Free The Fog by Caroline B. Cooney

your ability to handle yourself.”
    Her hand grew sweaty around the pen. The metal chair poked her back like Mrs. Shevvington’s fingernail. It’s true, she thought. Nobody else argued. Nobody else got in a fistfight. Michael told me to laugh when they teased. I never even tried to laugh. I just socked Jonah.
    Mr. Shevvington said gently, “Christina, I want you to think about counseling. We have a wonderful guidance department here. We have a social worker who understands troubled adolescents very well. I want you to consider working with her to sort out your emotional problems. Of course it will be your decision. We won’t force you into anything.”
    Emotional problems? Christina thought. Me?
    She had always been the granite of her family, the old strong stock of the island. It was Anya who was the endangered species, the fragile one.
    Or was it?
    “Now fill out the form,” said Mr. Shevvington gently. His eyes were warm, soft: eyes to wrap a child in comfort.
    “But these questions — ” began Christina. She wet her lips.
    “Will help us understand you,” the principal said.
    Christina lowered her eyes to the page. The letters were soothing; the alphabet never changed; the white rectangle of the pages never changed.
    She tried to breathe evenly.
    What are you afraid of? asked the first question. Circle all that apply.
    Rats?
    Darkness?
    Being laughed at?
    Pain?
    Acid?
    Failure?
    Being alone?
    Most of the time, Christina Romney thought, I am afraid of nothing.
    Some of the time, I am afraid of everything.
    But I am not telling anybody which I’m afraid of, or when.
    “I won’t fill this out, Mr. Shevvington.”
    “You must, Christina, dear.”
    “No.”
    The word sat alone, like an island in the sea.
    There was a long silence. Christina did not look at his eyes. The eyes, like the beckoning hand of the wet suit, might force her into something.
    The silence lasted and lasted. What would happen in art without her? Would Jonah be there even now, telling them all how poverty-stricken she was? How her parents were nothing but servants? It wasn’t true. Her father was an excellent tennis player. Her mother was an excellent cook.
    “Then you may go,” Mr. Shevvington said. “But I want you to know that I am your friend. All I want is to help you. And Christina — ”
    She set the clipboard and pen on his desk and backed out of the office.
    “ — you desperately need help.”

Chapter 6
    A FTER SCHOOL CHRISTINA WENT to look for Anya, Michael, and Benj, but it was Jonah she found. Or actually, Jonah who found Christina.
    “Get lost,” said Christina. “I don’t want any friends by marching orders from the principal.”
    Jonah said nervously. “I have to do what he says.”
    “Why? I won’t rat on you. If he ever asks, I’ll say you’re very attentive, and helpful in every way. Now get lost.”
    Jonah stuck with her. “He’s watching,” whispered Jonah. “Let me walk with you as far as Breakneck Hill.” The heavy hunting boots clumped along with her. Twice Jonah looked over his shoulder.
    Twice Christina forced herself to look straight ahead.
    Jonah was slightly shorter than Christina, but boys usually were at that age. All of him was thin: even his lips and his eyelids were thin. But it was not as thin as girls can be — anorexic. It was thin for the moment: Tomorrow, or next week, Jonah would grow six inches and gain seventy-five pounds. His hands were much too large for his seventh-grade body; his feet big as a clown’s; his teeth too square. “You have funny hair,” Jonah said. “Is it dyed?”
    “No, it isn’t dyed. And what kind of name is Jonah, anyway?” added Christina, getting in a dig of her own. “It sounds like a graveyard name to me.”
    Jonah stared at her.
    Too late she remembered this was yet another island saying Anya had forbidden her to use.
    Names fascinated Christina. So far in seventh grade she had met Kimberly, Jennie, Krystyn, Sable, Brandi, Vicki, and Gretch.