The Fog (8 page)

“How come I didn’t get this in homeroom along with the medical forms?” she asked Mr. Shevvington.

“It’s only for new students.”

“But all the students in my grade are new,” she protested, “starting junior high for the first time.”

Mr. Shevvington wound a pencil around in his fingers like a baton twirler. “Christina, I hope this is not a harbinger of things to come. Do you have difficulty with authority? Are you going to be continually presenting problems and arguing? Mrs. Shevvington and I decided to overlook both last night and this morning, because we know how nervous you must be, an island child away from home for the first time — but I am beginning to have doubts about your ability to handle yourself.”

Her hand grew sweaty around the pen. The metal chair poked her back like Mrs. Shevvington’s fingernail. It’s true, she thought. Nobody else argued. Nobody else got in a fistfight. Michael told me to laugh when they teased. I never even tried to laugh. I just socked Jonah.

Mr. Shevvington said gently, “Christina, I want you to think about counseling. We have a wonderful guidance department here. We have a social worker who understands troubled adolescents very well. I want you to consider working with her to sort out your emotional problems. Of course it will be your decision. We won’t force you into anything.”

Emotional problems? Christina thought. Me?

She had always been the granite of her family, the old strong stock of the island. It was Anya who was the endangered species, the fragile one.

Or was it?

“Now fill out the form,” said Mr. Shevvington gently. His eyes were warm, soft: eyes to wrap a child in comfort.

“But these questions — ” began Christina. She wet her lips.

“Will help us understand you,” the principal said.

Christina lowered her eyes to the page. The letters were soothing; the alphabet never changed; the white rectangle of the pages never changed.

She tried to breathe evenly.

What are you afraid of?
asked the first question.
Circle all that apply.

Rats?

Darkness?

Being laughed at?

Pain?

Acid?

Failure?

Being alone?

Most of the time, Christina Romney thought, I am afraid of nothing.

Some of the time, I am afraid of everything.

But I am not telling anybody which I’m afraid of, or when.

“I won’t fill this out, Mr. Shevvington.”

“You must, Christina, dear.”

“No.”

The word sat alone, like an island in the sea.

There was a long silence. Christina did not look at his eyes. The eyes, like the beckoning hand of the wet suit, might force her into something.

The silence lasted and lasted. What would happen in art without her? Would Jonah be there even now, telling them all how poverty-stricken she was? How her parents were nothing but servants? It wasn’t true. Her father was an excellent tennis player. Her mother was an excellent cook.

“Then you may go,” Mr. Shevvington said. “But I want you to know that I am your friend. All I want is to help you. And Christina — ”

She set the clipboard and pen on his desk and backed out of the office.

“ — you desperately need help.”

A
FTER SCHOOL CHRISTINA WENT
to look for Anya, Michael, and Benj, but it was Jonah she found. Or actually, Jonah who found Christina.

“Get lost,” said Christina. “I don’t want any friends by marching orders from the principal.”

Jonah said nervously. “I have to do what he says.”

“Why? I won’t rat on you. If he ever asks, I’ll say you’re very attentive, and helpful in every way. Now get lost.”

Jonah stuck with her. “He’s watching,” whispered Jonah. “Let me walk with you as far as Breakneck Hill.” The heavy hunting boots clumped along with her. Twice Jonah looked over his shoulder.

Twice Christina forced herself to look straight ahead.

Jonah was slightly shorter than Christina, but boys usually were at that age. All of him was thin: even his lips and his eyelids were thin. But it was not as thin as girls can be — anorexic. It was thin for the moment: Tomorrow, or next week, Jonah would grow six inches and gain seventy-five pounds. His hands were much too large for his seventh-grade body; his feet big as a clown’s; his teeth too square. “You have funny hair,” Jonah said. “Is it dyed?”

“No, it isn’t dyed. And what kind of name is Jonah, anyway?” added Christina, getting in a dig of her own. “It sounds like a graveyard name to me.”

Jonah stared at her.

Too late she remembered this was yet another island saying Anya had forbidden her to use.

