Undertow (7 page)

There are only two white kids who claim membership in their exclusive club, and one of them is Gabriel—my Gabriel. He saunters in with his black jeans, tank top, loose-fitting white shirt, sleepy eyes, and bed head. He gives me a grin, then takes a seat so far in the back, it might as well be in the hall. The street kids have adopted him because he laughs the loudest at their antics. I've adopted him because he's hot. As a boyfriend he's only a part-timer. If there were more boys in the Zone, I probably wouldn't put up with it. Then again, maybe I would. I mentioned he's hot, right?

“I heard your phone is broken.”

He looks confused.

“That's why you haven't been able to text me.”

He laughs. I guess apologies are for full-timers.

“People, I need eyes and ears up here,” Mr. Ervin begs. “We've got a lot of new rules to go over before the Alpha—”

Suddenly, the door opens and five police officers march into the room, flanked by two National Guardsmen, two United Nations soldiers in blue caps, and a man in a dark suit and tie. He's got an earpiece, and sunglasses that hide his eyes. Behind him are two of the Alpha kids. One is the Nix. His skin is gray and wrapped around his bony body like a sausage casing. His limbs are spindly and long, and his head is misshapen, like something a toddler might sculpt from Play-Doh. On his hand he wears a steel glove made from golden metal etched with intricate swirls. It's actually kind of sick, like something a rock star would wear, if the rock star had powder-white fingers and sharp black fingernails an inch long. Next to him is the redheaded Sirena I saw earlier. She's wearing a glove just like his. It must be some kind of Alpha bling.

A lot of kids gasp when they enter, but I'm stunned by who comes in next—Terrance Lir. I haven't seen him or his family in almost three years. He and Rochelle and Samuel just vanished. There was no goodbye, no letter. They took nothing from their apartment, and even Samuel's doctors, who were prepping him for a hip replacement, couldn't track them down. Now we know he was taken somewhere, just like Melissa Wheeler and her husband and five kids. Just like Bennett Walsh and his partner, Darren, and the Griffins, and the Hans and the Devillers. One family after another—just gone, and all of them were original families.

My dad warned me that Terrance would look bad, but I wasn't expecting him to be this bad. His clothes are filthy and there are holes in his shoes. He looks skinny and exhausted, and his nervous eyes flit around the room suspiciously, as if one of us might leap up and attack him at any time.

“I was told I'd have time to prepare the students,” Mr. Ervin complains.

“The schedule is evolving,” the man in the dark suit explains.

He walks out, taking the soldiers with him. Terrance follows. He didn't notice me, or if he did, I couldn't tell. One National Guardsman stays behind and stations himself at the door. He watches us while fingering his M-16.

“You can go too,” Mr. Ervin says to him.

The soldier shakes his head. “My orders are to stay.”

Mr. Ervin scowls. “I need to speak to your supervisor.”

The soldier gives him a withering look, then gestures to the hall. Mr. Ervin stomps past him, slamming the door as he goes, and an argument erupts between him and several people. I hear something about classrooms and prisons, but most of it I can't make out. The soldier at the door looks on, unfazed by the noise. Meanwhile, the Nix and the Sirena stand in the front of the room, staring back at us.

A moment later Mr. Ervin barges back into the room.

“I'm sorry about this. I'm Mr. Ervin. Welcome to our class,” he says as he takes the Sirena by the hand and shakes it vigorously. She's alarmed and stares down at her hand like he plans to keep it. Then he does the same to the Nix, who hisses and pulls away. “Students, this is Luna and Ghost. They will be sitting in on our classes, observing for the time being, while they take special classes to help them catch up on reading and math.”

One of the kids in the back leads the class in laughter. “Wait! That one's name is Ghost? That's a crazy-ass name!”

“All right, Jorge. Yes, it's unusual. The Alpha language is complex and meant to be spoken underwater,” Mr. Ervin explains. “From what I understand, some of it is impossible for humans to speak, so each of the thirty thousand immigrants were given a new name by members of the Red Cross. Sometimes they picked names that sounded similar to their own, but when that wasn't possible, they had to be given English names. As you can imagine, they ran out of Jennifers and Davids and Jorges pretty fast, so the volunteers got creative. Luna's name must come from the old amusement park. I think there was a haunted-house ride with the word
Ghost
in its name.”

