“It’s about sea creatures,” he said. “But I can’t find any fins in it.”
“Well, never mind—there are plenty of other beautiful sea creatures. Why don’t you tell me a joke?” She wiped the grease from her hands on her apron and leaned on the wall, waiting.
Eddie passed me the book.
“Why did the lobster blush?” I read out.
“I don’t know!” Eddie shouted.
“Because the seaweed.”
He didn’t get it. He started wriggling like he always did when he didn’t understand something.
“Eddie, listen again. The sea weed,” I said, splitting the word.
While Eddie bounced about and poked my knee, I saw Mum take off her apron and slide onto my father’s lap. Dillon held his encyclopedia in front of his eyes when they started kissing. I covered Eddie’s eyes, but he didn’t seem bothered by it. He just wanted to kiss me.
Eddie knew exactly what I thought about my book without me even saying anything. No one else understood me the way he did. I hadn’t told anyone I was scared of horses, but he knew.
10
THE WATER IS GRAY TODAY, THE SAME COLOR AS THE SKY, and the waves crash about inside the harbor, battering the fishing boats that line the wall. At least it’s not raining. I clear my throat before I enter the boathouse so that I’m ready to speak if Tay’s inside, and put more Ruby Red on to smooth my lips in case he wants to kiss me.
The boathouse is empty and just as I left it yesterday, except now it feels miserable and gloomy. I’m barely settled under a blanket when a clatter from outside startles me. Then I hear music. Slowly, I creep back through the panel onto the pebbles and realize it’s coming from the clubhouse above me. I crawl out from under the clubhouse and climb the rickety steps up onto the veranda. One of the boards has been taken down from the clubhouse’s windows, and I can see inside. A man wearing glasses moves chairs around. In the far corner a large flat-screen TV shows a woman floating on her back in the sea with a bright red sun behind her. She sinks down under the water, her silver wetsuit making her look like a giant fish. The camera follows her as she drops through the water, going deeper and deeper until she disappears into the abyss. I feel breathless and queasy. I’m watching my dream play out right before me, only I’m wide awake. The music is loud but sounds tinny through the glass, and I feel like I’m the wrong way up. My legs start to give way just as the man turns around.
I run before he sees me.
It’s a mile from the harbor to our house on McKellen Drive. The quickest way is straight down the high street and through the cemetery, but I never take that shortcut. I used to try—I’d stand at the cemetery gate, but my feet would never take me in.
Instead, I turn left just past the police station and take the long route around the back of all the houses. The roads weave in and out of the new subdivisions—great big houses with shiny garages and neat little bay windows. Our house is more like one of the old crumbly ones in Rosemarkie. There aren’t many like this left on our road.
My father opens the door as I come up the path, tripping over the weeds, breathless and hot in the face.
“Where have you been?” he yells.
“School,” I say, and squeeze past him into the house.
“Don’t lie to me.”
I try to ignore him, but he pulls me back. His face is taut. There are new creases around his eyes.
“School finished an hour ago. What have you been doing?” He breathes noisily through his nose.
“Nothing. Just walking,” I say. “I’m allowed to walk.”
His arm pushes down on my shoulder as he searches my face. “You weren’t at the Point?”
“No,” I say, focusing on a mole on his neck. He doesn’t specifically ask about the harbor.
“Are you sure you’re not taking any drugs? Because if you are—”
“You’re hurting me,” I whine, and wriggle out of his grip.
He looks down the path, confused, and I resist the urge to ask if he’s the one taking drugs.
It’s been months since I last had the dream, maybe even a year. I used to wake up feeling seasick. I would crawl into my parents’ room and slide between them. Mum never asked me what was wrong, but in her sleep she stroked my hair and whispered that I was safe.
When I turned twelve, my father sent me back to my room.
“You’re too old to sleep with us, Elsie,” he said, rising naked from the bed. “Turn the light on if you’re scared, but go back to your room.”
He thought I was afraid of the dark. It never seemed to occur to him that I longed for the dark.
11