Sea Change (11 page)

No. Cease and desist.

CeeCee frowned, clearly not used to being the
less
forgetful one. “Hello? The Fourth of July?” she said. “Our nation’s birthday? Ring a bell?”

“Of course,” I said, feeling my face color. The Fourth, with its sparklers and picnics and summertime sense of freedom, was one of my favorite holidays.

“Every summer the island puts on an incredible fireworks show that everyone watches from the beach,” CeeCee explained. “But this year Bobby said we could take out his family’s boat and watch from the water! Virginia and Jacqueline
and all the
guys
will be there.” She gave me a meaningful look, then took a step closer to me, her rubber boots squeaking on the floor. “I know,” she whispered.

My stomach twisted into a pretzel knot and my palms went cold. “Know what?”

“That you and T.J. kissed!” CeeCee’s eyes gleamed. “T.J. told Bobby, and Bobby told me. You were with him Monday night, right?”

Relief and embarrassment washed over me at once. “I wasn’t with T.J.,” I insisted. “We’re not…dating or anything, I mean, it was just one kiss,” I fumbled, blushing deeper. “And why did he tell Bobby?” That behavior didn’t strike me as particularly gentlemanly.

“Because he’s into you!” CeeCee exclaimed. “He wants the world to know!”

I looked down at the compass on the floor, listening to the rain pound on the roof and weighing CeeCee’s words. Maybe our less-than-sizzling kiss
had
meant a lot to T.J. And maybe he—unlike a certain local boy—saw me as more than a summer fling. It was, in some ways, as simple as a mathematical proof; when it came to the arithmetic of boys, T.J. equaled the better choice.

“Speaking of kissing,” CeeCee was saying, squeezing my arm. “After dinner with my parents on Monday night, Bobby
and I went up to my room and did a
lot
of it.” She giggled. “And I’ll have you know, Ms. Skeptic, that he is a very gifted kisser, indeed. You know those kind of make-out sessions that make you melt?”

I felt hot all over as I nodded.
Do not think of Leo,
I commanded myself.

“Was it like that with T.J.?” CeeCee pressed, giving me a sly glance.

Before I could respond truthfully—with a
no
—it hit me. That was the key! If I
did
give T.J. a chance, if I focused my attentions on him, then Leo would really recede in my thoughts. Maybe joining the heirs for the Fourth was just what I needed. And maybe I’d even talk to T.J. about our parents’ history, and see what insights—if any—he might have into the weirdness.

I told CeeCee to count me in for the fireworks, and she gave me an excited kiss on the cheek before grabbing her umbrella out of the stand.

“We’re meeting at the docks after sunset,” she said as she opened the door. A blast of cool air swept inside. “But you’re welcome to come to my house beforehand to borrow some lipstick or an outfit—if you want,” she amended cautiously, raising her eyebrows at me before she scampered out into the rain.

I shut the door, considering CeeCee’s offer. I picked a piece of lint off my wrinkled tank top. It was inarguable that I could use some help in the clothes department. I thought of Isadora’s closet and felt a shiver down my back. Her dresses. The trunk. My heartbeat kicking up, I was starting for the stairs when I heard Mom’s cell phone trill in the study.

I paused, holding my breath and wishing I hadn’t been reduced to eavesdropping on my mother. It could have been Aunt Coral or Uncle Jim, but I was fairly certain that Mr. Illingworth was calling.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Phelps,” I heard Mom drawl, her Southern accent dropping in for a visit. “I’m so glad you decided not to come over in this rain.”

Who was Mr. Phelps? Another fiancé? I bit my lip.

“Thank you for mailing me that paperwork,” Mom was saying. “I’ve been meaning to discuss the market value of the house with you. The interested buyer…”

Right.
I relaxed, feeling foolish. Mr. Phelps was the lawyer who’d been handling the sale of The Mariner; Mom had mentioned his name over dinner my first night here.

“Yes,” Mom said. “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to…” She lowered her voice, and as much as I strained, I could no longer make out her words.

The very air in The Mariner seemed thick with long-buried
secrets. Suddenly, I was more driven than before to find the key to Isadora’s trunk, to at least unlock whatever mystery lay there.

So, leaving my mother to whisper in the study, I went upstairs to begin my quest.

T
here was no key.

That was the conclusion I reached the next afternoon—the Fourth of July—as I emerged from my bath. I let out a resigned sigh and wrapped myself in a towel.

