That scrub grass is probably loaded with pricker balls. No thanks.
I wasn’t ready to turn back, but didn’t want to see anyone else, either. Conflicted, I elected to sneak forward and peer around the dune. What I saw shocked me.
Three boys were huddled beside a tide pool, arguing about something at their feet. The closest was heavyset, wearing a red-and-blue Hawaiian shirt and clashing orange board shorts. As I watched—okay, spied—he began pawing his wavy brown hair, speaking animatedly to the other two. “We have to do something! I’m not letting Donatello die on my watch. I’m no karma scientist, but I know that’d be bad!”
The boy next to him—a short, skinny black kid with thick glasses—shook his head vigorously. He wore a white polo and pleated navy shorts. “Don’t touch it!” he insisted, tugging an earlobe for some reason. “Those things might look cute, but they’ve got teeth.”
Across from them, a third boy was glowering at the sand. Bigger than his companions, with shoulder-length black hair and a deep, dark tan. He had jeans on despite the heat, but he wasn’t wearing a shirt.
Hey now.
I crept a few feet closer. They didn’t notice. Weren’t looking anywhere beyond the tide pool at their feet.
What’s going on?
“It might be too dry.” Long Hair frowned, tapping a fist against his chin. “Can they just lie in the open like this?”
“I have a bucket!” Hawaiian Shirt pointed to a trio of backpacks at the top of the beach. He took three running steps toward the pile. “We’ll douse it with seawater!”
“Wait!” Glasses’s hands flew up. “We don’t know if that’s a good idea. What if it can’t breathe?”
“It lives in the freaking ocean!” Hawaiian Shirt shot back. “How could seawater hurt it?” But he froze, unsure what to do.
“Forget the bucket.” Long Hair squatted beside something at the edge of the pool. “The tide’s coming in anyway. Just help me lift. We’ll push it back out to sea.”
With Hawaiian Shirt out of the way, I caught a glimpse of what they were discussing.
My heart leapt into my throat.
“STOP!” I shouted.
All three jumped at once, their heads whipping toward me in surprise.
Without a second thought, I catapulted forward.
Back away from the turtle!” I yelled.
Hawaiian Shirt’s eyes widened as I charged across the beach. “Whoa. Girl.” His gaze darted to Glasses. “There’s a girl here.”
“I see that, Hiram.” Glasses was now tugging both ears. Maybe he had an infection?
Long Hair rose, hand-shielding his eyes as I splashed into the tide pool. He didn’t speak, but was tracking my movements closely. Then his face flushed scarlet. Spinning, he practically dove for a black T-shirt lying in the sand behind him.
Shy. Huh.
I noted these details, but my attention was focused on the animal in the tide pool.
“That’s a loggerhead sea turtle,” I said without preamble. “It’s a protected species.”
“We got that far,” Hawaiian Shirt said dryly.
Hiram. His friend called him Hiram.
“What I mean is, you’re not supposed to touch them.” I knelt beside the animal, careful not to move too suddenly. The turtle watched me with ancient eyes, its head slightly withdrawn. “Mature sea turtles don’t lounge on the beach unless there’s a problem.”
“So why not push it back out to sea?” Glasses said. “Isn’t that where it belongs?”
Long Hair nodded but said nothing.
I shook my head, examining the creature’s shell as I spoke. “If it’s beached itself, this poor guy might be too injured to swim, and even sea turtles have to breathe every now and again. Pushing it underwater could drown it.”
“Why’d it crawl up here?” the heavy one asked. “I’m Hi, by the way. That’s Shelton in the glasses. Our talkative friend is Ben.”
Long Hair nodded, fixing me with dark brown eyes.
A tingle ran my spine.
Focus.
“I don’t know what’s wrong.” The rising tide splashed around my ankles, but I ignored it, trying to recall everything I’d ever read about sea turtles. On a hunch I knelt in the swirling salt water, trying to see beneath the giant animal. “It doesn’t seem to be nesting.”
