Orca Book Publishers is proud of the hard work our authors do and of the important stories they create. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it or did not check it out from a library provider, then the author has not received royalties for this book. The ebook you are reading is licensed for single use only and may not be copied, printed, resold or given away. If you are interested in using this book in a classroom setting, we have digital subscriptions with multi user, simultaneous access to our books, or classroom licenses available for purchase. For more information, please contact digital@orcabook.com.

  ivaluecanadianstories.ca

  Below the Surface

  Allison Finley

  Copyright © Allison Friebertshauser 2023

  Published in Canada and the United States in 2023 by Orca Book Publishers.

  orcabook.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Below the surface / Allison Finley.

  Names: Finley, Allison, author.

  Series: Orca currents.

  Description: Series statement: Orca currents

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20220248842 | Canadiana (ebook) 20220248850 | ISBN 9781459834538 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459834545 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459834552 (EPUB)

  Classification: LCC PS8611.I653 B45 2023 | DDC jC813/.6—dc23

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2022938305

  Summary: In this high-interest accessible novel for middle-grade readers, thirteen-year-old Theo finds a pocket watch linked to a local legend about a lost treasure.

  Orca Book Publishers is committed to reducing the consumption of nonrenewable resources in the production of our books. We make every effort to use materials that support a sustainable future.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Edited by Tanya Trafford

  Design by Ella Collier

  Cover artwork by Getty Images/Image Source and

  Getty Images/Joseph Morgan / EyeEm

  Author photo by Ara Arbabzadeh

  For Kathy and Glenn,

  treasure hunters and explorers.

  Chapter One

  Something bad happened in my town a long time ago.

  I don’t believe in ghosts, but my best friend, Syd, swears that last September she spotted the one said to haunt Sawyer’s Bridge. She was walking home after dark when she saw a figure in a long coat crossing the bridge toward her. When the man got halfway across, Syd blinked and he was gone. Lots of people have seen him over the years, but no one can agree on why he’s on that bridge or what he’s waiting for.

  The way I see it, if there is a ghost, we have something in common. We both haunt the bridge. There’s no need to get in each other’s way. He can have the night, and I’ll take the day.

  Now that summer break has started, I’m out here almost every day, searching for treasure. There’s a boat-rental place upriver where people launch rafts and kayaks. Thing is, they aren’t too careful and tend to drop sunglasses and phones and even wedding rings into the water.

  I find them in the silt and do my best to return them to their owners. Phones are easiest, as long as they still turn on. And for anything I can’t identify, Syd’s dad is always happy to help. He runs the local pawnshop and keeps a lost-and-found box for all the stuff I bring in.

  Today, though, there aren’t any phones. The almost-noon sun bakes my bare shoulders, but it feels nice after the cold river. The empty cans and fishing lures are laid out on the wooden planks of the bridge. It’s the least impressive photo shoot ever. There isn’t even a cool lure in the bunch, just plain weights and hooks. But I log everything, even the boring stuff, on my social feed.

  There are a bunch of us who look for lost things, but the serious ones are looking for old stuff. They take their metal detectors through fields, searching for history. Sometimes they go places where important things happened a hundred or more years ago. I’d like to try that someday, but I like my river. It’s familiar. It comes from the mountains and flows out to the sea. For this brief stretch under the bridge, all the possibilities it carries are mine…if I can catch them.

  Except there hasn’t been anything interesting for a while. I’m starting to feel a little lost myself.

  Just as I’m taking the first picture of my finds, I hear something that freezes the water on my skin.

  A horrible laugh carries over the rush of the river.

  Oh no.

  My heart kicks into high gear. I sweep the cans and lures into my mesh bag, along with my phone in its waterproof case, and jump feet first into the river. My swimming goggles flap around my neck. It’s only fifteen feet to the water. I dive from the highest board at the pool, no problem. But the pool is deeper.

  The water catches me, bouncing me up and down, and it takes me a second to find my place in the current. I kick to the surface and break into the air with barely a gasp. A dozen bike tires rumble over the uneven boards of the bridge. The boys on the bikes are still cackling like hyenas, but they don’t notice me. Only one of them glances at the puddle the cans and I left on the wood. He doesn’t look further.

  They don’t see me this time.

  I lie back, my toes catching the breeze above the surface, and let the river carry me away. My heart is still pounding at the near miss, and I need a moment to breathe. My mom says I’m “conflict averse.” She doesn’t say it like it’s a bad thing, but it doesn’t feel good. I don’t like arguments or fights or any kind of confrontation. They make my heart beat fast when I’m standing still, and I can’t think straight.

  What can I say? I’d rather go with the flow.

  I manage to get my goggles back on without too much water inside them. I flip over to scan the riverbed drifting by under me. Among stones and tangling river plants, a half-crumpled can catches the sunlight. When I dive down and pluck it, a cloud of silt puffs up. I’m already moving on as I shove the can into my bag.

  Hold on. One of those stones didn’t look right.

  I twist around and grab a big rock to help me push against the current. I shove my hand into the cloud of silt and—there! I grab something way too smooth and light to be a stone. It’s round and flat and fits in my palm.

