Undertow Page 10

  “So, like God?”

  “Like your God? The one who loves his creations? Or so say the screaming people who tell us we are monsters. No, the Great Abyss is not like him,” he scoffs. “The Great Abyss has higher standards.”

  “My father used to tell me you can’t blame God for his fans,” I say.

  He stares up at the ceiling again. “I will try to be less unhinged.”

  “Deal.”

  “Yesterday you asked if there was anything I would like to know about you, Lyric Walker,” he continues. “What did you write on that white wall?”

  I look over and see the words I scribbled yesterday in anger.

  “I have not yet learned to read your language,” he explains.

  Thank God!

  “I could teach you,” I say. “If we’re going to be stuck in here an hour every day, we might as well do something useful.”

  He sits up and stares at me. His gaze is like an anaconda, wrapping me tighter and tighter until I can’t breathe.

  “I mean I could try,” I say, finally breaking its hold.

  He frowns. “The lady with the red cross on her shirt read stories to me when we first arrived. It helped me to understand your language, but learning to read it might present a problem. There are many Alpha who believe it is traitorous to learn anything of the human world, my father included.”

  “Would you have to fight your people if they found out you can read English?”

  “I am not afraid to fight,” he growls. His eyes smolder with my assumed insult.

  I throw up my hands in apology. “I never said you were.”

  He crosses his arms with a big huff. It’s so childish, I almost laugh.

  “I can teach you in secret. No one has to know.”

  “Why would you do that for me?” he says warily.

  “Let’s call it a trade,” I say. “I want you to stop following me through the halls. There are lots of humans who think a friendship between you and me is wrong. I for one am very afraid to fight, and I don’t have swords in my arms.”

  “They are not swords.”

  “Okay, what do you think? I’ll bring books and we’ll start tomorrow.”

  “No,” he says, pointing at the nasty words I wrote on the dry-erase board. “Let’s start now.”

  Doyle’s smug smile makes me sick. I regret telling him Fathom wants to learn to read. I hate that this guy feels like he’s winning his little war, and I don’t want him thinking like he can say he told me so. I just want to get out of his creepy spy room and go home, but I suck it up and smile at him anyway.

  “I don’t actually know how to teach someone to read,” I confess.

  “I’ll have Mrs. Sullivan get you some books about it,” he says. “This is very good, Lyric. See? I knew you would be a big help.”

  “That’s what you said,” I grumble under my breath.

  When the bell rings for the end of the day, Mrs. Sullivan stops me in the hall. She’s an older woman, tall and lean, with snow-white hair. She looks like she was born with a limited number of smiles. She’s not wasting one on the likes of me.

  “Don’t ruin these,” she barks, then hands me a burlap tote bag. Inside are some preschool picture books and a few brochures on how to teach phonics and sight words. Then she looks around like someone is watching us.

  “I don’t like being caught in Doyle’s web either,” I say.

  She grimaces, then lumbers off down the hall.

  “How was today?” my mother asks when dinner comes to the door. We ordered Chinese from the only takeout place still open in the Zone. Bex feasts on dumplings, and I hog the moo goo gai pan.

  “Fine. Better,” I say as I bite into an egg roll.

  We skirt around the truth. The real questions have to wait until Bex is asleep. Which is fine with me. I’d like to get lost in this moment, enjoy my dinner, end the night with a fat belly and a smile. When we’re all so full that it hurts, the three of us clean up and I help Mom take the trash down to the recycling room.

  “He talked about the Great Abyss today,” I say quietly as I eye Mrs. Novakova’s door.

  Mom nods. “The giver and the taker.”

  “How come you never told me about him . . . her? It?”

  She shrugs. “You never wanted to know much, Lyric. After you freaked out in the bathroom that time—”

  “You made me watch you transform in the tub. It was—”

  “Gross?”

  “No. I mean, yes, it was, but it was too soon. I was still trying to get used to the scales and the breathing underwater.”