My head was level with the turtle’s. It shifted to regard me, but didn’t make a sound.
What’s wrong, big guy? Help me help you.
“You have a guess?” Hi said, genuine concern in his voice. “Is it sick or something?”
I sat back on my knees, brow furrowed. “In Massachusetts Bay, distressed sea turtles have usually been stunned by cold water. But I doubt that’s the problem this far south.”
I circled the animal and checked its opposite side. Nothing unusual jumped out at me.
Glancing up, I found the three boys watching me as much as the turtle. I wasn’t sure which they thought was the stranger creature.
I had a strong feeling of being . . . assessed. Not in a creepy way. Something deeper.
For some reason, I didn’t want to fail.
But you’re out of your depth. Do the right thing.
“We need to call a marine wildlife expert.” I stood, wiped wet, sandy hands on my running shorts. “Everything I’ve read says you’re not supposed to touch or move an injured sea turtle unless the tide is about to cover it. Even then, you only move it above the waterline.”
“Wait!” Hi pointed his index fingers at me, then fired them back toward the townhomes. “We know a turtle guy! A real one. He’s lives like a hundred yards away.”
“Dr. Howard!” Ben and Shelton said at the same time.
“Kit! Of course!” My hands dove into my pockets. “My father’s home right now!”
Then I winced. My iPhone was still charging in my room.
“Kit Howard is your dad?” Shelton glanced at his friends, who seemed equally surprised. “Look, the three of us have been living here awhile, and it’s a pretty small group out here on Morris. Dr. Howard never mentioned having a daughter before. Never talked about you, I mean.”
I shook my head. “Long story.”
Sand rasped as the turtle shifted. Something shiny winked from beneath its leg.
“Wait.” I squatted for a closer look, then a wave of anger swept over me. “I found the problem. Look.”
A silver hook was digging into the turtle’s right forelimb. “Some jerk was trolling with stainless steel hooks. And fishing line is still attached—see how it’s wrapped around the flipper? No wonder this turtle can’t swim. Every time that limb moves, the stupid hook digs in deeper.”
Ben knelt beside me, staring at the metal barb. “What do we do?”
I tapped my bottom lip, considering. “We need Kit. Do any of you have your phone?”
“Was that a serious question?” Hi trotted up the beach, rummaged through a backpack, then hustled back. “I was already getting the shakes without it. You play Words With Friends?”
I ignored him. “Call my father. He needs to bring a medical kit and probably some wire cutters. Describe the injury and he’ll know what to do.”
I hope.
Hi gave me a level look. “Not that he isn’t a super-cool dude, but I don’t have my thirty-year-old neighbor’s cell number programmed into my phone. Because that would be weird.”
I looked to Shelton and Ben. Both shook their heads.
“I’ll get him.” Before I could respond, Ben spun and took off down the beach. Sand flew as he rounded the dunes in a blink.
“He’s fast,” I breathed.
“Like a puma,” Hi confirmed. “I’d know, he’s run me down more than once.”
“True story.” Shelton snagged Hi’s phone, started snapping pictures of the turtle.
“So what do we do now?” Hi was eyeing the turtle, a queasy look on his face. “Can we at least get that hook out? Looks like it hurts.”
I tore my eyes from where Ben had disappeared. Reexamined the wound. Though I knew I wasn’t supposed to touch anything, like Hiram, I wanted to help the poor creature ASAP.
The hook was firmly embedded, but I could get my fingers around it.
Are you really going to just sit there?
“I’m gonna pull it out.” My eyes never left the turtle. “We can’t cut the line yet, or else this guy might crawl back into the water without Kit getting a look at the injury, but we can at least remove the barb from its side.”
“Hold up, now.” Shelton ran a hand over his scalp. “Ben’ll get Kit, then he can handle it. What if it snaps at you? Or rolls over? That thing must weigh three hundred pounds.”
“It won’t roll over.” Though the biting thing was a real issue—a full-grown sea turtle can snap off a finger if roused. But I just couldn’t sit there doing nothing. “I’ll be quick. Get in, remove the hook, get out.”
