Seaglass Summer

Chapter One
TO THE ISLAND

M
ove over, Dr. Dolittle.

I, Poppy Ray, age eleven, am on a mission to heal all the animals at my uncle’s clinic. Mom and Dad are off to India on business, but I’m not going this time. I love curries, Bengali sweets, and my cousins, but I don’t love being cooped up indoors during the monsoon floods. I convinced my parents I’d be better off with Uncle Sanjay this summer, even if he lives on a faraway island in Washington State. He’s our only relative in North
America, and he loves me to death because I love animals. How could he say no?

So that’s how I found myself leaving everything I knew behind—Los Angeles smog, traffic, and all my friends—and boarding an airplane for a strange new place. After two hours, we’re about to land in Seattle, on the edge of the Northwest sea. As we drop through the clouds, I press my nose to the window. I’ve never been this far north, where mountains rise around us like giant Sno-Kones, where sparkling rivers run through a city of glittering high-rises. On the harbor between Seattle and the mountains, ferryboats, freighters, and cruise ships glide through the waves. Hundreds of green dots float in the distance. Which one is my uncle’s island? What if I get lost on the way?

We land and hurry through baggage claim and out into the sunshine and cool breeze. A Yellow Cab carries us through the hilly city to the waterfront, and then Mom and Dad rush me up a hundred concrete steps and into the ferry building. Dad hauls my giant purple suitcase, which holds my most precious belongings—my clothes, my fifth-grade yearbook, and my veterinarian first-aid kit. I saved up six months’ allowance to buy just the right one, complete with tongue depressors, cotton swabs, a stethoscope, a digital thermometer, and a blanket wrap. These aren’t the kid versions. They’re the real thing. I’m
serious about becoming an animal doctor, just like my uncle. I even took pictures of the label on the clear plastic carrying case. In big black letters are the words “Deluxe First-Aid Kit for Animals.” I sent the photos to my relatives, and I brought the kit to school. My friends kept bending the flexible thermometer, made for pet safety. I can’t wait to show the kit to my uncle.

At the top of the stairs, Mom hugs me and says, “Oh, Poppy, I wish we could take you all the way to the island, but our plane left late. We can’t miss our connecting flight to Mumbai. We have to see you off here.”

And you could be coming with us if you hadn’t been so stubborn
. That is what she doesn’t say. But she sighs. My mother is an expert in the sigh department.

“I’ll be fine,” I say, and it comes out way too chirpy. I’ll be perfectly okay on my own. This is what I wanted. So why is my throat dry?

Mom sighs again. “Uncle Sanjay will be waiting for you at the Nisqually Island stop. The ferry worker will stay with you. See that woman over there?”

A powerful-looking blond lady waves at us. I bet she could push the boat all by herself. But she’s wearing a soft pink jacket, like a puff of cotton candy.

I wave back, pretending to be brave. “Don’t worry. I’ve got everything I need.”

Mom’s eyes mist and she hugs me again. “We’ll miss
you. You can still come to India with us. We could try to get you on a flight.”

“No!” I say. She’d do it, too.

“Okay, okay,” she says. “You could still go to wilderness camp with Emma and Anna—”

“I’m staying with Uncle Sanjay,” I say. Emma and Anna Chen are identical twins, my very best friends. I promised to buy them postcards and presents on the island.

“Be good at Uncle Sanjay’s,” Mom says. “We’ll pick you up at his place. It’s about time we saw his house.”

I’ve wanted to visit him ever since he moved to the island four years ago, but he lives with a large furry dog and Mom is allergic to anything with fur. We could stay in a motel, but we haven’t had the chance so far. He visits us often in L.A., bringing gifts made in Washington—Seattle chocolates, huckleberry jam, or Walla Walla onions. He takes me for walks and tells funny stories about the animals that come into his clinic.

“I hope you’ll have fun with the cats and dogs,” Mom says, being nice even though the thought of pets makes her queasy.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say.

Maybe it’s the people jostling by to get on the ferry. Maybe it’s the mournful honking of waterbirds. But for some reason, a twinge of worry prods at my ribs. I’ve never ridden a ferry before. I’ve never been away from
my parents for a whole month. First time for everything, I tell myself. I’m not a baby anymore.

Mom gives me a Suffocation Cuddle. I breathe in the lavender scent of her hair. She blurs at close range—the dimple on her cheek, her tea-colored skin, the paint stains under her fingernails. The artwork she wears all over her—the earrings she made from beads, the bells that serve as buttons on her homemade floral-print shirt—jingles and clinks.

Dad squeezes my hand. Suddenly, I don’t want to let go. “Have you got everything, Poppykins? Cell phone in case of emergency?”

