Undertow Page 12

  “I know it’s not—”

  “They wanted to call me Thomas, but I chose a word that sounded closest to my actual name. I can’t pronounce it on the surface, but Fathom is similar. I am named for my grandfather.”

  My mother told me her real name once. It was a complex collection of sounds, part grunt, part song, part lonely moan. She said it wasn’t so harsh underwater, but none of it sounded like anything in English. My father gave her the name Summer shortly after they met. I think it suits her, but I wonder if she misses not being able to say what her parents called her.

  “It could be worse. Your name could be Ghost.”

  “Ghost is not a good name? What does it mean?”

  I laugh. “A spirit.”

  He eyes me intensely and I brace for another tantrum, but instead he laughs. It’s a wild horse locked in a corral, but it’s real. I can tell he hasn’t laughed in a very long time. He’s not even sure he remembers how. I know because he laughs just like I do.

  I find myself smiling at him long enough to feel weird about it. “Let’s read,” I say as I sit down. He sits next to me and nudges his chair closer. Having him within reach of my hand flusters me. I feel anxious, like I’ve had too many venti Frappuccinos. I must be hungry. Maybe I’m getting sick.

  I open the first book in the stack on my lap. It’s called Caps for Sale. This was one of my favorites when I was small.

  “What is this person wearing here?” he says, pulling the book out of my hand.

  “Caps.”

  “Caps?”

  “Another word for hats.”

  He nods.

  “And this takes place on an island full of monsters?”

  “No,” I say as I snatch the book back. “I think I learned my lesson on the monster books, thank you very much. I don’t want you to question the logic of these stories. I just want you to listen and follow along. I’m going to point at every word as I read it. The idea is that when you hear the word and see it at the same time, you’ll make a connection and be able to read it yourself when you see it somewhere else. Then when we have a good list, we’ll talk about—well, let’s just read for now.”

  I read him the books. The monkeys that steal the man’s caps seem to trouble him, but he likes Peter’s Chair well enough. The illustrations in One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish bewilder him.

  “That is not a fish. A fish does not smile.”

  “It’s not supposed to look like a real fish. It’s supposed to be funny.”

  “Fish are not funny.”

  Harry the Dirty Dog seems to amuse him, but he’s at a loss with Goodnight Moon, completely unable to grasp saying good night to a chair and a balloon. He’s so literal, unable to imagine that the books might not require such careful examination. Still, when he’s not arguing about how Harry is far more intelligent than a real dog, he watches my hand and listens to my voice. When the hour is up, he stands and reaches his hand out to me. I take it and stand. It’s warm and careful.

  “I must return to the school,” he says. “Before I go, may I see this knot on your head, Lyric Walker?”

  “Um, sure,” I say.

  He steps close to me, brushing his wide chest against mine. It makes me shiver, and when he glides his hands along the skin on my neck and brushes my hair aside, that odd overcaffeinated feeling washes over me again. His fingers slip through the strands, and he gently tilts my head until he can see my wound.

  “That is a fine trophy,” he says.

  When I turn, he is nodding approvingly.

  “Um, I’m sorry for hitting you the other day,” I say.

  “No, you are not.” He smiles and I can’t help but laugh. Then, without a word, he runs and leaps off the edge of the building.

  “NO!” I scream, and race to the side, only to see him landing effortlessly on the apartment building next door. It’s the sister building to ours, though only twenty stories high. He just fell forty feet and landed like a cat, not including the thirty-or-so-foot horizontal leap he had to make to keep himself from smashing into the side of the building.

  I watch him do it again, and it is no less terrifying. Then he does it again and again, until I lose sight of him. My heart couldn’t take any more of it. But it was kind of cool.

  Chapter Twelve

  My father is simmering with fury.

  “He was fine,” my mother says, trying to calm him down.

  “Until he jumped off the roof. That was scary,” I add.

  “I’m not mad at that kid,” he explains. “It’s Doyle. He sent him here. Anyone could have seen him walk into this building. Holy crap, did Novakova spot him?”

