Touch Blue (12 page)

W
e’ve barely started for our first buoy when I tell Dad I want to go to the south end of Sheep Island. As he turns the wheel, I hold my hand over the rail and let sea spray, silky and cold, bead on my wrist and run down my fingers.

On the other side of the boat, Aaron is stuffing bait bags. I imagine him in December seated at the piano in the parish hall, playing carols at our island holiday party. “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,” “We Three Kings,” “Away in a Manger” — Mrs. Coombs will want them all. And I’ll be singing along in the front row, or maybe I’ll even turn the pages for him.

“Why are you smiling?” Aaron asks.

“I was just thinking how Mrs. Coombs will want you to play
Beloved Christmas Carols of Really, Really Old People
on the parish hall piano this December.”

“Bah, humbug.” He rolls his eyes, but I see the smile he’s trying to hide.

Across the water on Bethsaida, two cars drive along the shore road. There are people outside at Amy’s old house — must be the summer people who bought it. Maybe I will introduce myself sometime when I walk by.

I promised myself I wouldn’t write any more letters to Amy until she wrote to me again, but I’m gonna break that vow when I get home. Maybe she’s busy with her new life or maybe thinking about me makes her miss everything she left behind. Whatever her reasons, she’s still my friend. I don’t want to lose her, even if I write more times than she answers.

I let my eyes move farther up the shoreline to Jenna’s house. She’s outside with her dog. I lift my arm to wave, though I think it’s too far for her to see me.

She waves back and I grin. Maybe Amy and Jenna don’t like each other, but that’s okay. I like both of them.

As we approach Sheep Island, I take the blue lobster out of the bucket and cut the bands from his claws. He snaps at the air. “Stop right here,” I tell Dad.

He slows the boat, and I hold the lobster out to Aaron. “Throw him back.”

“What?” Aaron asks. “I can’t take him. He’s yours.”

With my free hand, I clutch my throat, like I’m having an attack. “Oh, Aaron! Don’t you know? It’s terrible bad luck when someone gives you a blue lobster to refuse it. In fact, it’s the worst unlucky thing in the world.”

Aaron makes a face. “You’re making that up.”

“Best not chance it.” Dad smiles.

I stand there until Aaron finally reaches for the lobster. Leaning over the rail, he sets him gently on the sea. “Today’s your lucky day, blue one.”

The lobster stretches out in the sunlit upper inches of water. Flexing his tail, he shoots backward, disappearing down deep.

As Dad puts the boat into gear, I reach into my pocket and pull out two pennies from the year I was born, a teeny plastic lobster, the white quartz heart Amy gave me, the shard of pottery with the sloop painted on it, and my circle of blue sea glass.

Running my fingers around the sea glass’s smooth-worn edges one last time, I feel queasy, like I’m about to jump off a cliff without knowing what’s waiting at the bottom. I hold my hand over the rail and drop each lucky thing into the ocean so quickly there’s barely a splash.

Watching our boat’s bubbly wake as we pull away, loss sweeps me — but not a sad loss. More like giving up something I’ve held on to, and finding it’s okay to let it go.

Dad turns us out of the channel, and I stand in the stern, shading my eyes, watching Sheep Island growing smaller behind us. I imagine the blue lobster down there somewhere, climbing over boulders and sunken ship bits.

“I’m glad he’s back where he belongs,” Aaron says.

“Not really. I caught him over near the Point, not where we let him go.”

Aaron’s smile falls. “Will he be okay where we left him?”

“Well, he’s blue! That’s gonna stick out no matter what,” I say. “And lobsters are like people: Some take to strangers okay, and others come at each other with their claws wide open. But he’s in a good place, and it
can
be a home for him, if he’ll let it be.”

Aaron looks back toward Sheep Island. “Tess, after the skiff is launched, do you think we could visit Dead Man’s Island? I’d like to see that sailor’s headstone. Maybe bring him some flowers or something?”

I nod. “It’s the first place we’ll go.”

Dad gives me a proud grin. “Here, Tess. Take over for me,” he says, letting go of the wheel.

“What?” I stare at him.

“A fisherman’s gotta learn to drive, doesn’t she?” he asks. “Or maybe you’ve changed your mind about wanting —”

“No!” I rush over. Laying my hands on the wheel, a shiver of thrill shoots through me.

“Feels good. Doesn’t it?” Dad asks. “Let’s practice out to sea where there’s nothing to run into.”

As I turn the wheel, Uncle Ned’s voice comes over the radio. “
Tess Libby
, where are you headed, fool? England?”

Dad pushes the talk button. “Tess is learning to drive the boat, Ned. She wants to join the family business.”

“Well, ain’t that something!” Uncle Ned says. “But, Tess, if you wanna learn how to be a truly great lobsterman, I could use another sternman. Then you could learn from a
real
fisherman.”

“Tess wants to catch lobsters, not seaweed!” Dad snorts.

“Hey, Tess! Watch out you don’t hit the lighthouse,” another fisherman teases. “It’s that big white thing sticking up out of the water.”

“Jacob, I hope you’re paid up on your boat insurance.”

Aaron reaches his hand out for the mic. Dad and I both pause before Dad hands it over. “This is Aaron,” he says. “Leave her alone or you’ll have to deal with me.”

“Oooh,” another fisherman says. “Tough words from an
organist
.”

Figures Mrs. Coombs spread that news already! I brace myself for Aaron to be mad, but then he shrugs. “You know,” he says slowly. “The organist controls how long the service goes on Sunday. I could keep playing and playing — how many hundreds of hymns do you think are in those hymnals?”

“Now,
that’s
a threat,” Uncle Ned says. “The reverend goes on longer than enough as it is.”

As Aaron puts the mic down, I turn to Dad. “Do you think I could try —”

He nods, reaching over to grip the rail. “Hang on tight, Aaron. Tess is gonna let her loose.”

My hands on the wheel, my heart near to bursting, I aim the
Tess Libby
’s bow at the horizon.

And gun it.

In this book about luck, it feels especially appropriate to admit I am the luckiest author on earth to work with such a gifted editor as Leslie Budnick. Thank you, Leslie, for sharing your genius with this book, and for all the grace, patience, humor, and warmth you’ve shown me on this book’s journey.

My sincere thank-you to my wonderful agent, Tracey Adams, and to everyone at Scholastic, especially Marijka Kostiw, David Saylor, and Adam Rau, and to Anne Dunn for adding their remarkable talents to this book.

A special thanks to my critique groups and writing friends, who have read many drafts of this book and always encouraged me to keep going. A big hug to Terry Farish and Toni Buzzeo — it was a best-luck day for me when we became critique partners.

Grateful appreciation to Kaelyn and Clay Porter, Mark Wallace, Tori Arau, Mona Pease, and Kathleen Clemons, who let me ask lots of questions and patiently answered each one.

And finally, thank you to my family. I love you all.

A grant from the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators helped make this novel possible.