The Sea Became Restless

By Megan Gaudino

Sixteen-year-old Nixie sucks at being the daughter of a cult-leader. Forbidden to leave the beached boat where her father, his three wives, and their twenty followers pretend to have created Utopia, Nixie stares at the distant shoreline with a hunger deeper than the ocean itself. A hunger for a normal life—high school, college, and beyond.

When Crew nearly drowns during a party on their beach, Nixie plunges into the ocean—and fierce rebellion against her father—to save him. As the two explore the strangeness of each other’s worlds in stolen moments on dry land, they’re caught up in a whirlwind of intensifying feelings.

Rebellion’s easy when you focus on what you hope to gain. It’s a million times harder when you realize what you stand to lose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Teen
• Release date: Feb 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9780369505101

Book preview

Chapter One

The funerals always started at dusk. There was something poetic about the urn being lowered into the sea the same time as the sun. With any luck, the sun would rise in the morning and the ashes would not. It had happened before. Papa weighted the urns after that.

A warm breeze wound up from the marsh and attacked the deck of the boat, and my white skirt danced in the wind. Risa once told me drylanders wore black or dark colors at funerals. I couldn’t imagine not wearing white. I couldn’t imagine being on dry land either, though.

Papa blew one short blast through a conch shell and I returned my attention to him. He stood against the rusted railing, the whole ocean as his backdrop. His white linen suit yellowing and too loose had seen one too many funerals.

Let the sea set you free, let the abyss bring you bliss, as you join the graves among the waves.

As the congregation repeated the burial rite, I merely moved my lips. And that was only because Papa was watching. It seemed silly, childish even, to say some rhyme when a person had just died. Willard’s widow, Marsha, said the words loud enough for all of us. Tears ran down her cheeks. Her grief-stricken expression compelled me to say the last few words for real.

Papa’s long hair snapped in the breeze, poofing around him like Einstein. Let’s all adjourn to the dining hall to feast. We’ll be serving scallops, Willard’s favorite, in his honor.

All the inhabitants of Atlantica followed behind Papa and Marsha in a silent line of sorrowful white.

But not me.

I ducked behind a moldy stack of life preservers and watched for Juliana’s skinny legs. She hung toward the back of the pack, probably looking for me. Her white funeral shoes, unreasonably high and spiky for a boat, made her an easy target. My arm shot out in just enough time to pull her behind the stack.

What the hell, Nixie?

I clamped my hand over her mouth. A few stragglers had yet to make it to the dining hall and I didn’t want to be caught. We only had five, ten minutes tops until one of my mothers noticed I was missing. As we waited, the sky blazed orange like a garibaldi fish, burning up the remnants of day.

When Juliana slid her tongue across my palm, I gagged and let go.

What now? Her words came out as a sigh.

Nothing. I smiled, wiping my hand on her flowing, ivory dress. I just want to stay up here a little while longer.

But it’s against the rules.

But it’s against the rules. I’d gotten pretty good at impersonating her high-pitched voice.

When the cacophony of shoes clomping down steps subsided, I pushed out from behind the life preservers. Juliana followed, sweeping her gaze over the deck for prying eyes, as I knew she would.

Well, we’re here. She stood with her back pressed against the outer wall of the boat, the fall and rise of her chest visible through the thin fabric of her dress, like maybe if she touched the wall she wouldn’t be breaking the rules. Is it as thrilling as you imagined?

No. I secured my bare feet on the second-to-last rung of the railing and climbed up, no easy feat. With the way the boat was beached, everything tilted. The breeze whipped by and lifted my hair and plastered my skirt to my legs. I stretched my arms out and closed my eyes. I was flying. It’s better.

It can’t be that great. You’re still on the boat.

But it is! It’s almost like I’m not on the boat at all. Come try it for yourself.

No, thank you.

I didn’t turn around to look, but her voice sounded closer. I moved up another rung. Fine. More fun for me.

Don’t climb any higher. You’ll get hurt. Juliana’s voice wavered on the breeze, but her fear only egged me on. Her fear was taught, just like mine, but fear had to be learned to have any meaning.

Can’t hear you.

I climbed another rung and surveyed the area. The water of the lagoon sparkled in the dwindling light, a chest full of jewels. I might not have traveled far, or anywhere for that matter, but nothing else smelled of ancient infinity like the sea. I cupped my hands like binoculars and turned my attention to the land. That was where the real beauty lived. With my extra height advantage, the houses of Mystic Island came into view, their pointed rooftops and angular windows so foreign to me, yet so wonderful.