“So one of them is named Funnel Cake?” Gabriel says. He is rewarded with howls of laughter.

“Be cool,” Mr. Ervin begs. “Luna, Ghost, welcome. I hope you can forgive us, but we're all very curious about you. Not many people have gotten to speak with an Alpha face-to-face, and I bet the class has a million questions. I know I do. Would you share a little about yourselves? Why don't we start with you, Luna?”

Luna looks pleadingly at Ghost. He nods, and she turns back to Mr. Ervin.

“My name is Luna. I am a Daughter of Sirena,” she says, shifting her gaze between the teacher and Ghost.

“Daughter of Sirena?” Mr. Ervin says.

“Yes, Sirena was the first of the Alpha. Our clan has taken her honorable name.”

“How fascinating!”

The scales on her arms and neck turn a silky pink. The effect is like fireworks for the class, and they ooh and ahh, which only makes her more awkward. Luna shifts back and forth from one leg to the other like a child doing the pee-pee dance.

Mr. Ervin ignores her discomfort. “Pay attention, everyone. A clan is a bit like a tribe, like our Native Americans.”

I can see Luna has no idea what he's talking about, and why would she? Luna grew up at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. She doesn't know anything about American history.

“So you and Ghost are in a clan—”

Ghost snarls. “No! I am a Son of Nix, the holy thinker.”

“A thinker?”

“An inventor, a medicine maker, an adder of sums,” he boasts.

“A scientist! Fascinating. How many clans are there?” Mr. Ervin asks.

Luna looks to Ghost again. Is he in charge of her? Mom has told me about the Alpha caste system—their community has different strata, and those on the lower levels have to obey those on the higher ones without question. Ghost's family must have an important role within the Alpha.

“There are many,” she says.

“But exactly how many?” Mr. Ervin presses.

Ghost snarls. “Are you finished with your spying, human?” he snaps. The word “human” comes out like spit on the sidewalk.

Mr. Ervin is so befuddled, he takes a step back. “I'm not spying, Ghost. I'm trying to get to know you. Do you have any questions for me?”

Ghost shakes his head, then laughs derisively.

Mr. Ervin turns back to Luna. “Aside from your appearance, what separates a Sirena from a Nix?”

Luna looks to Ghost. He nods his approval and she beams proudly. “Sirena are speechmakers and counselors and . . . I don't know the word in your language.”

Mr. Ervin smiles. “There's no need to feel insecure about it, Luna. English is not an easy language to learn. Maybe you could describe what it is you do?”

Luna looks to Ghost again. He sighs impatiently.

“I comfort others?” she says in something just above a whisper. “Does that make sense?”

That's enough, Luna! Please, just shut your mouth.
I close my eyes and try to project this thought as loudly as possible, but Luna's proud of herself. Her role is a great honor to her people, a position of power and influence. She's been selected to be something like a life coach, steering a leader toward good decisions, guiding their choices and careers in an effort to achieve greater power and prestige. Luna is the literal woman behind the great man, and in this case, the great man is Ghost. She's his girlfriend in all meanings of the word, but her job is to prepare him for the responsibilities of a future role in Alpha government and for his role as a husband to someone else.

“Comfort others?” Mr. Ervin presses.

C'mon, Ervin! Let it go!

“Yes, some Sirena are honored to be . . . pleasure givers—I think the word you use is
mates
?”

I want to jump up and stop her. This is too shocking for a bunch of rowdy teenagers on the first day of school. They're going to label her a prostitute. I know because when my mother told me this story, I thought the same thing. There's so much more to it, but this frail girl doesn't have the words to do it justice.

Luckily, Mr. Ervin's face tells me he's getting an inkling of what Luna is trying to say. His face burns red and he begins to stammer.

“Okay, so, let's see. Um, tell us about these gloves the two of you are wearing. Are they jewelry?” he asks.

Yes, change the subject!

“She's a ho!” someone shouts from the back.

