1
She had expected it to be a poetic voyage. She had expected sunshine and whitecaps, a sea song to serenade her as she sailed toward her new home.
But from where she sat, she could barely see over the bow.
If she could have, she would have seen that the ferry was enshrouded by a thick fog.
They had packed their cargo of cars and people so efficiently, so compactly, she thought she would have to make a scene just to get out of her own car. She sat there thinking, trying to figure out how she would squeeze out between her driver’s side door and the giant steel beam it would be pressed up against once she opened it. Scooting over to the passenger side wouldn’t help, as that door was pushed up against the gunwale.
She felt trapped. In so many different ways.
She had been warned about teaching in a small school. In rural Maine. She had been told that people would be watching her every move. That there was nowhere to hide on an island. But it wasn’t those attentive eyes she wanted to avoid at the moment, though the ferry could quite well be full of them.
She was most worried about catching the eye of the man in the pickup truck parked only inches away from her, whose Ford was pressed up against the other side of the steel beam. If she made like toothpaste and tried to squirt out of her Toyota, surely he would see her, and surely she would die of embarrassment. Not because he was handsome, though he certainly appeared to be from where she sat, but because he had a Bible on his dashboard. And this impressed her.
She’d never known anyone to drive around with a Bible on his dashboard. And though the man was currently staring down at his smart phone, probably playing Candy Crush, it still had to be a good sign that he had a Bible so readily within reach.
So she stared straight ahead, wondering if she was really going to spend the ninety-minute ride trapped in her car, though, apparently all the cool kids, e.g., Bible-dashboard-guy, were doing it.
She was too nervous to sleep, her phone battery was too low to play Candy Crush (she would charge it in the car, but her cigarette lighter hole had long ago given up the ghost), and she didn’t have a Bible handy.
She knew the voyage offered breathtaking views of coastal Maine. She’d seen them before, when she’d made the trip for her job interview, which had been so far beyond strange that she almost hadn’t taken the job.
The part-time superintendent and the very, very old principal had sat her down in a very, very old room with cement walls, no air conditioning, and a lazy ceiling fan. The one window had been open, but it didn’t help. The room had smelled like dirty socks. Yet she had tried to face her interviewers bravely, as they asked her a series of increasingly bizarre questions.
She’d been to so many other teaching job interviews, she was used to the normal questions, the logical ones, the expected ones: what is your greatest strength; describe your greatest challenge; what is your behavior management philosophy; how will you engage the unengaged student. But these questions weren’t those. These were: how many people went to your high school (about 1200, still fairly small by national standards); what sports did you play in high school (zip, zadda, zilch, as they’d used to say in her hometown); what do you do to relax (she’d said read; they’d looked suspicious); and finally, where would you live.
“We could set you up with a place,” the superintendent had said.
She’d been nonplussed. Did this mean she had the job?
“What I mean is, if this works out, we could provide you with an option. It’s a small house, owned by members of the school board, but they would rent it to you. We just bring it up now because it’s difficult for new teachers to find housing. There aren’t many apartments on the island. And there are a few houses for sale, but those are usually out of a new teacher’s reach.”
She remembered nodding, wondering if he’d really said the house was owned by school board members, plural? As in, they co-owned a house? Wasn’t that a bit strange?
But, back then, she’d been nervous, sweating through her pantsuit, and wanting to get out of there, so she’d just smiled agreeably. Then they had exchanged clammy handshakes and sent her on her way. She’d been fairly certain that she would never hear from them again, and tried to enjoy the ferry ride home.
But the principal had called her the next morning and offered her a job. And without hesitation, she had verbally accepted.
She’d been looking for a full-time teaching gig for six years. She’d been an ed tech, a tutor, an adult ed teacher, and a substitute, and all of those gigs had really, truly stunk. So she didn’t care how bad it was teaching in a tiny school on an island—she would have her own classroom, her own students. And she couldn’t wait.