  She shrugs. “I figured you’d ask when you got curious.”

  “But I never did,” I say, feeling the guilt like a pebble in my shoe. The truth is, I never wanted to know. It was easier to pretend that she was just my mom—Summer Walker, beach Buddha—but now I see I’ve snubbed who she is. “I’m curious now,” I say.

  She smiles a full-strength, turned-up-at-the-ends grin, and the eyes are riding alongside, bright as diamonds. “Anytime.”

  When we get back to the apartment, Bex has escaped into my room. I track her down and close the door behind me. She has slipped off her jeans, and now she’s lying in the dark, pretending to be asleep.

  “Don’t try to change the subject,” I say.

  “I haven’t said anything.”

  “I know, but you will, and I’m not going to let you do that thing you do.”

  “What thing I do?”

  “The thing you do where you tell me everything is fine, that I’m worrying over silly stuff, and then smile at me like I’m simple. Show me your arms.”

  She looks down at her sleeves and pulls on the cuffs, stretching them out at the ends.

  “You know what’s under them,” she says.

  “You have to tell my dad,” I say.

  She sits, tucks her legs up against her chest, and wraps her arms around her knees. “I’m not sure I see the point.”

  “The point is Russell will be arrested.”

  “He’s been arrested before.”

  It hurts that she’s right. Domestic violence is not a priority in the Zone.

  “Bex, why didn’t Tammy do something?” I say as I sit down, nudging up beside her so she can feel me near.

  She shakes her head. “I think she’s probably happy it’s not her for once. Don’t worry, I have a plan.”

  “Bex!”

  “Well, not so much a plan . . .” She trails off until her words are barely a whisper. Her face caves in on itself, and tears form on her lashes, but in some sheer act of stubbornness she fights them back. I hate that her stepfather slaps her mother around and, when he’s particularly drunk and surly, turns his aggression on her, but I hate him more for turning my strong superhero of a best friend into a timid, broken bird. I want to grab her and shake her, make her take the steps necessary to protect herself, but she doesn’t need a lecture. She needs me.

  “I’ll help you with your plan,” I say as I wrap myself around her.

  She hugs me and buries her face into my shoulder. “I know.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I find Fathom on the floor—again. The hole in the paper is a little larger and the light is a little brighter. I picture a day when I come here and find a gaping tear the entire neighborhood can see through, but I’ll deal with that then. For now I want to keep the rational conversation from the day before going. Besides, he’s beaten worse than yesterday. There’s a gash on the bridge of his nose, and his upper lip is ragged. Both ears are scraped raw, and there’s caked blood in the cuticles of his right hand.

  “Everyone I know is covered in bruises,” I say when I kneel down to him.

  He looks up at me, alarmed. Checking on his injuries is clearly a violation of his personal space, so I back off and find a desk to set Mrs. Sullivan’s burlap sack of books upon.

  “Listen, we could treat the antibiotics like we’re going to treat teaching you to read. No one has to know.”

  He sha
kes his head. “I would know.”

  “If this is some crap about being a man, then—”

  “This is our way, Lyric Walker. I know you do not understand because you are small of mind—”

  “Small of mind? Do you want to try that again?”

  “I am fine. Do not worry yourself about my trophies.”

  “That’s what you call your bruises? Trophies?”

  “Wounds won in battle.”

  I sigh. “All right, well, reading, then.” I look into the sack and recognize the books immediately: The Snowy Day, The Cat in the Hat, Hop on Pop, Harold and the Purple Crayon, a few others. My dad read them all to me when I was little, and then after I learned how, I read them to myself. I think Mrs. Sullivan is right. Keeping it simple for him seems like a good place to start.

  I hand a few to him. He stares down at them and flips through their pages, turning them end over end, inspecting every page, and running his fingertip along the edges of the paper. I watch his fascination with them and realize he has probably never held a book before. From what I understand, the Alpha share all information through spoken words. I’m actually honored to be the first person to give him one.

