Sea Change

For my grandmothers,
Margaret Smouk and Civia Friedman,
who have always been so generous with their gifts

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

One MONSTERS

Two GIFTS

Three TALES

Four HEIRS

Five DISCOVERIES

Six EXPLORERS

Seven MISTAKES

Eight KISSES

Nine QUESTIONS

Ten SECRETS

Eleven MIRRORS

Twelve IMPOSSIBILITIES

Thirteen KEYS

Fourteen TIDES

Fifteen TRUTHS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

By Aimee Friedman

Copyright

T
he waiting ferryboat—ivory-colored and two-tiered—resembled a slice of cake. Or maybe I was just hungry, I reasoned as I hurried across the dock, my duffel bag bumping my hip. The name
Princess of the Deep
was stamped across the boat’s side, and the American flag hanging from its bow whipped and snapped in the salty wind.

I took a deep breath. I was really going.

As I joined the boarding line, I wished I’d covered my head, like the other, wiser travelers in their Atlanta Braves caps and floppy straw hats. Sweat slid down my back, and my vintage round sunglasses were no match for the glare off the ocean. I hadn’t had much time to prepare for this trip.

“Next!” called the ticket taker, a large, silver-bearded man in a white T-shirt. He motioned to me and I stepped forward, the dock’s wooden slats hot beneath my sneakers. When I
handed him my ticket, his bushy eyebrows shot up so high the sailor hat on his head wobbled.

“You’re headed to Selkie?” he asked. In his thick Georgia drawl, he pronounced the word
Sayl-kee
—all long syllables. “Selkie Island? You sure about that, darlin’?”

I hesitated. I certainly hadn’t planned on traveling to Selkie Island, a place I knew next to nothing about. My summer, like most things in my life, had been all mapped out: As soon as school ended, I was to start my dream internship at the Museum of Natural History in New York City. But then the grandmother I’d never known passed away, setting in motion a chain of events that brought me to where I was on this late June afternoon. For a second, disorientation swept over me, and then I shook it off.

“Positive,” I replied, lifting my chin. I was eager to complete the last leg of my draining journey; that morning’s flight from New York to Savannah had been delayed, and the cabdriver who’d taken me to the harbor had meandered through the shady streets at a speed that matched his speech.

“All
right,
” Sailor Hat sighed in an unmistakable it’s-your-funeral tone. As he tore my ticket in two, he gave me a look that was equal parts amused and worried. “It’s the last stop, sugar snap.”

“I know,” I said tartly, to show how little sugar there was in me. I’d seen on the map inside the ferry terminal that
Princess
of the Deep
made stops at several of the Sea Islands—which shimmer like small gems in the Atlantic, draping all the way from the coasts of South Carolina to Florida—before reaching Selkie.

“And it’s Miranda,” I added, marching around him and toward the boat. Unfortunately,
Miranda
isn’t too far removed from
sugar snap
on the Sweet, Girly Name List. I’ve never felt it suited me.

“Well, Miranda,” Sailor Hat called after me as I followed the passengers clanking up the gangplank. “You must be plenty brave, a young thing like you setting off for Selkie all by her lonesome.”

I had no idea what Sailor Hat was talking about, and I didn’t really care. Still, his words struck at one chord of truth: I couldn’t wait to meet my mother at the Selkie dock. During the past four days I’d spent by myself back home, I’d missed her steady presence.

The bottom level of the ferry was dark, dank, and packed with howling children. Orange life vests were fastened to the low ceiling, and though still tethered to the dock, the boat rocked roughly on the waves. I figured it would be pleasanter to stand in the open air, so I climbed the metal staircase to the top deck, where the breeze toyed with my ponytail, and the view was a dazzling blue sweep of water and sky. Most people stood at the railing, but I remained by the stairs,
near a group of golden-haired girls who looked to be about my age.

The girls were huddled together, laughing, and I felt a pang. They all wore tiny shorts and platform flip-flops, the better to show off their long, bronzed legs and perfectly formed toes. I pictured myself beside them—a pale, thin, dark-haired girl in a red-striped shirt, jeans, and black Converse—and smiled wryly. We may as well have been different species.

Growing up, I had zero interest in lip gloss or slumber parties. My idea of fun had been mixing Mr. Clean and baking powder in water glasses and writing down the results. “Miranda’s concocting her potions,” my friends would tease, and I would correct them: I was doing
experiments.
My weirdness made sense; both my parents are surgeons, so I was born with science in my blood. It was no surprise that, at fourteen, I got accepted into the Bronx High School of Science, where I’d just finished up my junior year, earning A’s in Advanced Placement Biology and Chemistry (but eking out C’s in English and History).

