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Sea Change
Aimee Friedman
For my grandmothers,
Margaret Smouk and Civia Friedman, who have always been so generous with their gifts
OF HIS BONES ARE CORAL MADE
THOSE WERE PEARLS THAT WERE HIS EYES
NOTHING OF HIM THAT DOTH FADE,
BUT DOTH SUFFER A SEA-CHANGE
INTO SOMETHING RICH AND STRANGE
--WILLIAM SHAKESPHERE, THE TEMPEST
THE CURE FOR EVERYTHING IS SALTWATER--
SWEAT, TEARS, OR THE SEA.
-- ISAK DINESAN
CHAPTER ONE
MONSTERS
The waiting ferryboat --ivory-colored and two-tiered --resembled a slice of cake. Or
maybe I was just hungry, I reasoned as I hurried across the dock, my duffel bag bumping
my hip. The name Princess of the Deep was stamped across the boat's side, and the
American flag hanging from its bow whipped and snapped in the salty wind.
I took a deep breath. I was really going.
As I joined the boarding line, I wished I'd covered my head, like the other, wiser travelers
in their Atlanta Braves caps and floppy straw hats. Sweat slid down my back, and my
vintage round sunglasses were no match for the glare off the ocean. I hadn't had much
time to prepare for this trip.
"Next!" called the ticket taker, a large, silver-bearded man in a white T-shirt. He
motioned to me and I stepped forward, the dock's wooden slats hot beneath my
sneakers. When I
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handed him my ticket, his bushy eyebrows shot up so high the sailor hat on his head
wobbled.
"You're headed to Selkie?" he asked. In his thick Georgia drawl, he pronounced the word
Sayl-kee -- all long syllables. "Selkie Island? You sure about that, darlin'?"
I hesitated. I certainly hadn't planned on traveling to Selkie Island, a place I knew next to
nothing about. My summer, like most things in my life, had been all mapped out: As
soon as school ended, I was to start my dream internship at the Museum of Natural
History in New York City. But then the grand mother I'd never known passed away,
setting in motion a chain of events that brought me to where I was on this late June
afternoon. For a second, disorientation swept over me, and then I shook it off.
"Positive," I replied, lifting my chin. I was eager to complete the last leg of my draining
journey; that morning's flight from New York to Savannah had been delayed, and the
cab-driver who'd taken me to the harbor had meandered through the shady streets at a
speed that matched his speech.
"All right," Sailor Hat sighed in an unmistakable it's-your-funeral tone. As he tore my
ticket in two, he gave me a look that was equal parts amused and worried. "It's the last
stop, sugar snap."
"I know," I said tartly, to show how little sugar there was in me. I'd seen on the map
inside the ferry terminal that Princess
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of the Deep made stops at several of the Sea Islands --which shimmer like small gems in
the Atlantic, draping all the way from the coasts of South Carolina to Florida --before
reaching Selkie.
"And it's Miranda," I added, marching around him and toward the boat. Unfortunately,
Miranda isn't too far removed from sugar snap on the Sweet, Girly Name List. I've never
felt it suited me.
"Well, Miranda," Sailor Hat called after me as I followed the passengers clanking up the
gangplank. "You must be plenty brave, a young thing like you setting off for Selkie all by
her lonesome."
I had no idea what Sailor Hat was talking about, and I didn't really care. Still, his words
struck at one chord of truth: I couldn't wait to meet my mother at the Selkie dock.
During the past four days I'd spent by myself back home, I'd missed her steady
presence.
The bottom level of the ferry was dark, dank, and packed with howling children. Orange
life vests were fastened to the low ceiling, and though still tethered to the dock, the
boat rocked roughly on the waves. I figured it would be pleas-anter to stand in the open
air, so I climbed the metal staircase to the top deck, where the breeze toyed with my
ponytail, and the view was a dazzling blue sweep of water and sky. Most people stood
at the railing, but I remained by the stairs,
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near a group of golden-haired girls who looked to be about my age.
The girls were huddled together, laughing, and I felt a pang. They all wore tiny shorts
and platform flip-flops, the better to show off their long, bronzed legs and perfectly
formed toes. I pictured myself beside them --a pale, thin, dark-haired girl in a
red-striped shirt, jeans, and black Converse --and smiled wryly. We may as well have
been different species.

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