Names fascinated Christina. So far in seventh grade she had met Kimberly, Jennie, Krystyn, Sable, Brandi, Vicki, and Gretch. But generations back, Christina’s ancestors had names like Florence, Nellie, Phoebe, and HepsiBeth. They were in the graveyard on Burning Fog Isle, where their stones were routinely checked by graveyard buffs who wanted a rubbing of the angel on HepsiBeth’s stone. Christina had always thought HepsiBeth sounded like a soft drink — Pepsi Cola, Coca Cola, HepsiBeth.

“We always give our cats graveyard names,” said Christina to Jonah. “Off the old gravestones. One year the litter was Emmaline, Tristram, Jethro, Jemima, Dorcas, and Abiah. Jonah sounds like a good cat’s name.”

Jonah said, “You’re weird, Christina.”

“Good. Then you don’t have to be friends with me. Forget your marching orders.” Christina walked away from Jonah. Then she remembered something and turned around again. “There is one way you can help me. But you can’t tell Mr. Shevvington about it.”

Jonah did not look thrilled about something for which he got no credit.

“I want to see the house where Anya lived last year. It’s in this neighborhood somewhere.” If I get in even more trouble, she thought, the Shevvingtons will send me away. Probably there.

Her head ached with the day’s events. She felt as if it would take all autumn to think through what had happened. And in only a little while she had to face the Shevvingtons again, and Anya and Michael and Benj. They would all know about the fistfight with Jonah.

Jonah took her down a narrow street, away from the cute little tourist-trade, sailor-trade shops. Past car repair places stinking of oil, and old sagging warehouses with weeds growing in the cracks of the buildings.

He pointed to a thick, squat house with seaweed-green asphalt siding. It was a house where poor people lived; where the smell of cabbage clung to the torn wallpaper and the ugly carpet curled up and collected spiders. Where there would be only one bathroom, and its tub would be pockmarked and its shower curtain moldy. There was no yard, no view of the sea, no color, and no wind.

Christina shuddered.

I, from my island of wild grass and roses, of leaping salt spray and seabirds floating in air currents — living
there?

“Creepy, huh?” Jonah said. “Aren’t you glad you live in Schooner Inne this year?”

Christina thought, Why did the Shevvingtons decide to take us? They don’t have any other guests. I don’t think they’re going to have other guests. I think we’ll live in the attic and they’ll live on the second floor and nobody else will come. Ever. Anya says we’re living with the Shevvingtons because they’re so kind. Vicki and Gretch adore Mr. Shevvington. I don’t think they’re kind.

She remembered what the tourist on Frankie’s boat had said.
Don’t they look like ancient island princesses, marked out for sacrifice? Sent away for the sake of the islanders, to be given to the sea?

“What’s it like in the cupola?” Jonah said.

“I haven’t been up there yet.”

He was amazed. “A girl that slugs boys the first day of school hasn’t explored the best part of the sea captain’s house yet?” he said. “That’s where the sea captain’s wife stood when she dove to her death.”

“Couldn’t have,” said Christina, who wanted never to agree with Jonah about anything. “It’s all glassed in.”

Jonah shrugged. “She didn’t care if she got cut by a little glass, did she? She just jumped through it.”

Christina was horrified. She had never thought of that.

Why had Mr. Shevvington smiled, saying, “I know,” when Anya promised to do anything he asked?

Why had Anya said “The sea keeps count. The sea is a mathematician. The sea wants one of us”?

Jonah and Christina waited for the light to change at the bottom of Breakneck Hill. The waves crashed in Candle Cove. Six cars crossed the Singing Bridge, and the open metal floor of the bridge hummed loudly as the rubber tires spun over it. Christina had always loved the Singing Bridge.

“It sings when somebody drowns, you know,” said Jonah.

“I’ve lived here all my life and I’ve never heard that,” Christina said.

“Huh. You’ve lived on Burning Fog Isle all your life, not this town. I suppose town is pretty exciting for you, huh? Must be real quiet on that island once the tourists are gone.”

“It’s never quiet. The sea crashes, the gulls scream, the motors of the boats roar, chain saws cut wood, anchor chains rattle, shutters bang, the wind whistles — ”

“Okay, okay, it’s noisy on the island. I meant people.”

“I do not,” said Christina sharply, “consider tourists such as yourself to be
people,
Jonah.”

