Words Composed of Sea and Sky Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Erica George

  Cover copyright © 2021 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Running Press Teens

  Hachette Book Group

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  @RP_Kids

  First Edition: May 2021

  Published by Running Press Teens, an imprint of Perseus Books, LLC, a subsidiary of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Running Press Teens name and logo is a trademark of the Hachette Book Group.

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  Cover Photographs copyright © Getty Images

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020939734

  ISBNs: 978-0-7624-6820-1 (hardcover), 978-0-7624-6822-5 (ebook)

  E3-20210420-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One: Michaela

  Chapter Two: Michaela

  Chapter Three: Michaela

  Chapter Four: Michaela

  Chapter Five: Leta

  Chapter Six: Michaela

  Chapter Seven: Michaela

  Chapter Eight: Leta

  Chapter Nine: Michaela

  Chapter Ten: Michaela

  Chapter Eleven: Leta

  Chapter Twelve: Michaela

  Chapter Thirteen: Leta

  Chapter Fourteen: Michaela

  Chapter Fifteen: Leta

  Chapter Sixteen: Michaela

  Chapter Seventeen: Leta

  Chapter Eighteen: Leta

  Chapter Nineteen: Michaela

  Chapter Twenty: Leta

  Chapter Twenty-One: Michaela

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Leta

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Michaela

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Leta

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Michaela

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Michaela

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Leta

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Michaela

  Acknowledgments

  Discover More

  For Emily,

  whose words continue to inspire bravery

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  CHAPTER ONE

  MICHAELA

  present day

  If I’m being honest, I’ve imagined countless scenarios in which one could meet the perfect boy in the most romantic way.

  Take number seventeen on my list: the run-in at a bookshop among the shelves, stealing glances between the spines of classic books. Then, of course, there’s number twelve: being caught unprepared in the rain, standing under the wilting pages of a newspaper that I just so happen to be carrying, and he comes to my rescue with an umbrella. And perhaps my personal favorite, number one: standing in line at The Good Bean, my local coffee shop, waiting forever to order my favorite muffin, the double mocha, only to find that the most charming stranger has ordered the last one. He realizes that this muffin holds the key to our lasting relationship and offers it to me.

  I like the last one best because I get the cute boy and the muffin.

  Narrowly escaping being plowed down by the cute boy in his navy-blue Audi convertible on my way to pick up my little sister from school was decidedly not on my list of ways to meet the perfect boy. Admittedly, I could have avoided the entire situation if my earbuds hadn’t been in, and if I wasn’t obsessing over the best way to broach a particularly touchy subject with my mom and stepdad once I got home.

  I don’t hear the car coming because my playlist is too loud, full of angsty, contemplative music to make me feel brave enough for when I get home. It’s only when I notice one of the parents on the sidewalk in front of Bayberry Elementary School waving her arms in the air hysterically that I pull out one of my earbuds. The screeching of brakes behind me makes me whirl, catching a glimpse of the Audi swerving to avoid me, running up the curb, and careening into the fire hydrant. Frothy white water spews heavenward, glimmering in rainbows on its way back to the earth.

  I remain in the middle of the street, gawking at the scene. The driver, a handsome boy with porcelain doll skin and curly chestnut hair, grips the car’s steering wheel and hits his forehead against it dramatically.

  “You almost ran over my sister!” Mellie, my sister, screams beside me, grabbing my hand with her free one and trying to maintain her grip with the other on what looks to be a papier-mâché whale.

  “She was in the middle of the road!” he yells, struggling to unbuckle the seat belt and open the door at the same time.

  I stand there, blinking, trying to comprehend the fact that if I hadn’t taken out my earbud at the last moment, I might be dead. The boy stands in front of me now, his fingers raking through his shiny hair, his eyes taking me in.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “I’m okay,” I assure him. “Your car is decidedly less so.”

  He almost laughs until he turns to see his crumpled grill and bumper. Then his shoulders slouch and he curses under his breath. “But you’re okay, so that’s…” He sighs. “That’s what’s important.”

  I’ve never seen this boy before. He doesn’t go to school with me, and he seems so much more mature, so much more collected, than boys my age. Maybe he’s in college. Or maybe he’s one of Highland’s part-time residents, spending summers on Cape Cod and the rest of the year someplace else.

  I haven’t exactly played out this scenario in my head, so everything I do from this point forward is just improvising. I reach around to my messenger bag, stuffed with end-of-the-year assignments, random poetry books that littered the bottom of my locker for most of the year, and my trusty notebook, still somewhat fresh and filled with blank pages ready for my summer musings.

  “You should take my information for when the police arrive.” I scribble down what I think is important: my name and cell number. Then I offer it up to him, my hand lingering between us, his eyes studying the paper for a moment.