Spoken with more confidence than I felt, but I was mentally committed at this point. I inched closer to the injured foreleg, rehearsing in my mind.
The turtle eyed me suspiciously. It tried to shift, but couldn’t get turned around.
“This is a bad idea,” Shelton whispered, eyes on the turtle’s mouth.
“I’ll, uh . . .” Hi edged back a few steps. “I’ll make sure no other turtles show up.”
I snorted despite myself. “Thanks.”
Deep breath.
My fingers darted forward, wrapping around the hateful metal hook. I levered it from the turtle’s leathery skin, then scrambled back as the massive creature wheeled to face me.
The creature gave me a hard look. A dribble of blood leaked from its wound. But the hook was out, dangling from the fishing line still wrapped around its flipper.
The tide swept in to soak me. I didn’t care, was just happy to have done something constructive. Rising, I found Hi and Shelton regarding me with something akin to awe.
“Girl.” Hi stretched the word in a singsong manner. “You are hardcore.”
“Tory,” I replied, smiling for the first time. “Tory Brennan.”
Kit exploded from the dunes, puffing and blowing after a long sprint. He was still wearing khaki pants, but didn’t seem to notice as he splashed into the tide pool, eyes glued to the injured turtle. A nylon bag bounced at his shoulder.
Ben was jogging along behind him, breathing easily. He flashed us a thumbs-up.
Kit dropped beside the turtle, unzipping his supplies. “Where’s the hook?”
“I pulled it out,” I said, pointing to the wound.
Kit gave me a sharp look as he examined the small gash in the turtle’s leg. “That was a dangerous thing to do, Tory. Both for the animal and yourself. You should always call an expert in these situations.”
I nodded, suddenly feeling guilty. “I just wanted to help.”
His expression softened. “I know. And you did help—the hook is out cleanly and this cut appears to be superficial. Now let’s get that line untangled.”
Kit removed a pair of scissors from his bag. The turtle grunted, attempted to squirm away. “Easy, friend,” Kit soothed, gently rubbing the turtle’s shell. The animal seemed to calm at his touch. I could tell at a glance that my father was excellent with animals.
He carefully cut through the snarled fishing line, murmuring softly as he worked. Water poured into the tidal pool with the rising tide, soaking Kit’s clothes, but he barely noticed, intent on freeing the turtle from its entanglement.
My respect for Kit grew by leaps and bounds. He wasn’t just a bookish marine biologist, he was a genuine healer. Kit cared more about this wayward turtle than his own comfort.
I like this man.
Thank goodness.
Finally, the line dropped away and the turtle’s flipper came free. We all stepped back as the animal extended its forelimb. Then, slowly, it began shuffling toward the sea.
“Does that cut need treatment?” I worried the turtle would escape before we could help.
“That old man should be fine,” Kit assured me, grinning as his patient waddled across the wet sand. “He’s moving well right now, and it’s a very small cut. Most sea turtles see far worse at some point in their lives. It was the fishing line that had him in distress.”
Then he rubbed his chin. “But just in case . . .”
Kit dug into his bag a second time, then sprinted forward and stuck something to the turtle’s shell. The beast turned its head irritably, but Kit had already retreated back to the group.
Then the massive turtle dragged into the waves and swam out to sea. In moments he’d vanished among the sandbars.
“Tagged him,” Kit explained, seeming to notice his soaked clothing for the first time. “New LIRI prototype that stays on about a week. I’ll monitor big boy’s movements over the next few days, just to be safe. If he seems to be floundering—or ends up back on a beach—I’ll scoop him up and take him to the aquarium for rehab. But I’m not worried.”
I nodded, satisfied. “Thank you.”
“Thank you. You guys did a good thing today. You should be proud.” Kit nodded to the boys, who were standing a few feet away. Hi was gripping his friends’ hands in turn, congratulating them on a job well done. “I see you’ve met the guys,” Kit said. “I’ll leave y’all to get more acquainted. And to get some dry underwear.”
