Manatee's Best Friend Read online

  To my family,

  David, Sammi, and Sarah

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  The bus ba-bumps over the root-crumbled corner of our street. One more minute and I can escape the other kids chatting and shouting and me trying to be invisible and wondering why I’m not like everyone else. For them, the chance to hang out with friends is one of the best parts of the day, but for me, it’s the worst. I never have anyone to talk to, not that I’m brave enough to talk anyway.

  At the sight of my house, my body relaxes for the first time since school let out. I’m only moments away from my favorite place in the world, the river by our backyard.

  As I hop off the bus, the warm breeze hits me with the sweet scent of yellow jessamines. I take in a deep breath, but my heart revs up when I remember—Missy!

  A green anole darts out of my way as I run up the grassy driveway, drop my backpack by the stairs to our house on stilts, and dash out to the back. I weave past the moss-draped old oaks and head to the river.

  Missy’s been gone for almost three weeks. Every day after school I come to the water, hoping this will be the day she shows up again.

  Missy is a manatee—the gentlest creature, with her round body and stubby snout, always so sweet and trusting. If you didn’t know better, you’d think she was just like every other manatee in Florida, but she always comes to eat the eelgrass by our dock, so we’ve become best friends. Missy is the only one I can talk to about everything—how weird and alone I feel and how I’m constantly terrified of being embarrassed in front of everyone. I never freeze up or have the blood rush to my face or get that sweaty feeling in my palms with her. She doesn’t push me to speak up like Mom and Dad do. She’s more like Grandma with her Zen-like calm. I’m hopeless at making friends with kids my age, but if I’m only going to have one friend in the whole world, Missy is a pretty good choice.

  It’s late February, so most manatees are still hanging out in the warm springs upriver, but Missy’s been coming by our dock most of the winter. I used to feed her cabbage heads until I found out it isn’t a good idea to feed wild manatees. She still visits me anyway. I’m pretty sure that means she loves me like I love her.

  I hurry to the end of our dock. An egret startles away like a pale ghost. I’m on the lookout for the white Y-shaped scar on Missy’s back, my eyes almost hurting from the strain. It’s awful how manatees are recognized by the scars they get from being hit by boats. This is a terrible fact I happen to know because I’ll be a manatee scientist one day.

  Peering out over the water, I pull out my phone and turn on the video. “Becca Wong Walker, world-famous marine biologist, reporting: It’s day twenty of Missy Watch and still no sighting of her.” It’s for my private online channel where I record my manatee observations, and since I’m the only one who sees it, I don’t clam up like I do in front of my class. Normally, this is fun, but now my stomach clenches. Where could she be? I have to keep it together even though my mind is clogged with worry. I say the first thing that pops into my mind. “Manatees can get hit by boats because they’re too slow to avoid them. Lately, a lot more boats pass by because new houses are going up along the shore.” I scan the water for ripples. “I really hope Missy’s okay.”

  I stop recording and lower my phone. What am I thinking? I’ll never have the courage to have my own wildlife show. That would involve talking to actual people, and the thought of that makes my heart speed up and my palms grow clammy.

  I sigh. Mom is probably wondering where I am. I should pop back to the house to let her know I’m home. At least there’s a bologna sandwich in my near future. Dad gets on my case for eating the same thing every day, but I’m not about to apologize for loving squidgy bread with thin, salty bologna. When I find something I like, I stick with it. Dad also says loyalty is one of the best traits a person can have. I’m very loyal to bologna sandwiches.

  A final glance at the water—and I see them.

  In the middle of the river, telltale circles ripple one after another across the surface of the water—the sign of a manatee swimming, also known as manatee footprints. I turn the video back on to capture its arrival. “Here comes a manatee,” I say. “It’s too far away to see any identifying marks.”

  VVVVRRROOOOM.

  A motorboat rounds the bend and zooms straight at the ripples. My throat goes dry, and my body stiffens. I want to scream, Slow down! You’re about to hit one of the best creatures on earth! But no words come out—they’re stuck somewhere between my ribs and stomach. The one and only time I tried to yell at a boat to slow down was a couple of months ago, and when I did, grown men laughed at me. Even thinking about it makes me want to shrivel up and disappear.

  The boat continues on, motoring way too fast. I pace back and forth in little zigzags on my dock. My heart pounds. What if it’s Missy? Please don’t hit her.

  The ripples have disappeared. The boat zooms away.

  My video is still going, so I say, “I hope that manatee’s okay.”

  Finally, the ripples reappear, farther away, on the other side of the river.

  I let out a shaky breath. “That was too close. I can’t believe those tourists, who just don’t care. Or maybe they’re locals, who aren’t much better.” I turn off the video. If I had superpowers, I would’ve flown off the dock, sped across the water, and punched out the motor. But I don’t have superpowers. I don’t even have normal kid abilities, like being able to warn strangers about to hit a manatee.

  A few moments pass. I stand up and—

  Another set of circles ripple across the water, blooping their way toward me. My heart speeds up again, rat-a-tat-tatting.

  Could it be Missy? If Missy were back, I’d have a friend again, instead of always being lonely. I really miss her.

