Mary Underwater
111 pages
English

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111 pages
English

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Description

Now in paperback, inspired by Joan of Arc, a girl builds a submarine and pilots it across the Chesapeake Bay to escape her abusive father in this gorgeous middle-grade debutMary Murphy feels like she's drowning. Her violent father is home from prison, and the social worker is suspicious of her new bruises. An aunt she's never met keeps calling. And if she can't get a good grade on her science project, she'll fail her favorite class.But Mary doesn't want to be a victim anymore. She has a plan: build a real submarine, like the model she's been making with Kip Dwyer, the secretly sweet class clown. Gaining courage from her heroine, Joan of Arc, Mary vows to pilot a sub across the Chesapeake Bay, risking her life in a modern crusade to save herself.Mary Underwater is an empowering tale of persistence, heroism, and hope from a luminous new voice in middle-grade fiction.

Informations

Publié par
Date de parution 07 avril 2020
Nombre de lectures 0
EAN13 9781683358145
Langue English
Poids de l'ouvrage 1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0350€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

CONTENT NOTE: This book contains domestic violence and child abuse that occurs off-page.
PUBLISHER S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Doleski, Shannon, author.
Title: Mary underwater/Shannon Doleski.
Description: New York: Amulet Books, [2020] | Summary: Gaining courage from Joan of Arc, fourteen-year-old Mary Murphy navigates the waters of Chesapeake Bay in a submersible built with her friend, Kip, escaping the home where her violent father has just returned from prison. Includes facts about domestic violence and submersibles.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019033763 (print) | LCCN 2019033764 (ebook) | ISBN 9781419740800 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781683358145 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Family violence-Fiction. | Ex-convicts-Fiction. | Friendship-Fiction. | Submersibles-Fiction. | Catholic schools-Fiction. | Schools-Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.D637 Mar 2020 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.D637 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]-dc23
Text copyright 2020 Shannon Doleski
Book design by Hana Anouk Nakamura
Published in 2020 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact specialsales@abramsbooks.com or the address below.
Amulet Books is a registered trademark of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.
ABRAMS The Art of Books 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007 abramsbooks.com
To June, Teddy, and Dwyer, my three little engineers

My dad is home, and anger has leaked back into the house. It rattles the walls and leaves bruises. If I m not careful, it will pull me under. If I am careful, I can stay far away from it, sneaking with silent feet before anyone notices me.
I get dressed for school as quietly as I can while a battle rages in the kitchen. I press my hands to my ears, dulling the sound. Two weeks. He s been home for two weeks.
I pry my hands away and force shaking fingers to tie my dull black shoes and yank up my socks. When I stand, I pull on the hem of my jumper, the green-and-blue plaid faded. Sister Brigid has been after me since January about the skirt length, but two inches of kneecap appear no matter how hard I tug. Our Lady girls do not show knee, Miss Murphy. If you want that, go to public school. Please rectify this at once.
I can t fix it, so I haven t fixed it. At school, I avoid the nun at all costs.
From the kitchen, I hear a shout, so I hold my breath and wait. It s quiet for a second. Before anything else can happen, I grab my backpack, zip it shut, and slide out the back door.
Outside, I can breathe. The salty air of the Chesapeake is better than the suffocation of the Murphy house. My bike is propped against the porch, and I plant myself in the seat as fast as I can.
The Bay cuts up through the state. Like the water can t be contained, it carves rivers along the way, leaving ragged fingers of land. On the western shore, my island, Bournes, is a broken fingernail, surrounded by the Patuxent River on one side and Back Creek on the other. At the bottom of the island is the Bay and most of the houses.
I pedal north up the main street, the boardwalk to my left and shops to my right. The sun glints off the watermen s trucks parked at the marina. I veer right, where the island juts into Back Creek. Ahead of me is Our Lady Star of the Sea, a church the creamy color of a shell, with arched windows and doors. The low brick building behind that is the school.
As soon as I drop my bike at the rack, I unzip the tiny front pocket of my backpack and pull out the prayer card Sister Eu gave me in kindergarten. Joan of Arc, her hair short and dark, looks back at me. She s strong in gleaming armor, her sword raised high, the French battlefield in the background. I smooth the worn edges. I wish I were brave like Joan.
The entire time my dad was in prison, I didn t need the card at all. But now I press my eyes closed and whisper the words on the back. I am not afraid.
I am not afraid .
I am not afraid .
I am brave and strong, my sword pointed high in the sky. Behind me is the Chesapeake Bay, the water gleaming in the April sunshine. I am not afraid.
When my heartbeat slows, I open my eyes. Before anyone can see, I slide the card back in the pocket, because thirteen-year-olds aren t supposed to play pretend. It s a weird thing to do. I know it s weird. But without Joan, I would drift away.
I follow the other students into Our Lady, the only school on the island. In the hallway, my friend Lydia waves. We might still be friends. I don t know. She s tall and pretty, and her black hair is in twists.
Hey, are you coming over this weekend? she asks me, opening her locker. She looks down the hall and smiles at someone.
Maybe, I say. I haven t told Lydia about my dad being back. If I were braver, I would, but last time her mom called my social worker. If I stay away, it s easier. For everyone.
Lydia shuts her locker and turns around. I want to show you my animation, she says. It needs help. She makes these little sets in her room, dioramas with clay figures, and puts the short films online. They re beautiful.
I ll ask, I say, knowing I won t.
Okay. I gotta go! She runs to catch up with Omar Wiley. I watch them turn into the Spanish teacher s classroom. If I m not careful, I won t have a best friend soon.

