Prologue
Evelyn Young
Eight years ago…
A new town, a new home, new people, all thanks to my parents’ divorce. Mama decided she wanted to start fresh where she doesn’t know anyone, which is how we ended up at Emerald Isle. As a family, we had always lived in Greensboro, a city in the middle of North Carolina. But last week, we moved out here to the small, coastal town. The miles of beautiful beaches are the only saving grace so far.
Tomorrow, I’ll have to go to a new school to start the fifth grade. Everyone there has known each other for years, and I don’t know a single soul. I’m dreading it, but at least today we get to enjoy the beach.
My mom is stretched out in a lounge chair while I roam up and down the shore, collecting seashells. Or at least trying to. I stop to pick up another white and gold fan-looking shell from the wet sand, thinking it’s whole and beautiful, only to be disappointed yet again when I find a tiny hole at the top of it.
“Ugh!” I mutter in annoyance at the imperfect shells and my mother and life in general as I raise my arm to sling the shell back out to sea.
“What did that seashell do to you?” someone asks from behind me.
I spin around and find a boy either glaring at me or maybe being blinded by the sun. His toothpick arms are crossed over his chest, and he’s only wearing a pair of blue boardshorts that are two sizes too big on his lean frame. His black, wavy hair is thick and in need of a serious trim, but the ocean winds are keeping it out of his squinting eyes at least for a few moments.
“What?” I ask him in confusion when he just continues to stand there and scowl.
“Why did you throw that seashell away? Maybe I wanted it.” Sitting beside his feet is a red bucket that’s half full of sand and seashells.
“It had a hole in it,” I explain to him.
“So?”
“So, it was messed up. I only like the ones that are perfect.”
“Then you’re shit out of luck, buttercup,” he mutters. “If you want a perfect shell, you should probably head down to the Eagles and buy a fake one. Real ones aren’t perfect.”
Whoa, he has a dirty mouth. My Mama would wash my mouth out with soap if I said ‘shit’.
“There are a ton of shells up and down this beach,” I tell him, refraining from acting like a baby and calling him out on the swear word. “There has to be at least one that’s perfect.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” he says. “By the time shells end up here, they’ve been beat up, tossed around at sea. All of them may have flaws, but that doesn’t mean they’re not beautiful,” he explains. Reaching down into his bucket, he digs out a few tiny, sand-covered shells in his palm for me to see.
“Those have holes in them too!” I exclaim in outrage. “Who did that? Did you drill holes in them?”
“Um, no. My dad would never let me use his drill,” the boy says with a roll of his blueish-silver eyes that are now partially hidden behind his black locks. “Predator mollusks drill the holes in them so that they can eat them.”
“That’s awful!”
“That’s life,” he easily counters. “The tougher animals eat the weaker ones.”
“So, what are you going to do with those shells?” I ask him, nodding to the bucket. I don’t need a reminder about how unfair life can be.
“I, um, I use them to make necklaces and bracelets or whatever for my mom and some of the girls at school,” he says when he dumps the contents of his hand back inside the bucket.
“Oh, that’s cool.”
“Do you want me to make you one?” he asks with a tilt of his head that tosses his shaggy hair out of his eyes.
“Why would you make one for me? We just met and you don’t even know my name,” I remark.
“Because you look sad,” he answers right away. “And you’re pretty.”
“Ah, thanks I guess,” I say, hoping that my sun kissed cheeks don’t reveal my blush at his compliment.
“I’m Cedric,” he says as he holds out his hand to me.
“Evelyn,” I tell him as our damp and sandy palms clasp together. The substances act as a glue, making it hard for us to pull apart. For some reason, I’m sort of sad when I lower my hand by my side.
“What’s your favorite color?” Cedric asks.
“White.”
Arching a single eyebrow at me that’s filled with arrogance, he says, “White’s not a color. It’s the absence of color.”
“So? It’s still my favorite.”
“Why?” he asks with a frown.
“Because beautiful, perfect things are white, like snow.”
“We don’t have snow here,” Cedric tells me.
“Never?”
“There have been some snowflakes once in a while, but it never covers the ground. My dad says the ocean waves only meet the packed snow on the beach every ten years or so. I’m ten, but I’ve never seen the ocean and snow mix together yet. Hopefully one day.”
“Hey, I’m ten too!” I tell him excitedly. “I just moved here to Emerald Isle, and I start school tomorrow.”
“Cool,” Cedric says. “Maybe we’ll be in the same class.”
“Maybe so,” I agree, relieved that I could possibly know at least one person at school tomorrow.
Before Cedric and I get to talk any longer, my Mama calls my name and waves me over. She’s packing up her chair, ready to leave.
“I’ve got to go. Hope I see you tomorrow,” I tell the kind boy.
“See you soon,” he agrees as he picks up his bucket and continues his walk down the beach. As we go our separate ways, I can’t help but glance back over my shoulder to see Cedric one more time. That’s when I notice that despite his small size, his shadow looks like a giant.
Even though I know it’s just the angle of the sun shining down right now in the sky, I can’t help but think that maybe it’s a sign that Cedric could one day be an important person in my life.
Cedric Crawford
“Are you sure you don’t want us to walk you in?” my dad asks from the front driver seat of our SUV.
“Nope.”
“But we always walk you in on the first day of school,” my mom points out from the passenger side.
“Not this year. I’m going to the fifth grade! I’m not a baby who needs his parents to hold his hand anymore,” I remind both of them.
“Fine,” my father huffs. “We’ll drop you off if you’re certain you can find your classroom.”
“I can. I know the school layout like the back of my hand,” I reply. “And can you drive a little faster, Dad?”
“What’s the rush, honey? They won’t unlock the doors for ten more minutes,” my mom says.
“I met a girl yesterday at the beach, and today’s her first day.”
“She’s going to kindergarten?” my mom asks.
“Ah, no!” I say with a roll of my eyes. “Evelyn is in fifth grade like me, but she’s new here. I wanted to get to school before her in case she needs someone to show her around.”