BN.com Gift Guide

The Properties of Water [NOOK Book]

Overview


When Lace's older sister, Marni, falls victim to a summer swimming accident, it paralyzes Lace in time. For Lace, there is only a before--can there be an after? But as the summer surges on, she learns that she must return to the water, the very thing that tore her family apart. This beautifully crafted novel explores the boundaries of family and friendship, the greatest griefs that knock us ...
See more details below
The Properties of Water

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • Samsung Galaxy Tab 4 NOOK 7.0
  • Samsung Galaxy Tab 4 NOOK 10.1
  • NOOK HD Tablet
  • NOOK HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK eReaders
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook - First Edition)
$9.99
BN.com price

Overview


When Lace's older sister, Marni, falls victim to a summer swimming accident, it paralyzes Lace in time. For Lace, there is only a before--can there be an after? But as the summer surges on, she learns that she must return to the water, the very thing that tore her family apart. This beautifully crafted novel explores the boundaries of family and friendship, the greatest griefs that knock us down, and the smallest kindnesses that guide us to safe harbors.

Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
This heartfelt novel is narrated by 13-year-old Lace Martin, who has grown up beside a lake in Maine with her parents and her beautiful, confident older sister, Marni. Early in the summer, Marni leaps into the water and is horribly injured. She is taken to a hospital hours from their home, and Lace feels like she has lost both her sister and her mother, who moves to be close to Marni. Lace passes the time by avoiding the water, hanging out with her eccentric best friend, and trying to figure out what the strange new housekeeper her father has hired is up to. And then there is swim team captain Sully Tanner, who is suddenly paying attention to Lace. Although it's puzzling that Lace and Marni don't speak over the phone, McKinnon (Franny Parker) has created a cast of believably imperfect characters, and Lace's emotions ring true, especially when she finally travels to Portland to see Marni. Ultimately, Lace summons the courage she always saw in her sister and learns that comfort can come from unexpected places. Ages 10–14. (Oct.)
From the Publisher
"…McKinnon (Franny Parker) has created a cast of believably imperfect characters, and Lace's emotions ring true, especially when she finally travels to Portland to see Marni." Publishers Weekly

 

"…Lacey is a consistently sympathetic character throughout. Readers will doubtless take to her like ducks to water."Booklist

 

"It’s a heartfelt tale about individual identity, sisterly closeness, and working through fear that even the siblingless will find touching."BCCB

 

"Vibrant, descriptive prose and characters that are strong, original, and often comic save an emotional topic from becoming mawkish. Lace’s grief feels real, and the account of her family’s strength inspires. The story overall is surprisingly uplifting, and worth recommending to anyone interested in family dynamics and complex emotions." —School Library Journal

VOYA - Cynthia Winfield
Thirteen-year-old Amelia Wallace Martin's world is rocked when an accident causes both her mother and her fifteen-year-old sister, Marni, to relocate hours away to Portland, Maine. As Lace narrates the ensuing weeks and months, the situation slowly emerges; haunted by the accident, Lace tries to make sense of a world where Marni is no longer a champion swimmer but a cripple. This reader first cried on page 42; midway through the novel, the tissue box joined the reader, actively participating until the extraordinary tale had been devoured in a single sitting. McKinnon's strength is in her ability to write sparingly, never overstating or explaining, leaving readers to discover—alongside Lace—the truth of the "situation." This is a story of relationships, loyalties, fears, kindnesses, likes and loves. Well-developed characters with individual behavioral quirks are fleshed out to the extent Lace needs them or cares to know them, and each becomes dear. Marni's drive to excel makes the story possible, although readers do not actually meet her until late in the story. Throughout, Lace's limited point of view provides mystery and intrigue, challenging readers to search for truths outside the distortions of Lace's perception. Strong ties bind family and friends, providing the love necessary to overcome misunderstandings and tragedy. Set beside a lake that had been an active character in the Martins' lives until the accident, the tale provides readers with a homecoming to its waters after Marni returns from rehab and each girl revives her relationship with the lake. Reviewer: Cynthia Winfield
Kirkus Reviews

