Sea of Stones

By Nancy Smith

Callie Waterstone sprints through the sharp-edged maze of her world, breezing past an overbearing gran, an agoraphobic ma, and sidestepping her nemesis, Samantha Bell, all the while wondering if she’ll ever have a friend, or if the daddy who left years ago will find his way back to her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nancy Smith
• Release date: Jul 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463741368

Nancy Smith

Born in the 60s having fun in the 70s. Nowadays, works in a full-time job However, during her travels, she enjoys riding pillion or on her trike, with a notepad in her pocket, always ready to make note and ideas. She is married, lives on the east side of York and grows her own vegetables.

Book preview

SEA OF STONES

Nancy Smith

This is a work of fiction. Characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be considered as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

SEA OF STONES. Copyright © 2018 by Nancy Smith. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written consent except in the case of brief quotations in articles and reviews. For information please contact: Nancy Smith, 11392 East Indian Lake Drive, Vicksburg, MI 49097.

Cover photo by Noah Silliman via Unsplash

Cover design: Nancy Smith

ISBN-13: 978-1985058187

ISBN-10: 1985058189

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chatper Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Acknowledgements

For Karlene

If it weren’t for the rocks in its bed,

the stream would have no song.

~CARL PERKINS

ONE

Most people begin their story by telling who they are. I’ll start by telling who I’m not. I’m not that girl with cute freckles sprinkled across her nose, the one with teeth as straight and white as a picket fence. The girl who has lots of friends. Watch me sometime. You won’t see another person for miles. At recess, I don’t play hopscotch, or jump rope, or play tag. Some girls chase the boys. I tried it one time. Just once. I can run fast, faster than kids who have friends, but the boys didn’t like a girl like me chasing them. There was blood and a fat lip.

They said it was an accident.

So I came up with something else to do on the playground. Maybe something more important. I sift through the pea gravel, hoping I’ll find a stone that’s perfectly round and smooth. One with a little bit of magic.

The magic I need.

If I found a sphere pebble—our teacher, Mrs. Fredricks, taught us about spheres in math—I could walk up to anyone with the power of that perfect stone in my hand, and say, Hey, look at this. And that person would surely be impressed that I found a perfect pebble in a sea of stones.

But my search will have to wait. There is no recess today. Instead, I’m standing in line with the other kids like cattle being shipped off to market. Or maybe more like squealing pigs.

It’s picture day.

Mrs. Bell is the mom helper this year. When she sees me, she makes a face with her nose all wrinkled up like something smells bad. This won’t do, she says, and she rakes a small black comb through my tangled hair. But the comb breaks and she shoves it into my hand. Hold this. Then she spits on her fingertips, pressing them all over my head. When that doesn’t work, she sighs and moves on to my dress. Gran bought it at Twice Blessed. It’s two sizes too big, but purple, my favorite color, and there’s only one small stain in the middle of the back that looks like spaghetti sauce. Did the person who owned it last wear it backwards? Mrs. Bell grabs at the red-stained part, bunches up all that extra dress and hollers, "Does anyone have a safety pin?" The kindergarten teacher, Miss Coral, passing by with all her students in a line like cute little ducklings, pulls one out of her pocket and hands it to Mrs. Bell. That’s a kindergarten teacher for you. They always have pockets and whatever you happen to need is in those pockets. Band-aids, teeny-tiny scissors, tissues, pencils. You name it. Mrs. Bell pins my dress so it hikes up around my neck almost like a turtleneck, then she shakes her head, and gives me a little push toward the stool in front of the camera. I glance back at her, but she’s already fussing over the next girl, her own pride and joy, Samantha Bell, who is practicing a sweetheart pose, all dimply, with creamy satin hair that doesn’t need combing at all.

This is a perfect example of why I stopped looking into the mirror. Gazing into that thing sure wasn’t making me feel any better about myself. The last time I saw my reflection, I had short, crooked bangs that poke out in all different directions. Gran cuts them to save money. She doesn’t worry about the rest of my hair and I try to tame it into a ponytail, but some of it always falls out.

They say I have unusual eyes. That’s being kind. My eyes steer sideways, like they’re searching for my ears, gazing off, sort of like a fish. My teeth? Picture faded pieces of corn tossed into a mouth from a distance. That’s my smile. Most people say, Get you some braces or ever heard of whitening strips? But how can I get braces or whitening strips when even toothpaste at my house is only for special occasions? Gran says baking soda is better for you anyway. Read the toothpaste tube sometime. Go directly to the emergency room if you swallow this. Baking soda says no such thing.

But pictures don’t really matter. Ma never buys them. Whenever I bring them home, she only gives them a quick once over. That’s nice, Callie. Put them in your backpack. Back to school they go before we get a bill.

About Ma. There’s something you should know. She doesn’t leave the house. Ever. She hasn’t for years. She just lies back in an easy chair most of the time with a sad look on her face. Even doctors and nurses come to see her; she doesn’t go to them. A machine next to her pumps oxygen into her day and night. Sh, sh, sh. In the corner, a lone green oxygen tank sits on a cart. That’s in case she ever does leave the house, or we have a power failure. I’d put money on the power going out before Ma does though. Did I mention she reminds me of a picture I once saw in one of those ocean books of a manatee?

Only a manatee looks happy.

A couple years ago, I was curious about something on a paper the doctor left at our house. It said Morbidly Obese. But when I asked Ma what that meant, she wouldn’t answer. Gran must have figured I was old enough to know the truth because later, when it was just us in the kitchen, she told me those words mean fat. Really fat.

Now I know Ma is manatee-size, you can’t even tell the color of the chair when she’s in it. Still, somehow this word obese seems like an insult.

I touch the plump cheeks bulging at the sides of my face, the kind grown-ups like to pinch. I worry about ending up a manatee of a person like Ma, about a doctor someday writing that O word on a paper about me. But Gran says, Nonsense, you have chipmunk cheeks, that’s all. Your ma has a disorder. Now go out and play.

Gran’s always sending me out, mostly so she and Ma can work on their stories. Ma tells stories to Gran who types them on an old Underwood typewriter on the kitchen table. They say I can’t be around when it’s writing time because of the language, but I’m not sure if they mean the language in the stories or Gran’s language when she makes a typo. I’ve heard her swear something fierce when she makes a mistake and has to stop and use Wite-Out. Ma has put Gran on a swear diet. She’s allowed two a day.

Ma hopes to strike it rich with a best seller, which shouldn’t be too hard because she has a good imagination. Her ideas are every bit as good as the soap operas she watches. Ma says if we can scrape enough money together, we’ll get a computer, and since I use them at school, I’ll know what to do and type up her manuscripts—books before they get covers. Then Gran can go back to working full time instead of only