  “Lyric hid him,” my mother says.

  “Doyle put us all in danger, and he’s not going to get away with it.”

  “Leonard—”

  He waves her off. Whatever he has planned has already been decided.

  “Am I going to have to give you a lecture about respecting authority?” I say.

  He growls. “Get your shoes on. We’re going to get Bex.”

  “Why didn’t you pick her up after school?” my mother asks.

  “She didn’t go to school today. Tito said he thought she was with you. Summer, call her and tell her we’re coming over to get her now. I feel like I have to protect someone I care about today or I’m going to lose my mind.”

  Bex lives in a depressing three-family townhouse owned by a criminally delinquent landlord. The halls are filthy, there’s a meth dealer on the first floor, and hot water is infrequent at best. I complain about how bad our apartment is, but it’s a mansion compared with Bex’s place, and we don’t have a sadist living with us. When we round the corner, we find the sadist in question. Russell is sitting in a plastic lawn chair on the sidewalk outside their stoop, the king of nowhere, His Majesty on a ten-dollar throne. He ties his scraggly hair back into a stubby ponytail and wears a sweat-soaked wife-beater tank top that has earned its name. He’s also got on running shorts that have never been used for their intended purpose. If anything, they should be called “sitting around leering at teenage girls” shorts, or “practicing being a sociopath” shorts. When he spots us coming, he grimaces and pours the tall boy he’s nursing onto the sidewalk.

  “See any freaks today?” he asks us.

  “Where’s Bex?” my father says.

  “Saw them on TV. They finally let the fish heads into the schools. You know what? They should sell some fish sticks in the cafeteria.” He laughs. It’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

  “I’m going in after her, Russell,” my father says.

  Russell stops laughing and snarls. “Hold up. Bex, get your ass down here!”

  A moment later, Bex comes down the stairs. Her bottom lip is swollen to twice its normal size, and she’s pale and blotchy.

  “Did he do that to you, Bex?” my father asks.

  She shakes her head, but her eyes say yes.

  “Satisfied?” he growls at us, then turns back to Bex. “Get back upstairs and help your mother with those broken dishes.”

  “Bex, I can’t do anything unless you tell me what happened,” my father cries.

  “She said nothing happened, dude,” Russell shouts.

  “What’s the matter? Did you get tired of beating on Tammy?” I say.

  Russell turns red and lunges from his chair, but he stops in his tracks when my father gets in his face.

  “I wouldn’t,” Dad says, low and mean.

  Russell eases back into his chair.

  “Bex, get your things,” I say.

  “Naw, she’s staying here tonight with her family,” Russell says. “Go on, girl.”

  Bex’s face is pleading. Fear is not something I’m used to seeing on my best friend’s face.

  “Bex, get your things,” my father orders.

  “You can’t come here and order her around,” Russell crows.

  My father knocks him out of his seat and rolls him onto his belly. He plants his knee into Russell’s b
ack and locks handcuffs on his wrists. All the while the little troll screams and curses.

  “You’re under arrest for domestic battery,” my father says. “You have the right to remain silent.”

  “No,” Bex says softly. “It just makes things worse.”

  “Bex, get your stuff!” my dad shouts. “Now!”

  She darts into the house while Russell continues his rant.

  “I’m gonna sue you, pig! I’m gonna take everything you have. You can’t come over here and kidnap my kid.”

  My father ignores him and takes out his radio. He calls for transport and gives the address, then suggests they bring a drug-sniffing dog, which causes Russell to curse even louder.

  “I bet your neighbor is going to be real happy when he finds out you’re the reason his apartment got raided,” my dad taunts.

  Bex rushes down the steps with a shopping bag full of stuff. Her mother is right behind, shrieking and crying and with mascara all over her face, but her tears are not for her daughter. They’re for herself and Russell.

  “You can’t just come here and take my daughter from me!” she screams.

