The Sea in Winter Read online

  Dedication

  To anyone who needs a reminder

  that pain is temporary

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1. Sanctuary

  2. Carry the X

  3. Puddles

  4. The Richest Six-Year-Old Alive

  5. The Shape of a Triangle

  6. Deeply Underwhelming and Unhappy

  7. Mr. Lawson’s Office

  8. Spinning

  9. Time to Heal

  10. Oblivious I

  11. Cape Woman and the River Men

  12. The Pirate

  13. Little Crossing-Over Place

  14. Unanswered Texts

  15. Tse-Whit-Zen

  16. End of the Road I

  17. X Marks the Spot

  18. Dig Deep

  19. Slippery Shell

  20. Lessons

  21. Ice Machine

  22. Oblivious II

  23. Changing Weather

  24. What Am I Doing?

  25. An Empty Stomach

  26. Nursery Stump

  27. Petroglyphs

  28. Sea Cliffs

  29. End of the Road II

  30. An Eternity

  31. Even Worse

  32. Hurt People Hurt People

  33. More Than What We Got

  34. This Loss

  35. I’ll Be Okay

  36. Something I Need to Say

  37. Another Sanctuary

  38. Change Is Good

  39. Onward

  40. Maybe Someday

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  A Note from Cynthia Leitich Smith, Author and Co-Curator of Heartdrum

  Excerpt from I Can Make This Promise

  About the Author, Editor, and Illustrator

  Books by Christine Day

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Sanctuary

  February 15

  I’m late to homeroom. Not because my bus was running behind schedule, or because my knee was flaring up again, or because of any other reasonable explanation. I walk into homeroom six minutes after the bell, because I couldn’t force myself to come straight here. I couldn’t walk in this direction. Couldn’t follow the same path I go down every day.

  My classmates are journaling at their desks. Several heads snap up as the heavy door latches shut behind me, as I hurry to my seat in the middle of the room. Curious gazes cut back and forth between me and the clock. Ms. Porter looks up from her own journal entry to beam at me and say, “Welcome, Maisie.”

  I drop into the cramped desk. Slender metal bars attach from the tabletop to the chair to the shiny tiled floor. Rooting the desk to this particular place. I fumble with my book bag. Pencil tips whisper against paper all around me, a gentle contrast to the coarse rip of my book bag’s zipper, the obnoxious clacking of its buckles.

  Seven minutes after the bell, I finally slap my composition notebook down on my desk and read the prompt on the whiteboard. Ms. Porter changes it every day. She shares quotes from famous novels, random facts about nature, or sometimes even song lyrics. Today, she has shared this word and its definitions:

  Sanctuary

  A place of refuge or safety; a place of protection from danger or a difficult situation.

  A nature reserve; a refuge for wildlife.

  A holy or sacred place; a building or room for religious worship.

  Synonyms: haven, harbor, retreat, shelter, immunity, asylum.

  I stare at the words. Flip to the next open space in my notebook. Pause, with my pencil hovering above the blank page.

  I never really know how to begin these entries. Ms. Porter always tells us to be creative and open and free, to write or draw or spill whatever we’re feeling, as we feel it. She never reads what we write; there are no grades in homeroom, just attendance and participation points. It’s also our only fifteen-minute period, which means that I have about eight minutes left to do this.

  Sanctuary. I write the word across the top of the page. Underline it twice.

  Hesitate.

  And then, in a messier scrawl, I write: My ballet school has always been my sanctuary. I stare at this sentence. Tap my eraser against my chin. Suck in a deep breath and continue on: In the studio, I don’t have to worry about anything else that’s happening in my life, or in the world around me.

  From there, the words flow through me. I describe the bright, airy space in my favorite studio. The mirror-lined wall, the tall ceiling, the wide windows. The aluminum barres, the grand piano in the corner, the squeaky pearl-gray floors. The openness of it. The peacefulness of it.