With a great, unladylike belch,
Princess of the Deep
loosened herself from the dock and lurched out to sea. Immediately, my knees buckled and, unthinking, I reached out to grab the arm of the girl nearest me.

“You okay, hon?” she asked. Her eyes were hidden behind wraparound sunglasses but I could sense the judgment in her
stare. “Bless her heart,” she said, turning to her friends. “She hasn’t gotten her sea legs yet!” The other girls exploded into giggles, a pack of pretty piranhas.

I drew my hand back, my cheeks scalded with embarrassment.
Sea legs.
Such a strange expression, as if humans could sprout fins to adapt to life on water.

True, I’d forgotten how tricky it was to stay balanced on a ship. I’d grown up not quite landlocked, but close; home was Riverdale, a small, serene pocket of the Bronx, which, of New York City’s five boroughs, is the only one that is part of the mainland. The last time I’d been on a ferry, I was nine. It was right before my parents’ divorce, and my father, perhaps warding off his impending guilt or acknowledging his impending freedom, had taken me and my older brother, Wade, to the Statue of Liberty. The ride to Liberty Island had been choppy, and I’d fought back my seasickness by leaning over the railing in search of marine life.

Which, at the moment, once again seemed like an appealing activity.

Carefully, I maneuvered away from the Southern princesses, who were now squealing over someone’s purchase of a new bikini. When I reached the railing, I positioned myself beside a blond boy, who must have been about seven, and his tired-looking parents. The spray cooled my flushed face, and I placed my duffel bag between my feet.

Seagulls screeched and swooped overhead, and the ocean was a shining sheet of aquamarine that rippled out in all directions. Wakes left behind by smaller, faster boats made indentations in the water, like tangles in a girl’s straight hair. I let out a breath I didn’t even know I’d been holding. School, and friends, and the ghost of my unhappiness seemed immeasurably far behind me. I felt a lightening in my chest. Maybe getting away from home was what I needed, after all.

“What’s
that
?” the blond boy cried, breaking into my thoughts. Eyes enormous, he jabbed a pudgy finger through the boat’s slats while tugging on his mother’s arm.

I glanced down at the waves that frothed and slapped against the ferry. There was a long, dark shape swimming close to the surface of the water, which was soon joined by three matching shapes, all of them silvery and sleek. I gasped and my pulse began to pound.

“Dolphins!” the boy cried, jumping up and down. “Mom, there are dolphins in the ocean!” Quickly, a crowd amassed around the railing, everyone exclaiming, snapping photos, and jostling for a better look.

I grinned. Honest-to-goodness bottlenose dolphins. I’d been fascinated by the funny, smart sea mammals ever since watching a documentary about them. In the womb, dolphin fetuses sprout these leglike limb buds, which hint that, many evolutions ago, the creatures had lived on land. That is what I love
about science: the surprises, the secrets, the discoveries that make your head spin a little. Now, watching the dolphins play and arc up out of the water, their dorsal fins glistening, I again felt there was something half fish, half man about them. Maybe because they seemed to be smiling.

The dolphins kept pace with the ferry, even as we made stops at bustling harbors that boasted cafés and pastel hotels. After we left the third dockside—where the giggling girls disembarked—the dolphins dispersed, swimming off to unknown depths in search of fresh entertainment. I was sorry to see them go.

“Do you suppose something frightened them off, Miranda?”

Startled, I spun around to see Sailor Hat—the ticket taker—standing behind me, wearing an elusive smile. I’d been so focused on the dolphins that I hadn’t noticed him appear on the top deck. As I glanced around, I saw that the boat had emptied out considerably. The only people who remained were the boy and his parents, who were now digging through their luggage for sandwiches, and, at the far end of the deck, a strikingly handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair, and his equally good-looking teenage son, who was texting on his iPhone.

I faced Sailor Hat again and shrugged.

“Like what?” I asked, figuring I’d humor him. “Sharks?”

Sailor Hat chuckled, shaking his head. “You won’t find a
lot of sharks out here. Most likely it was the kraken. Surely you’ve heard of it? The sea beast with tentacles long enough to consume a ship whole?” He dropped his voice an octave and raised his brows.

I bit back a laugh. “I suspect
he’s
the right age for that story,” I said, nodding to the blond boy, who was busy devouring a sandwich.