  “Thanks,” he says, taking it with his pointer and middle finger and offering me a tight smile as he turns back to his car.

  “Sure thing.”

  “Mack,” says Mellie from beside me, yanking my hand and tightening her grip. “Let’s go. I have to show Mom my whale!”

  “All right, Mellie. Chill out.” I glance down in time to catch her rolling her eyes and swiping her bangs out of her face.

  The boy remains focused on the Audi, the khaki-hued leather interior getting soaked by the hydrant and the gathering crowd of parents and teachers growing agitated over the fact that he was driving so recklessly around little kids. None of this seems to faze him.

  “Come on, Mack.” Mellie pulls me down the street toward home.

  When we ge
t back to the house, Mom is already inside, unpacking groceries from her shopping trip and watching the little kitchen TV on mute. Mellie plows through the back door, unhooking her backpack from her shoulders and depositing it on one of the kitchen chairs. “Hey, Mellie-bear,” Mom says, leaning down and kissing the top of my sister’s head. “How was World Ocean Day?”

  “Exquisite,” says Mellie, emphasizing the t and shoving her right whale into Mom’s hands. “Just like I knew it would be. All the teachers told me that the day wouldn’t have gone as well if I weren’t so responsible and helpful.”

  “Took the words right out of my mouth.” Mom’s standing at the stove, monitoring a pot of water that starts to boil softly. “And how was your day, Mack?”

  “Fine,” I reply.

  “Mack almost got run over,” Mellie announces.

  “What?” Mom’s face blanches, and she strides across the room, her hands suddenly on my shoulders. “What happened?”

  “I’m fine. Mellie’s making it sound worse than it was. A guy swerved to avoid me and hit a fire hydrant.”

  “Mack gave him her number.”

  “Oh my God, Mellie,” I say, sliding into a chair beside her. “Don’t you have some homework to do?”

  “I only have a noun worksheet to do,” says Mellie, her feet tucked up under her knees on the chair. “I already finished my reading during workshop this morning.”

  This is it, I think. This is my chance. My sister has literally placed the opportunity at my feet. I take a deep breath. “Speaking of workshops—” I start.

  But before I can continue, my stepdad’s voice interrupts. “Got hot dogs for dinner, Grace!” Russ stomps up the back-porch steps, a brown paper bag in his arms.

  “I wish you would have texted me,” Mom calls out the screen door.

  Russ pauses on the deck before coming inside, raises his key fob, and locks his Dodge Durango. “Why?”

  “Because I picked up stuff to make meatloaf.”

  I groan simultaneously with Russ, which causes us both to regard one another in surprise.

  “No meatloaf,” I beg, pulling my notebook out of my messenger bag. I start my homework, a creative response to an article we read in class about who, what, or where we call home. I write, changing a few words I had written during fourth period, then I add several more.

  “It’s too hot to turn on the oven, Grace,” Russ adds. “I’ll grill some hot dogs.” He stands next to Mom at the counter and kisses her cheek, then heads in my direction.

  Instinctively, my hands crash down on my words, hiding them from his view. They’re still too close to me, too new, to share with anyone, especially Russ.

  “I wasn’t looking,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender. He pauses at Mellie and kisses the top of her head, then eases past the kitchen table to the pantry, where he rummages around for all of the important hot dog condiments.

  Feeling like it’s safe to review my work, I lift my hand just a little bit and read my poem to myself.

  there are no secrets in this house

  thin walls

  open doors

  few rooms

  no space

  to clear my thoughts

  get them down on paper

  out of my head

  stolen moments

  of peace

  solitude

  words tucked away

  and hiding in plain sight

  so that the only one

  who hears them

  is the shy fox

  who trotted all the way

  from the woods

  from the marsh

  from the sea

  just to listen

  maybe my words don’t even exist

  unless the fox is there to hear them

  someone to notice them

  notice me

  I smile at my small accomplishment. My English teacher will like it. She’s basically the only person I let read my poems because my grade kind of depends upon it. Other than that, they’re just for me.

  Mom and Russ meander about, getting ready for dinner, trading stories from their day. Mom works at a day care center, and Russ owns our town’s most affordable fried seafood establishment: the Shellfish Shanty. He comes home almost every day smelling of burnt oil. After I work a shift waitressing there, so do I.

  “You want a glass of wine?” Mom asks, bent over and searching in the fridge.

  “Get me a beer instead.” Russ pauses. “My good beer.”

  The good beer is expensive and comes in bottles, and Russ drinks it only on special occasions. I know that’s my signal, the cue that both my mom and Russ are open to a conversation. They’ve both had good days at work, and they’re mellowing out with an afternoon drink. It’s now or never.