So why, now, staring out into the fog, did she have this sense of foreboding in her gut? Just nerves, she thought, trying to shake them off. She saw Bible-dashboard-guy cross in front of her windshield and then expertly scale the ladderway, three steps at a time, up to the next deck. She looked to her left to make sure that had really been him, and sure enough, his truck sat empty. Now or never, she thought, and creaked her door open. Then she tried to slide out through the small opening, frantically looking around for anyone who might be observing. There was no one. She sucked in her belly and pushed, and then, she was free. Standing outside her car. In the damp, salty morning air. She shut her door and only then realized she might not be so lucky as to be able to slide back in unobserved.
Oh well, too late now. She followed Bible-dashboard-guy up the starboard ladderway, though not nearly as nimbly as he had ascended, and found herself alone on the upper deck. And not only could she not see Bible-dashboard-guy, she couldn’t see anything. The boat could have been alone in the middle of the ocean for all she knew. She couldn’t see the island up ahead, though it might not have been visible yet anyway, it was so far from the mainland. She turned around and couldn’t see the mainland. She looked over the side. She could see the water. Well there. At least there’s that.
2
They had given her an address for the house, telling her to just “move right in,” that they would take care of the details later. She was terrified that she didn’t yet know what the rent was, but the housing arrangement hadn’t sounded optional, so she’d just gone with it.
She had saved what little cell battery she had so that she could use the GPS to find the place. But when she turned her phone on, she realized she had no signal. How is that even possible? So the whole island is cellphoneless? Might make classroom management easier.
She hated to stop, but she didn’t see any other options. She had already driven away from the ferry station by the time she realized her predicament, which was too bad, as that was the logical place to ask for directions. Instead, she stopped in front of Marget’s Grocery.
This is the smallest grocery store I’ve ever seen, she realized, stepping inside. A small bell sounded over her head. How quaint. The woman running the only register looked up at her and smiled. The man checking out stared at her and didn’t smile. She thought maybe she ought to buy something. She’d arrived at her new home with very little food. She grabbed a cart and started to explore. But the bananas were ninety-nine cents per pound. The milk, seven dollars per gallon. She had been excited when they had quoted her the salary offer—the lowest salary allowed by law, which was still almost twice what she had been making with all her pretend-teaching gigs. But now she panicked at the thought of how much it would cost her to eat. And so, when she approached the checkout, her cart only held one half-gallon of milk, three bananas, and a large box of Ramen.
“Good morning,” the cashier said. Her nametag said Marget. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before?”
“I’m Emily.” She smiled, honestly pleased with the friendly reception.
“Hi, Emily!” Marget said. “You wouldn’t be the new English teacher would you?”
Emily’s jaw dropped.
Marget chuckled. “Don’t be alarmed. I knew we were getting a new English teacher, and someone had said you were young. We don’t get many new people around here, so I just put two and two together. That’ll be $12.85.”
Still feeling a smidge stunned, Emily rummaged in her purse for the money. She handed her a twenty.
Marget counted back her change and then said, “Welcome to the island.”
This reminded Emily of why she had stopped at the store in the first place. “Could you give me directions? I’m looking for Songbird Lane.”
“Oh, of course. You just want to follow this road,” she said, pointing to the direction Emily had been going, away from the ferry terminal, “for about four miles. There will be a boatyard, and I think Songbird is the second turn after that, maybe the third, on your right. But don’t worry, you can’t get lost. There’s really only one road, and it just loops around the island.”
“Thank you,” Emily said, taking her bags. “I’m sure I’ll find it.” But she wasn’t sure at all. She was a bundle of nerves and hated herself for it.
Even though she slowed to a crawl at Murray’s Boatyard, she still drove by Songbird Lane. She put the car in reverse and backed up the empty road. Then she turned right.
Songbird Lane was a narrow dirt drive with grass growing in the middle. She was looking for 5 Songbird Lane, so she figured it would be coming up soon, but as she rolled along the dirt path, she realized she was wrong. It felt like miles before she went by the first sign of civilization—a trailer on her right. A pickup and a four-wheeler sat in the driveway. Two tricycles and what looked like seventy thousand lobster traps decorated the lawn.
