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  Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Specksgoor, Meg.

  Title: I am water / Meg Specksgoor.

  Description: New York : West 44, 2020. | Series: West 44 YA verse Identifiers: ISBN 9781538382790 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781538382806 (library bound) | ISBN 9781538383407 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Children’s poetry, American. | Children’s poetry, English. | English poetry.

  Classification: LCC PS586.3 S643 2020 | DDC 811’.60809282--dc23

  First Edition

  Published in 2020 by Enslow Publishing LLC 101 West 23rd Street, Suite #240 New York, NY 10011

  Copyright © 2020 Enslow Publishing LLC

  Editor: Caitie McAneney Designer: Seth Hughes

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer.

  Printed in the United States of America

  CPSIA compliance information: Batch #CS18W44: For further information contact Enslow Publishing LLC, New York, New York at 1-800-542-2595.

  The Thing About Rivers

  They have a way of f l o w i n g through you when you’ve worked on one long enough. Guide a river for a few years and it ends up guiding you.

  The Way It Moves

  People climb in my boat every day. I introduce myself— Hi, I’m Hannah.

  They are eager-eyed. Wearing wet suits. Nervous excitement. They understand the thrill in the moment. But they don’t understand the way the water winds its way into my veins. Creating channels that feed into my heart like a stream.

  My Guests

  I guide families with children who watch each drop and bend with a mix of fear and joy. Students from the inner city whose feet are confident on concrete, but unsure in moving water. Men and women on dates or anniversaries. Going well or poorly. Boy Scouts looking to prove their grit. Earn their merit badges. And everyone in between. The water does not judge. Only punishes the ones who don’t respect it.

  September

  The man in the front of my raft is a scoutmaster. Easily twice my age. The water silvers the hair under his wide hat. I turn the bow to steer toward river left. My hands firmly grip my guide stick. He corrects me with a stroke on the right. Like he’s been doing for an hour. Typical. “Stop steering my boat,” I half command, half plead. “That’s my job.” “I’ve been canoeing since before you were born. So I think I know what I’m doing,” he replies. Gives a smug laugh. “Great, you know the person in the back steers,” I say. I match his snark. He darts me a quick look. Like who do you think you are?The way only middle-aged men talking to high school girls know how. He is about to say something more. But I yell for everyone to paddle forward. We’re coming up to the first of three Class III rapids. All in a row. I’m going to need their cooperation to keep the boat straight. His wife and two sons stroke for me. Right on cue. But the father slips in a strong back paddle just before a boulder. It throws off my control. The bow crashes into the rock. Water explodes. His wife is spilled overboard. The rapid flushes her through two drops. Kicking and crying. Forgetting every rule from the safety talk. Remain calm. Let the water take you. I finally get her back into the boat. Her face is as white as the top of a wave. Her eyes as big as the holes she just avoided. The husband rages on about my lack of skill. We arrive onshore tired and defeated. It is always men who try to run a river for me.

  The Thing About High School

  It isn’t much different sometimes. Just a big, unforgiving river. Full of boys who will grow up to be silvery men. Wearing wide hats. Thinking their strokes are always right. Girls like shiny pools with bubbly laughs. Boys smooth as wave trains. Leading straight to whirlpools you’ll never survive. Then there’s the rest of us. The backwash. We are the eddies. The edges of river outside the mainstream. We run against the natural flow of things. That’s where the flotsam meets and curdles. That’s where the safety is. But also where you can get stuck. Once in an eddy, it can be pretty difficult to turn yourself back into the current. Once you become an eddy, you never run with the fast crowd again. They blow by you. In a show of spray and sun gleam. Rushing unstoppably. And you can’t catch up. That’s where Sam and I are.