Twelve-year-old Lace has always lived in the shadow of her popular, talented and beautiful sister, Marni. Now she lives in the shadow of her sister's accident. When the dare to jump from a cliff into the lake below ends tragically, taking Marni and her mother to the hospital in the city for the foreseeable future, Lace abandons everything that reminds her of her sister. This includes her love of swimming. Family and friends cannot breach the walls Lace has erected around herself. Enter the odd and possibly dangerous housekeeper, Willa Dodge. With her mysterious past and no-nonsense attitude, Willa begins to pave the way for a new future for both sisters. The mystery surrounding Willa's motives and the uncertainty about the extent of Marni's injuries propel the story forward. Unfortunately, neither has the energy to support the flat characters and unfocused theme. Lace, in particular, feels false. While she outwardly exhibits the classic stages of grief, her inner emotional reactions fall flat. The story's motive is undoubtedly earnest, but it falters in execution. (Fiction. 10-14)

Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781429989268
  • Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
  • Publication date: 10/26/2010
  • Sold by: Macmillan
  • Format: eBook
  • Edition description: First Edition
  • Edition number: 1
  • Pages: 176
  • Sales rank: 952,284
  • Age range: 10 - 14 Years
  • Lexile: 1210L (what's this?)
  • File size: 228 KB

Meet the Author


HANNAH ROBERTS MCKINNON lives in Sherman, Connecticut, with her husband and two daughters. She is the author of Franny Parker, which in a stared review School Library Journal called “poignant, emotional, and beautifully written.”


Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt


The Jump
They awaken me. The boys’ shouting is loud and playful, echoing across the water. There are two voices, both young. I pull the pillow over my head, but the voices grow, followed by a splash.
“Don’t be a baby,” yells one. It’s some kind of dare. “Go on, jump!”
There is no response. I hold my breath because I know. I know what’s about to happen; I can picture it. He is standing on the edge of Turtle Rock, just above the shore. In my mind I see him peering down, over the steep rock face, where the water is black and endless below. And I imagine him fall. The fall is slow and he’s twisting in the air, arms reaching back to the rock that disappears above him. And then it isn’t a boy at all, but Marni who I imagine. Her long legs point to the water, brown hair trailing above her in the speckled afternoon light. She doesn’t scream, just smiles and drops until she disappears below the black surface. My stomach turns, and I lurch upright in bed.
“Jump! Jump!” The other boy’s voice pierces the morning outside my window. Then, above it, there is another noise. A shriller, urgent scream shatters the quiet of my house. It is loud and fearful and I cover my ears. My bed-room door flies open, and then I realize the scream is my own, coming from my throat, raw and jagged, and I cannot stop. There is a fumble from beneath my bed as Cinder hops onto the covers, tail thumping nervously, worriedly. He woofs, and Dad descends on the bed behind him, scooping me up, pulling me in.
“Lacey, it’s all right, honey, it’s all right.”
The voices outside have stopped, probably in wonder. “They’re going to jump,” I whimper into Dad’s night-shirt. He sits back, his hair rumpled from sleep.
“Who? Who’s going to jump?”
“The boys outside. Tell them, tell them not to!” Tears are sliding down my cheeks, and Cinder licks them away. He’s wiggled in between our hug, and Dad rubs his black ears.
“Lace, those boys are okay. They’re only playing.”
“We have to stop them,” I cry, but Dad doesn’t move. He just rocks me, and Cinder presses his nose on my lap until the lake goes still outside my window.
The Lake
When Mom and Dad first came to this lake in Maine, they say they knew it was for them. They settled in Saybrook, where they found a little clapboard house with a big back porch, perfect for a family. Almost all of the pictures on our parlor wall are of this lake and us. There’s one of Marni as a one-year-old, tottling on the sandy shore. There’s another of me grinning at the camera and Dad sticking out his tongue, the lake looming behind us. And there’s one of Mom in a red bathing suit, laughing, with Marni and me hanging on to her brown legs. I must have been five and Marni seven. The lake is everywhere, soaking our beach blankets, sucking our toes, suffusing the air we breathe. Growing up on this lake, Marni used to say it was in our blood.
In summer the lake glimmers, its surface reflecting sky, little clouds on little waves. It’s the start of July now, and the lake is wide and green, like Mom’s eyes. Sailboats are moored at the marina, and our yard tumbles down into the water, where our own small dock reaches in. Ours has just a canoe, ruby red. Dad named it 3 Grrrls, for us: Mom, Marni, and me.
The lake is always changing. In autumn it’s golden, floating leaves of red and yellow stretching like fingers across its shores. This is where the geese gather, deciding who will lead south the first frosty morning. Marni and I used to crouch in the cattails and wave goodbye each fall. When winter comes, the lake is a white stretch of icing atop a giant wedding cake. The skaters glide across it like little figurines, making swirls in the frosting. The lake is where I laced up my first pair of Christmas skates, white as snow. And where I fell hard, so hard that it knocked the wind out of me and Dad came running and Mom murmured, “It’s all right, let your breath find you.”
When the days get longer, our lake shifts and creaks. Dad says the ice is talking. Soon it melts, and come spring there is that smell, an earthy scent that surfaces from murky depths, deep, deep down. The lake comes back to life, the ducks return, and buds burst green and red. When I open my window on April days, I can smell it, green and lush and thick. But since it’s summer, there’s more for one’s senses. In addition to smelling it, I hear it. I hear the splashing swimmers, the purring motors of boats. The lifeguard’s whistle at the private beach around the bend. And this year I also hear a silence, one that fills me with a sense of darkness and cold. Like how I imagine the bottom of the lake is in winter. I do not swim there anymore. It is different now, not just in season but different from any summer before. This summer Mom and Marni have left us with this lake. And I draw my curtains closed, so I won’t see it.
The Family
My full name is Amelia Wallace Martin, but everyone calls me Lace. Wallace was my grandmother’s last name. Somehow it got shortened, and now it’s me. You might think since I’m named after Grandma Wallace we are real close, or alike in some way. I can assure you, we are neither. That name is the only thing Grandma Wallace and Ishare. Grandma Wallace is my mom’s mother, and she is from what we call the proper side of the family. Holidays spent at the Wallaces’ are stiff. There is a lot of sitting upstraight, whether it’s around the Christmas tree or at atable for someone’s birthday cake. They don’t like dogs, not even Cinder, and everyone likes Cinder. The Wallaces take small bites of their food, and speak in whispers when something shocking is discussed. And a lot appears to shock them. Like the time I ran around the lake in my diaper. Never mind that I was a tiny baby at a beach picnic. Diapers were not meant to be seen, and baby girls were not meant to run like wild animals, half naked. That, according to Grandma Wallace, was shocking.
The Martins, Dad’s side of the family, don’t shock much at all. In fact, Grampa Martin himself had forgotten his swim trunks the day of that picnic, and it was a scorching hot one. According to Dad, Grampa just pulled off all his clothes, right down to his plaid boxer shorts, in front of everyone. Then he did a cannonball into the lake, hooting and hollering and splashing around. I wish someone had taken a photo of Grandma Wallace’s face at that moment. That must’ve been shocking.
