Free The Islanders by Katherine Applegate Page A

Aisha returned on unless she managed to get everything done in less than an hour.
    Once she caught her breath, she made her way to the bow, squeezing through the cars that jammed the open deck. The car ferry didn’t usually make this run, but this time of year the last of the elderly summer residents—the Living Dead, as Nina called them—were starting to bail out, avoiding the Labor Day tourist crush and heading back to their condos in Florida.
    She leaned against the railing and looked idly down at the water below, split into two plumes of white by the knife edge of the hull.
    â€œHi,” a voice said behind her.
    She turned. Christopher. “Oh, hi,” she said coolly.
    â€œNice run,” he said.
    â€œExcuse me,” she said, and walked away, squeezing back through the cars toward the stern. She leaned against the rail, watching the wake.
    â€œHi,” he said again.
    Aisha sighed. She turned to face him squarely, folding her arms over her chest. “Where are you from?”
    He looked surprised. “I was born in Baltimore.”
    â€œI see. So you’re basically a southerner. That would explain it. See, here in Maine, people have a different attitude toward things than people do in Baltimore. Here, the idea is you leavepeople alone, they leave you alone, everyone gets left alone.” She returned her gaze to the ferry’s wake.
    â€œI doubt that you were born here,” Christopher said, laughing. “There’s no such thing as a black person born in Maine.”
    â€œI’m from Boston originally,” Aisha said. “But I have embraced the Maine way of life.”
    â€œDo you say ayuh ?”
    â€œLook, no one says ayuh except very old fishermen. And when they do say it, they don’t say it like that.”
    â€œDo you say wicked when you mean something’s good?” he asked.
    Aisha drummed her fingers on the metal rail. “Sometimes. But that’s not what being a Mainer is about. Let me explain again. Whereas someone from Baltimore would go up to a stranger and say hi, a Mainer wouldn’t go up to a stranger. Understand, stranger?”
    â€œAyuh. And it’s a wicked good way to be,” Christopher said. “Only I’m not a stranger. I’m Christopher Shupe. You’re Aisha Gray, a lovely name, by the way.”
    â€œI’m also a bitch, or don’t you remember that?”
    â€œHow could I forget? You’re still a bitch.”
    Aisha narrowed her eyes and glared at him. “Then I would think you’d want to stay away from me.”
    â€œCan’t. Tomorrow I’m starting in on your mom’s garden.That’s where I’m headed right now, to the greenhouse for bulbs and fertilizer. Besides, we live on the same small island. Anyway, I kind of like the bitch act. On you it works.”
    Aisha decided to treat him to silence. Sooner or later he would get tired of annoying her and get the message.
    â€œYour mom seemed nice,” he said. “So unlike you. And, no offense, but I think she’s got the edge on you in looks, too.”
    â€œExcuse me?” Aisha said, breaking her three-second-old vow of silence.
    â€œMaybe it was just that her hair was nicely done, her makeup was very professional, and she has a certain style in the way she dresses.” He grinned at her. “But I like you just the way you are—scruffy and bitchy.”
    â€œDoes this kind of sweet talk work with a lot of girls?”
    â€œI tried to give you flowers.”
    â€œI didn’t ask you to bring me any damned flowers,” Aisha snapped.
    â€œI know. It was sweet of me, don’t you think?”
    â€œSweet,” Aisha said poisonously. “Yes, that’s just the word I would apply to you.”
    â€œAisha. It means life .”
    She looked at him in surprise.
    â€œI looked it up. You know what Christopher means?”
    Aisha coolly looked away.
    â€œYou know what