flock of seagulls.
Maybe the surfer was just visiting. Maybe he’s a tourist. That would be a drag. I might never see him again.
School, however, is not a drag, not like San Francisco, and I’m glad.
For most of last year I stayed home from school, unable to deal with Lilah not being there, unable to handle the continual questions from friends, classmates, teachers. My assignments were sent home along with Lilah’s. Mine were sent back completed.
Worse, though, was toward the end of the year, when I went back to school full time. At that point, people must have decided there was no hope for Lilah—or maybe they just didn’t want to keep asking questions that had no answers. Abruptly, the inquiries stopped.
It was then that I turned invisible.
No one knows what to say to the girl whose sister is gone but not gone.
Here, I’m definitely not invisible. In fact—not to be paranoid, but—sometimes it feels like someone’s . . . watching me. And sometimes, somebody is. I get that. I see Logan looking at me, or I catch some other boy at school—some boy I don’t know—checking me out from across the cafeteria. But that’s not it. I mean, watching watching. Like, a creepy kind of watching.
I don’t get that feeling when I’m busy, when I’m writing a song, or caught up in classes, so that’s good. Rock Hook Harbor High is a magnet school specializing in marine technology and science, and Early Oceanography has actually started to draw me in. The class meets three times a week, and we have to log an additional six hours every other week in the lab—or out in the field. I’m sticking to the lab, because in this case, “field” means water.
Thanks to contributions from the Ocean Zone Institute, the labs at RHHH are extremely well equipped. OZI is the largest private nonprofit oceanographic institution in the world, with main offices in Portland and a satellite facility in Rock Hook that employs half the town. It has a vested interest in supporting the school.
Yesterday in the lab I was looking at slides of water samples through a microscope. Fascinated, I watched as miniscule creatures swam to and fro. Obviously a few drops of water can’t hurt me, and a powerful lens—it provides a window into another world.
“It’s amazing how the ocean holds so many life-forms we can’t see with the naked eye,” I said to Mary. She stifled a giggle and looked sideways at Logan.
“She said naked ,” he obligingly shouted, causing everyone to stop and stare.
“Mary, you shouldn’t encourage him. Logan—you’re not even in this class.”
“Oh, but he should be,” Mary said, leaning her head on Logan’s shoulder.
I must have looked skeptical, because Logan said, “Don’t act so surprised, Rush. Mary loves me, just like every other woman who’s ever met me. Except you.”
“Yeah, well, you guys have been friends since, what? Preschool? Maybe you’re an acquired taste.”
“Hey, you just let me know if you want a t—”
“Delaine!” bellowed Mr. Kraig. “What are you doing in this sacred space I call my classroom?”
“Leaving,” Logan replied, giving us a little wave. He grabbed the edges of two lab tables and vaulted over a chair, stopping only to pick up a book that slipped from his back pocket—I confess I craned my neck to read the title but the book was upside down—before heading out the door.
Smiling at the memory of Logan in midair, at the fact that he’s always got a book on him, I look around, like I think I’ll see him or something. But of course he’s not here—I’d totally know if he were. No, the library is practically empty. Quiet. And yet . . . I’ve got that feeling, that weird watched feeling.
I push aside a book about lighthouses. Open one on marine biology.
When I was ten, Dad was hired to captain a large research vessel. He was going to be gone for an entire month. Before he left, we spent the weekend on the boat with the group of scientists,
Maybe the surfer was just visiting. Maybe he’s a tourist. That would be a drag. I might never see him again.
School, however, is not a drag, not like San Francisco, and I’m glad.
For most of last year I stayed home from school, unable to deal with Lilah not being there, unable to handle the continual questions from friends, classmates, teachers. My assignments were sent home along with Lilah’s. Mine were sent back completed.
Worse, though, was toward the end of the year, when I went back to school full time. At that point, people must have decided there was no hope for Lilah—or maybe they just didn’t want to keep asking questions that had no answers. Abruptly, the inquiries stopped.
It was then that I turned invisible.
No one knows what to say to the girl whose sister is gone but not gone.
Here, I’m definitely not invisible. In fact—not to be paranoid, but—sometimes it feels like someone’s . . . watching me. And sometimes, somebody is. I get that. I see Logan looking at me, or I catch some other boy at school—some boy I don’t know—checking me out from across the cafeteria. But that’s not it. I mean, watching watching. Like, a creepy kind of watching.
I don’t get that feeling when I’m busy, when I’m writing a song, or caught up in classes, so that’s good. Rock Hook Harbor High is a magnet school specializing in marine technology and science, and Early Oceanography has actually started to draw me in. The class meets three times a week, and we have to log an additional six hours every other week in the lab—or out in the field. I’m sticking to the lab, because in this case, “field” means water.
Thanks to contributions from the Ocean Zone Institute, the labs at RHHH are extremely well equipped. OZI is the largest private nonprofit oceanographic institution in the world, with main offices in Portland and a satellite facility in Rock Hook that employs half the town. It has a vested interest in supporting the school.
Yesterday in the lab I was looking at slides of water samples through a microscope. Fascinated, I watched as miniscule creatures swam to and fro. Obviously a few drops of water can’t hurt me, and a powerful lens—it provides a window into another world.
“It’s amazing how the ocean holds so many life-forms we can’t see with the naked eye,” I said to Mary. She stifled a giggle and looked sideways at Logan.
“She said naked ,” he obligingly shouted, causing everyone to stop and stare.
“Mary, you shouldn’t encourage him. Logan—you’re not even in this class.”
“Oh, but he should be,” Mary said, leaning her head on Logan’s shoulder.
I must have looked skeptical, because Logan said, “Don’t act so surprised, Rush. Mary loves me, just like every other woman who’s ever met me. Except you.”
“Yeah, well, you guys have been friends since, what? Preschool? Maybe you’re an acquired taste.”
“Hey, you just let me know if you want a t—”
“Delaine!” bellowed Mr. Kraig. “What are you doing in this sacred space I call my classroom?”
“Leaving,” Logan replied, giving us a little wave. He grabbed the edges of two lab tables and vaulted over a chair, stopping only to pick up a book that slipped from his back pocket—I confess I craned my neck to read the title but the book was upside down—before heading out the door.
Smiling at the memory of Logan in midair, at the fact that he’s always got a book on him, I look around, like I think I’ll see him or something. But of course he’s not here—I’d totally know if he were. No, the library is practically empty. Quiet. And yet . . . I’ve got that feeling, that weird watched feeling.
I push aside a book about lighthouses. Open one on marine biology.
When I was ten, Dad was hired to captain a large research vessel. He was going to be gone for an entire month. Before he left, we spent the weekend on the boat with the group of scientists,
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