When Marni and Mom left for Portland two weeks ago, the only true shock I have ever experienced, I did not get to see if the Wallaces pinched their lips or whispered behind their hands. In fact, the Wallaces didn’t come. But the Martins couldn’t stop. Gran and Grampa, who I call the Grands, drove the three hours from their home in Vermont, and my aunt and uncle flew in from California. There were Gran and Grampa Martin sleeping on the pull-out sofa in the downstairs den, Uncle Matt and his kids squeezed into the guest room. And there was Aunt Mae, Dad’s younger sister, sleeping on a cot by my bed, her long dark hair spilling over the pillow, so close I could reach out and touch it. No one asked to stay in Marni’s room. Each night Aunt Mae sat up and whispered to me in the dark, until my eyelids fluttered with sleep. She didn’t tell me it was going to be all right, and she didn’t say that Marni and Mom would be home soon. Instead we talked about Cinder, or about school, things you might expect totalk about if everything was normal. I loved Aunt Mae for talking to me like that, most of all for the things we didn’t talk about.
When Mom and Marni went away, Dad went with them. At first. He came home about a week later, alone. Now he’ll go back and forth each week, driving the hours north. The Martins will keep me company when Dad leaves. And Mom calls us every night to check in with us. But nothing is the same. When Mom and Marni left, our sense of order left with them. When the Martins aren’t here to help, the kitchen sink is always full of dishes, and the laundry spills out the dryer, around the corner of the mudroom like a cotton snake coiling its way to the bedrooms. Dad has tried to keep up; he even stopped work for a while. Gran and Grampa invited me to stay with them for the summer. But I couldn’t leave Dad alone. So for a couple weeks we all camped out in the house, cramped together, eating and sleeping like a family does, and we kept at it until everyone got tired. By the end of June, Gran’s and Grampa’s backs grew tired of the pullout couch, and Dad got tired of tripping over suitcases. I got tired of pretending everything was all right.
“It’s time we all get back to normal,” Grampa Martin said. Dad nodded, as though this was something we could easily do. We put on our bravest faces and waved goodbye. I felt a relief come over me when Grampa’s red truck rattled out of the driveway, returning them to their own home. But mine felt emptier than ever.
Pancakes
“She’s up!” Dad ruffles my ponytail as I plop myself at the kitchen table. “Pancakes for my girl?” he asks. Cinder scoots under the table and licks my toe. The stove gurbles and glugs, noises that do not sound like pancake frying to me.
“Really, Dad, I can just have cereal. It’s fine.”
“No, no. Mom always makes strawberry pancakes in summer. So will we. Now, does it usually bubble like this?” He drops the spatula, and gooey paste splatters the cupboard door. Behind him the griddle smokes, more of the same paste oozing over the sides onto the burner.
“I think we have a situation,” he yells, whisking the pan from the stove. It’s the first thing Dad always says whenever anything goes wrong. And this breakfast looks really wrong.
“I think Mom usually mixes all that stuff in a bowl first.”
“Oh,” Dad says, and sighs. He gives the blob a poke with a finger, then dumps the whole thing in the sink.
“Cereal it is,” I say.
I open my sketchbook to my latest drawing. It’s of Cinder’s face, sort of a portrait. I grab a red pencil to color in the lobsters that dance across his dog collar. Every summer Mom gets us new swimsuits, and Cinder gets a new collar. Not this year. So I scrubbed his old collar real good. The red lobsters have faded a little, but it looks almost new. It’s navy blue with a big brass buckle. When I’m satisfied with the lobsters, I grab my storm gray pencil and work on his ears. The left one’s a little too pointy.
“So what’s the plan today?” Dad’s voice is too cheerful, and he looks at me with too much hope. It makes me want to hug him. He’s just returned from Portland, without the rest of my family, but with a deep furrow in his brow that twitches each time he looks at me. I turn back to my sketchbook.
Summer was something I had looked forward to. Endless days of swimming and ice creams at the Snack Shack under the hot sun. But that all changed on June 16, just two weeks ago. The Saturday that destroyed everything. Now, July stretches before me like a path into a dark forest. I look at Dad and shrug apologetically. I don’t have any big plans. I don’t want any.
“Not much,” I tell him. And then I add quickly, “Maybe I’ll go to the pool with Beth Ann.”
Dad looks relieved. “What a great idea! Here’s some money for cheeseburgers.” This makes him happy, so I take the five dollars he offers and stuff it in my pocket.
The Corner of Pratt
Beth Ann Watts is waiting for me on the corner of Pratt Street. Beth Ann is not what you would call popular, but she is certainly well known. We met in nursery school. She stood out to me right away because she was the only kid who didn’t have a blankey. What she did have was a handkerchief. A monogrammed, yellow hankie that went everywhere she went. But don’t be fooled by thinking that maybe it was a blankey substitute, ’cause Beth Ann never was a thumb sucker. That habit was dirty. Dirty habits were everywhere. So were dirty surfaces. That little yellow hankie was for cleaning all things in our preschool classroom: a door handle, a purple crayon, and Whinny, the rocking horse. She was quick with that hankie, even as a four-year-old. You could say, “Hey, Beth Ann, let’s play dolls.” And before you could kneel by the dolly crib she’d have all those dolls lined up on the floor, stripped right down to their plastic nakedness, wiping every hand and foot and head with that hankie. “Okay,” she’d assure me, dusting off that hankie, “you can touch them now.” Beth Ann doesn’t carry that hankie anymore. These days she carries a little pack of disinfectant wipes. I can always tell if Beth Ann is in school before me, because I’ll detect a faint scent of Clorox in the classroom doorway. But despite her war on germs, Beth Ann has always been my best friend. Really, she is the one friend I have.
Excerpted from The Properties Of Water by Hannah Roberts Mckinnon.
Copyright © 2010 by Hannah Roberts Mckinnon.
Published in 2010 by Farrar Straus Giroux.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.
Read More Show Less

