The Fog by Caroline B. Cooney

Atlantic, the waiting ocean chuckled and hissed.
    The wet suit raised the other arm, as if to embrace them.
    Christina was already suffocating in the embrace of her own fear and loneliness. She wanted to be hugged. The wet suit would hug her. She listened to the fingers, like Anya.
    Come here, said the fingers. Come here and drown with me.
    But her sneaker tip hit the fence and a button on her jacket caught on the wires.
    I almost walked over the edge, thought Christina Romney, disengaging her button. Some guy down there waves, and I start believing Anya’s yarns. She said the sea knew we were here. She said the sea kept count. She said the sea wants one of us.
    Down in the mud the arms leaned toward them, longingly.
    Christina wrenched her eyes off the wet suit.
    Very slowly a car drove up Breakneck Hill. It was tiny and bright red, gleaming new, as if the driver were on a test drive from the showroom. It was shaped like a long, thin triangle, with the pointed end ready for take-off. The headlights were hidden under slanting hoods. Inside, the upholstery was even redder.
    The driver stuck a casual sleeve out the window, followed by a casual turn of the head.
    It was Blake.
    How handsome he was! A catalog Maine model featured among the hunting equipment and camping accessories.
    “Hi, Anya,” said Blake. He did not smile. His heavy eyebrows lay neatly on his tanned face, and his deep set eyes matched them perfectly, as if they too had been ordered from the catalog. “Would you like to ride to school with me, Anya?” he said. He was nervous, as if she might say no.
    He planned this, Christina thought, filled with romantic appreciation. He timed it. He probably test-drove the route so he’d arrive at just the right moment. Or maybe he’s been sitting at the bottom of the hill, waiting to see the front door open, and Anya, whom he loves, emerge!
    Anya smiled at Blake. Her whole face smiled — even her body seemed to smile. Shyly she touched her stormy hair, and the wind responded by covering her fingers as well as her face. From beneath the black mist of her own hair, Anya whispered, “I’d love to, Blake.”
    Blake’s smile broke through his face like the sun through the fog, dazzling them. He bit his lip, a childlike expression that Anya returned with a wild, loving laugh. In this world of smart cars and fine clothes, only Anya could make Blake happy. Christina could tell by their lips, which were desperate with the need to laugh, kiss, and beg at the same time. Anya danced around the car to slip in beside Blake. He leaned toward her, as if to kiss her, and she held her face up, but in the end he did not, and Christina was disappointed. Instead Blake pushed the pedal to the floor and took off in a squeal of tires. From the back the car had no shape at all; its triangle was pointed away from them and it was nothing but a red cube.
    Michael and Benj walked on. Michael’s posture said, This is where I stop knowing you, Christina. Remember not to bother me.
    They’ve abandoned me, she thought. I’ll have to walk into the school alone. When I go up those steps, I won’t have a single friend on the American continent.
    Alone.
    It was a word so horrible she seemed to hear it in the waves, repeating over and over, saying, You’re alone, Christina, alone, alone, alone.
    The school itself was plain; brick rooms squatting around a courtyard. But the front steps were pink granite from Burning Fog Isle — fifty feet wide, impressive as a state capitol. In fair weather, half the school sat on the steps to eat lunch. What if hundreds of teenagers, all with their best friends, leaned against each other, talked to each other, shared with each other — but left Christina alone? What if she, and only she, had to stand in the sun, shunned and unwanted?
    Clutching her notebook and purse like a sword and lance, Christina looked back at the Cove.
    It was empty. There was nobody in a wet suit.
    There was nobody there at all but a