Sea Change (9 page)

Suddenly, I knew what I had to do. I knew who I had to see to make things make sense again. I wasn’t sure I would find him, but I had to try.

“I’m going for a walk,” I told Mom, and without waiting for her okay, turned and started down the porch steps.

“Miranda, are you insane? It’s about to pour!”

“I won’t be long,” I called over my shoulder, my voice nearly drowned out by the wind. A fork of lightning split the sky.

“Why are you running off again?” Mom asked, hurrying down the porch steps after me. She paused on the grass.

“I need some air,” I replied. “And I’m not running.”

And I didn’t. I walked at a steady pace until I reached the end of Glaucus Way. Then, when I knew Mom couldn’t see me anymore, I broke into a run.

I ran all the way to town, where the stores had red, white, and blue
HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY
! banners strung up in their windows. People hurried to stand under awnings and preemptively opened umbrellas. In the green square, the women weaving grass baskets were nowhere to be seen, and mosquitoes filled the air.

As I reached the boardwalk, I felt the first cold raindrops on my bare arms. Still, I ran down the length of the boardwalk, past The Crabby Hook, past the closed marine center. Something seemed to be propelling me, something I couldn’t name or understand.

When I got to the end of the boardwalk, I stepped down onto the sand and asked myself what I was doing. Though it was only five o’clock, the sky looked like midnight. The ocean was furious, lashing itself against the shore, and the palmetto trees tilted in the wind. The beach was empty; anyone sane was indoors. Maybe Mom was right; maybe I’d lost my head.

I scanned the barren dunes and churning ocean one last time before I sighed and turned away. I hugged myself and lowered my head against the wind, prepared to ascend the boardwalk steps and hopefully make it back to The Mariner before the storm.

But then I heard my name.

At first, I thought it was the call of a seagull, or the crashing of the tide.

But then it came again.

“Miranda!”

I whirled around, my heart lifting, and saw Leo walking up the sand toward me. His hair was wet, and he wore only dark blue swim trunks that sat low on his slim hips. Droplets of moisture glistened on his bare chest, and, illuminated by a flash of lightning overhead, his skin looked as luminescent as pearl. I hardly let myself believe it was him until I could see his eyes, green and sparkling and gazing right at me.

“How—where did you come from?” I shouted over the howling wind. I started toward him, too, getting sand in my flats. “Were you swimming?”

“I told you,” he replied, a smile crossing his face. “You can always find me.”

We stopped mere inches from each other.

“I wanted to see you,” I said, although no explanation seemed necessary. “I was on the beach yesterday afternoon, but I couldn’t find you, and—”

“Nighttime is usually better,” Leo said. Lines of water ran down his high cheekbones, down his flat stomach. His hair looked like dark honey.

“I—I never do things like this,” I told him, breathless.
I felt more cold drops strike my arms. “And it’s starting to rain, and—”

“I wanted to see you, too,” Leo cut in.

“Leo,” I said. I didn’t know what to say next, only that his name on my tongue felt right. Natural.

Then the clouds burst. Sheets of rain sluiced down, and thunder exploded, and suddenly, without warning, we were kissing.

Leo pulled me tight against him as our lips met and the wetness of the rain mingled with the wetness of his body. Somehow his skin felt as hot and flushed as mine did. I wrapped my arms around him, opening my mouth to his, running my fingers down the length of his spine. Leo dug his fingers into my hair, raking loose my ponytail, and I didn’t care. I didn’t care that I was getting drenched and that my bra was probably visible beneath my white T-shirt, because all that mattered was our kissing.

This
was intense, I realized as we kissed and kissed in the pouring rain. This
defined
intense. My kiss with T.J. seemed faded, insignificant. Now I couldn’t help but close my eyes as every thought in my head—every question—swam away.

I heard myself sigh when Leo pulled back. He pushed my sopping hair back off my face and grinned at me.

“We should really go somewhere dry,” he told me, and encircled my waist with his strong arm. “You’re trembling.”

I was, but not because of the cold. Still, I nodded my assent and gave Leo my hand. He began leading me away from the boardwalk, toward the jagged black rocks, yet I didn’t feel fear or trepidation.

“Careful,” Leo said, squeezing my hand as he helped me over a big rock. The rain was as dense as a wall now. My feet slipped and slid, but I held fast to his hand, and when I reached the other side of the rock, I saw where we would shelter. There, in the sand, a collection of even larger rocks formed a grotto of sorts, complete with an overhang and craggy walls.

