The House on Stone's Throw Island

by Dan Poblocki

  At first, she didn’t understand what she was looking at. Only when she’d read the brief note — Hi, Mrs. Lintel, This belongs to you. XO — did the sight of the object begin to bring back memories.

  ONE OF THE THINGS Josie liked best about autumn was the color of the sky. On cloudless days, the dome that sheltered the city was a shade of blue so pure that it made her think of bells ringing. Whenever this particular blue lingered overhead, the air cleared. Staten Island stopped stinking of garbage and sweat, and the yellow fumes that sometimes hung over New Jersey seemed to dissipate.

  It was perfect weather for running. Whenever Josie began to feel overwhelmed by memories of Maine, she would slip on her special new sneakers and just go. Around and around the block.

  On an afternoon in mid-October, after school had let out for the day, Josie was doing just that. After the third loop past her driveway, she finally broke a sweat. She didn’t time herself anymore like she had whenever she’d run with Lisa. Time wasn’t as important now — or speed wasn’t, rather. Time itself felt more precious than ever.

  A couple of weeks after returning home from the island, Josie had sent Eli a handwritten letter, and she was still waiting for a reply. At first, she worried that maybe the people from the government had intercepted her writing and were considering how they would punish her family for breaking the promise they’d been forced to make. This promise was why she’d stayed away from email, away from her cell phone, away from texting and messaging, where people with the right technology could steal a look at whatever she had to say. Though it was still risky, a letter had seemed like the safest way to reach out. But with every passing day and no response — not from Eli, or the government agents who had interrogated them in the wake of the tragedy — Josie figured that the only thing interrupting the communication was his reluctance to write back.

  She didn’t blame him. She couldn’t imagine what he must be feeling. If she’d lost her father and her sibling like he had, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to get out of bed ever again. And on top of that, the fact that he’d have to tell anyone who had questions the vague story that the agency had invented for them, instead of the truth … When a dangerous storm suddenly threatened to flood the wedding venue, the entire party thought it best to escape to the mainland, but they’d been overcome … well, it was enough to make Josie boil. But the people from the agency had promised that no one would be prosecuted for what had happened on the island if they all kept their mouths shut. Everyone understood that this meant Bruno wouldn’t be prosecuted, and despite what they’d seen him do, they knew he should not be held accountable for his actions. If Eli was simply trying to protect Josie’s brother, how could she possibly be hurt by his silence?

  Fourth time past her driveway. Sun was starting to set. Josie picked up the pace.

  At night, she worried about her brother. She worried about her mother. She worried about Eli and Cynthia and Margo. And Sonny and Rick Thayer and their broken Sea Witch. She’d thought sending Dory’s diary to the wedding planner might quell some of her worry, but Margo had not replied either, and that had only jump-started another cycle of panic. Would things ever feel the same again?

  Six times around. Seven. Eight.

  She wished she could talk to someone about her storming thoughts. They were as frightening to Josie as the nightly dreams from which she woke, screaming in alarm. The following mornings, when the sky turned that bell-tone blue, Josie managed to push the nightmare away into the ghostly world of her memory and imagination, where the island rose up from the wicked ocean like a bastion in the darkness.

  “Josie! Dinner!” Her mother was calling to her from the stoop of their brick colonial.

  At the end of the block, Josie dropped away from her sprint, slowing to a brisk walk as she continued toward her house. She waved at her mother to let her know that she’d heard.

  When she reached the steps that led up to the front door, her mother smiled. “I made spinach lasagna.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Josie said, trying to catch her breath. “Nice of you.” Ha, she thought, wiping her forehead with her arm, realizing how a tiny thing like the prospect of a favorite meal with your family could make you forget, for just a moment, everything else in the world. She chuckled, feeling the cool air blow in from behind her, sending chills across her warm skin. Gather up enough of these moments and maybe —

  “A letter came for you today,” said Vivian, stepping aside, holding up her arms as if trying to avoid touching her sweaty daughter. “I put it on the table next to your plate. Open it after you wash up.”

  Dear J —

  Sorry it’s taken me so long to write back to you. Things here have been really weird. Mom’s been sad, and I have been too. I miss my sister and my dad. And every time I remember that you and me are not going to be “in-laws” anymore, I get even sadder.

  I’m glad to hear that your mom is doing okay. And I’m sure Bruno will keep getting better every day. With your help, they’ll survive. That’s how it works, isn’t it? I mean, that’s how Dory and her brother, Frankie, must have gotten through it, right?

  I’m still trying to figure out what really happened. Parts of it feel like a dream. And other parts … well, I still have scars as proof that I was awake. Getting your letter in the mail was like discovering a new bruise. I’m glad you sent it, but I was surprised. Those people told us —

  Well, you already know what they told us.

  I’m not sure how much you know about what else has been going on up here. The coast guard called off the search for the sunken you-know-what. And along with that, they’ve finally declared that “the missing” are now “casualties,” even though they never found any of them. It’s hard to think of Aimee and Dad like that. It’s beyond unfair.

  Now my mom actually has to start planning services, and I’m totally sure that she’s nowhere near ready to do that. When we have dates, I’ll let you and your family know. Do you think you’ll be able to come up to Maine again? I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to, but it sure would mean the world to us. To me. :)

  I’ve been thinking a lot about the wedding that didn’t happen. If I hadn’t been so worried about how I was supposed to fit in to everything, I probably would have looked forward to it. But I hadn’t been looking forward to it. Not really. I remember thinking that it would be just another meaningless ritual. As if it were supposed to be magical. Say the words, and poof!

