Strong Like the Sea, стр. 11

“He’s been better.” The purple and blue blossoms on Auntie’s hair clip seem brighter than real flowers against her thick roll of black hair all twisted up and pinned with a hair pick. She hasn’t changed much from the pictures of her and Mom when Mom was little—except for the gray wisps around her face. “Your uncle knows he should slow down, but he thinks he’s the only one who can do the job. I keep telling him he doesn’t have to rescue the whole ocean all by himself, eh? Other people can help too—group effort and all, but what do I know, eh?”

“Last one done!” Dad marks a score at the top of a test and circles it in red ink before checking his watch and rubbing his hands together. “That went faster than expected. So, Alex, are you ready for this challenge? You’re going to love where it ends.” He winks. “And no trying to needle any hints out of us. Neither of us know the whole plan, so no point in cheating.”

“I wouldn’t cheat.” Even if I did ask, I already know the answer would be the same as always: You’re stronger than you know. Look around you, and rise where you stand. As if that could possibly tell me anything useful. My heel bounces against the leg of the chair.

“Your mom is excited to hear all the details when you solve the challenge. But you’ll need to work fast. You’ve got two weeks to figure out all the clues or you won’t make it to the end in time.”

“Two weeks to figure out what the bottle means?” That shouldn’t be too hard.

He chuckles and shares a knowing look with Auntie. “The bottle is just the first step.”

“Wait, this is going to take two whole weeks? What about my report?” My heel bounces faster, and my fingers tighten around the bottle, the glass smooth and cool inside my fist.

“We can carve out time for that too. We just need to schedule it in. I already made some notes for you.” Dad’s chair scrapes on the tile as he stands, lifts November’s oversized calendar off the wall, and turns it to face me. “See? I marked out challenge time in red, and study time in blue—that could be when you work on your report.”

I give him a smile because I know that’s what he wants, but the calendar is bleeding red from all his marks. Was there blue on there at all? I close my eyes and take a long breath.

Dad and his schedule.

I don’t remember the family “schedule” being a big deal when I was little, but recently, if something isn’t on the schedule, it doesn’t exist. And worse, if it is on the schedule, then rain, shine, or hurricane . . . we’re doing it.

“Hey.” Dad rubs my back and my eyes flutter open. “Where’d you go just now?”

“Nowhere. Just thinking. It’s fine.” The last word comes out with more bite than I meant.

“Ha!” Auntie chuckles. “That is the most not-fine I ever heard. You two had better talk story after I go, ’kay?”

Dad’s smile falters as he looks from me to Auntie and back again. “Ah, okay. Sure. We can talk about the schedule. Different colors maybe?”

Auntie pats Dad’s side as she walks past. “Less talk, more listen, eh?”

“Right.” He nods, but I know he’s disappointed. All that work speckling the calendar with notes in colors and stuff—and I hate it. Worse, I stink at hiding what I feel.

“Thank you for dinner, Kamalani.” Dad stacks the dinner dishes and carries them to the kitchen before rolling up his sleeves. “Next time, we could come to your place and save you the bother of cooking here.”

“I know. Like old times.” Auntie wraps Uncle’s plate in wax paper. “But Matthew—he’s . . .” She sighs. “That man. Well, anyway. Maybe later. For now, it’s okay. It’s not easy to help our Elizabeth—she does so much on her own. But this way, she knows you both get good food at least once a week. One less thing to worry about.”

While Dad does the dishes, I put food away and try not to worry about schedules, reports, or competitions. Mostly I try not to think about anything at all—but it’s hard. Just when I think I’ve stuffed one worry down, another pops up and takes its place like a game of whack-a-mole that never stops. Then I worry that I’m worrying too much. How weird is that? My heel bounces a little—not as much as when I’m on a chair, but enough that I catch Auntie watching me. Knowing she sees is enough to make it stop, but I itch to move my heel, or tap my thumb against each finger—or do anything other than work in the kitchen and pretend not to worry about how much I’m worrying.

“Alex?” Auntie pulls a little jar of guava jelly from the cupboard and sets it on the counter. “You like go feed the league?”

“Sure.” I’m pretty sure she’s just making excuses to get me out of the kitchen, but I don’t care. I snatch the jelly and give Auntie a squeeze on the way out.

When I get to the dinner stump in the backyard, I pop the lid, and a dozen tiny green heads peek out from their hiding places near the stump like mini green meerkats. With bright black eyes and blue eyeshadow that matches their toes, our league of gold dust geckos scurries over warm rocks and twists down slender branches to be first at the dinner table.

Rising tall from the center of the stump, a sculpted swirl spirals around to form rings all the way across. I drop a tiny glob of jelly on every ring.

Blurring into lightning-fast streaks through grass and leaves, the geckos dart up the stump and onto the jelly-dotted swirl to eat.

With brilliant green bodies and faded red strips across their faces, our gold dust geckos lick their lips with thick pink