  I wish I had my polarized sunglasses. With them on, I could see the manatee’s pear-like shape much more easily. I pay special attention for a manatee’s nose poking out as it breathes. A large rotund shape slowly swims over.

  With a Y-shaped scar on its back.

  It’s her!

  It’s Missy.

  I slump with relief. She’s back, and she’s okay.

  And next to her is a small shape, like an oval beach ball—a mini Missy! I don’t want to scare them away so I clamp a hand over my mouth and squelch the urge to run up and down the dock squealing at the top of my lungs. My grin is so wide my face hurts.

  It’s a baby manatee.

  Oh. Oh. I fumble with my phone and center Missy and her calf in the frame. Missy nibbles at the seagrass, and her baby sticks close by, swimming like a pro. The baby has a small wrinkly face, and its flippers are comically large compared with its body. What a champ, already so self-sufficient.

  I narrate in a quiet voice, “Missy’s back, and she had a baby! I’ve never seen a more adorable sight in my twelve years of living on this planet. Look at that cute little bundle
of a manatee.” I search my memory for more manatee facts.

  “Did you know manatees are a threatened species? They only have babies every two to five years. After it’s born, a baby manatee sticks with its mama for one or two years. Oh. Oh!” The excited hitch in my voice isn’t up to professional standards, but I can’t help it. “This little manatee calf will be my friend for at least a whole year!”

  Turning off the video and crouching down, I watch Missy’s baby swim so earnestly, flapping its stubby flippers to keep up with its mom. “I’ve missed you so much and was so worried,” I tell Missy. “I thought you might’ve been hit by a boat, but I bet you found a safe place to have your baby. That was really smart of you.”

  Missy bobs up and down, like she’s listening, so I continue. “Let me catch you up on what you missed. School is as awful as usual. I thought middle school might get better now that it’s early in the spring semester, and at least I’d have someone to eat lunch with, but no, not at all. I’m still the weird, quiet kid no one speaks to. I feel so invisible.”

  Missy chomps on the eelgrass.

  “Yes, you’re right, Missy. I do want to make friends, but it’s hard if I can’t even say hi to anyone.” I sit and dangle my feet in the water. Mom and Dad think I’m silly for having one-sided conversations with Missy, but they don’t get it. Missy listens, and I can hear in my mind what she would say.

  Missy slowly swims close to the dock, her flat tail moving up and down, and her rounded flippers flapping slowly. Her calf sticks close to her, nuzzling her. Seeing this adorable new life makes me forget my school problems. “I wonder what your name is,” I say. “Once I have a better idea of your personality, I’ll come up with the perfect name.”

  VVVVROOOM. Another motorboat zooms along. These tourists are the worst. They blast by on their way to the springs to see the manatees, not caring if they hit one on the way.

  But this time the boat slows way down as it approaches. It makes a wide turn and heads our way. My breathing stops. The river is pretty wide at our house, but I can’t handle another close call, especially with Missy and her baby in its path.

  Missy and her baby paddle away, one large and one small shape, blurring as they swim off. I sag with relief.

  The boat pulls up to the dock next door. A few weeks ago, the SOLD sign showed up, and since then I’ve been wondering who’ll move in. I had a secret hope a kid my age would move in and we could become friends. But if these people are my new neighbors, whoever they are, I can’t stand them already.

  I edge slowly down the dock and duck partway behind a tree. There’s no way I’m going to say hello or wave to random strangers who nearly mowed down Missy and her baby. They’re practically manatee murderers.

  From the boat, a thin man and a girl about my age get off. Her thick brown hair flaps behind her and her spindly legs and arms remind me of a crane. The man, an older male version of her, must be her dad. She runs down the dock and heads to the house next door. “I love it, I love it!” Her voice rings shrill and loud. I cringe. Her shriek is probably the exact frequency that repels manatees and other marine mammals. Maybe someone should bottle that as a manatee warning system for boats.

  Missy and her calf will never return with all that noise. If this girl’s my new neighbor, her boat could run into them, and all the peace and quiet and everything amazing, including all the manatees, will disappear. My stomach knots up even more. I’ll either have to talk to her or stay inside the house forever.

  Everything’s ruined.

  I storm up the stairs to the covered porch that is Mom’s studio. Mom stands in front of a dresser, holding a stiff bristle brush and running her hand through her short hair. Her studio is cluttered with unfinished furniture, shelves of paints and brushes, and random found objects.

  Mom puts down the brush. “Becca bug, I didn’t hear you come in. How was school?”

  “I saw Missy, and she has a baby!”

  “How wonderful!” With a delighted grin, Mom hustles over and gives me a hug. “It’s been a while since you saw her. And a baby manatee!”

  “But it’s not okay.” I sink into the ratty but comfy couch. “They’re in danger. The boats are too fast and could hit them any moment.” I hug a throw pillow, close my eyes, and inhale the scent of paint fumes and sawdust. “And then another boat came with a man and a girl. I think they’re our new neighbors.”

  “Really? We should go over and meet them. Let’s bring them cookies.”

  “You’re missing the point! I don’t want to meet them.” I hate sounding like a six-year-old, but I can’t help it. “Their boat could’ve killed Missy and her baby.”