  Sam, the Arsonist

  Sam has hair that, if it were a temperature instead of a color, would be boiling. Which fits with his love of fire. He keeps a purple lighter in his pocket. He’s always playing with it, even though he doesn’t smoke. “Anxiety,” he says. The flame puts him in a calming trance. He’s best known in town for burning down his neighbor’s shed. Stray homemade firework one Independence Day. His parents were away. I’m not sure who started it. But, since then, folks here call him “Arsonist Sam.” Or just “Arsam” for short. It may be a small dairy and lumber town. No art gallery or theater in sight. But I guess we’re not completely without creativity. I was the first to see the backyard blaze. I ran, panting. Sam was staring at the colors in awe. “Are you crazy?” I screamed. That broke whatever red-orange spell had bewitched his mind. He looked at me slowly. A fire of his own glowed within his eyes. It had been an accident, sure. But he wasn’t terrified. He almost seemed excited about the consequence. “Yeah, probably,” he said. “But not as crazy as my parents will be.” The fire in his eyes blazed. “At least now they’ll have to notice me.” I grabbed the hose. Sprayed the flames licking the side of the shed. Like waves lapping the side of my boat. He made no move to help. Then, once the only colors left on the roof were black soot and white ash, I turned the hose on Sam. And soaked every last inch of him. “You have so much heat inside you, you’re going to burn up one day if you’re not careful.” For a second he looked like he might kill me then and there. But the anger in his face melted to a sly sort of respect. “What did you say your name was?” That’s when a friendship was born out of the balance of a natural truth: Water puts out fire.

  Water Dream #1

  The night before the first day of junior year, I have a water dream. They come and go. Usually to tell me something important. The lens of my sight is aqua and cloudy. Just above the river bottom. The fish are streamlining through the current. But then they start to act strange. Squirming and darting. Out of nowhere, I drift straight into a deposit of dirt and a fallen tree. There’s no way around or under it. I’m tangled up in the roots. I go deeper and deeper into the twisted mess of branches and weeds the more I struggle. I wake up cold and clammy. Something is coming.

  An Entrance

  We’ve only gotten through first period when Sam finds me in the hallway. He reaches into his coat pocket. I can tell he’s fiddling with the lighter, which he could get suspended for carrying. His eyes are flickering like a match. “Have you seen the new kid?” He doesn’t have to explain much further. Because in a minute, I see him. And know instantly that this is who everyone is whispering about.

  An Impression

  First of all, he doesn’t walk. He strides. Dark curls fall across his forehead with grace. As much as the sheer purple scarf with glittering silver moons beaming from shoulder to shoulder. He wears a black turtleneck, straight cut jeans, and heeled boots. I swear you’d be able to hear them from the other end of the hallway. Even if the other students hadn’t gone suddenly mute. A perfectly arched eyebrow curves like a smirk. Into a dainty metal hoop. Beneath, eyes greener than grass catch mine for an instant. And he passes by. One thing is for sure. Whoever he is, he’s not from here.

  Detailed Reports

  Rumors circulate faster than blood in this school. So by fifth period, I’ve had an earful. He moved here from the city a week ago. His parents went to California for busin
ess. So he hauled himself six hours to his aunt’s house. For his last year of high school. Rather than adjust to the West Coast as a senior. He doesn’t eat lunch. Just handfuls of nuts and locker snacks. While everyone else chows down in the cafeteria, he sits under a tree in the schoolyard. Plucking a mandolin. A mandolin, of all things. The science teacher made a joke about his outfit. Said a gypsy had come to town. The new kid asked what the teacher’s sign was. His sign. When told Aries, he hmm’ed and said, “I thought so.” His name is Ezra.

  The Best Class of the Day

  I have the table farthest from the door all to myself in art class. Just the way I like it. Then, I hear the stool next to me squeak as it is scooched across the floor. I turn to see a cascade of dark curls. The boy adjusts his purple scarf.

  Water Dream #2

  I’m fishing in the pond behind my grandfather’s cabin. Everyone told me the stock had run dry. But I’ve never much listened to everyone. I get a bite. It’s the biggest fish I’ve seen in my life. Scales shining in colors I didn’t know were possible. Rainbows upon rainbows of shades not yet discovered. The fish doesn’t thrash or struggle. Just eyes me coolly. Knowingly. Before pulling me in.