Though, come to think of it, my first, only—and now ex—boyfriend, Greg Aarons, had been obsessed with the kraken, and he was seventeen, not seven. Back in April, we’d even downloaded the second
Pirates of the Caribbean
movie off iTunes and watched it on his laptop (that same night, Greg had also tried to get me naked, and I’d insisted on keeping my socks on, which understandably killed some of his ardor). But I had little tolerance for magic; everything had a logical explanation, a root of reason.

“You don’t believe in the kraken?” Sailor Hat asked, his smile widening. His tanned skin had the leathery, wrinkled texture that spoke of too much time in the sun.

“I don’t,” I replied flatly, crossing my arms over my chest. I bristled whenever anyone tried to take me for a fool. “It’s a myth. Ages ago, some drunken sailors saw a giant squid in the water and decided it was a monster.”

“Ah, I understand,” Sailor Hat said, taking a step toward me. I flattened myself against the railing, wondering if I should
jump overboard if he tried something sketchy. I was, thanks to early childhood lessons at the Y, an excellent swimmer. “You’ve never been to Selkie Island before,” he continued with confidence. “Otherwise, you’d be familiar with the many, many strange creatures that fill these waters.”

He gestured toward the ocean, and despite myself, I felt a chill tiptoe down my spine. The ferry went over a big swell that made my stomach jump.

“Look, sir,” I said, keeping my voice firm. “My mother is originally from Savannah. She spent every summer on Selkie Island when she was young, and she’s never mentioned any—”

I paused, frustrated. The fact was, my mother didn’t like to speak of her past. I’d heard only snatches about her summers on Selkie, where her family owned a grand vacation home. And the Google-Wikipedia research I’d done before leaving New York hadn’t revealed much besides the island’s map coordinates and weather patterns. So I knew that Selkie was six miles long and often stormy, but that was all.

“Well, then,” Sailor Hat said, stroking his beard, “you should be informed of the sea serpents that swim in the surf off Siren Beach. It’s believed that, in the seventeen hundreds, they helped liberate a slave ship by devouring the captain and crew. They’re a prickly bunch. And,” he added, sidling up next to me and resting his elbows on the railing, “rumor has it that
mermaids and mermen populate the sea around Selkie, but live on land as humans.”

“Good to know,” I muttered, checking my watch. We were scheduled to arrive in two minutes. Thank God.

“Naturally, all of Dixieland is rife with legend,” Sailor Hat added as if I hadn’t spoken. He squinted out at the water. “But Selkie lore carries the whiff of truth.”

His tone was so haunting, his choice of words so deliberate, that I suddenly got it—he’d given this speech countless times before. The man had a gift! The visitor’s center of Selkie Island probably dispatched him to ride the ferries and lure in tourists with such tall tales. Maybe there was even a folklore museum on the island that profited from Sailor Hat’s smooth talk.

I was getting ready to extricate myself from the conversation once and for all when Sailor Hat stretched out his arm and pointed. “Ah!” he said. “There she is now.”

I turned and saw nothing but fog. It was a clear, bright afternoon, so the thick haze seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. The oddest blend of foreboding and anticipation washed over me.

“Most boats can’t even find Selkie,” Sailor Hat explained as we passed through the fog, which felt like damp smoke. “It’s as if the island is hiding in a shawl of mist.”

I hated to admit that his fanciful description was accurate.
Behind the mist there lay a lush, loamy sliver of land dotted with trees and houses. In the forefront, there was a sun-bleached dock with a sprinkling of miniature-looking people. Above the dock, hoisted up on two wooden stilts so as to appear like a gate, was a large, ancient-looking sign. On it, in bold black calligraphy that resembled writing I had seen on old maps, were the words:

I rolled my eyes. Sailor Hat himself probably made that sign. I thought of the red double-decker tour buses that snaked through the streets of Manhattan, and the miniature Empire State Buildings that were hawked on Broadway. The shops on Selkie Island must have been bursting with eye patch-wearing rubber ducks that said
“Yarr!”
when you squeezed them, and sexy mermaid costumes complete with seashell bras. Everything thrived on the tourist trade; it was a simple law of economics.

“Heed that warning, Miranda,” Sailor Hat said as he started toward the staircase. “Be careful of whom you meet, in and out of the water.”

I ignored him, scanning the harbor as it loomed larger. I couldn’t find my mother among the faces, but my eyes fell on
a patch of land beside the dock—a crude crest of green that sloped down to the sand and tall sea grasses. The slice of nature was so pure, so primitive, so far removed from any civilization. I realized it must have remained unchanged for centuries; maybe the first sailors to come to Selkie—those same sailors who might have invented the kraken—had landed on that very spot.