The boys hoot and holler, whistle, and pound on desks. The girls gasp in a collective judgment that sucks all the air out of the room. American teenagers have seen it all—the Internet is a bottomless cup of OMG—but this is something entirely new to them. They aren't used to being surprised.

I want them to know Luna doesn't do anything she doesn't want to do, and that it is she who actually chooses whom to guide, that Sirena get to pick those among the Alpha who have the most potential. I want them to understand that Luna's role is nuanced, but I'm being naive. Jorge, Deshane, and Keith aren't into nuances.

“How much?” Jorge shouts. A crumpled dollar flies over my head and lands at Luna's feet.

Frightened, Luna takes Ghost's hand. I might be imagining it, but their gloves shimmer, a faint light weaves through the etchings, and then it's gone.

“You're not doing Caspar the Ghost, are you?” Deshane shouts. He's an enormous kid—a hulk, loud, and lacking in all self-restraint. If our school had money for a football team, someone would have steered his aggression toward organized sports and away from the rest of us, but our school doesn't have money for a football team. “You need a pimp, honey?”

“Ignorant filth,” Ghost rages. His fists are balled up so tight, the powdery white skin beneath his webbed fingers turns a hot crimson. “Luna holds an honored place amongst our people. Know your place, bottom feeder.”

Suddenly, Deshane is all out of laughter. “What did you call me, fish head?”

“I called you a bottom feeder. That's a fish that eats feces off the ocean floor,” Ghost says as he stomps toward Deshane.

“Okay, that's enough.” Mr. Ervin crosses the room to get between them. “We all need to remember that we're from two very different cultures with completely different ways of living. What might sound strange to us is perfectly normal to someone else. I'm sure there are things we do that the mermaids—”

“Mermaid?” Ghost snaps. “Do I look female to you? Do I look like something out of your brainless fairy tales? I am a Son of Nix! My name is . . .”

What comes out jars my bones. It's a vibrating wail and a bark and a roar all at once. It feels like it could pop my eardrums if I didn't clamp my hands over them.

Mr. Ervin stammers an apology, but Ghost won't let him get started.

“You clueless jellyfish. My people would have you thrown into the Great Abyss to prevent you from mating and creating more dull-witted minnows. No wonder these sea cucumbers are so simple.”

Deshane gets to his feet. “Say it to my face!”

Ghost looks at Deshane and laughs. “Step up if you didn't hear me, but know this: the moment you're in my reach, I will gut you.”

Jorge stands up. “Kick his ass, Deshane.”

The soldier takes a step toward us. He's got his rifle in his hands. “I want everyone in their seats now!”

But no one is paying attention to him. Every eye is on Deshane. He's a wrecking machine. He put a teacher in the hospital once back in elementary school, but if my mother's stories are true, Ghost is the one to worry about. I always thought she had exaggerated what comes over them in a fight. It sounded like something from a horror film. But when Deshane charges up the aisle, I see it for myself. Ghost's fingertips split open like overcooked sausages. Black talons creep out of the meat and gristle. What was once his mouth stretches impossibly wide, as if his jaw is not connected to his skull and can just grow and grow until it devours the entire room. Inside are rows and rows of teeth planted in milky-white gums. But what is far more frightening is the eager, murderous smile in his bulbous, bloodshot eyes. Ghost wants to hurt Deshane. He wants to show off.

I can't let him, even if my father's voice is trumpeting in my head.
Don't get involved! Stay out of their business! Let the soldier handle it.
But my father is not here, and he doesn't realize that I listened to the other things he used to say to me back when doing the right thing was more important than being safe.
Be the person who stops the fight.

“Sit down, Deshane,” I say as I leap to my feet.

“Uh, Lyric?” Bex says, reaching for my hand.

Deshane looks at me like I materialized out of thin air. I haven't talked to this kid since he and I sat out the fourth grade field trip to the aquarium because we kept laughing at the tour guide's lisp. I hope he remembers.

“Get out of my way, bitch.”

Okay, I guess he doesn't remember.

He tries to get past me, but I block him, then do it again. He looks at me, laughs, then shoves me so hard, I tumble over my desk and slam my shoulder onto the floor. There's a flash of red, an instant ache, and spots before my eyes. Oh, man, I'm going to have one serious migraine.