  “You’re right, Tammy, I can’t. So why don’t we just do this by the book? I’ll call the precinct and have the social workers come down and file some reports, do an inspection, and make sure the house is clean and full of food. They’ll take some statements, interview the neighbors—you know, all that thorough paperwork. We’ll sit outside and wait for them to confirm you’re a fit mother. I’m sure there won’t be any problems, right?”

  Tammy shares a look with Russell, then turns to her daughter. “You be back tomorrow.”

  “She’s staying the weekend,” I say. “Maybe longer.”

  A squad car arrives and two cops get out. They pull Russell to his feet and stuff him in the back seat.

  “Hey, Lenny!” Russell shouts before they close the door in his face. “I heard your daughter is buddy-buddy with a fish head. You need to keep an eye on her. It would be a shame if she ended up like that kid they dragged behind a truck.”

  My dad stiffens. I know he’s going to lose it, so I take his arm. It’s as hard as a lead pipe.

  “I’ll see you at the station, Russell. I want my name on your arrest,” he says, then turns to face Tammy. “He just threatened my kid.”

  “He’s drunk,” she cries. “He didn’t mean it.”

  “So he didn’t mean it when he punched Bex in the face?”

  Tammy watches the police car drive away with her husband in the back seat. He’s bellowing and kicking the windows, snarling like a rabid dog.

  “I’ve let you handle this because we grew up together,” my father continues. “But you’re not handling it, Tammy.”

  “You think it’s so easy, Lenny?”

  “I don’t think anything is easy,” my father says. “Don’t think that any of your excuses matter to your daughter or anyone else. You’re her mom. You’re supposed to protect her. Be a mom for once.”

  “Are you really sending the dogs?” she says, panicked.

  He shakes his head, disgusted. “The next time I have to deal with him, I’ll bring them myself. C’mon, girls.”

  Bex hefts her shopping bag over her shoulder. A toothbrush slips out and bounces on the sidewalk. I scoop it up and slip it into my pocket.

  “Goodbye, Tammy,” Bex says stiffly, and then we take her home.

  My mother is waiting with spaghetti, Bex’s favorite. My friend digs in and turns on The Bex Show, an all-smiles, all-wisecracks, boys, boys, boys, and shoes variety show that refuses to acknowledge that there is something terrible going on backstage. I let it happen until we get into my room.

  “Your plan sucks,” I say.

  “The plan is sort of a work in progress,” she says as she digs in her bag for a T-shirt to sleep in.

  “You think? So, not doing anything and pretending like everything is fine is not exactly fleshed out? I think your lip tells me everything I need to know about the plan.”

  “I don’t think you’re allowed to be mad at me. As the person with the damaged lip, I think you’re obligated to give me a pass.”

  “Of course I’m mad at you. I am mad that you’re his new punching bag. I am mad that you have a place to escape to that you don’t use. I am mad that you have stiff-armed me all our lives. I am your best friend, and dammit, I get to be the one who helps you with your crap. That’s my right!”

  “So you’re saying I’m being stingy with my drama,” she says.

  “It’s not funny!”

  She throws a glance at the backpack while she continues to dig for buried treasures.

  “Yes, I’m a hypocrite!” I growl.

  “I didn’t say anything,” she says, but the passive aggressiveness is loud and clear.

  “The backpack is in case my family gets a chance to leave,” I admit. It’s not the whole truth, but saying it out loud—it’s freeing, like I just walked out of prison. It makes me want to tell it all, but I bite my lip. I’m not ready. She’s not ready.

  “Are you leaving?”

  “We’ve got some things to take care of first, but yeah, we’re going to leave the Zone.”

  “Oh.” She slips out of her clothes and into an AC/DC shirt I found at a stoop sale, then slides under the sheet next to me. “And you’re going all gangsta?”

  The gun.

  “Just in case they won’t let us go,” I say.

  “Very gangsta,” she whispers.

  She closes her eyes, and I flip off the light.

  “Your turn.”

  “I think I love Shadow.”

  “Something I don’t already know, Bex!”

