Undertow (16 page)

“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.

“Are you guys looking for trouble?” my father shouts at them.

Their leader is chunky, a combination of muscle and overindulgence. He has a mangy three-day beard and a Balkenkreuz tattoo on his neck. He smiles and plays innocent. “No, sir, we're just out for our morning walk. You know what they say about exercise.”

“Why don't you go get your exercise on another street?”

“Free country, isn't it, officer?”

“Is it?” another cop asks. His gun comes out.

The gang stops and watches us disappear down a side street.

“I think we can thank Mrs. Novakova for that,” my father says to me.

When we get to the school, there is a thin gathering of protestors sipping coffee and digging into a big box of Krispy Kremes. It's early and they aren't ready for us. Bachman is nowhere in sight, and without her the diehards seem directionless, almost lethargic. Most of the news vans are quiet too, and I don't see any reporters. They must be putting on another layer of makeup before the show starts. With no one to harass us, we stroll through the barricades and approach the school. Mr. Doyle is waiting at the front step with his ever-present mug of coffee. He takes a sip, then smiles at me like we're old friends.

“Welcome back. Are you feeling better?”

My father slugs him. Doyle takes the punch and manages to stay on his feet, but he drops the mug and it explodes. It's astounding. My father has at least twelve inches on him and fifty pounds, plus I don't think he held anything back. Doyle reaches up and rubs his jaw.

“Don't you ever send that kid to my house again!” my father barks.

“I'm guessing you're the father,” Doyle says.

“You know who I am, pal. I'm at a disadvantage with you because I don't know who you are. Not yet. I know you're military, but the rest will come eventually.”

“Looks like a special-forces type to me,” one of the cops says.

“And I know you carry a big stick for such a little man,” my father says.

“Leonard, let this go,” Irish Tommy says as he comes rushing forward. “This isn't a fight you want.”

“No, Tommy. I want this fight. He's messing with my daughter, and I want him to understand that if she gets hurt because of it, I'm going to kill him. He can have the mayor call me all he wants. I will beat him to death with my own hands.”

“I fully understand how important your family is to you, Mr. Walker,” Doyle says. There's something a little too familiar in his words, like we're expected to read between them. My dad is having none of it. He hammers his index finger into Doyle's chest like he's going to hang a picture frame. “I don't care who you get your orders from. I don't care what they sent you here to do. Your new job is keeping my daughter safe. Tell me you understand.”

Doyle looks up into my father's face. “You're going to want to take a step back from me.”

But he doesn't budge an inch, and his police buddies surround Doyle. The principal looks over his shoulder at his own gang of soldiers but waves them off when they rush forward.

“Tell me you hear me,” my father says, unintimidated.

“Loud and clear,” Doyle says.

“Leonard, let's get the kids inside,” Tommy begs.

My father gives me a hug. “If there are any problems, you can walk out of this school and call me. If anybody tries to stop you, take their name and I'll deal with them myself.”

Then, without another word, he gives Doyle a final hard look and leads the other cops down the steps.

“The Big Guy is badass,” Bex says as we enter the school.

“I know,” I whisper.

Once inside, Doyle sends Bex off to the library because, as he admits, he “has no idea what to do with her until the first bell rings.” Then he escorts me to the nurse's office, where he flips on each of his monitors. One by one they reveal every classroom and dark corner of Hylan High. I see the janitor scrubbing something off a locker. A lump grows in my throat when I realize it's mine.

Doyle opens a cabinet and takes out a new mug, then pours himself another cup of coffee from a little machine set up in the corner. When it's full, he sits in his chair, backwards.

“So, we both knew this might happen,” he says.

“No! I knew and told you. You ignored me.”

“Your father and I both agree that keeping you safe is important,” he says.

“Is it? Then why does everyone know about my meetings with Fathom? Besides you, the soldiers were the only ones who were supposed to know. So either I can't trust you or I can't trust the National Guard.”

“The soldiers are loyal, Lyric.”

“Then it's you,” I say.

He looks at me for a long time, smiling all the while, then picks up a phone. He punches in a number, then waits. I hear a faint click from the other line.

“Yes, Ferris, this is Doyle. The second Mrs. Sullivan enters the building, I want her arrested.”

The English teacher!

“Yes, her son is a founding member of the Niners, and there is evidence that she was feeding him information about the Alpha students, as well as Ms. Walker. Ferris, this is important: when you arrest her, it's important to make it a bit of a spectacle. Yeah, turn on the drama. I want the whole school buzzing about it. Take her into custody. No police, no FBI. This is military. Also, you need to confiscate her keys and pass card. If she won't hand them over willingly, you have my permission to take them from her using whatever force you find appropriate. Thank you.”

He hangs up the phone and sips his coffee. Over the rim of the mug I can see a satisfied smile in his eyes.