  Renny and the Woodshop Stool

  That week I drag a stool to the doorway of my brother Renny’s room. The special stool he made for me in the woodshop where he works. Sometime within the last year, this became my signal for can we talk? He looks up. Brown hair, messy as the bed he sits on, winding down his face. It sits beneath the ball cap I swear he’s done everything but shower in since he was eight. That’s Renny: ball caps and drab flannel. Living proof of the things in this town that will never change. He gives me a quick nod, flipping his hair toward the foot of the bed. His returned signal. I drag the stool in. Just as I’m about to spill, his cell phone rings. It’s Veronica, the cosmetology queen. Miss Americana herself. Blonde hair long as the sighs she brings out of my lovesick brother. Bright blue eyelids. Plum lipstick. Rouge to fake a shy blush. They were high school sweethearts. He, the captain of the baseball team. She, a cheerleader. Bottom of the pyramid though. Until she became Renny’s girl. Before Renny graduated, he had scouts from colleges throughout the state itching to give him a jersey. It shocked us when he turned every last one down. Asked the local carpenter for a job. He was a natural, of course, whether swinging wood or crafting it. But Veronica hasn’t seen it that way. She’s glad he’s still in town for her last year of school. But she was hoping to be the kind of senior girl who dates a college boy. A college jock, no less. Her family got some money from a dead, rich great-aunt in some big city. So she started wearing makeup and talking big to match the glamour of how her life would soon be. University. Theater. A few minor acting gigs to start off small. Suddenly sure this was all within her reach. Loving my brother until she moved on to higher society. It became her first role, I fear. But it’d kill him if I said it. And in this case, I want so badly to be wrong. They make a Friday night date. He ruffles his scraggly hair in absentminded excitement. Hangs up. He adjusts his ball cap. Like he does whenever he switches from giddy to serious. “So, Hannah,” he says. “Spill.” “Well, I’m not sure what to say really,” I start. “There’s this new kid at school.”

  I Spill Again

  In class, we are learning conceptual art. Art that is art because of the thought and not the look. Not because we’re so high-minded, though. It’s because Mrs. Bently got tired of smashing inappropriate clay sculptures students tried to convince her were vases for their mothers. She got tired of setting up the same overdone bowl of pears or table of deer skulls for still-life paintings. Most of all, I think, she got tired of adding her own money to the budget for canvas and other supplies. The school has cut a lot of funding. And concept is cheaper than oil paint. Just found materials and brainpower. I am painting detailed, unreal sea creatures in watercolors. Mixing paint with water I took from the river. My river. Any muck or grit adds texture. Context. Instead of getting in the way. I don’t plan what the creatures will look like. Just let each drop of river show me what it has seen. What it imagines. Ezra is putting together photographs he took with a 35-millimeter film camera. They all look overexposed or underexposed. Mostly blurs of light and fuzzy figures. Or dark spaces. You can barely make anything out. Except for hazy objects. They dangle, mobile-like. Attached by wires. The way a diagram of the planets would. Astrology symbols are drawn over each. They have to do with the time of year, the people he was with, and the feeling it gave him. He says he makes the photos look that way on purpose. Because that is how his memory is. Hazy. Fuzzy. Barely understandable sometimes. I wonder who these people are, these bursts of light and smudges of color. For a minute, I’m a little jealous. They hang grandly. Like stars. Forever frozen inside a universe he made just for them. For a minute, I wish I could be suspended there in the orbit of his thoughts. A watery green-blue cloud. I wonder what his impression of me would look like. There’s a photo he claims is a self-portrait. It looks like a night sky ripping open with streaks of blinding white light. “It’s not colorful enough to be you,” I say. His lips curve into a sly grin. “White light contains all the colors,” he says. Above his self-portrait is an arrow with a line through it. “What’s that?” I ask. “Sagittarius.” He winks like a star twinkling. “I’m a Capricorn by birth,” he says. “But the only truth to that is its Earth sign. Every other bit of my chart is Sag. Fire. You are water,” he says. “But I can’t decide which symbol.” “I’m a Pisces.” His lips purse. His perfect brows tense. “Hmm. Interesting.” “What?” I ask. “Well, the stars seem to think we’d be very attracted to each other. But not compatible at all.” I’m so taken aback. Delighted and put out all at once. I bump into my jar and the river comes pouring out. It smears my latest creature until I can’t recognize it. So it looks exactly like it belongs in one of the photos in his mobile. “There,” he says. “Now it’s in my memory.”

  Coffee Shop Fridays

  Renny agrees to drive Sam and me to the coffee shop before his date. We don’t have our licenses yet. Every Friday, we split a milkshake. We take turns picking the flavor. Tonight, Sam picks Fireball. I joke that he just likes it for the name. Afterward, we walk to the quarry. To our secret spot.