  “Hey, guys?” I ask, shifting in my chair and retrieving my folder from my bag.

  “Hmm?” Mom pours herself a glass of wine and leans back on the kitchen counter.

  “So, I was talking with my guidance counselor…”

  “Who?” Russ asks, realizing he’s a part of this conversation, too.

  “Her guidance counselor,” Mom replies.

  “She thinks that my writing is strong enough to get into Winslow College of Fine Arts.”

  “Where’s that?” Russ asks.

  “Just north of Boston,” I reply.

  He nods because he likes the in-state price tag. It’s a good start, and I’m spurred on by his mild but rarely won enthusiasm.

  “She told me about this retreat they’re having in the fall,” I continue, pushing my blue folder across the kitchen table and opening it for them. “It’s for prospective students, and you bring your poetry portfolio and have access to all of the professors. They give you feedback, and you stay on campus, and you get to see what dorm life is like, and eat in the cafeteria, and—”

  “How much?”

  I meet Russ’s eyes. “Um…” I tap my finger against my lips. “Lemme check.” I try to buy myself some time by pretending I don’t know the exact number. I search for some kind of form to show him so I don’t have to say how much.

  Mom is busy riffling through the program guide, nodding at several of the lectures I’ll be able to attend. I pause for a moment to appreciate that I have a pretty mom. She’s much prettier than Russ deserves, and he should really take that into consideration when deciding on whether I can go to this workshop in October.

  Besides, if I get accepted to Winslow College, then I’ll be dorming there, away from here, and Russ will get what he’s always wanted: my mom and Mellie to himself. His family.

  “Here, the price should be on this sheet,” I say, standing and handing it to him.

  “Whoa!” Russ hoots, setting down his beer bottle on the table and dramatically raising his hand to his forehead. All the better to make his point. “Twelve hundred dollars, Mack? For a weekend?”

  “A long weekend,” I say quietly. “It’s technically five days.”

  He drops the paper to the table, retrieves his bottle, and paces out to the deck.

  Mom lifts what he was just reading and raises her eyebrows, her mouth parting before she even speaks. “Michaela,” she says. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “You can convince him,” I whisper urgently, gripping her wrist. My eyes dart to Russ’s figure on the back deck, opening the cover of the grill and attempting to light it. He curses when it doesn’t happen fast enough.

  “Baby, I’m not even sure if I’m convinced. What if you just applied to the college like everyone else? Is this retreat necessary for admission?”

  “It’s not necessary,” I reply, “but if they see my writing ahead of time, if they know what I’m capable of, then I’m more than just grades and extracurricular activities, right? I’m a writer, a poet, someone worthy of their school.”

  She’s quiet, which means I still have a chance to convince her.

  “Mom,” I beg, squeezing her hand. “It’s Dad’s school.”

  She presses her l
ips together, closing her eyes. “I know that.”

  “I have to go.”

  She squeezes my hand. “I’ll talk to Russ. Maybe they have payment plans.”

  Squealing, I hop up and down and peck her cheek with a kiss.

  She lifts a plate of hot dog buns and presents them to me. “Take this out to Russ. You know he likes the buns toasted.”

  “Okay,” I reply, taking them from her and heading for the screen door. On the deck, I search Russ for any indication of a changed mind. No such luck.

  “Oh, good,” he says when he sees me. “The rolls I like.”

  I nod and turn to go inside.

  “There are lots of places to apply to for college, Mack,” Russ says once my back is turned.

  My shoulders droop as I reach for the door handle.

  “Places that don’t just specialize in words and feelings. Places that’ll get you ready for a real job, the real world.”

  The hot dogs sizzle on the grill.

  “That’s not—” I try to explain. But it’s useless. He’s not going to get it, so why waste my words on him?

  I pass through the screen door, letting it slap closed behind me.

  “Hey, Mack?” says Mellie from the table. “Is freedom a noun?”

  “Yes,” I reply, lowering myself into the chair beside her.

  “But it’s not a person, place, or thing,” she protests.

  “It’s an idea.” I sigh, resting my chin in my hand.

  She seems temporarily satisfied by this, then snaps up her head from her worksheet and pulls her backpack over to the table, searching frantically for something. When she finds it, a black folder with a shiny gold star, she breathes a dramatic sigh of relief. “I thought I lost it! My pride and joy.”

  “It’s a folder,” I say.

  She places her hand on my arm. “Not just any folder. It’s a Third Grade Student Star folder. Not every third grader gets one. I’ve been waiting all year for this.” She kisses its glossy exterior.

  Mom deposits two glasses of iced tea in front of us and says, “You’re sweating. Drink something cold.” She runs her hand over my ponytail and smiles. “Your hair always gets so golden in the summer. You look like your dad.”