Yesterday, avoiding only the rooms Mom occupied, I’d explored every nook and cranny of The Mariner, from the shelves in Isadora’s closet to the cabinets in the bathroom, in hopes of catching a glint of rusted gold. But I’d come up empty.

On the bright side, I’d dreamed of keys and trunks instead of grottoes and kisses. Now all I had to do was enjoy my time with T.J. tonight, and the constant desire to see Leo again would disappear entirely.

I hoped.

Padding into my room, I heard early fireworks exploding
over Glaucus Way, followed by the cheers of impatient children. The anticipation I always felt on the Fourth swelled up in me as I walked over to the dresser.

That morning, Mom and I had taken a terse, silent walk to the gourmet market and found the town dripping in red, white, and blue. The scents of grilling meat and mesquite competed with the salt water and flowers, and the sunny skies felt like a holiday gift. It was hard to stay angry on such a day; on the way back to The Mariner, laden down with groceries, both Mom and I were more relaxed. Mom had even made a joke about the number of Confederate flags that hung alongside American ones. Still, things between us felt awkward, and there was no talk of T.J. or his father.

I pulled open each of the dresser drawers and stared dejectedly at my clothes. The hole-y skirt I’d worn to the Heirs party was out of the question, and nothing else I owned would probably be dressy enough for Bobby’s boat.

My gaze strayed down to my bare feet, and then I quickly glanced up at the mirror above the dresser. My hair was in a towel turban, which made my dark eyes look big, and my skin was flushed from the heat of the bath. I remembered how Leo had looked at me after the storm. I wished I could see myself as he had, but then I reminded myself that he’d probably been faking his admiration to get me back to his house.

I peered closer at my reflection. My eyelashes were too
short, my brows too heavy, my lips too pale a pink. I recalled T.J.’s comment about The Mariner needing sprucing up, and felt a sudden surge of resolve.

If I was going to do this, I was going to do it right.

“Mom?” I called five minutes later, trotting down the stairs in jeans and a button-down shirt, my hair up in its usual ponytail. “How do I get to CeeCee’s house?”

Mom, at rest for once, was out on the back porch, reading the Tuesday Science Times section of the
New York Times
; she’d redirected our subscription to The Mariner for the month. I was grateful for that and had read an article about in vitro fertilization over breakfast. I’d been starved for science.

Mom looked up at me, pushing her sunglasses onto the top of her head. “Why the sudden urge to see Ms. Cooper?” she asked, a smile on her lips.

I told Mom about my plans with the young heirs—excising T.J.’s name, although it was certainly implied—and her face lit up. She told me that she, too, would be watching the fireworks, only from the beach with Delilah and “some friends.” The unspoken implication on her end also seemed to include an Illingworth, but I was thankful that she didn’t mention him by name.

Mom told me the directions to the Coopers’ house and then stood up. “Hang on,” she said, reaching into the pocket of her loose linen pants. “I have something for you.”

And she withdrew a golden key.

My heart stopped. How on earth—

“I made you an extra one,” Mom said, giving me a contrite smile. “I figured you might be out late tonight, so…”

I resumed normal breathing.
Okay.
It was the key to the front door, not to the trunk. And it was Mom’s way of showing that my unofficial grounding was over, for now. So I thanked her, took the key, and was on my way.

The Coopers’ home was a short walk from The Mariner, and though the afternoon was steamy, I’d barely broken a sweat by the time I reached Poseidon Street. The house was a smaller, better-groomed version of The Mariner, with a neatly trimmed lawn, modern-looking floor-to-ceiling windows, and a pool glimmering in the backyard. I rang the doorbell, a little worried about stopping by unannounced. Mom had assured me that people did that all the time on Selkie, but I felt I should have called CeeCee first. I was prepared to apologize to Delilah or CeeCee’s dad as soon as they answered the door.

However, the door was opened by a diminutive woman in a maid’s uniform who introduced herself as Althea. I was startled; I’d thought that housekeepers or butlers only answered doors in, like, nineteenth-century manors.

When I explained that I was there to visit CeeCee, Althea led me through the pastel living room. Delilah was reclining on the sofa with cucumber slices over her eyes, and when I
passed by, she lifted one slice and said that she was looking forward to seeing my mother that evening. CeeCee’s dad was glued to a golf game on the plasma television and looking even more walruslike than I’d remembered.