  The Quarry, Waxing Crescent, Harvest Moon

  I collect the wood and Sam builds the fire. That’s the deal. As always. We laugh and tease and gossip for an hour. Smiles crackling like the flames. Eventually, a call from Renny tells us it’s time to put out the blaze. We walk back to the open road. The smell of wood smoke and good secrets sticking to our clothes.

  Unexpected Growth

  Ezra asked the science teacher if he could take over the rundown greenhouse behind the gymnasium. “It looked like an overgrown cemetery. Or a ghost town of abandoned dirt and weeds,” he said. “I’m taking care of it after school. I’ve always been good at gardening. Planting it using the lunar calendar. Come next year there’ll be so many flowers and herbs. Natives and exotics. This town will have never seen anything like it. They don’t even know the variety of life that can grow in this soil.” I smile at this. At how quickly a foreign plant can take root here. At how naturally Ezra adapts to my home. Even if he is the most diverse life to ever attempt growth in this soil.

  A Clash

  At lunch, I tell Ezra to hang up the mandolin and sit with Sam and me. He’s wearing bronze eyeliner. A forest green pullover made of wool. Burgundy corduroys. He beams and tells stories of living in the city. Of equinox parties and of new moon gatherings. I take it all in, enjoying it like high water in the spring. When the snowmelt and rain turn the river into a rush of chocolate milk-colored swells and surfs. And the current is so fast you can barely stop a boat. Sam is quiet. Not a polite quiet. I glance under the table and catch him flicking his lighter. On and off. On and off.

  A Falling-Out

  Sam and I split a Panda Paws milkshake. My choice. Sam is talking about a girl in World History who didn’t know we fought the British for independence. He
’s just getting to the punchline when I break my gaze. Ezra walks by the window in a flowing cream tunic. Curls bouncing lightly as he steps. The drink catches in my throat and I choke. Suddenly it’s like bellows have roared the coals in Sam’s amber eyes. “Don’t tell me you actually like that guy,” he scoffs. “So what if I do?” I ask. “And I’m not saying I do.” “He’s just so vain and arrogant,” Sam says. “And he always has to stand out.” “You’re just jealous that he does it so easily,” I say back. Which was a mistake. Because Sam lurches out of his chair and walks out the door. Slamming it behind him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen his eyes in such a heat. I look down at our milkshake. There’s still half of it left.

  The Quarry, Hunter’s Moon

  I’m feeling pretty crummy. But I still have another hour before Renny will pull up in his pickup truck. I decide to go down to our secret spot anyway. Tonight is a full moon. And she’s pulling on me like she pulls on every other body of water. I can’t help it. When I get to the river’s edge, I strip off my jacket and jeans. I wade in. Just enough for the reflected moonbeams to drift into me. Soak into my skin. It’s freezing, but the cold numbs the fire Sam left behind. “Ehemm.” A throat clears from somewhere on the other side of the bushes. “I knew you were a shapeshifter the first time I met you. A water creature who has to return every so often to keep the spell going. Don’t try to deny it.” In the pale light, I can just see a flowing cream tunic and curls. Ezra. “Don’t worry. I’ll look away while you slip your land legs back on and hide your gills.” I redress, half embarrassed, half curious. He is sitting on the rocks, burning a small pile of sage. Eyes closed. I come close enough to see that his lashes are thick and black. Dusted ever so slightly with stray specks of glitter. “I do this on every full moon,” he says. “I cleanse myself and my surroundings. Send up prayers to the sacred.” “What do you pray for?” I ask. He inches forward as if to tell me a great and terrible secret. “For fish to become beautiful women and men to become fairies. And for every transformation once thought of as impossible.” “Really?” I say, sliding closer. I whisper, “Any luck?” “On at least one account.” He pulls a fleece-lined jacket from the rocks he was sitting on and wraps it tight around my shivering shoulders. He looks over at my dripping, cold feet. “You no longer have fins.” And then I’m leaning into those glitter-speckled eyelashes until they flood my vision like shooting stars. His curls brush against my forehead and his lips are on mine. Soft. Fluid. Like moonlight on water.