Revel

CHAPTER 1
 

M
aybe I should have known from the beginning to stay away from Trespass Island. The signs were all there, as clear as flashing neon. Like
Don’t Eat at Joe’s—I Got Salmonella
. I guess I was just too blind to see them.

I stood at the counter of the Portland Ferry Company to get my ticket, pulling my short-sleeved hoodie close against the gusts of cool ocean air that blew through every time the doors swung.

“You can’t get there from here,” the ticket clerk said. His Maine accent broke
there
in two.
They-ya
.

I blinked, then smiled. “What? Oh. Ha. Good one.” I definitely wasn’t at my best. I’d just ridden by bus for two days from Garden City, Kansas; I’d slept sitting upright last night next to the Pavarotti of snorers and was seriously
undercaffeinated. And I obviously didn’t get New England humor.

But the ticket clerk just scowled at me, leaned forward, and fired his words through the circular hole in his window like spitty missiles. “I
said
, you can’t
get
there from here.”

He actually wasn’t joking.

I held up a finger, rummaged in my backpack and took out an old book.
Mysteries of the New England Coast
fell open to a faded map in the center. I slid the book under the ticket window.

“See? This is where I want to go.” I pointed to a small blob on the map, squishing down the book a little because the blob was almost hidden in the crack of the spine. “That’s Trespass Island, right? Doesn’t one of the ferries go there?”

“Nope,” the ticket agent said. “Ferry for Saylor Island goes
past
there.” He poked a finger on the map. “Doesn’t stop at Trespass. That’s a private island. Residents only. Hey, watch it.”

I’d twisted the book a little, accidentally nudging his Portland Sea Dogs mug, and a spout of coffee splattered his shirt.

“Oh my gosh. I am
so
sorry. Here, take this.” I pushed a wad of napkins under the window.

The ticket agent waved away my help and wiped coffee from his name tag, which said
I’m Richard
, meanwhile muttering something under his breath about tourists.

“But people live there,” I said. “How do the residents get back and forth?”

The ticket agent eyed me, then shrugged. “Most folks who
live on an island have their own boat. ’Less they’re real good swimmers.” He snorted.

“Ha ha, right.” That was so—not funny again. My laugh sounded distracted, bordering on panicky. “So how do
I
get out there? There must be a mail boat or a water taxi. Something.”

The man’s smile faded. As if he’d expected me to be miles away by this time, pestering someone else. When I didn’t budge from the counter, he said with a touch of impatience, “Folks on Trespass are real private. They don’t want tourists poking around. Or treasure hunters.” He gave a disparaging jerk of his chin toward the book.

“Oh, I’m not a tourist,” I said quickly. “I have family on the island.”

Family
. That word felt strange. My grandmother was the only family I had left, and I’d never even met her.

“Oh yeah?” The guy looked me up and down. “Your family know you’re coming?”

“Well, no, not exactly.”

“Huh.” The ticket agent chewed on the problem, looking bored. “Guess you’re out of luck. Best let ’em know you’re here. Make arrangements that way.”

He looked past me and seemed disappointed to find that nobody else was in line.

“Okay. Thanks.” I took the book, picked up my small suitcase and turned away. There must be a way. I’d find one. After coming all this way, I couldn’t go back.

“Wait a minute,” the ticket agent called. “You say you’ve got family out there on Trespass?”

When I looked back, he fidgeted, as if trying to decide something. “I
might
be able to find someone to take you,” he said at last, rubbing the bristles on his jaw. “Old fella that comes out for the mail will be coming by. But it’s against the rules. And expensive.” He licked his lips. “Say … three hundred dollars?”

“Three hundred dollars?” It was a crazy amount for a simple boat ride. On the other hand, I had the money. And no other options. Not at the moment, anyway.

I dug into the pocket of my jeans and pulled out a small plastic change purse. The thing was kind of embarrassing, with its gaudy polka dots, but it was secure, and small enough to tuck in a pocket. “I don’t have that much in cash. But—” I flipped open the clasp and extracted a misshapen coin. I’d taken five from the safe-deposit box at the First National to fund this trip. There were three left. “I have this.” I tapped one of the coins on the counter and slid it forward.

“It’s a spanish gold piece,” I told him. He slipped a hand over the coin. “Two escudos or something. It’s worth about three hundred and fifty dollars. You can look it up online.”

“So it’s true,” he whispered. He rubbed the coin between two thick fingers.

“What’s true?”

“Nothing,” he said, pocketing the coin.

“Okay,” I said with a shrug. “Can I get a ride?”

“Wait outside.” His gaze fixed on the gleaming coin like his eyeballs were magnetized. “Dock seven.”

Rolling my small suitcase behind me, I went from the dimness of the ferry terminal into the bright sunshine. Outside, the sounds of clanging bells, horn blasts and screeching gulls filled Portland’s harbor. I sat down on a bench and wrinkled my nose. I’d never been this close to the ocean before. Wasn’t the sea supposed to smell fresh and tangy? This just … smelled. The fishy odor of the dock felt cloying and thick, almost as if the salty air were trying to seep into my skin. A damp, cool breeze blew in from the water and, as if to defy the warm June temperatures, made me shiver.

This was nothing like Kansas. I’d left bright green fields bursting with crops and the smells of warmth and grass and sunshine. Here the vast gray-blue ocean looked cold and bleak. I felt lost already.

At Dock 6 the
Island Mermaid
was boarding. I watched as cars lined up on the lower deck and foot passengers jostled in a ragged line up the ramp. A rowdy group of little kids all wearing red T-shirts emblazoned with
Camp Sunshine
were the last to board, herded by teen counselors.

The campers pounded up the steps to the upper deck of the ferry and immediately rushed to the railing, giggling and poking each other. One curly-haired boy slung himself halfway over the top, seeming to teeter as he pointed down at something in the water. He bounced back down and I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I watched them.
Interesting. Not one of them looked as though they were contemplating a dreadful, watery death. They probably hadn’t even seen
Titanic
. I had. Seven times.

With the blare of a horn that made me jump, the
Island Mermaid
pulled away from the dock, leaving a long white trail of churning water.

Just don’t think about it. It’s not a big deal. It’s perfectly safe
.

I swiped a coil of hair from my eyes and looked up at a colorful map painted on the wall of the building. Dotted lines crisscrossed the blue expanse of Casco Bay, showing the paths of ferries between the coastal Maine islands. Pushing my glasses up on my nose, I peered at it. There was nothing on the spot where Trespass Island should have been. It was missing.

And there was something else: the few dotted lines that went through that area of the ocean where Trespass
should have been
curved in wide arcs around the spot. Almost as if the ferries went out of their way to avoid it.

Weird.