The Shark Rider (2 page)

Avoiding the angry glares and shoves of the students he just plowed into, Tristan stared back at the bulky boy who tripped him. “What
is
your problem?”

“I just don't like your face,” the teen scoffed.

“Yeah, well you're no Prince Charming.”

An instant later, Tristan regretted his all-too-quick retort. If he was a twig, the other boy was a giant redwood. Tristan was undoubtedly about to be pummeled into a pancake on the chewing-gum-caked, filth-covered bus floor or flung out the window like a human Frisbee.

“What did you say to me?”

Just then, the rather large bus driver stepped in. He grabbed Tristan's shoulder and shoved him like a matchstick toward the door. “That's enough. There will be no fighting on my bus.”

Tristan fell out of the bus onto the pavement. His heart raced and his legs were all wobbly. He wished that just once he could control what came out of his mouth. Why couldn't he just walk away, knowing that they were just jerks? He jogged on rubbery legs to catch up with the rest of the class.

Mrs. Hawk was talking when he arrived. “Okay, students.
See how the grass was planted on the dunes to prevent erosion? Please stay on the boardwalk.”

Tristan looked back. The group of football players was stepping purposely off the wooden boardwalk and squashing the grass. They glared at him, daring him to say something.

“Everyone gather around,” Mrs. Hawk instructed.

Tristan's teacher was in her late thirties and looked as if she just escaped a time machine from the 1960s. She had straggly brown hair that fell to her waist, and a scrawny, abnormally pale, and bird-like face. Like most days, she wore a wrinkled ankle-length cotton skirt, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and a long necklace she called her “love beads.” One of the girls in Tristan's class said it was supposed to be hippie-chic or something. He just thought she was weird.

“Everyone have your gloves, clipboards, data sheets, pencils, and collection bags?” she asked.

“Yeah,” the students muttered.

Mrs. Hawk told the teens to work their way down the beach, collecting trash. They were to record what each piece was on their data sheets. She also reminded them to put the trash in their bags.

“Duh!” one of the hefty boys in back shouted. “Yeah, this is why I go to school. I wanna be a garbage collector.”

Ignoring the boy's remark, the teacher continued, “Once we're done, we'll collate and analyze the data back in the classroom. Remember the questions we're trying to answer. What's the most abundant type of
trash? Where is it coming from? And is there something that can be done to reduce litter on the beach? We'll send our results to local officials and maybe they can use the information to prevent garbage from getting on the beach in the first place. You know, it only takes a strong wind or some rain and that trash can end up in the ocean where it may harm marine life.”

When they first walked onto the beach, Tristan was sure his flaky teacher was going to make them sit in a circle, hold hands, and sing “Kumbayah.” But after hearing her concern for marine life, he decided maybe she wasn't so bad after all.

The students spread out. Most split up into pairs or threesomes to pick up trash and record the information on their data sheets. Tristan stayed by himself, making sure he was a safe distance away from the group of cocky jocks. It was sunny and there was a slight onshore breeze. He inhaled the salty air, thinking how good it was to be near the sea again. Tristan walked to the water's edge and stared out over the murky brown water. Small waves rolled toward shore. He wondered what sort of sea creatures lived there, wishing he could dive in to find out.

Tristan thought again of last summer. He and the other Seasquirts had been the newest recruits at Sea Camp. Finding out why they'd been invited to attend had been a shock, to say the least. Sea Camp wasn't just an ocean-themed summer camp like they thought. It was actually a training program for teens with special—no, make that bizarre and totally amazing—abilities in
the ocean. It had something to do with ancient genes still left in humans from when animals first adapted to life in the sea. And if they drank Sea Camp's slightly pink algae water before going in the ocean, they got Aquaman webbing between their fingers and toes.

Sometimes Tristan wondered if it was all just a really awesome dream. Then he remembered what it felt like to zoom through the water with his just-add-seawater duck feet. Rubbing his head, he also remembered crashing into the dock—a lot. He was fast, but not so good with control. He thought about his other talent, communicating with sharks and rays. Tristan wondered if his friend Snaggle-Tooth was still recuperating in the camp's giant tank in Shark Alley. He then thought about Hugh and Sam. Hugh could change the color of his skin in the ocean and was especially adept at conversing with octopuses and other sea creatures. Sam could talk to dolphins and whales, and had the rare ability to echolocate. She had her own underwater sonar. If all that wasn't cool enough, senior campers went on secret missions to help marine life and investigate problems in the ocean. Tristan got excited just thinking about it. But not being able to talk about camp or what they did there made him feel like a can of soda, shaken and ready to explode.

Glancing down the beach, Tristan noticed a guy fishing. The man was standing in waist-deep water just offshore, holding a long black rod. He cast out into the waves and then reeled the line in. He cast again. Tristan continued walking. He stepped on something
hard and looked down. It was a seashell partly buried in the sand. Thin brown lines curled around the spiraling, orangey-yellow shell. He bent down to pick it up. Suddenly, there was a loud buzzing sound as if he was being dive-bombed by the world's largest bee. Tristan jerked around and swatted the air near his head. He then promptly tripped over his feet and flopped awkwardly onto the sand.

Once Tristan realized there was no mutant bee attacking him, he glanced around self-consciously to see if anyone had seen him fall. No one seemed to have noticed. They were all staring at the fisherman's rod. It was bent so far over it looked about to snap in half, and the line was spooling out crazily fast. That's what was making the buzzing sound.