“How do you know about this?” I asked in awe as we wriggled through the small opening between two rocks. It was nearly pitch-black inside the grotto, and rain drummed down on the overhang. I couldn’t believe we were suddenly safe from the elements.

“I grew up here,” Leo replied. He led me to the driest patch of the sandy floor, then pulled me down to sit there beside him. “This is my world.”

I nestled into the crook of his arm, leaning my head on his shoulder. Our hearts were pounding in equal rhythm, and we both laughed, giddy and cold. Leo lowered his head and gently nipped at my neck, which sent exquisite shivers through me.

As we sat there, cuddling close, my eyes slowly adjusted to
the darkness of our little cave. Gray mist swirled through the cracks in the rocks, and, in one shadowy corner, I could make out what looked, oddly enough, like a discarded T-shirt and a guy’s zip-up hoodie. I blinked, nudging Leo.

“Do those belong to someone?” I whispered, as if fearful of waking whomever—or whatever—might have been slumbering in the grotto with us.

I felt the gentle rocking of Leo’s laughter. “They’re mine,” he replied. “Sometimes I’ll change in here before I go for a swim.”

“Really?” I looked up into his face. Leaving one’s belongings in a grotto seemed like essential beach behavior—so different from the protective way people guarded their things in New York. “Aren’t you worried that someone might take—”

“Shh,” Leo said, touching his finger to my bottom lip. “Do you hear that?” When I shook my head, he whispered, “The rain stopped.”

“Already?” I asked. It did sound like the wind had died down and there was only the light pattering of drops above us.

“A summer storm,” Leo said as he traced the curve of my mouth with his thumb. “Quick and powerful and then—over. It’s what happens on Selkie.”

I felt a twinge of disappointment. “I wasn’t ready for it
to be over,” I said, knowing I sounded like a child. I smiled ruefully.

“It’ll rain again,” Leo promised, his fingers making gentle, teasing patterns on my inner arm. We looked at each other for a long moment.

I leaned in to kiss him—I couldn’t not—but then my belly rumbled. Loudly. I let out a mortified laugh, putting my hands on my stomach. My body never used to behave so willfully before.

“Hungry?” Leo asked, studying me with such fondness that I felt my embarrassment wane.

“Starved,” I admitted. I realized I hadn’t touched the blueberry cobbler at tea.

“Me, too,” Leo said. “Should we get something to eat? We can…continue things later.” A mischievous glint lit his eyes and I felt a rush of anticipation.

I nodded and Leo took my hands, lifting me to my feet. I watched him grab his rumpled T-shirt off the sandy ground and pull it over his head. The notion that I should contact Mom and tell her I wouldn’t be home for dinner floated past me, but I didn’t pursue it. I’d left my cell phone at The Mariner again, and suddenly I wanted to try on not being a good girl.

“Here, put this on,” Leo said, handing me his red hoodie. I slipped my arms through the soft sleeves, thrilling at
its warm, clean scent—Leo’s scent. I pulled my wet hair out from under the hood and let it hang loose down my back. Then Leo and I squeezed through the rocks, abandoning our hideaway.

The beach was crisp and cool, and I took in deep lungfuls of the sweet, fresh air. The subdued ocean was lightly kissing the shore, and puddles filled the dents in the sand. The sky was a revelation—all gold and gray patches.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Leo said, and when I glanced at him, he was looking at me in a way that made my heart gallop.

“Very beautiful,” I replied with a smile. I turned automatically toward the boardwalk and the lights of The Crabby Hook, but Leo tugged on my hand, indicating we should start in the opposite direction. Deeper into the fog.

“Hold on,” I said, tugging back. “The restaurants are back there.”

Leo glanced at the boardwalk, his expression dismissive. “You mean the summer restaurants. I want to take you someplace else.”

Intrigue bloomed in me, but so did hesitation. I stood still, holding on to Leo’s hand as his hopeful green eyes studied my face.

“Come, Miranda,” Leo added. “Trust me.”

Trust me.
Could I? My pulse pounded. I stared at Leo, this boy I’d only just met.

“First, tell me exactly where we’re going,” I said, lifting my chin.

“Of course,” Leo said. He tilted his head to one side, the corner of his mouth curving up. “We’re going to the heart of Selkie Island.”

