“Same way we are: hearsay, family witches, hired guides, seers—” He pauses and catches my eyes with his violet ones. “Of course.”
“You said Ms. Pippen’s a seer,” I go, a little too smug that I’ve come up with it before him.
“She hasn’t been in school for two days,” Thalia says, bursting my cloud of mojo.
“That’s not a coincidence.”
Layla scrunches up her nose. “Ms. Pippen’s a what?”
“A psychic in your world. I noticed the first day we were here.”
“Oh—”
“So then, let me give Maddy one more try—” Before Layla can punch me again, I add, “I’m just going to talk to her, not woo her. That’s where you come in, Thalia. You stay here with Ryan and convince him he should throw a party.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
I try to keep the sly grin off my face. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
“Really, a party?” Layla gives me attitude.
“There’s a madness to my method. I’ve got this. You, me, and Kurt, we’re going to have a little search party on the boardwalk. There’s someone I think can help us. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll have to find a way to get us all to the Coral Conclaves.” I point to the swim team table, where Angelo is the center of attention. “Because I am not going to share my school with a bunch of bored, wannabe mermaid queens, and especially because I never, ever want to see Angelo do that again.”
Do you think this is a good idea?” Layla asks. We’re feet from the entrance to the school. Behind her, Kurt squints against the sun.
Angelo runs past us as if his pants are on fire, which, given today, they probably are. “I also invited all of your hot cousins to come to Coney Island. Why aren’t you being more hospitable, bro? Plus, they say they packed more bikinis than actual clothes.”
Layla rolls her eyes. “Now that you put it that way.”
Angelo presses his palm over his chest. “Don’t worry, Layla. You’ll always be my first love.” He puts out his cheek so that she can kiss it.
“Gee, thaaanks.” She stops an inch short of pressing her lips to his face. “On second thought, I don’t know where that cheek has been all day long.” Laughing, she walks right past him, stepping from the shadow of the school into the light.
“Oh, come on!” He runs out after her. “It’s not like I’m Tristan.”
“Not cool, bro! Not cool!”
“See you suckers at the Wreck!” He takes the steps three at a time. It’s surprising he doesn’t miss a step at the speed he’s going. He crosses the street, where a bunch of cars honk at him. He throws his middle finger in the air and howls at them, jumping into a red car with black flames painted on the side.
“Are werewolves real too?” I wonder. “’Cause that’s just not normal.”
“He’s euphoric,” Kurt says. “He’s had the most exposure around the princesses other than—well—you.”
Layla looks surprised that he points to her and then blooms into a playful smile. “I guess mermen just have no effect on me.”
I stick my hand out in the air and go, “To the subway, Merman!” in my most dramatic cartoon superhero voice. It’s wasted because the only one who laughs is Layla. Kurt watches me with the curiosity I give rats on the subway, and I wonder if we’ll have enough time to introduce him to my comic books.
•••
The train station is aboveground. Across the platform is a wall of graffiti that stretches all the way down to Coney. We weave through the late beach crowd, the kids with red, sticky Italian ices, girls reading while two guys try to beat box battle beside them. Watching Kurt fumble with the turnstile and having it hit him on the back is the highlight of my day.
The car we board is fairly empty. A group of extremely loud kids hang out on the opposite end from us. They swing on the metal bars and dare each other to race between cars when the doors open.
“What are you thinking, Kurtomathetis?” Layla stands beside him, holding on to the bars with both hands so she looks extra long.
Even his shrugs are proper. “It’s amazing really, the way these lines represent your city. It’s like the channels under the sea, the veins in our bodies connecting everything.”
She looks like something is caught in her throat. Her hand goes right to the protective shell that hangs just under her clavicle.
I could be all poetic and stuff. If I wanted to.
At the next stop an older lady sits beside us in our corner, clutching her frilly purse. She snarls her thin lips at me, just like the old lady in the elevator at the hospital. Unbidden, Nieve’s face comes to mind. Her irises, like the white of lightning, her blue lips and bloody gums. My temples burn as if someone is holding hot pokers on either side of my head and digging in.
“Tristan!” Layla kneels in front of me. She puts her cool hands on my face. Even with the air conditioning pumping from the vents, I’m sweating.
The old woman pushes past us and gets off when the train stops and the doors open. Well, that was that. The sensation subsides.
“I wish I could stop seeing her.”
“Nieve?” Kurt looks around the car as though we’ll be attacked any moment.
What I don’t say is that I can feel her getting stronger, that the white of her eyes pulls me in and I need all the strength I have to shut it away.
The conductor shouts, “West Eighth, New York Aquarium! Next stop, Coney!”
“This is us,” I go.
The kids on the other end of the car shout over something funny someone says. The doors chime open, and we leave them to their unbridled, unworried laughter.
The last time I showed up at the Wreck was the week before the storm. Ryan wouldn’t let up about my making an appearance, because if there’s someone you want as your wingman, it’s gotta be me.
The owner’s son, Jimmy Haggerty, mops the bar with a rag that looks like no amount of bleach will ever get it clean. He nods at me in that way guys do, while drying a glass with the same rag.