  I describe what it’s like to dance in a room like that. To move through the sweeping gestures of a grand port de bras, the aching lift of an arabesque. To spin and step and reach as the piano notes pinwheel all around you.

  From the front of the room, Ms. Porter claps and says, “Okay, students. Can I have your attention up here, please?”

  I stop writing. Lean back as much as this rigid chair will let me.

  Ms. Porter smiles. “It’s Friday,” she says. “And next week is midwinter break, so I won’t see you all for a while. I hope you stay warm, happy, and healthy during your time off. Take care and have fun.”

  The shrill bell rings, and the classroom breaks into a flurry. I look down at the words I’ve written, feeling the yearning pull of them, like a fishhook in my stomach.

  Then I close the notebook. Shove it inside my book bag. Stand up to join the stampede toward the door.

  “Maisie!” Ms. Porter waves me down. “Maisie, can I have a word with you?”

  I swallow. Extract myself from the chaotic rush out the door. Meet her gaze.

  She offers me a small smile and asks, “Did your bus driver give you a late pass?”

  I shake my head. In an instant, the other students are gone, swept away in the roaring tide of voices and slamming lockers and sneaker squeaks down the hallway outside. And it’s just me and Ms. Porter, standing in the awkward, muffled quiet of her empty classroom.

  “Is your knee okay?”

  “It’s fine,” I say automatically.

  “Okay. Good.” She gives an apologetic wince and says, “I have to report your unexcused tardiness.”

  I nod. Fidget slightly under her gaze.

  “Try to get here a little earlier, okay? If it happens again this semester, I’ll be required to give you an after-school detention. It’s school policy.”

  I nod again. “I know, ma’am.”

  “All right. Have a good midwinter break.”

  She moves toward her desk, and I turn to leave the classroom. But before I step through the doorway, she says:

  “And, Maisie? If you ever want to talk—if something else is bothering you, or if you need extra help with anything—I’m here. The school counselors are here. We all just want to see you succeed. You know that, right?”

  I tell her, “I know.” Even though I don’t plan on talking to her. Or to anyone at this school, really.

  She grins, oblivious. “I’m so glad. I’m always rooting for you.”

  2

  Carry the X

  February 15

  By the end of the day, I’m frazzled and exhausted.

  I wedge my way through the sea of students, between the locker-lined buildings and concrete pillars. The walls around us are cluttered with construction paper posters, marker-drawn announcements for spring sports tryouts, and Black History Month events. Blinds are shuttered over the classroom windows. We shuffle past the small and quiet library, which is where I used to spend most of my free time, until that day in November when I heard rodents scur
rying around in the ceiling above me. I was still on my crutches then, but it didn’t matter. I managed to sprint out of there.

  The crowd pushes me out and away from the campus, and down the row of idling yellow buses. Their exhaust pipes rattle as they wait for us. The smell of bus fumes fills the clear air. My book bag is heavy, the diagonal strap digging awkwardly against my shoulder. I’m surrounded by bulging backpacks and loud voices and people who laugh as they shove one another. I keep my head down, keep inching my way forward. An eighth grader in a football jersey lurches against my side, and I mumble an apology a split second after he’s gone. I tug at the fingers of my fuzzy pink mittens. I keep moving, careful not to make eye contact with anyone. Careful not to do much of anything.

  I find bus 185. As I climb aboard, the thrum of the engine tickles the soles of my feet. The back of the bus is already packed with people. A boy in the last row is dribbling a soccer ball on his knees. He bounces it in a repetitive rhythm, a quick swooping arc as he pitches the ball into the air. I move past a girl seated with her head down, thick-padded headphones on, her music turned loud enough for me to hear the shrieking lyrics.

  I reach my own empty seat and slide across the mud-colored vinyl. My book bag hits the floor with a thud. I unbuckle its pouch, reaching for my cell phone. As I pick through the mess of loose papers, snack bar wrappers, and composition notebooks, I glimpse my graded math test. The one I just received in my last class period.