She stalked up Breakneck Hill, not an easy thing to do. It was too steep for stalking. The glass of the cupola caught the sun and blinded her.

Neither of the Shevvingtons could be home from school yet. Christina would climb the cupola.

This had been the worst day of her entire life.

And she had no mother to greet her with something yummy, hot from the oven; no Dolly to share it with; no VCR to put her favorite movie in; no litter of kittens to play with on the kitchen floor.

Christina had never expected to be homesick, and certainly not the first day. Her sides hurt, as if she had cramps from running.

She unlocked the huge green door, shut it quietly behind her, and went inside.

No guests sat in the formal living room; no guests snacked in the formal dining room. The kitchen was dark and silent. The dingy den was empty.

Christina carried her books up to her room.

She got to the top of the stairs and the bedroom door was closed.

She distinctly remembered leaving it open that morning.

Mrs. Shevvington certainly hadn’t gone in; she had left for school before they had.

Inside the room Christina could hear breathing.

She set down her book bag. Then she picked it up again to use its weight as a weapon.

The breath came in little huffs like a panting animal.

She swallowed. She cracked the door. No black wet nose of a dog or cat came through the crack. The breathing continued. Like somebody blowing out candles on a birthday cake. Like —

Oh, it’s just the tide! thought Christina, utterly disgusted with herself.

She flung open the door, and the bedroom, of course, was completely empty. The huffing continued. Christina crossed the room to close the window, from which a sea wind must have blown the door shut.

“You be quiet, you cove, you,” she muttered out the window.

She considered having a cry. Girls in books often curled up alone in the corners of their rooms and wept till they felt better. Christina had never felt bad enough about anything that she wanted to cry at all, let alone curl up for a weep. This was the kind of day that did it, then. If I’m going to do that, she thought, I’ll need supplies. Kleenex. And a book in case I get bored.

“Christina, Christina!”

She jerked away from the window and ran to the stairs. Anya — Anya must be hurt — the wet suit — the tide —

“I’m so glad you’re home,” said Anya, running up the stairs. “Chrissie, I’ve had the worst day of my life. I have to tell you about it.”

She hauled Christina back into the bedroom before Christina could tell her about the huffing, and flung them both on their beds. “Nobody has ever had a worse day,” said Anya dramatically. She ran all ten fingers up into her hair and pretended to scalp herself.

The huffing stopped.

It’s listening instead, thought Christina. Like me.

“First of all, Blake’s parents say I’m nothing but a wharf rat and they want better for Blake.”

A wharf rat. Girls who worked on the docks, knee deep in fish heads and motor oil, and lost all their teeth before they were twenty-five. Girls who worked in the factories and had babies before they were sixteen and ate ten jelly doughnuts at a time because nobody cared whether they got fat and ugly.

“Anya, you could never be a wharf rat.”

“That’s what Blake says. But if we see each other, we have to sneak. Christina, I’ve never sneaked in my life. Blake’s parents even told the Shevvingtons they don’t want him to date me. They didn’t actually order him not to, but they made it clear that he will upset them if he does.”

Christina knew how it felt to be shunned. “Wait till you hear about
my
day,” she said, settling in cross-legged on top of her mother’s quilt.

“No. I’m not finished yet. Then I found out that the guidance department re-did my academic schedule. They put me in Public Speaking, Chrissie! Five days a week. Public Speaking. Do you know what that is? Each kid has to get up once a week and give an assigned talk. Out loud.” Anya flung herself backward on the mattress and bounced. “When I filled out my form for Mr. Shevvington,” she said, “I marked speaking in front of an audience as the thing I feared most. And here I am, in it. Mr. Shevvington says it’s good for me. He says I have to learn to face my fears.”

The huffing moved inside Christina’s head like a warning signal. Christina said slowly, “What form?”

“The one we all had to fill out. The personality one for guidance. Those questions were so awful. What did you put for that one?”

Christina’s hands were cold. “I didn’t fill that one out. I’m not afraid of anything.”
Liar, liar, house on fire,
ran the nursery song in her head.

Anya popped up off the mattress. “You lucky thing. I might have known. Benj and Michael aren’t afraid of anything either. They just laughed when Mr. Shevvington gave them the form.”