Undertow (18 page)

“It worked?”

“It worked.” And then he drops to the floor.

I cry for help, and Terrance rushes in with a handful of soldiers.

“He passed out.”

“I'll call an ambulance,” Bonnie says.

Terrance shakes his head. “Ambulances do not come to Fish City for a human. Do you think they'll come for him? Don't worry, he'll be okay.”

Bonnie shrugs and leads her team back into the hall. Once the door is closed, Terrance helps me cradle Fathom's head in my lap.

“I've never seen him this beat up,” I say.

“Tensions are running high in the camp. His challengers come every day,” he says. “After the incident at school last week, he had to take on seven adult Selkies. Surf's father is an elder in the Selkie clan. He felt Fathom embarrassed his son. It had to be answered.”

“And the rest of you stood around and watched? Why doesn't anyone help him?”

“That would be humiliating to him and the prime,” he says. “Alpha, and Triton specifically, strive to raise children who go through life unassisted.”

“But he's a prince! He's supposed to sit on a throne and wear expensive robes and have people feed him grapes.”

“Like in the fairy tales? Lyric, the Alpha heir is battle-tested, hardened, forged into a living, breathing weapon so as to prepare him for the throne when the prime is taken by the Great Abyss. Fathom fights to make himself worthy before his nation. I know it sounds strange to you, but it makes total sense to him. These wounds are evidence of bravery and strength. None of the members of any of the clans would put their faith behind a person with unblemished skin.”

I look down at Fathom, my eyes tracing the old scars that intermingle with the fresh ones, yet despite the nicks and cuts and the bruised eye socket, he's still very handsome.

“But it's killing him,” I say.

“Normally, Fathom wouldn't have to bear all this responsibility by himself. Prime are known for having many children, better to ensure a long rule, but all of Fathom's brothers are dead. It also doesn't help that he's the son of a very unpopular leader.”

“I'm not a big fan of his father either.”

Terrance nods. “It was by their order that all these Alpha left the hunting grounds and came to the surface. Camping in a tent city on a dirty beach is humiliating. It flies in the face of their pride and thousands of years of traditions. His wife is a real piece of work too.”

“So that woman, the supermodel with the angry face I saw the day they came, that's Fathom's mother?”

He shakes his head, then eyes the door, watching for unexpected visitors. “No, that's Minerva, his stepmother.”

“What happened to his real mother and his brothers?”

Terrance shakes his head “I don't know. I'm not exactly in the in-crowd anymore. I don't even know why they're here, Lyric. I don't know where the rest of our people are camped. They tell me nothing.”

“But you're their spokesperson, right?” I say.

“I say what I'm told to say,” he says stiffly. “I'm not much more than a parrot. All this time I spent here, with Rochelle and Samuel, learning the rules of how people live, the little nuances, it's dismissed as irrelevant. The queen told me I have the stink of the surface on me and can no longer be trusted.”

“But they sent you here! You did your job.”

“A lot of good it did me,” he says.

“Terrance, where did they take you?” I know I shouldn't ask. I'm opening the door to our familiarity, which could be dangerous, but I can't help myself. I love this man.

He looks at the floor and shuffles his feet. He fights back tears, and his clenched fists shake with fury. “Somewhere terrible.”

“I'm sorry.” No, I'm horrified. What happened to him?

“You're the first person to say that to me, Lyric. I appreciate it very much.”

“We love you,” I whisper, though we're all alone.

“Lyric, your family should leave,” he says. “Get as far away as you can.”

“We're working on it.”

“Work faster.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tube of antibiotic cream. Handing it to me, he says, “Here, he can't stop you if he's unconscious,” then he leaves.

