The Sea in Winter: Chapters 1–6

Pencil tips whisper against paper all around me, a gentle contrast to the coarse rip of my book bag’s zipper, the obnoxious clacking of its buckles.

Today, she has shared this word and its definitions:
Sanctuary
A place of refuge or safety; a place of protection from danger or a difficult situation.
A nature reserve; a refuge for wildlife.
A holy or sacred place; a building or room for religious worship.
Synonyms: haven, harbor, retreat, shelter, immunity, asylum.

Today, she has shared this word and its definitions:
Sanctuary
A place of refuge or safety; a place of protection from danger or a difficult situation.
A nature reserve; a refuge for wildlife.
A holy or sacred place; a building or room for religious worship.
Synonyms: haven, harbor, retreat, shelter, immunity, asylum.

Today, she has shared this word and its definitions:
Sanctuary
A place of refuge or safety; a place of protection from danger or a difficult situation.
A nature reserve; a refuge for wildlife.
A holy or sacred place; a building or room for religious worship.
Synonyms: haven, harbor, retreat, shelter, immunity, asylum.

And then, in a messier scrawl, I write: My ballet school has always been my sanctuary.

I describe what it’s like to dance in a room like that. To move through the sweeping gestures of a grand port de bras, the aching lift of an arabesque. To spin and step and reach as the piano notes pinwheel all around you.

I look down at the words I’ve written, feeling the yearning pull of them, like a fishhook in my stomach.

“Maisie!” Ms. Porter waves me down. “Maisie, can I have a word with you?”
I swallow. Extract myself from the chaotic rush out the door.

“Maisie!” Ms. Porter waves me down. “Maisie, can I have a word with you?”
I swallow. Extract myself from the chaotic rush out the door.

She gives an apologetic wince and says, “I have to report your unexcused tardiness.”

I tell her, “I know.” Even though I don’t plan on talking to her. Or to anyone at this school, really. She grins, oblivious. “I’m so glad. I’m always rooting for you.”

By the end of the day, I’m frazzled and exhausted.

I keep my head down, keep inching my way forward. An eighth grader in a football jersey lurches against my side, and I mumble an apology a split second after he’s gone.

I find bus 185. As I climb aboard, the thrum of the engine tickles the soles of my feet.

The inside of this bus is humid, and the windows are foggy, so I open mine about an inch, relishing the cold snap of fresh air.

I trudge across the street. Cross our short front yard.

Jack’s last name is Leith. But Mom kept her maiden name—Beaumont—through her two marriages. Each person in my family has a different surname: Angie Beaumont, Jack Leith, Maisie Cannon, and Connor Beaumont-Leith.

I slog past them with my head bowed, the grass squishing beneath my feet.

He can’t take the suspense anymore. He lunges for me and lifts his palms in one quick movement, cackling triumphantly as he crashes into me.

I give him a courteous smile. “That’s great, Con. Now let me go. Please.”

During this trip, we will dig for razor clams (or treasure, according to Connor) on the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

“But can’t Maisie at least play with me?”
“Maybe later,” Mom says diplomatically. “Mrs. Baransky is on her way over. Maisie and I are about to go see Mr. Lawson.”

My room is small and sparsely decorated.

They received permission. But it was a controversial situation.

That was how they met. Mom was a student at The Evergreen State College. He was a soldier, preparing for his deployment. Their paths crossed at an Indigenous arts market at the Evergreen Longhouse in Olympia.

That was how they met. Mom was a student at The Evergreen State College. He was a soldier, preparing for his deployment. Their paths crossed at an Indigenous arts market at the Evergreen Longhouse in Olympia.

They were married less than a year later. And less than a year after that, he was deployed to Afghanistan. We only have one picture of him during his tour there; it’s framed on the mantel in our living room.

And Mrs. Baransky is laughing her easygoing laugh as she politely declines his offer of chocolate coins, then turns to our mother with a reassuring smile.

“The house is perfect, Angie. Honestly, it always is,” she says. “And I got a box of truffles for Valentine’s Day, Connor! Do you know what truffles are?” She meets my gaze across the room.

Mom points at the throw pillows strewn across the floor. “Connor, was this you? Did you mess up the couch? You’re old enough to clean after yourself, young man. Put them back.”

“It’s okay, Angie,” she says as she gingerly pats the top of Connor’s head. “We’ve got this. And you two better get going! Don’t want to be late.”

Outside, the clouds have darkened, but the rain has stopped. Everything is dreary and gray and gleaming.

“Better each day,” I tell her. It comes out sounding more sarcastic than I mean it to, so I take a deep breath and add: “I mean it. I feel so much better.”

Dr. Hart wrote a note to my teacher, declaring me banned from “strenuous activities.”

It’s the strangest thing, to spend all this time in school—forced through all these mandatory lessons—despite the fact that most of these subjects lead nowhere.