Mary Underwater Read online

  CONTENT NOTE: This book contains domestic violence and child abuse that occurs off-page.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Doleski, Shannon, author.

  Title: Mary underwater/Shannon Doleski.

  Description: New York: Amulet Books, [2020] | Summary: Gaining courage from Joan of Arc, fourteen-year-old Mary Murphy navigates the waters of Chesapeake Bay in a submersible built with her friend, Kip, escaping the home where her violent father has just returned from prison. Includes facts about domestic violence and submersibles.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019033763 (print) | LCCN 2019033764 (ebook) | ISBN 9781419740800 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781683358145 (ebook)

  Subjects: CYAC: Family violence—Fiction. | Ex-convicts—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Submersibles—Fiction. | Catholic schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.D637 Mar 2020 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.D637 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  Text copyright © 2020 Shannon Doleski

  Book design by Hana Anouk Nakamura

  Published in 2020 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

  Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [email protected] or the address below.

  Amulet Books is a registered trademark of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

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  To June, Teddy, and Dwyer, my three little engineers

  My dad is home, and anger has leaked back into the house. It rattles the walls and leaves bruises. If I’m not careful, it will pull me under. If I am careful, I can stay far away from it, sneaking with silent feet before anyone notices me.

  I get dressed for school as quietly as I can while a battle rages in the kitchen. I press my hands to my ears, dulling the sound. Two weeks. He’s been home for two weeks.

  I pry my hands away and force shaking fingers to tie my dull black shoes and yank up my socks. When I stand, I pull on the hem of my jumper, the green-and-blue plaid faded. Sister Brigid has been after me since January about the skirt length, but two inches of kneecap appear no matter how hard I tug. “Our Lady girls do not show knee, Miss Murphy. If you want that, go to public school. Please rectify this at once.”

  I can’t fix it, so I haven’t fixed it. At school, I avoid the nun at all costs.

  From the kitchen, I hear a shout, so I hold my breath and wait. It’s quiet for a second. Before anything else can happen, I grab my backpack, zip it shut, and slide out the back door.

  Outside, I can breathe. The salty air of the Chesapeake is better than the suffocation of the Murphy house. My bike is propped against the porch, and I plant myself in the seat as fast as I can.

  The Bay cuts up through the state. Like the water can’t be contained, it carves rivers along the way, leaving ragged fingers of land. On the western shore, my island, Bournes, is a broken fingernail, surrounded by the Patuxent River on one side and Back Creek on the other. At the bottom of the island is the Bay and most of the houses.

  I pedal north up the main street, the boardwalk to my left and shops to my right. The sun glints off the watermen’s trucks parked at the marina. I veer right, where the island juts into Back Creek. Ahead of me is Our Lady Star of the Sea, a church the creamy color of a shell, with arched windows and doors. The low brick building behind that is the school.

  As soon as I drop my bike at the rack, I unzip the tiny front pocket of my backpack and pull out the prayer card Sister Eu gave me in kindergarten. Joan of Arc, her hair short and dark, looks back at me. She’s strong in gleaming armor, her sword raised high, the French battlefield in the background. I smooth the worn edges. I wish I were brave like Joan.

  The entire time my dad was in prison, I didn’t need the card at all. But now I press my eyes closed and whisper the words on the back. “I am not afraid.”

  I am not afraid.

  I am not afraid.

  I am brave and strong, my sword pointed high in the sky. Behind me is the Chesapeake Bay, the water gleaming in the April sunshine. I am not afraid.

  When my heartbeat slows, I open my eyes. Before anyone can see, I slide the card back in the pocket, because thirteen-year-olds aren’t supposed to play pretend. It’s a weird thing to do. I know it’s weird. But without Joan, I would drift away.

  I follow the other students into Our Lady, the only school on the island. In the hallway, my friend Lydia waves. We might still be friends. I don’t know. She’s tall and pretty, and her black hair is in twists.

  “Hey, are you coming over this weekend?” she asks me, opening her locker. She looks down the hall and smiles at someone.

  “Maybe,” I say. I haven’t told Lydia about my dad being back. If I were braver, I would, but last time her mom called my social worker. If I stay away, it’s easier. For everyone.

  Lydia shuts her locker and turns around. “I want to show you my animation,” she says. “It needs help.” She makes these little sets in her room, dioramas with clay figures, and puts the short films online. They’re beautiful.

  “I’ll ask,” I say, knowing I won’t.

  “Okay. I gotta go!” She runs to catch up with Omar Wiley. I watch them turn into the Spanish teacher’s classroom. If I’m not careful, I won’t have a best friend soon.

  In Mr. Fen’s science room, I take my seat next to Kathleen Seton. Kathleen is weirder than I am. I think. She draws unicorns. Since kindergarten, she’s only drawn unicorns, and worse, she talks to the paper while she’s doing it. At least Joan of Arc really existed.

  Usually, I like science. A lot. I even won the science fair last year in seventh grade. But lately, I can’t shake off the fog of the morning. I stare at the front of the room while Mr. Fen talks.