I followed Althea upstairs to CeeCee’s bedroom door, which was plastered with snapshots from what had to have been last summer: CeeCee, Virginia, Jacqueline, T.J., Bobby, Macon, Rick, and the others, all equally suntanned and photogenic, all laughing and sprawled across beach towels. The sight of those photos made me wonder if I should have met CeeCee on the docks later—or better yet, spent the Fourth at The Mariner.

But then CeeCee pulled the door open—and shrieked.

“I can’t believe you came!” she cried. She was clad in nothing but a beige bra and rose-trimmed panties but seemed utterly unabashed. She took my wrist and drew me into her room, which was decorated in shades of purple and smelled of her flowery perfume. After the past couple days alone in The Mariner, there was something immediately comforting about entering this bubble of femininity.

Virginia and Jacqueline, wearing colorful sundresses and licking lemon Popsicles, were lounging on what I guessed was a queen-sized bed—it was difficult to tell because it was covered in clothes. More clothes were strewn across the floor, and CeeCee’s vanity was hidden beneath mountains of beauty
products. An iHome blasting pop music rested precariously on a stack of pink and green paperback novels. I thought of my well-organized, orderly bedroom back in Riverdale—“freakishly neat” Linda had called it. CeeCee was on the opposite end of the freak spectrum.

“Althea, would you bring up some more Popsicles?” CeeCee demanded before shutting the door in Althea’s face. I cringed, and CeeCee glanced at me, smiling. “We’re so lucky that she comes out with us every summer,” she remarked.

“What are you
doing
here, Miranda?” Virginia called from the bed. I turned around and saw that she looked less primped than usual; her mascara was smudged around her eyes, her turquoise halter dress was a little rumpled, and her expression was stormy.

“Don’t listen to her,” Jacqueline said, swatting Virginia’s shoulder with her Popsicle. “She’s in a
mood
because she had a fight with Rick.”

“She’s mullygrubbing, as my grandma might say,” CeeCee giggled, walking over to her vanity. “Feeling sorry for herself.”

“I didn’t have a fight with Rick,” Virginia countered while I struggled not to think of my fight with Leo. “He was hooking up with trampy Kay McAndrews, so we’re over. The truth is, I could do much better than him. I’m out of his league.”

“Well, your family has more money than his, if that’s what
you mean.” CeeCee laughed, and then turned to me. “Okay, wait,” she said. “Why
did
you decide to come, Miranda?” She raised her eyebrows hopefully at me, as she had yesterday.

I shrugged off any lingering doubts. “CeeCee, I want you to…”
Make me over
sounded too definitive. Besides, I didn’t believe that a person could truly be made over, metamorphosed. That kind of change only happened in nature—a pupa turning into a luna moth, a chameleon browning against a tree. “Lend me some clothes,” I finished.

“I thought you’d never ask.” CeeCee sighed, beaming, and Jacqueline bounced off the bed, offering to help. Virginia, though, just bit off a huge chunk of Popsicle and opened one of the magazines that was scattered across the bed.

Murmuring and clucking like mother hens, CeeCee and Jacqueline began plucking summer dresses from the floor and holding them up against me. I stood still, feeling like a lab rat.

Before leaving The Mariner, I’d considered bringing along some of Isadora’s dresses, then decided that would seem sort of spooky. But as pretty as CeeCee’s dresses were, none of them held the retro magic of Isadora’s. I liked Isadora’s clothes for the same reason I liked to shop in vintage stores: Each item had a history.

By the time Althea returned with more Popsicles, CeeCee
finally decreed a silky lavender dress with wide straps to be “the one.” I didn’t relish the prospect of stripping down in front of the three girls, but I managed to execute my locker-room change, pulling the dress over my head while quickly unbuttoning my shirt and wriggling out of my jeans. Once the dress was on, I saw that the price tag was still attached, and I heard myself swallow at the three boldfaced digits.

“Listen, guys,” I said, fidgeting as CeeCee zipped me up and Jacqueline brought over a selection of shoes. “Let’s not go overboard, okay? I still want to look like myself.” I held up my hand to refuse the silver thong sandals Jacqueline held out to me; I’d worn my black flats, knowing they wouldn’t be as offensive to the girls as my Converse.

“Oh, come on, Miranda,” CeeCee cooed, undoing my ponytail and steering me over to the edge of the bed in one swift motion. “Live a little.”