First Chapter

The Properties of Water


By Hannah Roberts McKinnon

Farrar, Straus and Giroux (BYR)

Copyright © 2010 Hannah Roberts McKinnon
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9780374361457

The Jump
They awaken me. The boys’ shouting is loud and playful, echoing across the water. There are two voices, both young. I pull the pillow over my head, but the voices grow, followed by a splash.
“Don’t be a baby,” yells one. It’s some kind of dare. “Go on, jump!”
There is no response. I hold my breath because I know. I know what’s about to happen; I can picture it. He is standing on the edge of Turtle Rock, just above the shore. In my mind I see him peering down, over the steep rock face, where the water is black and endless below. And I imagine him fall. The fall is slow and he’s twisting in the air, arms reaching back to the rock that disappears above him. And then it isn’t a boy at all, but Marni who I imagine. Her long legs point to the water, brown hair trailing above her in the speckled afternoon light. She doesn’t scream, just smiles and drops until she disappears below the black surface. My stomach turns, and I lurch upright in bed.
“Jump! Jump!” The other boy’s voice pierces the morning outside my window. Then, above it, there is another noise. A shriller, urgent scream shatters the quiet of my house. It is loud and fearful and I cover my ears. My bed-room door flies open, and then I realize the scream is my own, coming from my throat, raw and jagged, and I cannot stop. There is a fumble from beneath my bed as Cinder hops onto the covers, tail thumping nervously, worriedly. He woofs, and Dad descends on the bed behind him, scooping me up, pulling me in.
“Lacey, it’s all right, honey, it’s all right.”
The voices outside have stopped, probably in wonder. “They’re going to jump,” I whimper into Dad’s night-shirt. He sits back, his hair rumpled from sleep.
“Who? Who’s going to jump?”
“The boys outside. Tell them, tell them not to!” Tears are sliding down my cheeks, and Cinder licks them away. He’s wiggled in between our hug, and Dad rubs his black ears.
“Lace, those boys are okay. They’re only playing.”
“We have to stop them,” I cry, but Dad doesn’t move. He just rocks me, and Cinder presses his nose on my lap until the lake goes still outside my window.
The Lake
When Mom and Dad first came to this lake in Maine, they say they knew it was for them. They settled in Saybrook, where they found a little clapboard house with a big back porch, perfect for a family. Almost all of the pictures on our parlor wall are of this lake and us. There’s one of Marni as a one-year-old, tottling on the sandy shore. There’s another of me grinning at the camera and Dad sticking out his tongue, the lake looming behind us. And there’s one of Mom in a red bathing suit, laughing, with Marni and me hanging on to her brown legs. I must have been five and Marni seven. The lake is everywhere, soaking our beach blankets, sucking our toes, suffusing the air we breathe. Growing up on this lake, Marni used to say it was in our blood.
In summer the lake glimmers, its surface reflecting sky, little clouds on little waves. It’s the start of July now, and the lake is wide and green, like Mom’s eyes. Sailboats are moored at the marina, and our yard tumbles down into the water, where our own small dock reaches in. Ours has just a canoe, ruby red. Dad named it 3 Grrrls, for us: Mom, Marni, and me.
The lake is always changing. In autumn it’s golden, floating leaves of red and yellow stretching like fingers across its shores. This is where the geese gather, deciding who will lead south the first frosty morning. Marni and I used to crouch in the cattails and wave goodbye each fall. When winter comes, the lake is a white stretch of icing atop a giant wedding cake. The skaters glide across it like little figurines, making swirls in the frosting. The lake is where I laced up my first pair of Christmas skates, white as snow. And where I fell hard, so hard that it knocked the wind out of me and Dad came running and Mom murmured, “It’s all right, let your breath find you.”