Get down, Nixie. You’re giving me a heart attack. Juliana tugged on my dress but I ignored her.

Look! I pointed. I think I see people.

Of course you see people. Drylanders are everywhere. It’s like saying there are fish in the sea.

What do you think they’re doing? They were much too far away to make out what was happening, high up on the hillside. Children. Men. Women. It didn’t matter. I was happy to see anyone who didn’t live on Atlantica.

I dunno. She tugged on my dress again. Murdering the innocent? Laughing at the disabled?

Oh, stop it. You’re being ridiculous. I could watch them for hours. Even if they look so tiny from here.

Yeah, I get it.

"Please, come up. Please, please, please. We’ll have something to talk about for days if you come up and look at the city."

She was silent a moment, probably more concerned with getting me down than herself up.

If I come up for a minute, will you come down?

Yes, I lied smoothly. I wasn’t coming down until I was dragged away. The view is beautiful, Juliana. Really. I just want you to see it. That, at least, was the truth.

She moved forward, her ridiculous heels clicking with each tentative step, until she stood next to me. She pressed against the railing, almost as tall as me without needing the boost.

Okay, this is pretty neat.

Just wait ‘til you climb up on the railing.

Uh-h-h-h, she groaned. Her indecisiveness would be the death of her. Or me. Or it would force me to kill her. I’d plead insanity by constant indecision. Surely Papa would understand. I dunno. I don’t want to get in trouble.

You’re already up here. It doesn’t matter if you climb up or not, you’re smack dab in the middle of trouble. Might as well enjoy the view! We were just about out of sun as the lights of the city roared to life. The warm glow made everything more beautiful somehow. Besides, we’ll only get in trouble if Mother Rose comes to find us, and we both know she won’t leave Papa’s side long enough to notice I’m not there.

You don’t think very much of me, do you, Nixie?

That voice. The irritating sound of a squeaking buoy and my rotten luck. Mother Rose. The air turned icy and sharp. I climbed down from the railing and turned my back to the city. Juliana cowered behind the life preservers, but I motioned for her to leave with a flick of my wrist. Save herself and run for the dining hall while she had the chance. She obliged.

No. I lifted my chin. I don’t often think of you at all. My fingers tapped restlessly against my leg, spelling out the words I wanted to say.

"Well, it’s absurd to think I can’t be by your father’s side and notice you’re missing at the same time." The wind blew her lacey white veil up enough to reveal the hard lines marring her delicate face.

Did you just make a joke?

Mother Rose ignored my question. Willard was an original, your father’s best friend. He was with you the day you moved onto this boat. You need to be with Atlas now instead of breaking rules and playing on deck.

I’m not playing. I’m not a little girl. I was just looking. I brushed past her but she grabbed my arm and dug her nails into the tender flesh. Let go.

Not a chance. I’m returning you directly to him.

I jerked my arm back but Mother Rose’s grasp never loosened. My reaction was to pull away again, to stop the pain, but that only made it worse. She was reducing me to a child, forcing me to fight her.

Why? I asked as I struggled to break free. So Papa can give you a pat on the head like a good pet?

I didn’t know why I said it. She was already mad, and nothing could be gained from entirely pissing her off. And that was probably why I did it. To entirely piss her off. She brought her hand back, high and rigid, and slapped it across my face. The sting was so great it triggered a wake in the lagoon, salt water lapping against the boat and then out of my eyes.

We’re going to your father. Right. Now.

Slapping me didn’t take her anger away. Probably because I didn’t react the way she wanted. It hurt. A lot. She’d managed to hit just the right spot, across the cheekbone, like she had plenty of practice. Mother Rose thrived on wailing. She wanted the show, but I just didn’t have one in me to give.

I let her tug me to the steps, tow me through the crowd of mourners and straight up to Papa. I let her savor the smug feeling undoubtedly blooming in her chest. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t resist.

The solemn silence of the service gave way to the spirited din of the feast. Papa sat at the head table right next to the widow. His plate spilled over with scallops and three tiny bowls of butter dotted around his plate—one offered from each wife.

There’s my princess. Papa gave me a sad smile. Then his gaze flitted across my face and his mouth set in a hard line. What happened? He reached across the table to stroke my cheek, his bushy eyebrows knit together. I flinched. Even his gentle touch hurt. I could only imagine the angry red handprint she’d left behind.  