A quarter of a mile beyond that she drove by a funny-shaped, dilapidated house on her left. It looked like something designed by stoners and also appeared to be abandoned, but then as she drove by, she noticed a dog tied to the porch. She drove a half mile, only scraping the bottom of her car on one boulder, and then a cute, tiny A-frame came into sight. She didn’t think this was hers, but as she got closer, she saw a wooden “5” nailed next to the door.
This is it. The driveway was barely long enough to pull her Corolla into. She turned off the engine and looked around. No neighbors in sight. The road narrowed to almost nothing past her driveway. This was truly the end of the line. She got out of the car and approached the house with some wariness, suddenly overcome with the desire to adopt a dog. A big dog. She wondered if the island had an animal shelter.
They’d told her they would leave it unlocked, the key on the kitchen table. The doorknob turned easily, but the door stuck. Probably just the moisture in the air. She lowered her shoulder and pushed, and it gave way.
Once she stepped inside, she felt better because the house was cute. Straight ahead was a cozy living room, complete with woodstove, couch, and cushioned armchair. No TV, which was fine by her. To her right, the kitchen, complete with range, fridge, a counter that ran between the two, and a table with four chairs. She had no idea who would sit there, but just in case, she had the room. A door stood open at the far side of the living room. She walked through it, into the world’s smallest bathroom.
A spiral staircase led to the loft, which held a full-sized bed and a dresser. She loved it. She loved it so much that her rent panic skyrocketed. No need to get attached if this wasn’t meant to be. She found the keys on the kitchen table as promised, atop a single piece of paper that read:
Welcome to the island, Emily! If this space will work for you, you are welcome to stay here for as long as you are serving in our school. We just ask you to keep it in good shape! Best, Lauren P.S. If you need anything, call me at 555-4314.
No way. Did this mean rent-free? She put the paper down and looked around. It was too good to be true. She loved this place! Now I can afford to buy groceries!
She felt like dancing. Instead, she opened the windows and began carrying her few bags inside. They had told her fully furnished, so she didn’t have much stuff, and it didn’t take her long. Then she stood in the middle of her new living room, wondering just how she could call Lauren, or anyone for that matter, with no cell service. She wandered back into the kitchen and noticed an actual landline phone on the wall next to the fridge. She hadn’t seen one of those in years. She picked it up. Sure enough, a dial tone. She looked at it. A number was written on it: 555-5774. Apparently, she had a new phone number.
New number. New home. New job. New everything. All she needed was the dog.
3
The school, which housed grades K through 12, looked like two long mobile homes stuck together to form a T.
She’d been here once before, of course, for her interview, but now it looked different somehow. Back then, she’d been a bit haughty pulling up the long driveway. She’d laughed at the small school, thinking it backward and maybe even piteous.
But now it was her home. Or it would be, starting in about five minutes. And that felt mightily strange. She looked at the small building in the early morning sunlight and thought, This? This is it? This is where I’m going to build my life now? How can this be? What will this be?
She parked the car in the corner of the one parking lot and, with an unsteady stomach, headed into the building.
No one met her at the door, and she paused to recognize how absurd that expectation had been. This wasn’t church. She looked around the empty foyer, wondering where to go. The foyer was still dark, except for the trophy cases that lined each of the walls. These were backlit, and were full of team photos, basketball hoop nets, and gold balls.
She saw some glass windows that were probably a main office and she headed that way.
A woman sat behind a giant desk covered with neat piles of papers and binders.
“Good morning,” Emily said.
The woman looked up. “Oh, good morning. Are you Miss Morse?”
Emily nodded. “I am.” She took what she hoped looked like confident strides over to the desk and stuck out her hand.
The woman took it. “I’m Julie.” Julie handed Emily a folder. “Here’s our new teacher welcome package. If you have any questions, please let me know. The first staff meeting”—she glanced at the clock—“starts in about ten minutes. Do you know where your classroom is?”
Emily shook her head. “I haven’t been there yet.”
“Larry!” Julie hollered out into the hallway, startling Emily more than a little. “This is the new English teacher. Can you show her to her classroom?”
Larry nodded and walked away.