  The air is starting to burn in my lungs, and my mouth wants to fly open. I shove the weird object into my bag and kick for the surface.

  The current carries me a little farther as I swim for the riverbank.

  A guy fishing on the bank waves. “Nice day to be on the river, eh?”

  “Always. Hey, want some weights?” I grab the handful of lead weights tangled in fishing line out of my bag.

  “These are in good shape. Thanks.” He touches the brim of his hat, which has brightly colored lures stuck into it.

  “Have a good one!” With a wave goodbye, I climb the bank, using bushes to haul myself up. The path that follows the river is mostly empty. As I head back toward the bridge, water sloshes from my swim shorts and shoes. There’s a trail of dark gravel behind me. It looks like a river monster decided to go for a walk.

  I dig into my mesh bag for the mystery item. Out of the water, it’s very cold. I pull it out and am surprised to see a watch. It looks like the pocket watches old-timey people on TV have. My mom’s obsessed with those shows.

  One side has a design etched into the metal, and the other side is plain. There’s a button on the top, but it won’t budge. There must be silt stuck in it. No matter how hard I push or pull, I can’t get it open.

  “Theo!”

  My body jerks in surprise, and I drop the watch.

  Chapter Two

  The watch bounces toward the bushes and the steep incline, but I grab it before it can disappear. Clutching the watch to my chest, I turn to face the person who shouted.

  Thankfully, it’s not my mom yelling at me for going swimming in the river alone. It’s just Syd. Her wild blond hair and freckles stand out in the summer sun. She’s wearing a faded-black band T-shirt and jeans cut off at the knees. Four years ago she decided we were going to be best friends. Who was I to argue with that? I hope she never changes her mind.

  “Want some lunch?” She lifts a paper bag, and I see the logo for the local café on the side. My stomach rumbles loudly. I guess swimming and climbing for two hours works up an appetite.

  Syd drops onto a bench while I run to get my backpack. I keep it stashed in the bushes under the bridge while I’m in the river. It’s got my shirt, water bottle, sunscreen and house key.

  As I sit down next to Syd, she hands me a fresh sandwich wrapped in wax paper. I barely manage to say, “Thanks!” before I sink my teeth into it, and mustard and mayo splurt everywhere. The Creekside Café seriously has the best sandwiches in town.

  “Find anything good?” Syd asks as she unwraps her own sandwich.

  I’m still chewing a massive bite, so I hold out the watch without a word.

  Syd’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s new. I mean, it’s really old, but you know what I mean.” She forgets her lunch and takes the watch. She tilts the etched si de in the sun and squints. “Is that a ship? This thing needs a polish.”

  When the button won’t budge for her either, she pulls a Swiss Army knife from her pocket. The watch doesn’t stand a chance against Syd. She’s got the thin blade in the crack and—click. The clasp releases and the lid opens a fraction.

  “You did it!”

  “It’s all about how you twist your wrist.” Syd grins as she hands the watch back.

  The hinge is stiff, and I’m afraid of breaking it, but I’ve got to see what’s inside. I gently pry it open to reveal the watch face. The numbers are all fancy and loopy, and there are words in cursive under the twelve. The hands are stuck at ten forty-six.

  “What’s that?” Syd says, pointing to the inside of the lid.

  Someone’s written something right into the metal, but it’s hard to read. Some of the shapes don’t even look like real letters.

  Syd rubs her thumb over it and slowly reads, “Son…fearless…ports…you? It’s too hard to read like this.” She flips it over and frowns. “What does this look like to you?”

  Next to her finger are small, precise scratches that look a lot like letters. “What’s J.R.?” I ask.

  “Not what, who!” Syd’s eyes are bright with excitement. “If you find out, you can return it to them.”

  I scoff. “There’s no way whoever lost this is still walking around town. It’s been down there for ages.” I wish I could return it. How epic would that be? Something like this was sure to be missed. I could’ve put a big wrongness to right. At least I have something other than cans and lead weights for my feed though. This is by far the coolest thing I’ve ever found.

  Syd closes the watch most of the way but not far enough for the clasp to catch again. I snap a photo of it in her palm to post straight to my feed.

  I chew on my lip as I hesitate over the caption. With a snicker, I type Anybody lose this?

  The joke feels a little hollow. I know no one will answer, but I wish they would.

  Chapter Three

  The mower’s electric engine stutters and dies. I fall over the handle with a groan. I only have five feet of grass left to go! Maybe Mom won’t notice before I get the battery recharged.

  When I got home from the river, I found a note on the counter. Mom’s working late again—big surprise. She’s got a huge project at work with a deadline coming up. I’ve barely seen her in weeks. I don’t mind though. She’s promised an adventure once the project is done. Maybe we’ll get to go to the lake an hour away.

  The note said dinner was in the fridge…but it also had a list of chores.

  Chores around the house are the one thing she expects from me. In return, she trusts me to do whatever I want during the summer, as long as I stay out of trouble. It’s a pretty great setup. But I have a mountain of chores this week.