I stare down into Fathom's exotic face, taking this rare moment of quiet to study his outline
—
along his face and neck, the curve of his ear, down his Adam's apple, and on the razor's edge of his jaw line. I memorize his hands and fingers, the rhythm of his rising chest. I lose myself in him, the solitude of the room, and the rumbling thunder that barks its empty threats from the sky. And then I realize what I'm doing and shake myself out of the trance. He's not a local boy I can turn into a boyfriend. He's dangerous and angry and full of fight. He's not for me. Plus, I'm wasting time I could be using to save his life. I squeeze some of the ointment into my fingers, but something stops me. He needs it, yes, but these are his trophies. I don't have to respect that or even understand, but it feels wrong to dismiss it. To nurse him against his will seems like a violation. It's me trying to make him more human, to force him to adapt to my world. It's me trying to change him, and I didn't like it very much when the world did it to me.

I wipe the ointment on the floor, then put the cap back on the tube and shove it into my pocket just before he wakes. He's startled at our intimacy and scampers out of my lap, like
my touch burns his skin. He huddles on the other side of the room, near the tiny hole that lets him see through the window, and stays there until he calms down.

“Thank you,” he finally says.

“You're welcome.”

“Did you bring any books?”

I point to the bag still lying on the floor. He picks it up and peers inside. Then he sits down beside me, looking into my face with a mixture of suspicion and gratitude and something that looks like fear. I read him
The Snowy Day,
but I keep losing my place. I'm distracted by his salty smell and radiating heat. It doesn't help that his knee is pressed against mine.

T
he
W
alkers huddle around the kitchen table, speechless.
We're trying to be quiet because Bex is in the other room flipping through magazines and watching videos on the Internet, and we don't want her to hear our conversation. Every couple of minutes she breaks into a cackle and shouts for me to come see what she's found. I've been ignoring her. What happened today is more important than a guy who dresses as Batman and drives his kids to school. It has to be discussed even if only in whispers.

“Are you sure?” my father asks.

I nod. “He knows.”

“We need to leave tonight,” he cries, turning to my mother with a pleading face.

“We can't. Not yet. He's got a driver's license and some other things we'll need to get Mom out of the Zone. He called it payment for meeting with the prince and for keeping the governor busy while he arrested half the school.”

“You helped him with that?” my father says.

“I didn't think I had much of a choice. We need what he's offering.”

“Where did he get my photograph for a driver's license?” my mother muses.

“He's watching us,” my father says, shaking his head in disgust.

We sit quietly, unsure of whether to be happy or frantic. Only the ticking of the cat clock on the wall can be heard. I watch its tail swing back and forth, its big insane eyes staring down at us like we're the crazy ones.

“I think he's sincere,” I say.

“There's nothing sincere about that man,” my father growls.

“Why take the effort to make those things look real if he isn't going to give them to us? He doesn't need them to get me to do what he wants. He knows about us,” I argue.

“Are you thinking this guy is just being nice?” my mother asks.

“I don't know. Nothing he does makes sense until it does. When I walked out of school today, no one paid any attention to me. People couldn't have cared less. He said he would make himself the target and he did. He didn't have to do it.”

“Don't trust him,” my father warns.

“All right, Mr. Sunshine,” I groan, then turn to my mother. “Now we just have to find your family, and we can go.”

My mother smiles weakly.

Bex rushes into the room. “Feed me!”

We order more Chinese, but I'm too amped up to eat. Mom and Dad are the same, picking at their food and struggling to listen to Bex's endless chatter about talking-baby videos and
Saturday Night Live
clips.

That night, I can't sleep. I'm too excited, almost giddy with anticipation. We might actually get out of this town and start over somewhere new. I know I shouldn't get my hopes up, but I can't help myself. It's been a long time since I felt like anything good could happen to people like us.

M
y alarm goes off at five thirty.
When I roll over, I find Bex is gone. I snatch my phone and find out why.

TAMMY CALLED. BEGGED ME 2 COME HOME.

RUSSELL IS STILL IN JAIL.

SAYS THINGS WILL B DIFFERENT.

GOTTA LET HER TRY.

SEE U AT THE RIOT.