The Wreck is the coolest place on the boardwalk, hands down. Angelo and the guys have taken over an entire corner of the place. There is a Mount Everest order of hot wings so red they almost glow.
Kurt takes in the room and says, “Thalia would enjoy this. It reminds me of Tortuga Cove. Except that there are no pirates here.”
A man in full pirate costume walks in. Pirate Pete and Captain Loveday are part of a tour about the heyday of Coney Island, when the streets were cobblestone and lit up like Vegas. When there was a hotel shaped like an elephant, and the best rickety roller coasters in the entire United States.
“I retract my statement,” Kurt says, breaking into a rare smile.
“Were you really so hungry you had to make a pit stop?” Layla asks, taking a seat closer toward the entrance.
“Relax,” I say. “I have a good feeling about this.”
Her face becomes an instant smile, the way she used to smile at me before—everything. She squints, and the black fringe of her lashes looks like it’s nestling the gold of her eyes. The sun breaks behind me and lights up her cheekbones and the rich browns in her hair. I smile back, even though I don’t know what we’re smiling about.
Then she says, “Marty!” and her chair flies back as she practically flies to him.
Marty pulls up a stool beside me. He shakes Kurt’s hand and avoids my eyes when he holds out his hand to me.
“Fancy seeing you here,” I go, leaning casually against my chair. “On land. Out here in the world.”
He slumps down. “Dammit! Shouldn’t you be in school right now?”
I sit up straight. “Guess today’s just my lucky day.” I add, “Na-na-na, boo-boo,” in a hushed voice so just he can hear it.
Marty fixes his
cap from side to side. “Okay, I promised I’d tell you what I am.”
I’m unable to keep the smugness from my face. “Let’s have it.”
“Not here, bro. It’s one of those believe-it-or-not things.” And even though he says that, he leans into Layla’s ear and whispers. She stares at Marty with a sort of wonder that is rare for her lately. It was the same expression she had when she saw the Sea Court, when my grandfather gave her the shell around her neck. I wish she’d look at me that way, but all I get is Tristan Hart, her best friend, who kissed another girl while he already had a girlfriend.
I turn to Layla. Trusted lifetime best friend. “Come on, spill it.”
Kurt comes to my defense. Trusted merman sidekick. “Now, that’s hardly fair to Tristan. He’s been very patie—” Layla cups her hands around his ear and whispers to him!
“Interesting.” Kurt tilts his head at Marty, who in turn takes off his cap and bows like he’s just finished an encore. “I never would’ve guessed. Though it completely makes sense.”
“That’s not cool, guys,” I say.
Toward the back of the bar, Angelo and the guys have massacred half of their wings. The princesses look at them with something that crosses between hunger and disgust. Maybe with a splash of fascination. I wonder how come Gwen isn’t with them.
“Trust me. You’re new to this world. You have to see it to believe it, dude.” Marty puts his cap back on. I’m about to argue that Layla isn’t even part of this world and is more human than I am, but I don’t feel like getting her right hook again. Marty calls out to the bartender, “Hey, Jimmy, let me get five bucks of the Rocky Mountains to stay and the Andes Picante wings to go.”
I pull out the black leather wallet my dad gave me when I turned fifteen. Behind my ten-dollar bill is a photo-booth picture I’d forgotten about. It’s me and Layla from the summer before high school. I’m holding my finger in my mouth like a hook. My face totally is leaned into Layla’s. She couldn’t even hold her funny face without cracking up. I push it down before she can see me looking at it.
“Put your pretzel monies away, Little Prince,” Marty goes. “This round’s on me.”
Kurt, the rigid MerWonder, scratches the back of his neck and glances carefully around the room. I hate when he does that. He says, “This is all great, but we have some pressing—” But he doesn’t finish. The distinct sound of a gunshot jolts us. We duck, but the screams come from the boardwalk.
I grab my backpack and run out the door, pushing past the crowds of onlookers. Straight ahead, where there are scattered rainbow-colored beach umbrellas, people grab hold of their things and run away from the beach. Memories of the day of the storm fill my head. I realize it’s just a world of people who run the other way.
I search the clouds for a bit of black, anything that might suggest it was thunder and lightning and another wave. But the sky is an endless blue.
Emergency 4x4s honk at the traffic of people on the boardwalk. Farther away, police sirens wail. The crowd parts for a man with a bald head that’s been slicked with suntan oil. In his arms is a heap of tattered bloody clothes.
He’s struggling with the weight of a boy, and when he almost trips, a hand breaks loose from the pile of clothes and dangles, cold and blue.
The man’s leg goes weak, but he balances on one knee. I reach forward to help, but I’m not fast enough, and the boy hits the ground with a wet thump. The corners of his lips are white and cracked. His eyes are open, staring at the sky. The smell of copper and salt hit me like a sucker punch. Down where the boy’s leg used to be is a mess of sand and bone and loose skin.
The man leans down and uses two fingers to shut those dead, gaping eyes.
“What happened?”
When he speaks, his voice is a low growl. “I was just sitting. Reading. Beats me if I’ll find my book in that mess now. Saw the top of a shark. But it was deformed.” He hovers, his palm over his head to signal where the dorsal fin might be. “Then the boy—” He breaks off and stares back down at the dead boy. I realize my hands are shaking at my sides.