“Thanks, Dr. Howard,” Shelton said. Ben nodded, while Hi held up a fist.
“Anytime, boys.” Kit waved a hand at the rest of the island. “Make sure Tory sees all the cool stuff out here. You four will be seeing a lot of each other from now on.” Then he strode back down the beach, whistling, a look of contentment on his face.
My dad. Not so bad.
I turned. Discovered three boys staring at me, unreadable expressions on their faces.
A memory of shouting at them bloomed in my mind. Storming up. Taking over. Ordering them around. In my experience, boys generally don’t like that stuff.
My nerves began to fray.
We’ll be seeing a lot of each other?
No one spoke. The silent moment stretched.
Blargh.
Um. Hello.”
Best I could manage. I briefly considered fleeing into the ocean, like my turtle friend, but decided that wasn’t very practical.
“How do you know so much about sea turtles?” Shelton was sweeping sand from his polo shirt with distaste. Hi looked curious, while Ben was still as a stone.
“I read a lot.” Then I worried that sounded snotty. “About animals, I mean. For a while I wanted to be a vet.”
Hi nodded sagely. “Cool. I want to be a talk show host. If Andy Cohen had washed up on this beach, I’d have handled it.”
Ben said nothing, but watched me with those intense brown eyes. I fidgeted, pretending to search for something in my pockets. Uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
“Sorry about the yelling,” I mumbled. “I got carried away when I saw the turtle.”
“Pssh.” Hi flapped a hand in dismissal. “I like a woman who takes charge.” Then his face reddened as he processed his own joke. “I mean, I’m not saying that—”
“It’s nothing,” Shelton interrupted smoothly. “I’m just glad we could help. A dead turtle would’ve ruined my weekend.”
“You knew what to do,” Ben said quietly. “We didn’t.” He shrugged as if that explained everything.
“So you’re Kit’s daughter, huh?” Hi yawned, stretching his arms. “How come we haven’t met you before? I’m sure you’ve noticed it’s a pretty small circle out here.”
Here it comes. “I only met Kit this morning.”
Three confused stares.
&n
bsp; No escape. “My mother, she recently, um—” My pulse quickened, but this wasn’t the first time I’d had to explain. “She died. In a car accident. I didn’t even know about Kit until after it happened. So here I am,” I finished, shoulders rising and falling.
Hi looked stricken, as if he’d committed a terrible error. Shelton was studying his shoes.
Surprisingly, Ben spoke. “Sorry. That sucks. Will you live here now?”
I was grateful for the change of subject. “Yes. I just moved in today, as a matter of fact. I’ve been a Morris Islander for roughly an hour.”
“Well, nice to meet you,” Shelton said, meeting my eyes again. “It’s not so bad out here, once you get used to it.”
“Consider us your welcoming committee,” Hi added. He nodded toward the remaining backpacks, and we made our way up the beach. “Not that there are other options, since the four of us are the only kids living on this island.”
“Really.” I didn’t know what to make of that. No girls at all?
“What grade are you?” Shelton asked. “Hi and I are freshmen. Ben’s a sophomore.”
“Freshman.” I was hoping they wouldn’t ask my age. I hated being the baby of every circle.
“Then you’ll join us at Bolton,” Hi said brightly. “We can spread the pain.”
The pain?
“That’s the school Kit mentioned on the phone,” I said slowly. We reached the bags and the boys slung them on. “It’s a good one?”
Ben snorted, kicking a pile of shells. Shelton just shook his head, removing his glasses to clean them on his shirt. “What’s Kit told you?” Hi asked.
“Almost nothing. It’s a private school, but that’s all I know.”
“Bolton Preparatory Academy is one of the finest academic institutions in the country.” Hi spoke in an officious voice, fussily straightening his crumpled Hawaiian shirt. “A wellspring of leaders and great scholars throughout the history of Charleston. Admission is extremely difficult to attain, and a Bolton Prep diploma is worth its weight in gold. Truly, our school is a celebrated treasure of the Old South.”