“Got a big one on,” the man yelled to a buddy a little way down the beach.

The students ran over, gathering to watch as the man backed out of the water. He struggled to reel the line in, and his face was turning an alarming shade of red. Beads of sweat poured down the man's forehead, and the veins on his muscular arms looked as if they were about to pop.

Just offshore, a triangular gray fin broke the surface.

“Shark!” yelled one of the students.

The other fisherman threw down his pole and ran over to help. Together, the two men fought to reel the creature in. But the shark wasn't giving up easily. It was fighting just as hard to get away. It swam to the right and then tacked back left. The fishermen gripped
the pole, leaned back, and tried to prevent its escape. The shark changed direction. It headed out to sea, but again the men fought to pull it back. The shark then jumped straight up into the air; its head twisted grotesquely back due to the hook embedded in its mouth.

Tristan watched in horror, especially when the shark was finally dragged, writhing, out of the water and onto the sand. It was a broad gray beast about six feet long.

“Bull shark,” one of the fishermen announced. “Definite man-eater.”

The other students got closer to see the monster, but not too close. Tristan shook his shaggy-haired head. It was as if he could feel the shark's pain—like the hook had pierced his own lips and he'd been dragged out of the life-giving sea. The shark thrashed on the sand, its head whipping from side to side.

Then, in his head, Tristan heard the shark say:
Yo, you want a piece of me? Come closer; I'll show you. You no good
,
rotten, air-breathing, land-waddling human
.
Yeah, that's it, just a little closer
.

The hook became embedded even more deeply in the shark's mouth. Blood streamed out.

“Cut it loose,” one of the fishermen said.

“Shoot it,” shouted one of the football players.

“Nah, just bash it over the head,” another boy suggested.

“No, stop it! You're hurting it,” Tristan yelled. Then, without even a slight pause, he sprinted to the shark, silently telling it:
Stop moving. I can help you
. Tristan
couldn't tell if it understood. It had been a while since he chatted with a shark.

“Oh my god,” Mrs. Hawk shouted. “Tristan, stop! Get back.”

But Tristan didn't stop. Instead, he jumped right onto the shark's back, like a bull-rider at a rodeo. He wrapped his legs around the shark's fat belly and put his hands on top of its wide head to hold it steady. The shark's sandpapery skin felt scratchy against Tristan's legs. Its powerful muscles flexed beneath him.

C'mon, stop moving. I can help you
, Tristan thought.

Then, before anyone could stop him, Tristan reached into the shark's flesh-tearing teeth-filled mouth. He grabbed hold of the hook, thinking: S
orry, this is gonna sting
. And as quickly as he could, he pulled the hook out.

Realizing what he'd done, Tristan looked at his hand. He still had a hand and all ten fingers, but blood was smeared across his skin. He held up his hand to get a closer look. He had nicked his knuckles on the shark's teeth, but it was only a minor scratch. The blood wasn't his—it was the shark's. The shark's silvery eyes looked up at him.

Thanks, kid! Now get the heck off me. Don't want my buddies to see me like this. Could you also get me back into the water? I can't breathe.

Tristan got off the shark and grabbed its tail. He tried to pull it back into the water, but the shark was too heavy.

“C'mon, help me,” he yelled to the others.

They all backed away, shook their heads, and looked at Tristan like he was totally insane—except for one person. Mrs. Hawk kicked off her Birkenstocks and grabbed hold with Tristan. Then the two of them hauled the shark into the water. They'd barely gone a few feet out when the shark flexed its tail, turned, and swam off. Tristan heard the shark say:
Guess not all humans are such schmucks. Thanks, man.

Mrs. Hawk stood staring in amazement. Not so much at the shark, but at Tristan. The other students and the fishermen were looking at him as well, their mouths hanging open. Even the tough-guy jocks were staring at Tristan with something almost like respect. One girl had her cell phone out. Her gaze wasn't fixed on Tristan, but on the photo she'd just taken. It showed a boy straddling a shark with his hand inside the huge gray monster's mouth.

By the time Tristan got home, the photo had gone viral. The image of Tristan atop the shark was plastered across the Internet. Reporters started calling local hospitals to see if the boy in the photo had lost his hand or worse. They also called the Hunts' house; a few even knocked on their front door. Tristan's parents closed all the curtains and shut off the lights to make it look like nobody was home. Tristan's older sister was sent out the back door to a friend's house and told not to
talk to anyone else about the photo. She'd already told several reporters that her brother was obsessed with sharks and just loony enough to try to ride one. She didn't know the truth about Tristan or Sea Camp. His father made one last call before unplugging and shutting off their phones.

Tristan was sitting on his bed, still staring at the fish in his aquarium, and waiting for his parents' decision. He knew he acted recklessly, without thinking how it would look. But he just couldn't help it. They were going to kill the shark.

His parents walked into the room.

“We've spoken to Director Davis,” his father said sternly.

Tristan held his breath.

“Given the circumstances, he suggested you go to camp a little early. Pack your bag. We're leaving first thing in the morning for the Keys.”

“You mean I still get to go back?”

“What were you thinking, Tristan?” his mother scolded. “We've kept this whole shark thing a secret all year, and here you go and jump on one and
then
stick your hand in its mouth. You could have lost that hand. Besides, didn't you think that would seem rather
unusual
?”