueberries off the table and popped them into her mouth. I tried not to stare at the white skunk stripe running down the middle of her frizzy brown hair.