I nod. I can’t speak. Dad is always organized, just like me. In my bedroom at home, I line up my animal books on the top shelf, and on the second shelf, I keep trophies for spelling and the science fair. In my closet, my jeans are on one side, my shirts on the other. I make my bed and vacuum almost every day. For a split second, I miss my room. I wonder where I’ll sleep at Uncle Sanjay’s house.

“If you don’t get a signal, call from Uncle’s home phone,” Mom says. “We’ll also try to call you.”

If I don’t get a signal? But I get a signal everywhere.

“Have you got your gum boots?” Dad asks, letting go of my hand.

He means rain boots. He still uses a few words from India.

“I have my blue ones.”

“Don’t get off the ferry before Nisqually Island,” Mom says. “Listen to the ferry lady.”

“I promise.”

Dad flips open his wallet. “Did we give you enough emergency cash?”

I shake my purse. “It’s all in here.”

Mom hugs me again, and I hang on a moment too long.

The ferry lady comes over. “We’d better go.” She leads me down the ramp. She tries to chat, but I can’t talk for the frog jumping in my throat. The boat engine hums. I glance back at Mom, her frizzy black hair blowing in the wind; and at Dad, in his pressed blue suit, holding her hand. As I board the ferry, I can still see my parents’ dark eyes watching me from the dock.

Chapter Two
A BUMP IN THE ROAD

O
n the voyage to Nisqually Island, I watch for killer whales hiding beneath the ocean waves. The ride is calm and smooth. The sea lifts hilly green-black islands; small boats pass with their flapping white sails, and two sea lions rest on a buoy, watching me. I wonder what they think of a skinny girl with tangled black hair and eyes the gold color of sunset. Do they have dreams? Wishes?

Halfway across the water, when the mist rolls in and the
air turns cool and salty, my cell phone signal disappears. The ocean spreads out on all sides. I don’t know which way is home. A touch of panic rises in my chest. I’ve never been alone in a strange place, except once when I was little and Mom lost me at Disneyland. I cried at the top of my lungs—I thought she was gone forever—but then she came running and grabbed my hand. I must’ve been lost for only a minute, but it felt like a year.

After a while, the ferry lady comes over and sits next to me. She smells like french fries. “So what do you have planned for the summer?” she asks.

“I plan to save the animals on Nisqually Island.” I sit up straight and take a deep breath. “I’m going to work at the Furry Friends Animal Clinic.”

“Is that so?” Her nose twitches. “Good for you. Nisqually is my favorite place to visit. You can drive the whole length, top to bottom, in about an hour. Boats, seagulls, beaches—the island is beautiful. Holds many surprises. Look, there it is.” She points out the window.

The island creeps toward us. I imagined bright flowers and cute bungalows perched along the shoreline, and happy dogs running on the beach. But instead, a dense forest covers the hillsides all the way down to the water. I don’t see any buildings. What if my uncle lives in a tree house? I’m heading into the uncharted wilderness. I could turn around now, go to India with my parents. I
could dive into the water and swim back …

No, that’s silly. Uncle Sanjay lives in a house in a town, probably on the other side of the island. His address is 25 Sitka Spruce Road, Witless Cove, on Nisqually Island, in Washington State.

The boat docks with a thud and the passengers sweep me to the exit doors. I nearly lose my suitcase as I stumble down the narrow ramp into a parking lot. My heart pounds, but I stride forward, pretending to know where I’m going. Lines of cars are parked in rows facing the ferry, waiting to board. Ahead of me are a square gray building with a sign,
NISQUALLY LANDING,
and a two-lane road that disappears into the forest.

The ferry lady stays close to me as I watch for Uncle Sanjay. I have his number in my purse, but I can’t get a cell phone signal. I keep checking my watch. What if he doesn’t come?

I wait and wait, and then a noisy, dented red pickup truck rattles into the parking lot and belches a few times before pulling to a stop. A tall man gets out of the truck. Uncle Sanjay. Someone else, a dark shape bouncing up and down, waits in the passenger seat.

“There’s my uncle,” I say, pointing at the man.

“Okay, hon,” the ferry lady says. “You have a good time with your furry friends.” Then she is gone.

Uncle Sanjay runs toward me, his feet pointing out
sideways. He’s a tall, hazelnut brown version of Mom—same wide forehead and huge interested eyes.

“My dearest niece, I’m sorry I’m late!” He hugs me so hard he lifts me off my feet. He smells of wood smoke and spice.

“I was getting worried,” I say.

“A Jack Russell terrier came in with garbage gut. We had to pump his stomach, and I fell behind on my schedule.” He grabs the handle of my suitcase.

Poor little dog. “Will he be okay?”

“Garbage gut can be dangerous, but he’ll be fine. Come come, let’s go.” Uncle Sanjay wheels my suitcase toward the truck. A bumper sticker on the back reads
GEODUCK FOR STATE BIRD.
I picture a giant island duck chasing me, flapping its wings.