When the days get longer, our lake shifts and creaks. Dad says the ice is talking. Soon it melts, and come spring there is that smell, an earthy scent that surfaces from murky depths, deep, deep down. The lake comes back to life, the ducks return, and buds burst green and red. When I open my window on April days, I can smell it, green and lush and thick. But since it’s summer, there’s more for one’s senses. In addition to smelling it, I hear it. I hear the splashing swimmers, the purring motors of boats. The lifeguard’s whistle at the private beach around the bend. And this year I also hear a silence, one that fills me with a sense of darkness and cold. Like how I imagine the bottom of the lake is in winter. I do not swim there anymore. It is different now, not just in season but different from any summer before. This summer Mom and Marni have left us with this lake. And I draw my curtains closed, so I won’t see it.
The Family
My full name is Amelia Wallace Martin, but everyone calls me Lace. Wallace was my grandmother’s last name. Somehow it got shortened, and now it’s me. You might think since I’m named after Grandma Wallace we are real close, or alike in some way. I can assure you, we are neither. That name is the only thing Grandma Wallace and Ishare. Grandma Wallace is my mom’s mother, and she is from what we call the proper side of the family. Holidays spent at the Wallaces’ are stiff. There is a lot of sitting upstraight, whether it’s around the Christmas tree or at atable for someone’s birthday cake. They don’t like dogs, not even Cinder, and everyone likes Cinder. The Wallaces take small bites of their food, and speak in whispers when something shocking is discussed. And a lot appears to shock them. Like the time I ran around the lake in my diaper. Never mind that I was a tiny baby at a beach picnic. Diapers were not meant to be seen, and baby girls were not meant to run like wild animals, half naked. That, according to Grandma Wallace, was shocking.
The Martins, Dad’s side of the family, don’t shock much at all. In fact, Grampa Martin himself had forgotten his swim trunks the day of that picnic, and it was a scorching hot one. According to Dad, Grampa just pulled off all his clothes, right down to his plaid boxer shorts, in front of everyone. Then he did a cannonball into the lake, hooting and hollering and splashing around. I wish someone had taken a photo of Grandma Wallace’s face at that moment. That must’ve been shocking.
When Marni and Mom left for Portland two weeks ago, the only true shock I have ever experienced, I did not get to see if the Wallaces pinched their lips or whispered behind their hands. In fact, the Wallaces didn’t come. But the Martins couldn’t stop. Gran and Grampa, who I call the Grands, drove the three hours from their home in Vermont, and my aunt and uncle flew in from California. There were Gran and Grampa Martin sleeping on the pull-out sofa in the downstairs den, Uncle Matt and his kids squeezed into the guest room. And there was Aunt Mae, Dad’s younger sister, sleeping on a cot by my bed, her long dark hair spilling over the pillow, so close I could reach out and touch it. No one asked to stay in Marni’s room. Each night Aunt Mae sat up and whispered to me in the dark, until my eyelids fluttered with sleep. She didn’t tell me it was going to be all right, and she didn’t say that Marni and Mom would be home soon. Instead we talked about Cinder, or about school, things you might expect totalk about if everything was normal. I loved Aunt Mae for talking to me like that, most of all for the things we didn’t talk about.
When Mom and Marni went away, Dad went with them. At first. He came home about a week later, alone. Now he’ll go back and forth each week, driving the hours north. The Martins will keep me company when Dad leaves. And Mom calls us every night to check in with us. But nothing is the same. When Mom and Marni left, our sense of order left with them. When the Martins aren’t here to help, the kitchen sink is always full of dishes, and the laundry spills out the dryer, around the corner of the mudroom like a cotton snake coiling its way to the bedrooms. Dad has tried to keep up; he even stopped work for a while. Gran and Grampa invited me to stay with them for the summer. But I couldn’t leave Dad alone. So for a couple weeks we all camped out in the house, cramped together, eating and sleeping like a family does, and we kept at it until everyone got tired. By the end of June, Gran’s and Grampa’s backs grew tired of the pullout couch, and Dad got tired of tripping over suitcases. I got tired of pretending everything was all right.