Am I supposed to follow him? Emily looked at Julie for direction. She offered none. “OK, thanks,” Emily said and then followed Larry down the hallway. Judging from his outfit and the slew of keys hanging off one belt loop, Emily assumed Larry was a custodian. She sped up, but she still didn’t catch him before he stopped in front of a closed door. He opened it and then walked away. Emily watched him go. Apparently, this was her room? She looked inside. It certainly looked like a language arts classroom, based on the scores of paperbacks lining the walls. She stepped inside and smiled. This was it. Finally. Her own space. She shut the door. Then wondered why she’d done so. She had only minutes, and she had no idea where the meeting was. She crossed the room to her desk and looked around. She drew a sharp breath. She actually had an ocean view out her classroom window, and it was gorgeous. She hadn’t expected it because they weren’t very close to the shore here, but the school sat on a hill that afforded some spectacular scenery. She envisioned herself staring out the window during her prep period, when she was supposed to be grading papers.
Emily couldn’t remember ever wanting to be anything other than a teacher. She had grown up in the church, known about the great commission for as long as she could remember, and when her friends dreamed of growing up to be missionaries in Africa, Emily had always thought, Wouldn’t it be easier to just be a teacher?
She took one last look out the window and then headed out to locate the faculty meeting.
It was in the gym. She followed the few people she saw into the large open space, which turned out to be the smallest gym she’d ever seen. It was a gym—it had basketball hoops at least—but it also had tiled floors instead of hardwood. And in the middle of the room sat two fold-out bench-style cafeteria tables. Each was filling up and she made her way to the end of one and slid into a vacant spot. This wasn’t exactly what she’d expected a faculty meeting to look like.
The man sitting across from her said, “You must be the new language arts teacher?”
Only when she looked up at him did she see that he was kind of cute. She smiled. “I am. Emily,” she said and stuck out her hand. He took it, and held it just a beat longer than normal.
“I’m Kyle. Social studies.”
“Nice to meet you, Kyle.”
“You nervous?”
“More like terrified.”
Kyle laughed, revealing perfectly straight teeth that somehow made his goatee look more dapper.
She briefly wondered if dapperer was a word.
“Where are you from?” Kyle asked.
“Plainfield.”
“Ah,” he said.
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Well, yeah. Only because of the university. Is that where you went?”
“It is,” Emily said, her embarrassment obvious.
“Oh, don’t knock the state schools,” Kyle said, still smiling. “I quickly learned that a state education will equip you for this job perfectly adequately, and you aren’t saddled with the student loans of the private schools.”
“Where did you go?”
“Colby.”
“Oh, wow.”
“Yes, that’s what I say every month when I open my student loan bill. But really, it is overkill. You’ll be just fine with what you’ve got. In fact, you were probably ready to teach these guys immediately after graduating from high school.”
Emily was surprised, and didn’t know what to say.
“Sorry.” Kyle chuckled. “Was that unprofessional? Maybe I haven’t been teaching long enough to be so cynical. Oh wait, yes I have. You see”—he leaned across the table toward her—“what I mean to say is, none of them actually want to learn, so it doesn’t matter what you offer them, they won’t take it.”
She was still surprised, but tried to hide it. “I see,” she said.
He smirked. “No, you don’t, and that’s OK. You will see it soon enough. Just do the best you can, don’t have great expectations, and you’ll be golden. Best case scenario, you convince one kid once in a while to get the bleep off the island. Worst case scenario, your check still cashes.”
Emily saw the principal walking toward the podium and panicked a little. She thought she was learning far more from Kyle than she would from him. “They don’t want to leave the island?”
Kyle laughed and it sounded bitter. “Oh, they sure don’t. They want to win state championships, graduate, and make basketball babies.”
Principal Hogan cleared his throat at the podium. “Welcome, everyone, to a brand-new school year.”
As the faculty offered some paltry applause, Kyle leaned toward her and said, “I mean babies who play basketball, not babies who are basketballs. That would just be weird.” Then Kyle winked at her, leaned back, and turned his attention to the front of the room.
Piercehaven was known around the state for one reason: basketball. Especially girls’ basketball.