  Since Mom’s work deadline turned into crunch time, the backyard has become a jungle from neglect. Apparently she’s being nice by only making me mow the lawn. Her words, not mine. The truth is, I’m relieved. I don’t know what she’d do if I pruned any of her prize plants the wrong way, and I don’t want to find out. Mom calls the backyard her “oasis from the madness.” She actually enjoys gardening, pruning and getting generally covered in dirt.

  I’m not complaining. Since she relandscaped the yard a few years ago, she doesn’t ground me as much. Instead of “the perennial morons at the office,” she gets a dreamy look on her face over “perennial native flowers.”

  My phone makes a quiet ping in my back pocket. When I fish it out, I reread the number of notifications three times and still don’t believe it. I couldn’t hear my phone over the mower. It looks like the watch is popular.

  My usual number of likes on a post is under ten, with one or two comments at most. The watch has over twenty comments already, and they keep coming. Most of them are variations on wow! and so neat! and other obvious things.

  One of my followers, dane_stone77, wrote, Great find! Is that a 1905 Nomos? and tagged a user called Clockwork_Carl. That’s never happened before.

  A light, tingly feeling starts in my toes and crackles to the top of my head. Dane_stone77, vice president of the local metal-detecting club, took notice of me. He always posts the coolest things.

  Guess I’ve finally found something the serious treasure hunters are into.

  And sure, finding old stuff is neat, but you can’t give it back to anyone. The person who dropped a coin in 1892 isn’t looking for it anymore. But those folks who spent all day rafting and can’t find their phone or ring? That’s something I can make right.

  This pocket watch doesn’t exactly have a contact list I can call to figure out who J.R. is. There have probably been hundreds of J.R.’s who’ve lived here over the years. Syd said I could return it to whoever dropped it, but there’s just no way. It’s too old, and I don’t have any decent clues to go on.

  But I don’t like giving up. Dane_stone77 and Clockwork_Carl want to know the make of the watch. I want to know who dropped it, even if I can’t return it to them. Otherwise it’s incomplete. An open-ended mystery.

  I’ve got to know the truth and close the loop.

  I’m not alone either. Among the wow and cool comments, a few people have made wild guesses at who might have dropped it. A lord on a horse, or a young lady fleeing an engagement in the middle of the night.

  No way. They’ve been watching the same shows as my mom.

  But one comment isn’t like the rest. A fist squeezes the air out of my lungs, and my fingers holding the phone feel numb. It’s a short comment, but it gets the point across. That’s not yours. Give it back or else.

  I’m too frozen to move. But under the cold, gripping fear is a thought. Someone knows who J.R. is. And they don’t want me to know.

  Chapter Four

  I barely slept last night.

  I left the watch and my phone on the kitchen table. I imagined that whoever had left the comment would reach through the screen and grab me. It feels silly now that the sun is up, but it didn’t last night in the empty house before Mom got home. Both the watch and my phone are heavy in my pocket for the whole walk to Main Street.

  The bell over the pawnshop’s door jingles as I step inside.

  The bored girl behind the counter doesn’t look up from her comic book. It’s my sacred duty to entertain her while she minds the store for her dad, and I don’t take the responsibility lightly.

  “Hey, Syd.”

  Syd straightens up in an instant. She goes from zero to sixty in the blink of an eye. “Theo! What’s up? Find out anything cool? Sorry I couldn’t stay out long yesterday. I’m still working off my debt.” She lifts one cover of the comic book to show me the latest issue of Pirates from Galaxy Zero.

  “Didn’t you see the comments on my post?”

  She rolls her eyes at my question. “News flash—I still don’t have a fancy phone.” Oh, I forgot. Her parents only let her have a flip phone so they can track her down when they need to. But I know Syd well enough to know it isn’t much of an excuse. Even if she had a smartphone, it wouldn’t pull her away from her comics.

  “Did you bring it?” she asks.

  It’s my turn to scoff at a silly question. Full of swagger, I put the pocket watch on the counter.

  Syd takes one look at it and tsks, like the state of the watch is a personal insult. I hold back from teasing her as she retrieves a bottle of cleaner and a cloth from under the counter. While she wipes and polishes, I wander through the pawnshop.

  Guitars and other instruments hang on the wall. Piles of jewelry and knick-knacks fill the glass cases. All sorts of old things crowd the tops of the cases. Two porcelain dolls that are definitely haunted sit next to a pile of musty old hats.

  No wonder Syd didn’t have as big a reaction to the watch as I’d hoped. She sees stranger stuff all the time. But only the box on the shelf behind her has things that came out of the river. Her dad’s bold letters spell out Lost and Found.

  Inside are all the things lost in the river that I couldn’t return to their owners. Things like phones that wouldn’t turn on, sunglasses and a couple of hats. There are even bracelets, wristwatches and rings. If they’re still unclaimed after a year, Mr. Sterling lets me decide what to do with them. Some I keep or give to my friends, and Mr. Sterling sells the rest. He gives what we make to local charities, even though Syd would rather take the money straight to the bookstore to buy more comics.

 

1 2 3 4 5