  “That’s big,” she says, then drifts off to sleep. I sit next to her, watching as my eyes adjust and her face reveals itself in the dark. It’s not what I wanted, but I have to admit, it’s big.

  We lock ourselves in my apartment, binge-watching TV shows and trying not to think about how screwed up our individual lives have become. We don’t talk about Russell, and Fathom isn’t mentioned once. It’s not like old times, but we’re doing a pretty good job pretending it is. My father spends most of the weekend at the precinct. I hear him limp in and out at crazy hours, but he calls frequently to check on us, until we tell him it’s annoying and he has to stop. My mother keeps herself busy searching the web for the latest footage from the beach. She clicks on and off sites that report on the Alpha, mostly for people on the West Coast and the middle of the country who still think it’s a charming novelty to have “mermaids” living on our shores. One of Mom’s favorite sites is run by Shadow. Tonight she’s glued to it, hoping she might find her long-lost family amid the crowds.

  “We’re running out of time,” she says when I urge her to take a break. “I have to find them now. We have to get out of here.”

  I think about Doyle, and Fathom, and the Niners, how Russell knew I was talking to the prince, and the angry words painted on my locker. She’s right. Time is running out for us. The walls are closing in, and I’m feeling claustrophobic.

  Monday morning comes like a sucker punch. The fear of returning to school, fighting our way through the protestors, and worrying about who might assault me is crippling. When I finally will myself out of bed, I step out of my room and find ten police officers waiting for me. It’s like a nightmare that has haunted me for years. Mom and I have been discovered, and the police knock down the door to take us away. They file into our apartment, endlessly marching through the door, crawling in through the windows, popping out of closets, until we are literally drowning in cops. But what I’m seeing now isn’t a dream, because these cops are actually standing around in our apartment, drinking coffee and ogling my mom in her pink sleeping shorts.

  “Hi, honey,” she says as she rushes around topping off everyone’s mugs and smiling. “These are your bodyguards. They’re going to make sure you get back and forth to school safely.”

  “So we’re taking the subtle approach?”

  “
We’re not taking any chances,” my father says as he straps on his holster and gun.

  Bex is overjoyed by our escorts. She loves any kind of attention, but it makes me nauseous. There’s nothing inconspicuous about an army of police officers walking me to school, and I feel it’s going to turn me into a target. Still, I hurry to get dressed. It’s still dark outside, which means most people will still be asleep. If I’m lucky, we’ll get to school before the crazies roll out of bed. In minutes, we’re all stepping into the hallway, but guess who’s waiting for us?

  “You’re up early this morning,” my father says to Mrs. Novakova.

  Her big purple eyes frisk me, then the cops.

  “What did she do? Is it drugs? Don’t sell drugs in building,” she says.

  “She didn’t do anything,” my father says.

  “Ten cops for two girls isn’t nothing. You know I find out,” she says.

  “I have no doubt,” my dad says between gritted teeth.

  “You men should join the CI9. You be heroes,” Mrs. Novakova snaps as we pile into the elevator. “Coney Island doesn’t need police. Already useless if you ask me. I call you every day. There are people in 2A and 14L who need questioning. Very suspicious, very strange hours, won’t talk to anyone, and where are police? Walking girls to school!”

  “Have a good day,” I say, then push the Close Doors button. The old woman’s face puckers, and she sticks out her tongue to lick her lips. I swear it was green. I bet it’s forked. I bet she can smell with it.

  My bodyguards peer into parked cars and around corners. They change our route when they spot someone coming our way. They watch the windows, looking for the flutter of a curtain or a light in a window. They climb up on rooftops and watch us from above. They communicate back and forth on their radios, sharing information, suggesting more changes in course. They know before the gang appears. There are eight or nine of them, some teenagers, the rest full-grown adults. The men are paunchy and amped on something. Each has a bat or a pipe. One of the girls carries a chunk of a masonry block. They follow us for a while, until they get bold enough to walk alongside. All of them are wearing Niner shirts.