Free The Fog by Caroline B. Cooney Page A

But generations back, Christina’s ancestors had names like Florence, Nellie, Phoebe, and HepsiBeth. They were in the graveyard on Burning Fog Isle, where their stones were routinely checked by graveyard buffs who wanted a rubbing of the angel on HepsiBeth’s stone. Christina had always thought HepsiBeth sounded like a soft drink — Pepsi Cola, Coca Cola, HepsiBeth.
    “We always give our cats graveyard names,” said Christina to Jonah. “Off the old gravestones. One year the litter was Emmaline, Tristram, Jethro, Jemima, Dorcas, and Abiah. Jonah sounds like a good cat’s name.”
    Jonah said, “You’re weird, Christina.”
    “Good. Then you don’t have to be friends with me. Forget your marching orders.” Christina walked away from Jonah. Then she remembered something and turned around again. “There is one way you can help me. But you can’t tell Mr. Shevvington about it.”
    Jonah did not look thrilled about something for which he got no credit.
    “I want to see the house where Anya lived last year. It’s in this neighborhood somewhere.” If I get in even more trouble, she thought, the Shevvingtons will send me away. Probably there.
    Her head ached with the day’s events. She felt as if it would take all autumn to think through what had happened. And in only a little while she had to face the Shevvingtons again, and Anya and Michael and Benj. They would all know about the fistfight with Jonah.
    Jonah took her down a narrow street, away from the cute little tourist-trade, sailor-trade shops. Past car repair places stinking of oil, and old sagging warehouses with weeds growing in the cracks of the buildings.
    He pointed to a thick, squat house with seaweed-green asphalt siding. It was a house where poor people lived; where the smell of cabbage clung to the torn wallpaper and the ugly carpet curled up and collected spiders. Where there would be only one bathroom, and its tub would be pockmarked and its shower curtain moldy. There was no yard, no view of the sea, no color, and no wind.
    Christina shuddered.
    I, from my island of wild grass and roses, of leaping salt spray and seabirds floating in air currents — living there?
    “Creepy, huh?” Jonah said. “Aren’t you glad you live in Schooner Inne this year?”
    Christina thought, Why did the Shevvingtons decide to take us? They don’t have any other guests. I don’t think they’re going to have other guests. I think we’ll live in the attic and they’ll live on the second floor and nobody else will come. Ever. Anya says we’re living with the Shevvingtons because they’re so kind. Vicki and Gretch adore Mr. Shevvington. I don’t think they’re kind.
    She remembered what the tourist on Frankie’s boat had said. Don’t they look like ancient island princesses, marked out for sacrifice? Sent away for the sake of the islanders, to be given to the sea?
    “What’s it like in the cupola?” Jonah said.
    “I haven’t been up there yet.”
    He was amazed. “A girl that slugs boys the first day of school hasn’t explored the best part of the sea captain’s house yet?” he said. “That’s where the sea captain’s wife stood when she dove to her death.”
    “Couldn’t have,” said Christina, who wanted never to agree with Jonah about anything. “It’s all glassed in.”
    Jonah shrugged. “She didn’t care if she got cut by a little glass, did she? She just jumped through it.”
    Christina was horrified. She had never thought of that.
    Why had Mr. Shevvington smiled, saying, “I know,” when Anya promised to do anything he asked?
    Why had Anya said “The sea keeps count. The sea is a mathematician. The sea wants one of us”?
    Jonah and Christina waited for the light to change at the bottom of Breakneck Hill. The waves crashed in Candle Cove. Six cars crossed the Singing Bridge, and the open metal floor of the bridge hummed loudly as the rubber tires spun over it. Christina had always loved the Singing Bridge.
    “It sings when