“And where is that?” I asked, stepping closer to him.

Leo’s dimples appeared in his cheeks as he smiled. “Fisherman’s Village.”

B
eyond the mist, past the rocks, and up a flight of rickety wooden steps lay the ramshackle strip of pubs and shops known as Fisherman’s Village. As Leo and I, our hands clasped, navigated the puddle-strewn cobblestones, I gazed around, eager to examine this slice of Leo’s existence. An existence that felt a world away from the Selkie Island I’d been inhabiting.

Here, red and gold twinkle lights were twined around the oak trees, giving the area a festive vibe. None of the squat buildings were marked, and the seedy-looking alleyways called to mind pirates and smuggled treasure. I drew nearer to Leo, a little ill at ease. Almost against my will, I heard T.J.’s words in my head:
Not that a girl like you should go to Fisherman’s Village.

But I wasn’t even sure what kind of girl I was anymore.

Leo, meanwhile, was in his element, introducing me to an elderly lady walking her puppy, and pointing out the local library. I began to identify bait and tackle shops, a supermarket, a post office, a bank. And I began to understand that this neighborhood was home to people who were not blown to the island by the summer winds.

By the time Leo led me to the door of a nameless rust-colored shack, I was feeling much more comfortable. The shack housed a smoky pub, where patrons were sharing waffle fries at pockmarked tables or sipping foamy beers at the bar. Most everyone was in beach gear or barefoot, and a TV blared on the wall. I smiled, thinking of how silly T.J. would look here in his button-down shirt.

“What’s good?” I asked Leo as we slid into a booth and picked up our menus. My head felt hazy—maybe from hunger, or from what had happened on the beach. Or both.

“They have this great seaweed salad, kind of a local favorite,” Leo said. “But I’d say it’s an acquired taste.” He grinned at me. His thick golden hair was starting to dry, and it fell carelessly across his forehead, begging to be swept aside. The dark green shade of his T-shirt made his eyes look even brighter.

There was something strange and wonderful about the ordinary act of sharing a meal with Leo, who was so extraordinary. The people sitting around us must have assumed we
were on a date. But I felt as if Leo and I were beyond dating. We were in another category now, one that couldn’t really be defined.

“How’s the fried Georgia redfish with mashed potatoes?” I asked, scanning the menu. “Do you maybe want to split the crab cakes?” I was craving lusty, rich food.

“Believe it or not,” Leo said, toying with the saltshaker, “I don’t really eat fish or other seafood. I guess ’cause there’s so much of it around all the time…”

“That makes sense,” I said, unzipping Leo’s hoodie and shaking out my still-damp hair. Beneath the table, I slipped my feet out of my wet flats. “People get sick of what’s familiar, right? In New York, the natives never gawk at the skyscrapers.”

“You were gawking a little bit on the walk over here,” Leo said, grinning at me. When I felt myself blush, he reached over and brushed a wet curl off my cheek. “But don’t worry. It was adorable,” he added, his voice full of affection.

I grinned back at Leo and felt an energy crackle in the air between us. Chemistry. Only it wasn’t the kind of chemistry that could be found in a laboratory. It was, in a way, the opposite of science.

I gave a start when a waiter appeared at our booth, holding two glasses of water. With his tattoo sleeves, white beard, and white ponytail, he did bear a resemblance to the mariner in
the painting, though I couldn’t imagine the fictitious mariner smiling warmly.

“Leomaris!” the waiter said, pulling out his pad. “How are you?”

I paused with my glass of water halfway to my mouth. “Who?” I asked, glancing from Leo to the waiter.

Leo’s ears turned red and he ducked his head. “That’s my full name. Leomaris.”

“Go on, tell her what it means,” our waiter urged, clearly enjoying himself.

“King of the sea,” Leo muttered, opening and closing his menu. His discomfort only deepened my desire to kiss him.

“I think that suits you perfectly,” I said softly, meaning it. Leo glanced up at me, raising his eyebrows in a grateful way. My heart flipped over.

“Okay, okay, lovebirds, what will it be?” Our waiter chuckled.

After we’d ordered—crab cakes for me, the seaweed salad for Leo—our waiter asked Leo what his parents were up to.

“They’re out on my dad’s boat for the night,” Leo replied, easing back in his seat and handing over his menu.