  My eyes drift past my teacher and out the window, to the slice of water behind the marina. No one is on the beach yet, but they will be soon, maybe in a week or two. Sometimes Lydia makes me go, but I don’t like to. I never learned how to swim. Which is probably strange for someone who lives on an island.

  “Mary!”

  He shouts it like he’s been calling me for a while. I meet Mr. Fen’s eyes and fidget in my seat. It’s a nervous habit.

  “What would you say in that instance?”

  “Umm . . .” I pick at my fingernail. “What instance, sir?”

  The kids behind me giggle. I stiffen as my cheeks burn hot. I hate blushing.

  “Were you paying attention, Miss Murphy?” Mr. Fen moves closer to me, inches away from the lab table. His shirt is as wrinkly as ever. “You know, if you spent less time staring at my tie, you would know the answer. Perhaps your grade would reflect that.”

  If melting into my seat were a possibility, I’d do it. And I wasn’t even looking at his ugly tie.

  “Mr. Fen, in her defense, your tie is exquisite. It’s hard to pay attention when you wear clothes like that.” Kip Dwyer. He is tall and freckled and has a gap between his two front teeth. When we were five, he mooned Sister Eu and everyone thought he was hilarious. He is. Sometimes.

  When I hear his voice, I w
hip around, my two fat braids thumping against my desk. His eyes meet mine, and he winks. He’s ridiculous. No one winks. He also doesn’t need to rescue me from Mr. Fen. I refuse to return his smile and turn back toward the front.

  To tune out my laughing class, I focus on an oyster recycling poster on the wall. A waterman with big boots holds up a bright yellow bucket. Restaurants turn in their discarded oyster shells. The lab on the south side of the island cleans them and then scatters them in the Chesapeake Bay to make new reefs.

  “Oh, Mr. Dwyer, thank you for taking us off task.” Mr. Fen shuffles a stack of papers and whistles us back to attention. Like we’re dogs. I close my eyes and drop my head on the table.

  “On that note, I’d like to hand back your tests from last week. Some of you should be very worried.”

  Everyone groans. Mr. Fen pretends he’s all tough, but he doesn’t yell at us about the groaning like other teachers would. Like the nuns.

  When he gets to my table, he pauses. “I hope this was an exception, Mary,” he whispers. I panic. Teachers whisper only when things are awful. He hands me the test facedown. Another unfortunate sign. When I flip it over, I see a big fat F scrawled at the top.

  He starts to go over the hardest questions, but I can’t pay attention. I want to escape. I want to ride my bike to the Cliffs, where I can breathe.

  At the end of class, Mr. Fen stops me. “Sister Eu needs to see you in her office.”

  “Now? But I have French.” A burning starts to bubble in my throat, and I’m afraid something will come out.

  “Yes, now. I told her you can make it up on the project.”

  “The project?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  “Murphy, I’ve been talking about your physics unit for two weeks. You need to make a STEM project that explains one of the theories we’ve learned about. It could help bring your grade back up.”

  “Okay.” Tears threaten to spill. “Can I go to the bathroom, Mr. Fen?”

  “Sure,” he says, picking up his coffee mug. “Just go to the principal’s office when you’re done.”

  I bolt to the nearest bathroom. The fluorescent light flickers above my head. I look in the mirror, and shadows bounce on my face.

  Get it together, Murphy. I splash water on my cheeks. I can talk to Sister Eu. She’s just a person, just a nun. Just the daughter of a waterman, like me. It’s not a big deal.

  I adjust the waist of my jumper and try to make myself as presentable as possible. It’s not easy. I’m a mess. My top is dingy, my knees are red beacons, and my socks keep falling down. I’m hardly Our Lady. Certainly not a star.

  I walk down the hallway to her office, my footsteps the only sound. They make me feel alone. All of these people in this school, yet I am all by myself.

  In the main office, the school secretary, Mrs. Rivers, uses her thumb to point me to Sister Eu’s office. The door is shut. I press my fingers against the saint’s card in my pocket. I am not afraid.

  I prepare myself for the storm about to hit my shores. Board up my windows. Hide in the closet. And open her door.

  We call her Sister Eu, like you, but it’s really Eulalia. She talks like us, grew up on the island, and only came back after whatever school nuns go to and became the principal of Our Lady. In her black habit, she sits in her chair, waiting for me.

  Across from her is a seat that might as well be an electric chair. I take my place and look down at my fingernails.

  “Good morning, Mary.” Her voice is always gentle.

  “Sister.” I fidget on the hard plastic.

  “I assume you understand, after speaking with Mr. Fen, that we are worried, child.”

  Worried. Here we go. I am a crab plucked from my little perch, and she is watching my legs squirm.

  I nod and jam my hand in my pocket and run my fingers along the card she gave me so long ago. I am brave. I am not afraid. I am Joan rallying the French troops against the English. I thunder up and down the line of men on my horse, a white banner fluttering at my side.

  I am not Mary Murphy.

  “Mr. Fen said you failed your test.”

  “He did?” My words squeak out.

  She nods. “You were doing so well at the beginning of the year. Top five in your class.”

  Is that all she wanted? My stomach untwists. “Yes, Sister. I will take care of it.”

