Undertow (15 page)

“Hi, Mrs. Novakova. Hope you're well,” I say as I dart into the elevator. I can hear her heavy feet hobbling down the hall as I fumble with the buttons, hitting the top floor and the Close Doors button at the same time.

“Why aren't you in school?” she growls. As the doors slide shut, her fat, creepy head appears. I have to stiff-arm Fathom against the wall to make sure she doesn't spot him. She tries to shove her foot into the gap, but she's not fast enough and it shuts in her face. “You're up to something, girl!”

Fathom cocks a curious eyebrow but says nothing.

At the top floor, I push open the fire door that leads to the roof. Fathom blinks into the murky sky and smiles wide. It's such a beautiful thing, calm and carefree, and for a moment I forget I hate him.

“You're claustrophobic,” I say.

“I do not know this word.”

“It means you're afraid of enclosed spaces,” I explain.

“I am afraid of nothing,” he growls.

“I'm not trying to insult you. I'm saying I understand the freak-outs in the classroom now. You don't like the walls.”

“It is the ceiling that troubles me,” he says. “I am not used to having something over my head.”

This explains so much about him and about my mother, too. Before the Alpha arrived and she was stuck in the house, she couldn't stand to be inside. If she wasn't on the beach, she wasn't happy. No wonder she's so miserable and stressed-out.

“You fell,” he says as he peers toward the beach. From up here we can see the entire shore, the Wonder Wheel, the derelict roller coaster, and the crumbling sideshow museums. He walks to the edge and stares out at the ocean. The storm is stirring it up. The waves look dangerous.

“I passed out. I get these headaches, and the pain can get pretty bad.”

“But you are well?”

“I have a knot on my head as big as a clementine, but I'll be fine. Were any of your friends arrested?”

“My friends?”

“Yes, Surf—”

“Surf is not a friend. He is a subject,” he says stiffly. “And no, none of the Alpha were arrested.”

“Oh, okay. And your bodyguard, is she a subject?”

He eyes me carefully, then nods. “You mean Arcade.”

I nod.

“She is a friend,” he says, then turns back to the beach. Not exactly subtle, but I get the hint. He doesn't want to talk about her.

“Come and sit.”

I lead him to a couple of old chairs. No one is supposed to be up here, but Kelly, our super, must be ignoring the rules. There are a couple of spent joints, an empty liter bottle of Mountain Dew, and four Louis L'Amour novels tucked inside a Ziploc bag to protect them from the rain. Kelly has made himself a little reading oasis up here, and the cool breeze that blows unhindered from the ocean is heaven. No wonder we can never find him when something is broken. I notice a yoga mat stashed near a ventilation shaft. I guess Mom uses the roof too.

“Your name is musical.”

“What?” I ask.

“The woman with the red cross said that your name comes from songs.”

He's asking about me. Why is he asking about me?

“Oh, yes, lyrics are the words in songs. My mother is sort of a free spirit,” I say.

He frowns. “Your mother is not dead.”

“No, a free spirit is someone who does things her own way.” I laugh, which only enrages him. “Sorry, I'm not laughing at you. I'm, well . . . I bet I say lots of things that don't make any sense to you.”

“Nothing in your world makes any sense to me,” he grumbles.

Ugh, he's so prickly. Everything I say jabs some sensitive spot or, worse, completely offends him. I really don't want this to go south again, especially up here on the twenty-fourth floor, where he could easily toss me off without any effort.

“The red-cross lady, her name is Fiona, she tries to explain things, but there is much that I am sure I will never understand,” he continues, shifting from anger to melancholy.

“Did Fiona tell you what your name means? Fathom is a measurement of depth. It means you are six feet deep.”

“Fathom is not my name,” he says.

“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.

M
y 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 back 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.