Uncharted

Prologue ; PRESENT DAY ;The Hamptons, New York ; ; The secret of sex appeal, sixteen-year-old Sarah believes, is an even tan, and the key to an even tan is remembering to turn over at eightminute intervals between one and two p.m. Most of her friends opt for spray-on fake-n-bakes, but Sarah has always preferred the real thing. ; As the second hand of her watch sweeps over the twelve, she flips from her stomach to her back, then inhales the delicious fragrance of sea salt. ; "You're going to regret lying there," a voice calls from beneath a nearby umbrella. "You'll be burned tonight and freckled next week. When you're thirty you'll have wrinkles, and when you're forty you'll have skin cancer." ; Sarah rolls her eyes. "Transmission received! You sound like Miss Pratt." ; The woman beneath the umbrella lowers her book and peers over the top of her reading glasses. "Who's Miss Pratt?" ; "My Health teacher." ; "Oh." The book rises again, eclipsing the pale face beneath a wide straw hat. "Well, Miss Pratt is correct." ; Sarah sighs loudly, then flips back onto her stomach. Truth is, she's bored with the pursuit of the perfect tan. She has nothing to listen to because she left her iPod in the city, and umbrella woman won't let her bring the CD player down to the beach . . . ; She pushes herself up and jogs toward the water, splashing away a pelican that climbs from the shallows and flaps his way toward a distant dock. ; "Be careful!" the straw hat calls. ; Sarah ignores the warning. The woman is hyper-paranoid; a certified over-worrier. Enough to drive a girl crazy. ; Especially one who's had more than her fair share of things to worry about. ; Sarah wades forward until the water touches her bare belly, then she turns to brace against the breakers. After gasping at the first cold splash on her sun-warmed back, she swims beyond the waves, then backstrokes in an area where the swells rise and fall in a gentle rhythm. ; She loves the ocean. She'd never admit this to a living soul, but if mermaids could exist, she'd exchange every shoe in her closet for a tail and flippers. ; Floating lazily, she positions ankle to ankle and knee to knee, then kicks, sputtering as the awkward movement plunges her beneath the water. ; She surfaces, laughing and spitting. It's not easy to kick both legs simultaneously, but she could probably get the hang of it if she had time to practice. ; She swims a little farther and treads water, then lifts her arms and lowers a tentative toe. She can touch the sandy bottom only until a swell pushes in, then she's picked up and set back down as gently as you please. The ocean is quiet today; due to the heat, more people are shopping than swimming. ; To the east, the white fleck of a sailboat streams against a vibrant blue sky while to the west, a sleepy line of gulls squabble over a ripple on the sea--probably a fish, maybe an entire school of fish. ; A glimmer on the water grabs Sarah's attention. Beyond the slanting line of the glassy waves, a shiny object rises and falls. ; Sarah stretches out and swims. The object is a plastic container, a two-liter bottle that once held Coke or Sprite. No--Sprite comes in green bottles, and this one is transparent. The cap is missing, though, and in its place is a wad of some unidentifiable material. ; Sarah closes the gap with one stroke, then grasps her prize. The conHunt, Angela is the author of 'Uncharted ', published 2007 under ISBN 9781595542342 and ISBN 1595542345.