The Dysasters (The Dysasters #1)(67)

21


CHARLOTTE


Charlotte could barely contain her excitement. Today, in her Intro to Marine Ecology class, she was going to be able to get out on the Gulf for the first time since she’d arrived at the Texas A&M’s campus. She studied herself carefully—oh, so carefully—in the full-length mirror in her dorm room.

Her hair was good tied neatly back in a high ponytail and woven through the rear opening of her Wildfang cap that declared FEMINIST on the brim. Her makeup was perfect—not too much, but also enough to cover her imperfections and bring out her long, thick eyelashes. She was wearing a long-sleeved swim shirt over her sports bra. The fit was almost as flattering as the turquoise color that reflected her eyes so well.

The class had been told to wear swim shirts and swimsuit bottoms. They’d be on and in the water all day. But Charlotte couldn’t make herself wear a bikini bottom. All day. In front of strangers. So, she’d opted for one of the oversized swim shirts she always wore and a tasteful pair of pink boy shorts. Still, she studied herself—front, back, side. And had to stifle the urge to cut class.

“No, you will not cut class, especially a class that is held on the ocean!” Charlotte spoke sternly to herself in the mirror. Then she read aloud from the postcard Grandma Myrtie had sent her. Charlotte had taped it to her mirror so she would see it every single day. It was her grandma’s favorite quote by the timeless Eleanor Roosevelt:

“… the purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experience.”

Charlotte kissed her fingertips and then pressed them to the postcard. “Thank you, Grandma Myrtie. That is exactly what I’m going to do.”

Her phone alarm bleeped, signaling she was out of time, and she grabbed her backpack and sunglasses and hurried from the private apartment her grandma had secured for her on campus. It was a fantastic luxury, especially as her apartment looked directly out on the Gulf. Charlotte was still trying to figure out how to show Grandma Myrtie her appreciation for her love and belief and support—financial and emotional—and she’d pretty much decided that she was going to have to discover a new species of marine life and insist it be called a Myrtie!

Charlotte giggled musically at the thought as she followed the directions in her syllabus. A half-hour walk down the beach would take her to a dock where her professor and a marine biologist from the Turtle Island Restoration Network would be waiting for their class to join them. Today’s mission—that Charlotte could hardly wait to embark upon—was to count, study, and document the remains of Kemp’s ridley turtle and loggerhead sea turtle nests. And, hopefully, to get a glimpse of some actual sea turtles while they were at it.

Charlotte took off her swim shoes and walked into the waterline, loving how the warm waves crashed against her calves and swirled sand around her toes. She squinted, staring out at the Gulf, and her happy expression shifted to a frown.

The waves were insane! Not that that bothered Charlotte. She adored the passionate, wild, untamed waves! She ached to be out there with them—free, without one single care. But most people weren’t like her about the ocean, or at least about heavy waves on the ocean.

Charlotte picked up her pace, almost jogging, until she got within sight of the dock, where she saw a triangular-shaped red flag snapping in the gusting wind.

“Well, shoot!” A red flag was a warning. It meant that the surf is high and the currents are dangerous—too dangerous to take a small boat out on.

She walked the rest of the way to the dock slowly, already knowing what she’d find when she got there, and sure enough, tacked to the cork notice board at the entrance to the dock was a Sharpie-written note that stated: INTRO TO MARINE ECO’S TURTLE STUDY TRIP HAS BEEN POSTPONED—MEET IN CLASSROOM 128 AT 0900.

Charlotte sighed and glanced at the pretty, waterproof watch Grandma Myrtie had given her last Christmas. It was only 0730. She was early. Very early. “Well, that’s a good thing,” she told herself as she left the empty dock and began to wander along the beach. “Gives me time to relax before class.”

Relax?

Charlotte’s frown changed to a slow smile. She had a towel and a change of clothes in her backpack. And she had plenty of time to get to class. There was no reason why she couldn’t swim a few laps, change, and still make it to class on time.

Feeling lighter just at the thought of being surrounded by water, Charlotte hurried down the beach to a little cove-like indention that was littered with big, black rocks. She tucked her backpack behind one of them and skipped into the water, wading quickly out to where the waves were surging around her waist.

Charlotte drew a deep breath of damp, salty air into her lungs, and let it slowly out. Then she closed her eyes and listened.

She didn’t have to wait long, which surprised her. Usually she had to spend most of the day in the water before she began to hear them, but this day—this magical, windy, wavy day—Charlotte heard them right away.

Within the waves, lifting from deep under the water, the singing voices drifted to her.

The first time Charlotte had heard them she’d been six. She’d told her parents that she didn’t want to be called Charles or Charlie anymore because she wasn’t going to cut her hair ever again. Instead, she wanted it to be long like Mother’s. And she also wanted to wear pink bows in it and a matching pink dress.