  “What are these drawings?”

  “They’re called illustrations. Most children’s books have them—”

  His snarl cuts me off. “You intend to teach me to read using children’s stories?”

  “Dude, calm down. English is very complicated. It makes no sense to give you the hardest books if you’re trying to learn. This is where everyone starts.”

  He shakes one of the books in my face. “What are these creatures?”

  “They’re called wild things,” I say.

  “And what is a wild thing?”

  “It’s a monster that lives on an island.”

  He looks alarmed. “Where is this island?”

  “It’s not real, Fathom. All of it is made up. It’s just a story,” I say.

  “Nonsense! I will not be your fool.” He rips the book in two and tosses it across the room.

  “Don’t be a maniac,” I shout.

  And at once he’s on his feet and hovering over me. “Is that another word for unhinged?” he bellows.

  I have never had someone direct so much hostility at me. I’m trembling and near tears. What is it about me that makes him so angry?

  “I can’t take this,” I say, and push past him toward the door.

  “Come back here!” he shouts. There’s a blast of air, and suddenly he is in front of me, his hand clamped on mine. It doesn’t hurt, but I can’t break his grip no matter how I pull.

  “Let me go or I will scream,” I threaten.

  “I am having trouble saying what I mean, Lyric Walker.”

  “Let me go!” I shout, then without thinking, I turn and punch him in the face. It’s hard as stone and my wrist shrieks in agony.

  Suddenly, the door swings open and the soldiers pile into the room. “You heard what she said, son,” one of them barks.

  Fathom releases me and takes a step back. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but I’m not waiting around to hear it.

  Terrance’s face is grave when I step into the hall. “I will speak with him.”

  Bonnie helps me down the two flights of steps. When we get to the bottom, the bell rings and she falls back as students empty out of the classrooms. She must know that it wouldn’t be good for us to be seen in the halls together, me a kid and her a member of the National Guard. She doesn’t vanish—she’s back there—but she successfully makes it look like we’re just walking through the same hall. No one gives me a second glance.

  I make a beeline for my locker and spot Bex and Shadow hovering there. They’re busy trying to wipe something off the door with paper towels, and when they see me, Shadow curses. Bex runs toward me, trying to shield my view.

  “It’s no big deal,” she says.

  “What is it?”

  “Just someone being stupid,” Shadow tells me.

  I push past Bex and pull Shadow’s hand off the graffiti.

  fish lover.

  “Did you see who did this?” Bonnie asks when she catches up.

  “We just got here,” Shadow says.

  The custodian approaches with a bucket and a brush, but Bonnie won’t let him wash it off.

  “It’s evidence,” she explains.

  Bonnie reports it to someone on the other end of her radio, which only attracts more attention from those in the hall. Soon kids are gathering around us, mumbling and staring like I have been in a terrible accident, a twelve-car pileup with broken bodies and burning gas trucks, and everyone is slowing down to gawk at the horror. What’s worse is I know one of these bastards did it. If my hand didn’t hurt, I’d punch them all out until one of them confessed.

  From there it’s like I’m watching a slideshow presentation: down a hall, past the library, into the cafeteria, at a table with a plate of french fries in front of me I don’t remember buying, Bex’s worried face, Shadow’s worried face.

  “Doyle assigned Fathom to me,” I say.

  “Assigned him?”

  “He’s trying to assimilate the Alpha kids by having them hang out with humans,” I explain.

  “That’s why Fathom is in all your classes?” Shadow says.

  I nod. “I meet with him for an hour every day, too. I’m teaching him to read.”

  Bex looks hurt. Her eyes have the same bewildered look they had when she went through my backpack.

  “It’s just been a couple of days,” I say defensively.

  She can’t even look at me.

  “I was trying to protect you,” I plead.

