Strong Like the Sea, стр. 7
Leaving the paper on the desk, I open a drawer and pull a charcoal stick from my box of art supplies.
“I use this, right?” I show Mom the charcoal.
“This is your quest,” she chides. “I’ve already given away too much.”
Okay, fine. Right or wrong, this is all I can think of. With charcoal resting gently against the paper, I sweep my hand across the page in quick, long scribbles—filling the white space with faint gray streaks of soot. Like magic, thin, white lines cut through the gloom, highlighting every random wrinkle and crease—but not all the lines are random. I color faster as cursive writing sprawls across the page. “I found it!”
“I knew you could do it.” Mom’s smile of approval mirrors my own as we share this moment together—a rare and precious shooting star, thousands of miles away.
Bright.
Warm.
Fleeting—and gone.
Mom checks her watch, and I feel the seconds rushing past, devouring what little time I have left with her.
She watches me like she’s waiting for something—oh, right. I study the paper with cursive covering most of the page. It reads:
Check the compass often. Sleuthing can be tricky. Head out and search. Piece it all together.
I read it again, tapping a finger against the desk with every line. Four sentences with four words each. No way is that a coincidence. “It’s a cipher.”
“There you go.” Mom nods. “Run with it. What—?”
“It’s the first word of each sentence!” I jump up, and the rolling chair skitters across the floor. “It says: check sleuthing head piece.”
Rows of hats hang over my bed—most from distant countries Mom had visited. I grab my favorite detective hat and check the seams, but there’s nothing in it. I scowl at the row of hats and whisper the line again, “Check sleuthing head piece.”
There! Between my bowler and newsboy hat, hangs a replica of the hat worn by Sherlock Holmes. Carefully, I lift it off the peg and peek inside.
A key slips out of the lining and falls onto the floor. I snatch it up. “Found it!”
“Excellent!” Mom claps, and I beam as ripples of pride spread through me like soundwaves.
The screen door opens, and Dad calls. “Alexis? Is your mother still on the—” He steps into my room and peers at the screen. “Elizabeth! Love, how are you?”
“Brody, you made it!” she says.
“Of course I did.” He glances at me. “Didn’t you check the schedule?”
“Oh, she did. She—” Mom’s video connection freezes for a moment, and I hold my breath as if my hope can force the feed to work again. The screen glitches, speeding for a moment while Mom speaks. “—told me.”
“How’s my beautiful wife today?” Dad sinks into the swivel chair, the WE DIVE logo still shining wet from his last dive lesson, though his sun-bleached hair probably dried two minutes after getting out of the water like always.
“She’s glad to see you,” Mom teases.
Elbows on my desk, Dad leans closer to the screen as if that could bring him closer to Mom. His necklace pendant swings free, the carved white spiral twisting softly at the end of a leather tie.
I start to ease out of the room to give them alone time, but Mom calls, “Wait! Open it first.”
The lock sticks a little when I slide the key inside and turn it, but after wiggling, it pops open with a click. Carefully, I set the lunch box on its back and open it. Inside, wax paper surrounds a carved box with a tiny glass door. And inside that, a beautiful honu hat pin rests on velvet lining—a sea turtle.
The green turtle shell shimmers as I turn it from side to side.
“I always bring you hats, but this time I thought you might like something to go with your hats instead. Do you like it?”
I take my trilby hat off and slide the pin into the hatband before turning it so she can see. “It’s beautiful. Thanks.”
Dad pats my back and leans closer to the camera. “Have you told her yet?”
“No, I was waiting for you.” She taps steepled fingers against her lips and begins, “When I found out this trip was going to be so close to your birthday, I decided you were ready for something more challenging than what I’ve been giving you.”
“More challenging?” I keep my voice steady, but I’m not sure if I would have found the key just now if it weren’t for her hint.
“You knew I was working on a project before I left, I told you that.” Her eyes flick to Dad and she shares another secret smile with him. “But I might have implied that the project was for work.”
I blink. If it took her most of her free time to set it up, how long will it take to solve it? Will I have any time left to work on my history project and win? My stomach churns with guilt for even thinking that. Mom says she worked hard on a special challenge for me, and the first thing I do is worry about beating Lowen? I stuff my anxiety back down as best I can. “The project you spent weeks working on—it’s a challenge for me?”
“Yes, and Auntie and your dad helped too.”
I look to Dad. “You did?” I want to be excited. Really I do. And Mom’s challenges are awesome, important even, but the history project is important too. I think Dad sees my panic, because he gives me a squeeze and whispers into my hair. “It’ll be cool. Trust Mom.”
I like being in control—or at least feeling like I’m in control. When Mom gives me a challenge, and I choose to solve it, it’s fun. Mother-daughter bonding and all that. But knowing she spent so much time makes me feel caught. I don’t know how to react, don’t know what she expects me to do. I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but that uncertainty, her expectation, feels like a riptide