“It’s time we all get back to normal,” Grampa Martin said. Dad nodded, as though this was something we could easily do. We put on our bravest faces and waved goodbye. I felt a relief come over me when Grampa’s red truck rattled out of the driveway, returning them to their own home. But mine felt emptier than ever.
Pancakes
“She’s up!” Dad ruffles my ponytail as I plop myself at the kitchen table. “Pancakes for my girl?” he asks. Cinder scoots under the table and licks my toe. The stove gurbles and glugs, noises that do not sound like pancake frying to me.
“Really, Dad, I can just have cereal. It’s fine.”
“No, no. Mom always makes strawberry pancakes in summer. So will we. Now, does it usually bubble like this?” He drops the spatula, and gooey paste splatters the cupboard door. Behind him the griddle smokes, more of the same paste oozing over the sides onto the burner.
“I think we have a situation,” he yells, whisking the pan from the stove. It’s the first thing Dad always says whenever anything goes wrong. And this breakfast looks really wrong.
“I think Mom usually mixes all that stuff in a bowl first.”
“Oh,” Dad says, and sighs. He gives the blob a poke with a finger, then dumps the whole thing in the sink.
“Cereal it is,” I say.
I open my sketchbook to my latest drawing. It’s of Cinder’s face, sort of a portrait. I grab a red pencil to color in the lobsters that dance across his dog collar. Every summer Mom gets us new swimsuits, and Cinder gets a new collar. Not this year. So I scrubbed his old collar real good. The red lobsters have faded a little, but it looks almost new. It’s navy blue with a big brass buckle. When I’m satisfied with the lobsters, I grab my storm gray pencil and work on his ears. The left one’s a little too pointy.
“So what’s the plan today?” Dad’s voice is too cheerful, and he looks at me with too much hope. It makes me want to hug him. He’s just returned from Portland, without the rest of my family, but with a deep furrow in his brow that twitches each time he looks at me. I turn back to my sketchbook.
Summer was something I had looked forward to. Endless days of swimming and ice creams at the Snack Shack under the hot sun. But that all changed on June 16, just two weeks ago. The Saturday that destroyed everything. Now, July stretches before me like a path into a dark forest. I look at Dad and shrug apologetically. I don’t have any big plans. I don’t want any.
“Not much,” I tell him. And then I add quickly, “Maybe I’ll go to the pool with Beth Ann.”
Dad looks relieved. “What a great idea! Here’s some money for cheeseburgers.” This makes him happy, so I take the five dollars he offers and stuff it in my pocket.
The Corner of Pratt
Beth Ann Watts is waiting for me on the corner of Pratt Street. Beth Ann is not what you would call popular, but she is certainly well known. We met in nursery school. She stood out to me right away because she was the only kid who didn’t have a blankey. What she did have was a handkerchief. A monogrammed, yellow hankie that went everywhere she went. But don’t be fooled by thinking that maybe it was a blankey substitute, ’cause Beth Ann never was a thumb sucker. That habit was dirty. Dirty habits were everywhere. So were dirty surfaces. That little yellow hankie was for cleaning all things in our preschool classroom: a door handle, a purple crayon, and Whinny, the rocking horse. She was quick with that hankie, even as a four-year-old. You could say, “Hey, Beth Ann, let’s play dolls.” And before you could kneel by the dolly crib she’d have all those dolls lined up on the floor, stripped right down to their plastic nakedness, wiping every hand and foot and head with that hankie. “Okay,” she’d assure me, dusting off that hankie, “you can touch them now.” Beth Ann doesn’t carry that hankie anymore. These days she carries a little pack of disinfectant wipes. I can always tell if Beth Ann is in school before me, because I’ll detect a faint scent of Clorox in the classroom doorway. But despite her war on germs, Beth Ann has always been my best friend. Really, she is the one friend I have.
Excerpted from The Properties Of Water by Hannah Roberts Mckinnon.
Copyright © 2010 by Hannah Roberts Mckinnon.
Published in 2010 by Farrar Straus Giroux.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.