Nixie, Mother Rose spoke my name like a dirty word, was up on the deck.

Did you fall, my princess? Is that how you got hurt?

It was completely obvious what had happened, but if he chose to play it up, so would I. With my gaze trained on the plate in front of him, my head thoroughly hung, I said, No, Papa.

Then what happened to you?

Mother Leah leaned in closer to Papa under the guise of needing another biscuit. Out of all three of my mothers, she was the most amused by me. She found my antics and constant desire to de-boat, charming.

Mother Rose struck me. A tear artfully slid down my cheek. Mother Maisie always said manipulation was my most precious talent.

The sound of Papa’s chair scraping across the floor cut through the chatter of the room.

You struck my child and left a mark on her beautiful face? He kept his voice low. Only the people seated at the head table could hear, which made him all the more terrifying.

"No, Atlas, I struck our child. Nixie is willful and wild. You should’ve seen her up on that railing, her skirt blowing up over her behind."

My hand instantly went to my butt. It was okay. I’d put on underwear. And I liked being willful and wild. I filed that saying away for future inspiration.

Are you all right? Papa cupped my non-slapped cheek with his large, rough hand.

Yes. Physically, I was fine. I’d dealt with much worse. Emotionally, I was drained. Just existing around Mother Rose drained me—there was no way to escape her.

Rose, Papa spoke through a clenched jaw. Go to our room. We will discuss this later.

Mother Rose’s eyes widened. She pursed her lips, then readied them to say something. But her courage must’ve died because she sealed them shut again. Yes, she said in a whisper, her eyes cast low.

The triumph settled around me like mist on the sea wall. I kept the smile from my face and turned to leave the table for the food line. Scallops with a side of victory would hit the spot.

Not so fast, my princess, Papa said. You were breaking the rules.

Don’t you think she’s been punished enough, Atlas? Mother Maisie said. "I can still see the handprint on her face, and I like that our daughter is willful." She winked at me, then smiled, her red, red lips spanning her whole face, but because Papa was still watching, and I was still vying for sympathy, I couldn’t smile back.

You’re probably right, he agreed. But I can’t risk my beautiful girl being spotted just yet. I think some extra chores will be in your future.

My appetite vanished as visions of Mother Rose and I being forced to do chores together flashed through my mind like a glimpse into Hell.

I’m sorry, Papa. You know how curious I am.

Yes. He smiled. I do know that.

And if anything, today has forced me to come face to face with my own mortality.

Yeah, well… he trailed off. Willard’s funeral is no place to discuss this. Eat, have fun celebrating his life. We can talk tomorrow.

With Papa wrapped around my finger, I joined the end of the food line. But the thought of buttery scallops melting in my mouth was nothing compared to the feeling of seeing the city, and it would take a thousand slaps or more to dull my hunger for another peek.

Chapter Two

Peeling potatoes was like an art form to me. Some people had a talent for it, and some didn’t. I just so happened to be the Michelangelo of potato peeling. My punishment for unapproved deck time was to peel a bushel of potatoes. I didn’t mind, even though it meant I had to wake up early. I would’ve peeled every potato on Atlantica to get one hour on land. Maybe even for just ten minutes.

I sat in the dreary galley, on a hard metal stool, and peeled. My fingers bore tiny nicks from the too-dull peeler I had to use. Luckily it was so dull it didn’t draw blood. I wore my injuries like a badge of honor, though.  

I’m here to help. Mother Maisie breezed through the door on a burst of fresh air. The cool vanished the second the door shut but Mother and one of my cats, Oscar, remained.

Just in time. I only have four potatoes left.

Oh, damn.

Isn’t it funny how that happens every time?

What’s funny is how you’re constantly breaking the rules. Mother Maisie kissed my cheek, undoubtedly leaving behind a smudge of red lipstick. She took the peeler from my hand and sat on the stool across from me. Do you like my skirt? she asked as she started to peel. I made it.

The skirt, purple and gauzy, flared out from her thin hips like tentacles. She had sewn tiny shells and gems at the hem and they caught the low, artificial light like sea glass at sunrise. It was the most beautiful garment I’d ever seen.

Make me one. Please, oh please. Oscar rubbed against my ankles, his soft gray fur a welcome sensation.

Already started, Nix.