  I barely looked at it when Ms. Finch placed it on my desk. But now, in the privacy of my bus seat, I can’t help but stare.

  Red dashes are scribbled all over the top sheet. The number 70 is circled beside my name with a C–. Arrows point between numbers. Answers have been crossed out. Beside the third question, Ms. Finch wrote: Carry the x. Beside the fifth: You forgot to balance the equation.

  Shame prickles along my skin like goose bumps. I stuff the stapled sheets deeper inside my book bag, wincing as the papers crumple.

  I grab my phone. Let the book bag drop. Take a deep breath.

  There are three unread messages. Two are from Eva. The other is from Mom. I remove the mitten on my right hand to swipe my thumb across the touch screen, unlocking texts.

  Mom: Hi, sweetie! Don’t forget you have a PT appt this afternoon. I’ve prepped some snacks for you and Connor, so check the fridge if you’re hungry. Veggies and turkey sandwiches. Mrs. Baransky will be over soon to watch him until Jack comes home (he’s running late today, we both are, so much to do before our big trip!). Hope you had a great day at school. See you soon! Be safe walking home! Love you!

  Eva: Just got here for the Jillana School audition. Wish me luck!

  Eva: Also, Taylor says hi. ☺

  I respond to Eva first by typing, Good luck at the audition. You’re going to be great. Give Taylor a hug from me.

  And then I tell Mom, See you soon. Love you too.

  The bus doors flap shut, and we start to rumble forward. We jostle over speed bumps. We sway through sharp turns. The inside of this bus is humid, and the windows are foggy, so I open mine about an inch, relishing the cold snap of fresh air. The sky is covered in gray cotton clouds. The pavement outside is stained with wet spots that look like inkblots. It’s starting to rain again. Tiny droplets splatter across the windows. The water streaks are short and thin as paper cuts.

  I turn my phone over. Light up the screen, to see if Eva has said anything else about the audition. She hasn’t. She might be in the studio right now with a number pinned to her leotard, grinning through the barre warm-ups to impress the Jillana School representatives.

  I should be there, too.

  We bump over ridges and uneven slabs in the road. The engine roars as we accelerate around a bend.

  3

  Puddles

  February 15

  I rise and exit the bus.

  I thank the bus driver on my way out, as I always do. When my feet hit the sidewalk, I feel a tingle in my right knee, but I ignore it and move faster. Raindrops pitter-patter along the sidewalk. Parked cars crowd the narrow street. A pink balloon is tied to someone’s mailbox, bobbing and tugging through the air.

  I pull the edges of my beanie more firmly onto my forehead. Everything is gleaming and shivering from the drizzle. Dewdrops cling to the ends of bare skinny branches. Little waterfalls trickle through the sewer grates down the street.

  When I first began taking ballet classes, we used to dance with colorful scarves. We’d spin around the studio with them clutched in our fists. We’d float them above our heads in port de bras. And at the end of each class, our teacher would gather them up and pile them in the center of the floor. She told us to pretend they were puddles. We had to jump over them, to avoid getting our ballet slippers wet. Then the piano music would start to play, and she’d clap to the beat for us as we would each skip, skip, skip, and leap across the imaginary puddle.

  I wish I could go back in time. I miss how dancing made me feel. So creative and expressive. So quick and light on my feet.

  I always had fun at my ballet school. There were never any bad days.

  Until that final day, of course.

  I trudge across the street. Cross our short front yard. Our neighbors might call our place Mr. and Mrs. Leith’s house, which would be both right and wrong. Mom and Jack are married, and Jack’s last name is Leith. But Mom kept her maiden name—Beaumont—through her two marriages. Each person in my family has a different surname: Angie Beaumont, Jack Leith, Maisie Cannon, and Connor Beaumont-Leith.

  Our grass is overgrown and wet. Political lawn signs are anchored throughout the yard. Some of them are for candidates in local elections. Others are for causes: No human is illegal. Water is life. Protect Mother Earth. All of them are boldfaced, bold-colored. Streaked with raindrops.