  “So here’s the fish lover,” someone says behind me. I turn and find a weasel-faced girl standing over me. Her name is Svetlana . . . something. I don’t know her as much as I know of her. Once, last year, she broke a girl’s nose with a sock full of D batteries. I later learned the injured girl was her cousin and the attack was over some boy who didn’t like either of them. Right now, Svetlana’s eyeballing me with watery, bloodshot eyes. She’s bouncing on her heels and unable to stand still. Her pupils are as wide as manholes.

  “You’re famous,” Svetlana continues.

  “Leave her alone,” Bex says, springing to her feet.

  “Was I talking to you, bitch? I’m not here to mess with her. I thought someone should warn her that people who fool around with the fish heads get jacked up.”

  “You think you know something you don’t,” Bex says.

  “Damn, Lyric, your friend has got a smart mouth,” Svetlana says. “Friends of fish lovers get jacked too. Especially mouthy ones.”

  “Back off, tweeker,” Shadow says.

  Svetlana laughs. “I got a big surprise—”

  Suddenly, the cafeteria doors open and the Alpha enter. Fathom and the beautiful Triton girl are first, then Ghost and Luna, followed by the tiny Ceto girl called Bumper and the hulking Selkie kid. Terrance Lir follows close behind. Svetlana whistles, and a group of students, maybe twenty of them, climb up on their seats. Svetlana yanks the free chair from our table and does the same. Once she’s up there, she pulls her shirt off and reveals a red Niners shirt underneath. The others have all done the same, and together they raise one fist in the air and pump them to a beat only they can hear.

  “We are the Coney Island Nine,” Svetlana shouts to everyone. “We ain’t afraid of no monsters, and neither should you be. If you can’t stand to look at those freaky things, then join us and we will drive their hermit-crab butts back into the ocean.”

  Now she’s got the two cops’ attention. “Get off those chairs!” they demand as they charge toward us. Five of the kids step down, but the others refuse, which gives the cowards the courage to climb back up.

  There’s a booming roar, and everyone’s attention turns to the Alpha. The Selkie is charging toward the Niners, all seven feet of him. I stand and drag my friends out of his path.

  Terrance leaps in front of him. �
��Surf, you were told to expect this.”

  Surf grabs him by the collar and yanks him off his feet. “Don’t call me that filthy bottom-feeder name. I am a Son of Selkie, and you should know better than to stand in my way,” he cries. His tone matches the disgust on his face.

  Terrance is not shaken. “Selkie you may be, but you are but a pup who should respect the advice of your elders.”

  “And you should know your place,” Surf barks. “You have grown arrogant living with the human trash.”

  The hulking boy slaps Terrance in the face, and his whole body is jerked off the floor and launched across the room. He slams into a table with a horrible crash, knocking over chairs and then tumbling to the floor twenty yards from where he was standing.

  There is a gasp in the room and then total silence. Even the cops are gob-smacked. It takes them several moments before they shake off their shock and remember to point their Tasers at the huge boy.

  “Step back or I will Taser your dumb ass,” one of the cops threatens as he circles Surf.

  Surf responds with another roar, this one sounding like a warning. One of the officers fires, and a dart attached to a long copper wire sticks into Surf’s chest. There’s a zap, but the boy seems unfazed.

  “Shoot that ugly freak!” Svetlana cries from her chair.

  Suddenly, Fathom is standing next to me. It doesn’t seem possible that he could have appeared without me noticing, but he’s there. He steps to Surf.

  “Halt your challenge,” he demands. “These humans are fragile, Son of Selkie. They are also stupid. They talk without thinking. They do not see the consequences of their actions.”

  Surf snarls. If he was angry before, now he’s apoplectic. “They insult us!”

  “They are barnacles,” Fathom says dismissively.

  Is that what he thinks of me? It must be. He’s staring right at me. I feel like socking him again.

  “Leave them be,” he continues.

  “So, the son is now the peacemaker? Does your father know you have chosen the humans over us?”

  Fathom’s girlfriend appears in front of the titan, bringing a blast of wind in her wake. Her speed is incredible and explains how Fathom materialized out of nowhere.