She was the youngest of my moms, the last of Papa’s partners, with Mother Rose being first and Mother Leah second. All three women were present at my birth, all three women claimed to be my biological mother, and all three of them were lying.

Mother Leah was Taiwanese, and with my pale skin, red hair, and blue eyes, it was highly unlikely she birthed me. That didn’t stop her from claiming me.

Mother Maisie was probably too young. Her and Papa’s relationship hadn’t grown romantic until recently, and I just knew she wasn’t.

Mother Rose could’ve easily been my real mom. She was the right age and we looked enough alike, except where her stomach was concave mine was convex, but she wasn’t my mom either.

Will Mother Rose be peeling the rest of the potatoes? I asked.

No. Oscar batted his little paws at the sparkles in the hem of her skirt. She didn’t seem to mind.

Is her punishment even worse than peeling potatoes? I pressed.

Adults don’t get punished, Nix. And it’d be bad form for Atlas to punish one of his partners. We are supposed to be exemplary Atlanticans.

I chewed the inside of my cheek and tapped an insult on the table.

/-…/ ..-/ .-.. /.-.. / … / …. / .. / - /

But she hit me.

"And you probably deserved it. Not that I’d hit you, or ever want you to be hit, but if she felt it was necessary…" She tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her earring-lined ear like that made her too busy to finish her thought.

My fingers tapped methodically on the tabletop, the pad of my finger and the tips of my nails bringing to life my own version of Morse code. She basically only parents me to punish me.

It’s just her way. We all have our ways. And we all have to accept those ways. Mother Maisie got that line from Papa. He’d said it a thousand times. He’d say it a thousand more.

But you’d never do that.

She nodded but bit at her bottom lip. All I wanted was for her to badmouth Mother Rose just once. She never did, even though I knew she wanted to. That was just part of Mother Maisie’s way I supposed. It was part of living on Atlantica, trying to respect each other to a fault, having a mind so open there wasn’t a way for anything to stick.

Let’s not discuss this anymore. Her tongue poked out of her mouth while she worked. The potato looked like it had been through a washing machine.

When she wasn’t paying attention to me, I slipped a fork out of the cutlery drawer and into the pocket of my skirt.

I’d been pitting my moms against one another since I could talk. Not because I was calculating for fun, but out of necessity. Anyone with that many parents had to be methodical—if anyone else had that many parents.

I’m old enough to know how these things work.

Exactly. She smiled, her red lipstick making her lips look like they spanned her whole face. You’ll be seventeen soon! Let’s talk about your birthday. What do you want? Mother Maisie’s talent was distraction. She could keep anyone’s mind off of anything with a simple twist of the conversation.

Well. I left my stool to look out the porthole. Oscar followed. The galley faced the sea side of the lagoon. The waves rolled calmly in the distance without a care in the world. I want a whole day to do whatever I want.

Of course. She hacked away at the potato, still on the same one, but it had practically whittled down to a french fry. What kind of cake do you want? What kind of presents? What kind of food?

Oh, I don’t care. With all the casualness I could muster I traced my finger along the counter. Most spaces are cramped on a boat, but not the galley, not on Atlantica. There were thick, wooden countertops, plenty of pantry space, and a hulking stove with eight burners. Whatever. As long as I can go to the city.

Ma dropped the potato. It did a lopsided roll all the way under the stove because of the way the boat tilted. Oscar pounced like it was a slow-moving mouse.

Nix. She stabbed the peeler on the counter. It ain’t gonna happen. Get it out of your head now and save yourself the disappointment.

I clasped her hands in mine, trying hard to act like what she’d said didn’t devastate me. "It’s all I want. I’ll be disappointed until I see the city for myself."

"Why do you want to break your father’s heart? Why are you in such a hurry to leave Atlantica?"

I’m not, I lied.

I’d been wanting to get on dry land for as long as I could remember. Atlantica, the boat, the community, had been my home since I was five. I hardly remembered anything from my life before Atlantica, but I used to live in a regular house. That was before he inherited the boat and his following. Papa insisted he wasn’t in charge, but he made the rules, he enforced the rules, and everyone did as he said. He was the leader whether he called himself that or not.

The community was made up of a hodgepodge of people who all held the same ideals. Ideals drylanders didn’t believe in. Or so I was told. We took care of each other. We were self-sustaining. We didn’t let our children spend time on the decks. We didn’t let anyone leave the ship except on rare occasions.

Risa said we were a cult, but Papa got so angry when she did, I never