Continues...

Excerpted from The Properties of Water by Hannah Roberts McKinnon Copyright © 2010 by Hannah Roberts McKinnon. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 5 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(3)

4 Star

(1)

3 Star

(1)

2 Star

(0)

1 Star

(0)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
Sort by: Showing all of 5 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 7, 2013

    Loved It!!

    Read this book, it is amazing, I cried. Read!!!

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted May 27, 2013

    amazing

    amazing

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 9, 2012

    Powerful

    That is an amazingly powerful and inspiring story.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted February 16, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Sisters

    The Properties of Water, a debut novel by Hannah Roberts McKinnon, was a pleasant surprise. It is a beautifully written story about two sisters, Lace and Marni Martin, although there is little interaction between them in the book.

    Marni, the older sister was always the best. The best student. The best swimmer on the swim team. The prettiest. And while Lace always looked up to her, there were times that she got tired of being in her older sister's shadow.

    This doesn't change when Marni is seriously injured jumping off Turtle Rock into the water below at the beginning of summer vacation, causing her to be away from home in a rehabilitation center. Now Lace experiences Marni's friends' uneasiness around her and wonders whether they are being nice to her because of the accident. Lace is reluctant to visit her sister and her mother, who has moved to be closer to Marni. Her father and grandparents visit as often as they can. Her father also hired Willa Dodge, a home caregiver to help around the house and ultimately assist them when Marni returns home. Lace thinks there's something odd about her.

    The Properties of Water ably explores Lace's relationship to Marni, to her best friend Beth Ann and to Willa. The entire story is real, as if the reader is living inside Lace's body. McKinnon's writing is so descriptive, you can picture Willa's midnight swims in the lake by the house or Lace and Beth Ann's competition for cute Sully Tanner's affections. You can picture all the characters and all the events as if you were there. And you can experience the emotions that are pulling Lace apart.

    There is much more to this slim volume (only 163 pages) than one would expect. It might be one of my 10 best for 2011. Here's hoping to read more from Hannah Roberts McKinnon real soon.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 20, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

Sort by: Showing all of 5 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)