  “I’m sure they were paying attention.” Mom gets up. “Let’s make our patented chocolate chip cookies, and we can stop by together.”

  I give her side-eye. I’m always up for making chocolate chip cookies, even if they’re probably really patented by Nestlé since we use the recipe on the bag. It’s the stopping-by-and-meeting-the-neighbors part I’m not into at all. Even the idea of scrumptious, chocolaty cookies is not enough for me to face strangers. “No thanks,” I say.

  Mom gives me that look, all narrow eyes and slightly sad, as if she’s wondering where she got a daughter like me. Still, she says brightly, “Let’s go ahead and make cookies anyway.”

  “Fine.” I know she thinks getting me in a good cookie-baking mood will change my mind, but I’m one step ahead of her. Getting me in a good cookie-baking mood will only result in a great cookie-eating session.

  When we bake, it’s mostly me doing the work and Mom keeping me company, drinking iced tea and scrolling for new ideas on her phone. Her latest project is giving a flea market dresser distressed and beachy vibes. Ha. Her customers sure would be distressed if they found out how little Mom actually paid for the “eclectic chic” pieces they buy from her. She’ll ask me for my opinions and sometimes she even takes my ideas and turns them into something cool, like the time she stamped flamingos all over an old mirror.

  My thoughts turn back to Missy and her baby. I pull out the baking sheet, bowl, and mixer with a clatter, slamming the cabinet door.

  “What’s the matter, Becca?”

  “I’m worried about the danger of boats hitting manatees.” I put the butter in the microwave to soften it and jab at the timer. I can’t believe Mom doesn’t get it. “It’s not fair. Manatees are the gentlest creatures in the ocean. A manatee has never been seen fighting, not in captivity or in the wild. They’d never hurt anyone. If people were more like manatees, the world would be a better place.”

  “You have a kind heart, Becca,” Mom says. “I bet you can figure out a way to make a difference for those manatees.”

  Me, make a difference? I can’t even talk to cashiers. Or kids at school. Or anyone not in my family.

  But Missy can’t speak for herself at all. Neither can her calf.

  I measure the flour and other dry ingredients. I’m totally useless at talking to strangers, but maybe there’s another way. “What do you think if I make some signs to tell boats to slow down?”

  “Aren’t there already minimum wake signs in the river?”

  “Not around here. I could use your neon paints from when you did those retro chairs.”

  “That’s a great idea.” A crafty look steals over Mom’s face. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll let you use my paints if you come with me to meet the neighbors.”

  My stomach roils at the thought. I sense a humiliation waiting to happen, but I square my shoulders. Saving Missy and her friends is what’s important. I’ll go meet the neighbors—I just won’t promise to actually talk to them. “Fine.”

  I spend the rest of cookie-making thinking about the signs. I could draw a really cute baby manatee and write, SLOW DOWN, BABY IN THE WATER. Or have a manatee pointing angrily at the boaters: WE WANT YOU TO SLOW DOWN or NO MANATEE MAULINGS ALLOWED.

  While the cookies bake, I scribble sketches on a scrap of paper.

  * * *

  �
�All right, the cookies are cool enough. Let’s go meet our neighbors,” Mom says. “After quality control, of course.” She winks and bites into a cookie.

  I was hoping she’d forget about our deal. But, nope. Her mind’s a steel trap. I eat two cookies and move as slowly as I can, but we still end up on our neighbors’ doorstep, me holding a plate of gooey, warm cookies, Mom ringing the bell.

  The door opens and the man from the boat greets us with a half smile and quizzical look.

  “Hi, I’m Allison Wong,” Mom says. “We live next door. Welcome to the neighborhood.” She nudges me.

  I hand the cookies over, and my gaze darts to the ground. Good thing my tan hides my flushed face.

  “This is my daughter, Becca.” Mom cuts me a disappointed glance. Sometimes I feel like I need to introduce myself to her. Hello, Mom, meet your daughter, Becca, the girl who doesn’t talk to adults voluntarily.

  “Thanks. I’m Peter Carlson.” His half smile stretches into a real one. Take the cookies so we can go already, I think. He takes the plate and turns to the house. “Amelia! Come meet our new neighbors.”

  Oh, great. The girl from the boat bounds to the doorway with a grin that matches her dad’s. “Hi!”

  “This is Becca,” Mom says. I know my mom wants me to be all cheerful, and I’m embarrassing her by standing here mute. I glance at the girl and give her a queasy smile. Now I probably look weird, and I feel worse for even trying.

  “Wanna go check out the river?” Amelia says.

  My brows scrunch together. She wants me to check out the river? We moved here when I was seven, and I know every bend and tree stump of that shoreline.

  “Go on, Becca,” Mom says. I stare pleadingly at her, but she’s back to chatting with her new buddy. “What brings you here, Peter?”

  “This area has a lot of opportunities.”

  “What do you do?”

  “My wife and I flip houses,” he says. “We buy old homes, fix them up, and resell them or rent them on Airbnb. There are a lot of great properties along this river that just need a little TLC.” I mentally roll my eyes. People who use acronyms in their conversations are very suspect.