I leap out of bed, hoping my father can rush over now and bring her back, but the cops are already in our living room, waiting for me to get ready.

“I'll go by once we've dropped you off,” my father promises.

By six fifteen we're out on the streets, taking a completely different route from yesterday. Mrs. Novakova didn't catch us, and neither did the street gang from yesterday, so any doubt I had that she was the one who called them is now gone. The walk is calm and uneventful until we turn the corner near the school. There stand a thousand people—men, women, children, the elderly—arm in arm, and every one of them is wearing a Niner T-shirt. My father radios to the precinct, and we're told to hang back, that cars are already on the way. My father tells them to forget the cars and send the Marines. Within seconds there are more cops around me than I have ever seen. Officers charge down the street in riot gear and helmets. Every single one of them has a black baton in his or her hand. Someone listened to my dad and brought Guardsmen with them. Coney Island is going to war.

We watch from afar as an officer takes out his megaphone and approaches the human blockade.

“I'm only going to say this once,” he barks. “This rally does not have a permit. You will disperse right now or you will be arrested.”

The crowd is not intimidated. They don't budge an inch, so the officer gives an order to his colleagues and they don facemasks and goggles.

“Holy crap,” my father mutters, and he pushes us back.

“What's happening?”

“They're going to tear-gas them,” he says.

We run, dodging the second wave of cops rushing at us from the opposite direction. Like the others, they're wearing facemasks, but they also have canisters strapped on their backs with long rubber hoses attached. They step up to the crowd and aim.
Pop!
A silver capsule blasts out of the tip and lands in the center of the crowd. White smoke erupts from it and rises into the sky. The protestors do their best to hold their ground, but stubbornness is no match for tear gas. Within seconds they are running amok, trying to escape the ghostly fog that burns their eyes and noses. Others fall to the ground, choking and sobbing.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Three more canisters land at their feet.

“We can't be downwind of that stuff,” one of the cops says as he rubs his eyes. “Damn, that's strong.”

Another cop pours water into his eyes from a plastic drinking bottle.

“Wash your hands and arms as soon as you can,” another one says. “This chemical is sticky. It's probably in your hair and clothes, so don't touch anything, and definitely don't touch your face.”

My father steers us down a street, away from the pandemonium. We scurry through a maze of roads and alleys until we are safe, then huddle against a fence and wait for the person on his radio to tell us what to do next. A half hour later we get word that six hundred protestors have been arrested. The MTA sends some of their long-delinquent bus fleet to haul away the troublemakers, many of whom will be sent as far away as Pittsburgh. Every available jail cell in New York is at capacity.

“Is it safe?” my father asks.

The radio crackles. “It's Fish City, Walker. Safety is a sliding scale.”

So we head back, pushing our way through cops instead of thugs. Irish Tommy meets us at the barricades. There's a trickle of blood starting in his ear and rolling down to his second chin.

“Tommy, you'd better get that checked,” my father says.

The chubby cop looks flustered, even more than usual.

“Some kid hit me with a bottle.”

Shadow approaches, pointing his camera phone in every direction at once.

“Where's Bex?” I say.

“Inside.” He shrugs. “She's mad at me.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Interesting. What did you do?”

“I asked the wrong questions.” He turns off his phone and hands it to my dad.

“It's probably an estrogen thing,” I fib.

He shakes his head. “Lyric, I'm not dumb,” he says.

I'm not sure what to say. Bex has never let Shadow see her real life. He knows almost nothing about Russell and her mother. I might not even know if I hadn't just shown up at her house and caught her stepfather in a rage. Still, this isn't my secret to tell. I wish she would let him in, but that's got to be something she decides for herself.

“Just be patient, Shadow. She'll tell you eventually.”

“No, she won't,” he says. “I know better than that.”

Mr. Ervin's classroom is a graveyard. It's so quiet that when the bell rings, it makes people jump. They keep their heads down. No one wants to be noticed. They've all turned into me overnight. The only one smiling is Bex.