  Sister Eu sighs and folds her hands together. “I heard your father is home. Is that true?”

  It’s like she slaps me. Actually, I would prefer that. It would be over quicker. I need her to stop talking. “We have a big project. The eighth-grade physics unit? I can bring up my grade then. We have to make something. I think it can be anything STEM. That’s science, technology, engineering, and mathematics. I always think it’s mechanics instead, though. I like the engineering part the most—” The words roll out of me as fast as I can think them.

  “Mary, child.”

  I stop and flick my thumbnails without looking at the nun, whispering, “My father is home, and it’s crabbing season, Sister Eu.” We need the money. Without it, my mom’s job at the cannery won’t be enough.

  “It is,” she says. “April already! How quickly the spring is moving.” Her voice lacks concern. It’s light, but I know what she’s doing. That’s what they always do, try to trick me into talking, and I will not be tricked.

  “Is that all? May I be excused?” I am choking, and my eyes burn. I stand up, consumed, and look at my feet, which seem too big, too enormous to move without me falling.

  She nods again and hands me a pass for Madame’s class. “Mary.” She blinks at me. Her brown eyes scan my face like she’s trying to find the right words. “Good luck on your STEM project.”

  When school is finally over, I don’t want to go home. I grab my bike and leave the island, trying to erase away the big fat F written in red ink that was my day.

  Two bridges connect Bournes to the rest of the world, the older and smaller one to the north and the newer one to the east. I haven’t crossed the new bridge yet. I leave the island and ride up to the Cliffs. A mile from school, the mountains of sand that are loaded with shark teeth and fossils wait for me. Access to the water, through a path in the woods, is public.

  But the Cliffs and beach belong to the scientist community. Along the shore is a clump of little white cottages with screened-in porches and green lawns. They all look the same, and they’re full of scientists who came to live on and study the Bay. Most of them are old.

  The watermen, my father included, don’t like them. The scientists aren’t like the people of Bournes. They’ve got different ideas about the Bay. But I like them. They give me fossils and shells they find, and they don’t mind when I come to their beach.

  I can’t ride my bike on the sand, so I leave it at the entrance of the trail. The sky threatens rain above me with dark, rolling clouds, but I keep going through the woods.

  Under the cover of trees, the path is cool and quiet. It’s low tide when I reach the water, and I’m alone on the beach.

  For the first time all day, I can breathe. I let the safety of the Cliffs and the water cradle me. I sink, my knees scraping against oyster shells. I cry, my sobs loud. And the wind howls with me, in my ears, on my face, making my hair sneak out of my braids.

  I yell at Mr. Fen. At Sister Eu. At my father. But mostly, into the storm, I yell at Mary Murphy.

  I’m so wrapped up in myself, I don’t see the person standing in front of me until he clears his throat. Kip Dwyer. Of course.

  “Oh Lord,” I say. I brace myself for a joke.

  “Hi,” he says. Instead of the dark blue pants and crisp white shirt of the boys’ uniform, he’s wearing jeans and a light blue T-shirt. His hair is blond and a little spiky. He clears his throat again. “Are you okay?”

  I probably look like a wild-haired witch. I wipe my face and push back my loosened curls. “I’m fine.”

  “Okay, it’s just, I was looking for shark teeth, and I saw . . .�
�

  “You saw me crying.”

  “Yeah.” I think he’s grateful I answer for him. He digs the toe of his sneaker into the sand. Under his freckles, his cheeks pinken like he’s embarrassed. How is that possible? I’m the one screaming and sobbing.

  “I’m fine.” I stare him down. Lydia tells me I look at people too intensely, my eyebrows straight black lines on my face. I’m probably doing that now.

  “It looks like it’s gonna storm,” Kip says. “You might want to go home.” Kip’s family owns the marina. I don’t like it down by their dock because all the watermen hang out there and talk about how funny Bobby Murphy is.

  “You’re not the only one who knows about the water, you know.”

  “Right.” Kip looks out at the waves. “You sure you’re okay? Fen was a jerk to you this morning and now . . .”

  I wipe my nose one more time. “He was.” And he wasn’t. The more I think about it, the more I want to cry again, and I don’t want Kip to see me. Again. I don’t need more public embarrassment. “I’m fine, though. Really.” It feels like I swallowed a marble. I need him to leave so I can be sad all by myself.

  Kip puts his hand on the back of his neck. “When people say they’re fine, they’re usually not.”

  I’d rather he mooned me.

  “I am fine.”

  He smiles.

  “I am stupendous. I am wonderful. Is that better?”

  “Very believable. Remember when we were in first grade and you used to come to the marina?”

  “Yes.” I don’t know where he’s going with this.

  He grins, the gap thick between his two front teeth. “You made me sword fight with you.”

  I tuck my chin into my chest. “I know.” Please don’t mention Joan of Arc. Please. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray.

  “You made me be English, and you were Joan of Arc.”

  “Yes!” I blurt.

  “I liked that,” he says. “We should do that again.”

  He wants to sword fight?

  In his hand, Kip’s phone dings. “My mom. I gotta go.” He heads toward the path, then turns back and smiles again. In the wind, he yells, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mary Murphy.”