Other islands closer to the mainland were famous for lighthouses, seafood restaurants, and bed and breakfasts that served lobster omelets, but the word “Piercehaven” was almost always associated with Maine’s favorite winter sport.
For reasons she had never had cause to wonder about, the small island school held more state championships than any other school in the state. For the last twenty years, the Piercehaven Panthers had won more state championships than they had lost. And apparently, she had just learned, they did it all from a weird tiled floor.
She forced her eyes front, and forced her ears to listen to Mr. Hogan. As he spoke, Julie wandered around passing out schedules. They had two workshop days, Monday and Tuesday, and then Wednesday the doors would open to the kids. Emily’s stomach flipped at the thought, but that thought was quickly followed by another: It’ll be OK. You’ve got a friend now, a friend who isn’t going to judge you with high expectations. He’ll help.
She looked at the schedule. Her morning would be spent learning about behavior management and then bullying prevention. Then the afternoon was dedicated to teachers getting their classrooms ready. Tomorrow morning: assessment planning, curriculum development, and then more time in the classroom. Though of course she wanted to get her classroom ready, she hoped she could invest at least a little of that time fraternizing with the social studies teacher.
Emily had to look past Kyle to see Mr. Hogan, so this gave her the perfect opportunity to check him out discreetly. He was cute, though she wished he wasn’t so skinny. Not that she was fat. She wasn’t. She was just kind of … thick. She always had been. Her mother claimed she had been born that way. Her grandmother told her she had good “birthing hips.” Despite this helpful commentary, Emily had always felt that her body was just a little too … there. Even without much actual fat on her, she still wore size ten pants, and they were always still too tight across the bottom. Today she wore an A-line skirt.
The day after she’d been offered the job, she’d spent some money—OK, that wasn’t quite true—she’d spent some credit to update her wardrobe. She’d wanted to look professional. Confident. Like a real teacher.
Now, looking around the room, she wondered why she’d bothered. She counted nineteen people, and most of them were wearing jeans. A few were even in windpants. She realized she was overdressed. Oh well, better over than under. She wondered why there were so many people for such a small school, but after a few seconds of pondering this, she figured this must be all the teachers for all the grades, K through 12. She figured she was looking at every teacher on the island. Then she wondered why there were so few teachers.
The greetings and announcements over, Mr. Hogan dismissed them for a break. Kyle took her by the elbow and said conspiratorially, “Do you want me to introduce you to people, or just point at them and talk about them?”
She giggled. “You can just point and talk.”
He pointed at an older woman who was knitting something big enough to be a parachute. “That’s our Ed Tech III. That’s right. We only have one. She’ll be in your classroom at some point, but she’s wonderful. Been here forever. Knows everyone. Is very supportive of teachers. But that”—he pointed to another woman—“is our Ed Tech II. She’s also nice, but will tell Mr. Hogan everything that happens in your classroom. She’s sort of a spy.” He continued pointing and explaining. The math teacher was also new. So was the science teacher. So was the second grade teacher. The fourth grade teacher looked to be at least a hundred years old.
She noticed a balding man in wind pants staring at them. “Who’s that?”
“Ugh. That is our phys ed teacher, our athletic director, and our girls’ basketball coach. He’s kind of a big deal, but not nearly as big of a deal as he thinks he is. Milton Darling. He’s a few years older than me. Was a thousand point scorer. Most of the island thinks he walks on water.”
“Do the girls like him?”
Kyle looked at her. “What do you mean?”
She thought it had been a fairly straightforward question, but she tried to clarify anyway. “Do his players like him? Is he nice to them?”
Kyle looked away and shrugged. “I think the girls just want to win gold balls.”
Principal Hogan called them back to order for behavior modification training. As dorky as this might’ve been, Emily was looking forward to it. She really had no idea how to deal with misbehavior. She’d never had much experience with it, except when she was substitute teaching, and though she hadn’t mentioned this during her interview, she’d pretty much let those kids do whatever they had wanted. Not her monkeys, not her circus.
But these monkeys, these would be hers.