“Oh, are you worried something happened to them during the storm?” I asked, feeling my brow furrow. Leo and the waiter exchanged a glance I couldn’t decipher, though I thought the waiter looked mildly amused.

“I think they’re fine,” Leo assured me, putting his hand on mine. “This is Miranda,” he told our waiter. “She’s here for the summer.”

“I assumed as much,” our waiter said to me, but his smile was genuine. “Should I put this all on your tab?” he asked Leo, who nodded.

I shifted in my seat, discomfort pricking me. I didn’t want Leo paying for our dinner; I sensed it was more important for him to be saving his money than it was for me. But I also sensed that giving voice to that thought would wound Leo’s pride.

As our waiter departed, Leo watched me fidget and he smiled wryly. “Miranda, it’s cool,” he said. “My family has a special deal with the pub. We’re regulars.”

“I can see why!” I exclaimed, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. “This place is great. All of Fisherman’s Village is.”

I took a sip of water, glancing at Leo over the rim of my glass. I wondered if my remark had sounded condescending, like something a summer person might say. In truth, I
was
enjoying Fisherman’s Village; it had an air of friendliness that felt much more sincere than the politeness that reigned on the other side of the island.

“Besides,” Leo added, as if I hadn’t spoken. He was studying me in his perceptive way. “It makes me happy to treat you
to something. Even if it’s just crab cakes.” He squeezed my hand, and warmth spread through me.

“Thank you,” I murmured. Hoping to erase any offense, I leaned over the saltshaker and planted a quick kiss on his lips.

“All right,” Leo said, squeezing my hand as our momentary tension receded. “I want to hear more about these skyscrapers.”

As our food arrived and we devoured it, I told Leo the basics about my life in New York—my high-pressure high school, the subways, the frozen hot chocolate they served at the restaurant Serendipity—while leaving out certain details I’d decided not to dwell on. I told him about Isadora’s passing, and how it had brought me and my mother to Selkie, while leaving out my mother’s own ties to the island—namely, Mr. Illingworth.

Leo, wide-eyed as a little boy, was full of questions—Did I really live near the Bronx Zoo? Had I really deferred my internship at the Museum of Natural History? Did Manhattan feel like an island when you were on it?—that didn’t allow me to ask any of my own.

But there was plenty of time for me to learn about Leo. As we stood to go, I thought excitedly of how much he and I could do together—visits to the marine center, barbecues,
late-night swims, the Fourth of July. I had to be back in New York for my internship by the fifteenth, but maybe I could skip the internship altogether. It would probably take Mom until August to sell The Mariner, and she’d need me here.

Maybe I didn’t have to go back to New York at all.

Outside, Fisherman’s Village was thick with humidity and activity; people had emerged poststorm, and that particular buzz and spark of approaching night hung in the air. Leo waved to a group of rowdy, shirtless guys who were spilling out of a penny arcade. They whooped and waved back, a few of them blatantly looking me up and down. But at Leo’s side, wearing his hoodie, I forgot to feel self-conscious.

When two dark-haired girls in bikini tops and jeans flip-flopped toward us, one of them sang, “He-ey, Leo!” while the other stared at me with naked curiosity. It hit me then that, among the Selkie locals, Leo must have been considered quite the catch. As Leo greeted the girls, I felt an uncharacteristic burst of possessiveness.

“So, Leomaris,” I teased once the girls had passed, and he elbowed me lightly. “You’re pretty popular, huh?”

“Nah,” Leo laughed, lacing his fingers through mine—our touching was becoming automatic, essential. “Actually, I used to have a lot more friends than I do now.”

“Me, too,” I replied, and then I cleared my throat. “Why?” I asked, glancing at Leo to make sure he hadn’t heard my initial response.

We started down one of the alleyways that led back to the water. The sounds of the village grew quiet behind us, and the twin scents of salt and fish rushed toward us.

“I got the job at the marine center,” Leo replied, “and stopped bumming around on the beach so much. I changed.” He glanced at me, his expression thoughtful. “You know, almost everyone in my life is a fisherman. My dad. My brothers. My friends’ parents. I guess I decided to rebel.”

Rebel.
I stared ahead, toward the silvery surface of the ocean. I had never considered fighting, or even questioning, my genetic destiny: my surgeon parents, my brother the premed Ivy League student. My own inborn gift for science. My future—a future that surely included scalpels or test tubes—was charted and mapped.

Did it have to be?