In Mr. Fen s science room, I take my seat next to Kathleen Seton. Kathleen is weirder than I am. I think. She draws unicorns. Since kindergarten, she s only drawn unicorns, and worse, she talks to the paper while she s doing it. At least Joan of Arc really existed.
Usually, I like science. A lot. I even won the science fair last year in seventh grade. But lately, I can t shake off the fog of the morning. I stare at the front of the room while Mr. Fen talks.
My eyes drift past my teacher and out the window, to the slice of water behind the marina. No one is on the beach yet, but they will be soon, maybe in a week or two. Sometimes Lydia makes me go, but I don t like to. I never learned how to swim. Which is probably strange for someone who lives on an island.
Mary!
He shouts it like he s been calling me for a while. I meet Mr. Fen s eyes and fidget in my seat. It s a nervous habit.
What would you say in that instance?
Umm . . . I pick at my fingernail. What instance, sir?
The kids behind me giggle. I stiffen as my cheeks burn hot. I hate blushing.
Were you paying attention, Miss Murphy? Mr. Fen moves closer to me, inches away from the lab table. His shirt is as wrinkly as ever. You know, if you spent less time staring at my tie, you would know the answer. Perhaps your grade would reflect that.
If melting into my seat were a possibility, I d do it. And I wasn t even looking at his ugly tie.
Mr. Fen, in her defense, your tie is exquisite. It s hard to pay attention when you wear clothes like that. Kip Dwyer. He is tall and freckled and has a gap between his two front teeth. When we were five, he mooned Sister Eu and everyone thought he was hilarious. He is. Sometimes.
When I hear his voice, I whip around, my two fat braids thumping against my desk. His eyes meet mine, and he winks. He s ridiculous. No one winks. He also doesn t need to rescue me from Mr. Fen. I refuse to return his smile and turn back toward the front.
To tune out my laughing class, I focus on an oyster recycling poster on the wall. A waterman with big boots holds up a bright yellow bucket. Restaurants turn in their discarded oyster shells. The lab on the south side of the island cleans them and then scatters them in the Chesapeake Bay to make new reefs.
Oh, Mr. Dwyer, thank you for taking us off task. Mr. Fen shuffles a stack of papers and whistles us back to attention. Like we re dogs. I close my eyes and drop my head on the table.
On that note, I d like to hand back your tests from last week. Some of you should be very worried.
Everyone groans. Mr. Fen pretends he s all tough, but he doesn t yell at us about the groaning like other teachers would. Like the nuns.
When he gets to my table, he pauses. I hope this was an exception, Mary, he whispers. I panic. Teachers whisper only when things are awful. He hands me the test facedown. Another unfortunate sign. When I flip it over, I see a big fat F scrawled at the top.
He starts to go over the hardest questions, but I can t pay attention. I want to escape. I want to ride my bike to the Cliffs, where I can breathe.
At the end of class, Mr. Fen stops me. Sister Eu needs to see you in her office.
Now? But I have French. A burning starts to bubble in my throat, and I m afraid something will come out.
Yes, now. I told her you can make it up on the project.
The project? I have no idea what he s talking about.
Murphy, I ve been talking about your physics unit for two weeks. You need to make a STEM project that explains one of the theories we ve learned about. It could help bring your grade back up.
Okay. Tears threaten to spill. Can I go to the bathroom, Mr. Fen?
Sure, he says, picking up his coffee mug. Just go to the principal s office when you re done.

I bolt to the nearest bathroom. The fluorescent light flickers above my head. I look in the mirror, and shadows bounce on my face.
Get it together, Murphy . I splash water on my cheeks. I can talk to Sister Eu. She s just a person, just a nun. Just the daughter of a waterman, like me. It s not a b

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