  I slog past them with my head bowed, the grass squishing beneath my feet.

  4

  The Richest Six-Year-Old Alive

  February 15

  The moment I open our front door, Connor jumps up and yells, “Maisie! Look! Guess what I’m doing.”

  He is standing on the couch cushions with his hands locked behind his back. He’s home before me, because he’s had early dismissals all week for parent-teacher conferences. It isn’t even 4:00 p.m. yet, but he’s already in his Captain America pajama bottoms, and his short black hair is sticking up in all directions. His grin is full of mischief.

  When Mom and Jack met with his teacher for their conference, she proudly reported that Connor is a confident and popular boy, with excellent skills in spelling and math. He’s at the top of his class. But then again, so was I, when all I had to do was add and subtract for numbers less than ten.

  “What am I doing?”

  “I have no idea, Con.”

  “You’re supposed to guess.”

  I remove my wet shoes by the door. Take off my mittens and matching pink hat. “You’re hiding something.”

  Connor rolls his eyes. “Well, that much is obvious.” He flaps his elbows for emphasis.

  “I don’t know. A toy?”

  “No!”

  I sigh and try to move past him, toward the dining room and kitchen. But he vaults from the couch to block my path, disturbing the cushions and sending throw pillows to the floor.

  “You have to guess again.”

  “I already did. I give up.”

  “Just try, Maisie. One more time.”

  “Candy.”

  His brown eyes gleam. “Okay. But what kind?”

  “Something you got for Valentine’s Day.”

  “But what did I get for—?”

  “Skittles? Butterfingers? M&M’s?”

  “Almost. It’s a type of chocolate.”

  “Hershey’s Kisses? Milky Way? Snickers?”

  He can’t take the suspense anymore. He lunges for me and lifts his palms in one quick movement, cackling triumphantly as he crashes into me. His small hands are stuffed with chocolate coins wrapped in golden foil. I wonder how long he
’s been waiting for this big reveal, how melted and sticky they must be right now.

  “I’m rich!” he cries. “Look at all this money. I’m the richest six-year-old alive.”

  I give him a courteous smile. “That’s great, Con. Now let me go. Please.”

  He moves aside, then follows me into the kitchen. There’s a vase filled with camellia branches on the dining room table. They were Jack’s Valentine’s Day gift to our mother. He gathered them from the tree in our backyard. He claimed they were better than red roses from the grocery store, because those greenhouse-born flowers couldn’t survive in the winter. This camellia tree blooms every November and every February, he told me. That’s the type of flower your mother deserves.

  Connor hovers behind me as I browse the pantry.

  “Imagine how rich I’ll be after I find my treasure at the beach,” he says. He unwraps a coin and pops it into his mouth. “I can’t wait.”

  “Yep,” I murmur.

  We’re going on a road trip around the Olympic Peninsula. During this trip, we will dig for razor clams (or treasure, according to Connor) on the Strait of Juan de Fuca. We will hike the Cape Alava Trail (with permission from my doctor and physical therapist). We will visit Cape Flattery. And we’ll visit the Elwha River.

  I reach for a granola bar. Connor rushes to my side. “I want one! Can I have one? Can I please, Maisie?”

  I grab a second bar, toss it to him.

  “Thank you!”

  I walk over to the dining room table, and he follows me, happily ripping his wrapper apart. I open mine too and start to chew. It tastes like chocolate chips and gooey oats mixed with peanut butter.

  “Do you want to play with me?” Connor asks. The words come out muffled, because he’s speaking with his mouth full. Which is something he knows he’s not supposed to do.

  “Stop that,” I tell him. “How many times do I have to remind you?”

  He ducks his head. “Oops. Sorry.”

  “Don’t say sorry. Just stop talking until you’re done chewing.”

  “Okay.”

  “Connor.”

  “What?” he asks, his mouth popping open wide enough for me to see the mushed-up granola.