  Ever since that weekend, I’ve been thinking that if people wish to be together forever, they should have to fight for it. They should be forced to survive something like we did. I bet there would be a lot less weddings in the world, but the ones who actually make it through the trial, the ones who live, well, you could probably be pretty sure those will be the relationships that last.

  Maybe I’m wrong, but I think the same thing might be true about friendships.

  I feel like us two are going to know each other for a very long time.

  Write back soon.

  Love your (almost) brother,

  E —

  THE NIGHT THAT Margo received Josie’s package, her brother drove her to the nursing home.

  As usual, Margo held her mother’s hand, lightly caressing her papery skin, feeling her mother’s swollen veins rolling around beneath her fingertips. When Robert left to use the restroom, Margo removed the journal from her purse and placed it on the mattress. To her surprise, Thea twitched, as if shocked by static, and bumped her hand against the book’s spine.

  Margo leaned forward and whispered, “I brought you something, Mama.” Then, without really understanding why, she slid the journal underneath her mother’s pillow.

  The next morning, when the home called, Margo had been expecting it; however, she never thought she’d hear the nurse say, “We’ve got some good news.”

  Robert and Margo rushed over to find Thea sitting up in her hospital bed, watching as they came through the door, looking like she’d anticipated them arriving at
that exact moment. They cried out in joy and hurried across the room, embracing their mother carefully, as if a forceful jolt might just send her away again. The staff had told them that the likelihood of a recovery — especially from someone their mother’s age — was close to zero. But there she was, once more defying the odds.

  After the nurses filled the siblings in on Thea’s state of being, her vital signs and such, Robert and Margo sat with her and shared stories of the past month — innocuous things like the unseasonable warmth, the exceptional foliage, the new stoplight in the center of town. They stayed away from any talk of what Margo had gone through. After about half an hour of this, Thea asked Robert if he wouldn’t mind going out to the pharmacy to get her favorite brand of hand lotion. When he responded that he could bring it to her some other time, she insisted that he leave now.

  As soon as he’d gone, Thea took Margo’s hand. “I had a dream about you,” she said.

  Margo felt the blood drain from her face. “Did you really, Mama?”

  “When I was asleep, I dreamed you were in trouble in the old house.”

  “Which old house is that?”

  “You know which house.”

  Margo felt a rush of cold. “But, Mama, you never told me about —”

  Thea went on, “You were with a whole bunch of people I’d never seen before, and you were all in danger. There was a little girl staying in my bedroom, and in the dream, I was a little girl too. I wished I could tell her to warn you, but I was stuck. I couldn’t speak. The only thing I could do was remember. I knew if I showed the girl my memories, that would help you.” Thea reached under the thin covers and removed the book that Margo had slid beneath the pillow the previous night. She held it up, her hand wobbling. Her gummy eyelids overflowed with tears, and her voice hitched. “I helped. Didn’t I?”

  Margo felt herself beginning to crumble, but she forced herself to sit up straight. She slowed her breath. And when she spoke, her voice was steady, as still as the water of the bay during that morning she’d traveled with the wedding party out to Stone’s Throw Island. “Yes, Mama,” she said. “You helped.”

  Thank you, as always, to my friends and family for helping me get to the finish line once again.

  My uncle, Irv Piehler, pointed me in the right direction regarding the German conversations. Nadja Hemingway came along and helped clean up my royal mess. Danke schön, Irv and Nadja!

  Gail Paradis-Avlas and Gail Roe provided much nautical guidance. The characters would never have gotten off Stone’s Throw Island without their help. Bow? (Arrow?) Stern? Fore? Aft? (Before? After?) Dinghies? (Dingoes?) Who knew it was all so complicated? Any errors (and I’m sure that there are errors) are entirely my own.

  Kevin Wolfe was gracious enough to allow me use of the super-powered, crime-fighting, invisible dolphin that we created while visiting Turks and Caicos together — a character so stupidly brilliant, she deserves to be on television, no? (Pay attention, Hollywood — low budget cash cow, up for grabs!)

  Shirley and Perrin Harkins invited me to the most beautiful wedding ever at Wolfe’s Neck Woods State Park on Casco Bay. Thank you both for introducing me to the magical wonderland that is Maine. Daniel Villela and my mother explored the islands off the coast of Portland with me … in the pouring rain … and it was awesome.

  Barry Goldblatt is a wonderful agent. Nick Eliopulos is an editorial wunder-man, if that’s a thing. Antonio Gonzalez knows how to coordinate the heck out of a school visit. Christopher Stengel’s vision is constantly inspired. Shane Rebenschied is a magician with a ghostly paintbrush. Nancy Mercado, David Levithan, Brooke Shearouse, Rebekah Wallin, Erica Ferguson, Lori J. Lewis, and the entire team at Scholastic have been extra-ordinary and super friendly and just plain cool. Thank you all!

  DAN POBLOCKI is the author of several books for young readers, including The Book of Bad Things, The Nightmarys, The Stone Child, and the Mysterious Four series. His recent novels, The Ghost of Graylock and The Haunting of Gabriel Ashe, were both Junior Library Guild selections and made the American Library Association’s Best Fiction for Young Adults list in 2013 and 2014. Dan lives in Brooklyn, where he enjoys the occasional thunderstorm from the comfort of his apartment. Visit him at www.danpoblocki.com.

  Copyright © 2015 by Dan Poblocki

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

  First edition, September 2015

  Cover art © 2015 by Shane Rebenschied

  Cover design by Christopher Stengel

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-64558-4

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