Girl at Sea by Maureen Johnson

seemed to say. What a brat .
    Clio bit her lower lip. Her dad made her snappy. He brought 53

    out the worst in her. She had to try to hold this in. There were too many strangers here and not nearly enough space. Aidan had replaced his earphones, but she knew he’d heard her little outburst. Great, now she seemed like the annoying one.
    She took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling of the van. The upholstery there was peeling away and sagging. It reminded her of a stormy sky. She tried to file the color and the undulating way the cloth draped in her mind, in one of the many files she kept for future drawings. It was a good distraction.
    The driver did some fancy gear-shifting and tried the ignition a few times. The van made a low, painful noise and continued its miserable effort.
    The road did nothing but snake. It snaked through towns, along cliff edges, down hills. They drove into a tunnel cut through a mountain, and when they emerged, outside, all was blue. There was nothing to the right of the van but air, followed by a sharp drop down the side of a cliff to the sparkling sea. The coast was fully visible, stretching in front of them in a great wall of jagged rock. The land itself was thick with trees. On the horizon, there were occasional umbrella pines—strange, cartoon-like trees that were all trunk until they exploded into wide awnings of green. They stood massive and alone on the edges of the cliffs, in sharp relief against the sky. Everywhere, the water was punctuated with boats. Tiny fishing boats, like periods. Great, hulking cruise ships, like exclamation points.
    This view brought the occupants of the van to life. They all looked out as they made their way along the edge of the coastline cliffs, constantly scraping low-hanging trees, occasionally getting 54

    stuck behind a massive tour bus that looked too big for the road.
    They passed through three or four more towns, each one a little bigger and prettier than the last, but none were too huge.
    Finally, they came to a large intersection that was clearly somewhere . The buildings didn’t peel here—they were big, in bold colors, with white detailing. There were grand cafés with crowds sitting outside. There were banks and shops and masses of tourists enjoying the late afternoon. The van turned down a road that had been cut into a split in the cliff. It folded in on itself in this crevice until it reached the bottom. They stopped at the water level, near a utilitarian ferry port. The town was a hundred feet above them now, its hotels built right to the very edge of the rock, adding to the height of the cliff. The water before them was peaceful. Big restaurants with huge signs welcoming tourists sat on pylons over the water.
    “This is Sorrento,” her dad said. “We’ve arrived!”
    The van died as soon as it heard those words.
    “Like Pheidippides,” her father said, looking at Julia.
    “Like what?” Clio asked, sliding out of the van.
    “The first person to run the marathon,” he said. “He ran from the city of Marathon to Athens to report the outcome of a battle. He ran the whole stretch, gave the message, and died.
    True story!”
    He looked to Julia again. Obviously, now that he was dating a professor of archeology, he was going to be doing this kind of thing a lot. Wonderful. Clio looked to Martin, who smiled and shook his head.
    “Actually,” Julia replied, stretching her arms above her head,
    “that’s probably a myth. There’s no proof of it.”
    55

    She said it plainly, not cuttingly. But still, in her prim English accent, it made her father seem dim and overeager.
    “I need to get in touch with home,” Clio said to her dad. “I need to tell Mom I got here safe. I need a phone or a computer.”
    This was true. This could not be denied. But she also had to fix this Ollie thing, now .
    “In a little while,” he said.
    “It’s important,” Clio said. “I have to call soon.”
    “Relax, kid . . . er, Clio.” He extended