Poppy returned to the living room. Her mother was reading poetry—she always read poetry in the mornings, and recited it out loud in her annoying poetry-reading voice, like she expected whoever heard the lines to listen and gasp in wonder. Poppy couldn’t focus on the words—something about a house and Russia. “So what am I supposed to do today?”

“Anne Sexton. Isn’t it lovely?”

“I’m bored.”

“Only boring people get—”

“Just don’t,” Poppy said. She adored her mom. She’d memorized her, right down to the way her hair parted down the middle and the shape of her fingers. But sometimes her mother was too familiar, too predictable.

Poppy ran into her room, grabbed her tote bag, and did something she’d never done before: she went to the beach alone. The flame of her anger cooled into self-criticism. Who was she to complain about Michael? She was in the judge’s chambers when Michael signed his adoption papers, tears of happiness streaming down his face—they were all crying. She didn’t even want to go to the Historical Society. Her dad was great—why shouldn’t Michael want to hang out with him?

Poppy sat on the beach, alone, gazing at the families under their beach umbrellas and the kids playing together in the surf. The tide was going out. Everything felt like it was draining away.

A girl her own age walked up to where Poppy sat with her legs tucked under her. The girl’s hair was blond but dirty from the wads of seaweed that got stuck in it. The seaweed was all over her, clinging to her tanned skin and sticking out of her bra top. This was the summer of the red tide, when the usually clear, ice-cold water turned into a junky stew of slick ocean fauna, like boiled red cabbage.

The girl’s surfboard was twice as tall as she was. She held on to it loosely with one arm, like she was resting it around the shoulders of a dance partner. She had a long, lean torso and short, strong legs. “You surf?”

“No,” Poppy said, although she wished she had a different answer, because she’d always watched the surfers and wished she could join them. The closest she ever got to catching a wave was riding the Styrofoam boogie boards they bought at the junk souvenir stores that dotted Route 6. Real surfboards were expensive, and besides, she didn’t know anyone who could teach her. Surfing was out of the question, like charter fishing, regattas, and visits to Nantucket—all the stuff she’d heard Ann saying she wanted to do ever since she started babysitting for the Shaws.

The girl reached out her hand. Her fingers were short and stubby and covered in silver rings, even her thumbs. The rings looked like they were cutting off her circulation. “I’m Kit.”

“Poppy.”