A set of hands comes down on my shoulder. It’s Marty. He leans close to my face and whispers, “Come on, man. We don’t want to be here when five-o shows up.” My body is numb as we weave along the Coney Island boardwalk, away from the mangled body on the ground.
We sit in a straight line, our feet dangling over the edge of the pier. This is where Coney Island turns into Brighton Beach.
“That was awful,” Layla says, her voice catching in her throat.
“The merrows.” Kurt says what I’ve been thinking but don’t want to admit to.
I remember when Layla would curl up in bed because she didn’t want to touch the edges, as if whatever was in the dark would reach up and snatch her. This is the same, except now we’re all scared and pull our feet away from the water and set them firmly on the ground.
“Is this all because of the nasty sea witch who’s out to get you?” Marty has a way of making even the worst things sound harmless.
“Yeah, that one. Apparently she might have an army of mutant merpeople called merrows.”
I wait for a smart comeback that doesn’t come. Marty tosses the bottle cap into the water. It skips once, twice, sinks. “Aw, shiiit.”
“What?” Layla gets ready to stand and run.
“I forgot the hot wings.”
She sucks her teeth and smacks him for once.
“What? I paid for them.”
“I’m falling behind,” I say. “The other guys are halfway down the Pacific, and I’m still on land, watching people die around me and not doing anything about it.” I punch the wood and regret it. The scabs over my knuckles crack and bleed. I look at Marty. “That’s where you come in.”
“Me?” Marty tilts his cap from side to side.
“You know everyone.”
“Not every—”
“What do you know of a psychic who teaches at my school? Ms. Pippen.”
“Wait, wait.” Marty dusts sand off his black jeans. “Olivia Pippen?”
I stand to face him. “So you know her?”
Marty hesitates like he shouldn’t have said anything at all. But he can’t take it back.
I repeat, “Dude, do you know where she lives?”
He holds his hands up in the air as if he can conjure up a force field between us. A few more steps back and he’ll fall off the pier. “Guys, I’m neutral. I can’t—” He looks to Kurt. “You know I can’t put anyone in danger that is part of the alliance. Besides, we used to have a thing.”
“She’s my teacher. I’m not going to hurt her. I’m just going to ask her if she knows of any oracles and where their locations might be.”
Marty relaxes but doesn’t look like he’s going to cooperate.
“Hold up. You guys had a thing?” I can’t help it; I sound super impressed.
He shrugs and smiles at the clouds. “Man, she’s an incredible woman. But the seeing thing freaked me out. I mean, I’m not a dog or anything. I wasn’t afraid she’d see me doing something I wasn’t supposed to do. But check this: I have a lot of friends in dangerous jobs. Every time I’d introduce her at a party somewhere, she’d run out crying because she’d see them die. It puts strain on a relationship.”
I give him a well-deserved hand slap and hook. “You’re kind of the Man.”
“Hello?” Layla knocks at the air. “Murder, mermaids, mayhem? We can talk about Marty’s sexcapades later.”
Kurt raises his hand. “I vote Not on that last bit. But any information would be helpful. If not,” he says to Marty, “I hope you’re a good swimmer.”
I wasn’t about to make the threat, but Kurt’s voice is steady, borderline deadly. I’m even afraid of him a little bit. Marty twiddles his thumbs nervously, taking one last look at the rippling w
ater below. Sure, it’s not exactly making him walk the plank, but after what we’ve just seen, the water doesn’t look very appetizing.
He deflates and says, “I’m not going to tell you where she lives. But I will tell you where she’s going to be tonight.” He rubs his hands. I still don’t know what he is, but I hold up my hands to shield myself in case he ends up being some kind of wizard who shoots fireballs when he rubs his hands together. If things like that exist.
Which they probably don’t.
Probably.
Hopefully.
“If it’s another overnight trip, my dad’s going to shit bricks.”
“Actually, it’s a club.” He winks at her.
A club doesn’t seem so bad. “Where is it?”
Marty flicks the beak of his cap. Now that he knows we’re not going to torture him for an answer, he’s all chummy again. “Let’s just say, it’s right in the middle of everything.”
The middle of everything is at Bowery and Twelfth Street.
Between Arcade Island and a long stretch of graffiti-covered wall is a door I’ve never noticed before. There’s a black and red star over the metal door, which looks like it’s been hit with a hammer too many times.
“What is it?”
“Like I said, a special club, lounge, bar. Whatever you kids are calling them these days. We call it Betwixt. Ground rules: try not to look people directly in the eyes, bump into anyone, spill anyone’s drink, or make out with a girl who is someone else’s date, Tristan.”
Layla elbows me a little too hard on the side.
“So it’s just like being in the school cafeteria,” I say, and reach for the handle. Only there isn’t a handle to reach.
“After me.” Marty bangs his fist on the metal once.
Nothing happens.
“Nothing—”
Marty puts his finger to his lips. “Shh.” He makes like he’s going to reach for a handle that isn’t there. And then his hand goes right through, followed by the rest of him.
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