I sat down and reached out for my hair band, but CeeCee gave it to Jacqueline, who tucked it into the pocket of her orange dress.

“It’s
healthy
to change up your look,” Jacqueline chimed in, passing CeeCee a tall can of styling mousse.

“Exactly,” CeeCee said as she pumped a dollop of mousse into her hand. Automatically, I recoiled, but CeeCee pulled
me forward. “You can pretend to be someone else for a night,” she added, “as if you’re at a masquerade or”—her eyes brightened with inspiration—“you’ve had a charm put on you, like Cinderella or Ariel!”

“Who’s Ariel?” I asked, forgetting to protest as CeeCee worked the mousse into my hair and Jacqueline approached me with a tube of mascara.

“Would y’all keep it down?” Virginia huffed beside me. She noisily turned the page of the magazine.

“Hello, the Little Mermaid?” CeeCee cried, rolling her eyes and fluffing my hair.

“Honestly, what were you doing between the ages of five and twelve if not watching old Disney movies?” Jacqueline asked, rolling the mascara wand over my lashes. She didn’t pose the question cruelly; she truly seemed bewildered.

“Science experiments,” I muttered with a shrug.

I heard Virginia snort.

“You’re so weird,” CeeCee said fondly, going back to her vanity to retrieve a pot of lip gloss.

Mermaid,
I thought. I felt a funny little pang.

“Hey,” I said, having trouble talking as CeeCee dabbed gloss on my lips, “can I ask you guys something totally insane?”

“What’s up?” Jacqueline asked, holding a powder puff over my cheekbone.

I began picking at my nails—my manicure was starting to chip, anyway—but CeeCee moved my hand away.

“Do any of you know,” I began, trying for nonchalance, “about something called
A Primer on the Legend and Lore of Selkie Island
?”

“No,” CeeCee and Jacqueline replied at the same time, while Virginia said, “Of course.” I whipped around to look at her on the bed, and CeeCee cursed over my smudged lip gloss.

“It’s this book some dude wrote in the early nineteen hundreds,” Virginia drawled, stretching across the bed. “It was supposedly all controversial, because he wrote it like an anthropological study, but really it was just all these superstitions.”

I blinked at Virginia, realizing it was one of the first times I’d heard her speak of something not pertaining to boys.

“Oh, wait,” CeeCee said, turning my chin back to her. “This sounds familiar. There’s, like, a pirate ghost who haunts the island?”

Jacqueline laughed, smudging blue shadow in the gap above my eyelids. “Is that why there’s that monsters sign that hangs over the harbor?”

“I think there’s some stuff about a pirate who married a mermaid, and how mermaids live in the water off Siren Beach.” Virginia yawned. “And maybe fish with wings or whatever. Mama used to tell me those stories when I was little.”

I closed my eyes so Jacqueline could rub in the eye shadow. Did
my
mother tell me stories when I was growing up? If she’d tried to, I was sure I’d either stopped her or tuned her out.

“So the stories aren’t true, right?” I asked, hoping I still sounded casual, and not as if I’d ever entertained the idea.

“Oh, please.” I heard Virginia scoot off the bed and watched as she went to turn up the volume on CeeCee’s iHome. “Everyone knows they’re just hoaxes, like the kinds P. T. Barnum used to play on the people who went to his circuses.”

“Well, yeah,” I laughed, relieved but still unsettled. “I didn’t
really
believe—”

“All done!” CeeCee announced, taking a step back and surveying me with a grin. “There’s only
one
more thing to make it complete…” She flew over to her vanity, scooped up her silver charm bracelet, and brought it over to me.

“CeeCee, I can’t wear your bracelet,” I said as she hooked the lobster clasp around my wrist. “What if I lose it?”

“Don’t be silly,” CeeCee scoffed. “I have others. Besides, a real Southern girl should sport a James Avery charm bracelet on special occasions.”

“Virginia and I each have one,” Jacqueline affirmed.

“I’m not a real—” I began, but then I studied the charms. There was a miniature birthday cake with diamond candles; a
tiny ferryboat that resembled
Princess of the Deep
; a treble clef; a pair of ice skates.

CeeCee caught me staring, and she smiled triumphantly. “Cute, huh?” she said. “My favorite is the treble clef, even though I don’t like piano lessons. My grandma gave it to me.”