“What’s your rebellion plan?” I asked Leo as we reached the mouth of the alley.

He shrugged, the shadows in the alley slanting across his high cheekbones. “I have crazy dreams. I want to go to college, maybe in Savannah, maybe up north. As long as it’s someplace on the water.”

“That’s not so crazy,” I told him, squeezing his hand, wondering if we were both thinking that New York City was on the water.

Leo turned to look at me, and in the darkness, his expression was hard to read. “Miranda, for generations, it was basically impossible for people like my family to live anywhere other than Selkie Island.”

Once again, I was aware of the gap between Leo and me—the differences in our backgrounds. Why did it have to matter?

“It’s like in New York City,” I said, hearing my voice go up a pitch. I felt foolish making the comparison, but I wasn’t sure what else to say. “Most people who live there don’t know how to drive, or even swim! They can only exist in New York, not anywhere else.”

“That’s…kind of how it is,” Leo said slowly, smiling at me. “Do
you
know how to swim?”

“Me? I’m practically a fis—” I started to say. But then we emerged from the alleyway onto a spot that was familiar to me.

“The harbor!” I exclaimed. We were standing on the same dock I had stood on with Mom six days ago. Had it only been six days? I felt transformed from the Miranda I’d been then, the Miranda who hadn’t met a boy named Leo.

Straight ahead of us was the wooden gateway to the island, its sign facing the still ocean; there were no incoming boats to
view its cryptic warning. I squinted, half expecting to see the ferry sailing over with Sailor Hat standing at its prow.

“Uh-huh,” Leo said as we strolled the length of the dock. “See those boats and trawlers?” He gestured to the small vessels that were tethered to the far end of the dock, bobbing at their moorings in the moonlight. “Some of them belong to the summer folk, and some belong to fishermen. Many mornings, you can spot the fishermen here, sitting on the dock with their poles in the water. Hence the name Fisherman’s Village.” He looked at me with a half smile, adding, “You took
Princess of the Deep
to Selkie, right?”

I nodded. “My mom was waiting for me right here,” I recalled out loud. “Then we walked up that road,” I added, pointing to the pebbly path Mom and I had climbed, “to get to our house. The Mariner.” I realized then that Leo hadn’t known where I was staying for the summer, though he must have guessed the neighborhood.

“An ironic shortcut,” Leo said, his tone amused but slightly brittle. His bright green eyes turned solemn in the darkness. “The summer folk are closer to Fisherman’s Village than most of them would want to be.”

We were still holding hands, but my discomfort returned. I wanted to tell Leo that I didn’t feel like I belonged among the summer folk, but I wasn’t sure he would believe me. I suddenly ached to return to the grotto, where Leo and I had
made our own little world, separate from the rest of Selkie Island.

“Where does
that
road lead?” I asked, changing the subject. I pointed to a dirt path we were approaching; while the pebbly path sloped up, this one curved down. A signpost stuck in it read
MCCLOUD WAY
.

I felt Leo relax beside me. “Funny you should ask,” he replied, and cast me his brilliant smile. “It leads to my house.” He paused, and added, “Would you like to see it?”

Leo’s question hovered in the sultry evening air. I thought again of Mom, waiting for me back at The Mariner. I thought of how a good girl would—should—respond to Leo’s invitation. Then I thought of Leo’s kisses, his lips on my neck, of us having another quiet moment together.

It was already so late. I was already in so deep. Why not swim even deeper?

So I nodded and together we started down the path, both of us silent with anticipation. The question
What are you doing, Miranda?
tried to gain entry to my mind, but I wouldn’t let it in.

The brick houses on the other end of the dirt path were all on stilts—because, Leo explained, of their proximity to the ocean and the threat of high tides. The beach did act as a front yard for the houses, with the tall sea grasses standing in for pruned bushes and the sea one giant, crashing pool.
Most of the houses had their lights blazing, but the house we stopped in front of was completely dark. With a jolt of nerves, I remembered Leo telling our waiter that his parents were out on a boat.

“My humble abode,” Leo declared with a mock bow, but he seemed nervous, too.

I studied the red-painted front door with its gold knocker. The drainpipes that ran down the house’s length ended in miniature dolphins, their mouths open to release the rainwater.

“Hey, those are cool oceanic markings,” I said, then paused.
Oceanic markings
—those weren’t my words. I had borrowed that phrase from somewhere else. But where?