Of Poseidon Page 3

  Galen is on his feet before she can finish the last sentence. “So if she’s human, you hate her, and if she’s Syrena, you hate her. Have I got that right?” He tries to keep the defensive edge out of his tone. His sister would probably have a different opinion if she’d just seen what he had. But she didn’t. And since he’s still not ready to tell her anything—not what Dr. Milligan said and not how the shark acted—he’s going to have to be patient with her misconceptions about Emma. And he’s going to have to do better than this.

  “She’s not Syrena! If she was, we would sense her, Galen.”

  This shuts him up. He’d assumed Rayna could sense Emma the way he could, since she is his twin. But who ever heard of sensing another Syrena on land? Did he just make it up? Could it be that he’s just attracted to a human?

  No. He knows what he felt when he touched her. That means something, doesn’t it?

  “Wait,” Rayna says, jabbing her index into his bare chest. “Are … are you telling me you did sense her?”

  He shrugs. “Did you get in the water?”

  She tilts her head at him. “No. I was in the boat the whole time.”

  “So how do you know if you can sense her or not?”

  She crosses her arms. “Stop answering my questions with questions. That only worked when we were young.”

  Galen cringes inwardly. There is no way to explain this to his sister without sounding foolish. And his answer would only lead to more questions—questions that weren’t any of her business. For now, at least.

  He crosses his arms, too. “It still works sometimes. Remember a few days ago when we came across that lionfish and—”

  “Stop that! I swear by Triton’s trident if you don’t answer—”

  Galen is saved by the faint sound of music coming from beneath their feet. They both step away and listen. Galen gently kicks the sand around, looking for the cell phone. He finds it on the last ring. He picks it up, brushes it off.

  This phone doesn’t look the same as the one Rachel—his self-appointed human assistant—bought him. It’s pink with little jewels all over the cover. He presses a button, and a picture of Emma and Chloe lights up the screen.

  “Oh,” Rayna says, her brow wrinkled. “Whose … whose is it?”

  “I don’t know.” He checks the missed call, but it only says, “Mom.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how to tell who it belongs to.”

  “Would Rachel know?”

  He shrugs. “Is there anything Rachel doesn’t know?” Even Dr. Milligan admits that Rachel could likely be the most resourceful human alive. Galen has never told him her background, or how he found her, but if Dr. Milligan is impressed, then so is he. “Let’s call her.”

  “She won’t answer from this number, will she?”

  “No, but I’ll call the safe number and leave a message.” He dials the 800 number she insisted on buying. It goes to a fake company, a “shell company” Rachel calls it, that’s supposed to sell car warranties. She hardly ever gets a call, but when she does, she won’t answer. And she only returns Galen’s calls.

  When he hears the voice prompt to leave a message, he says, “Rachel, call me back on this number, I don’t have my cell phone. I need to know whose phone this is, both names if you can get it. Oh, and I need to know where Jersey is and if I have enough money to buy it.”

  When he hangs up, Rayna is staring at him. “Both names?”

  Galen nods. “You know, like Dr. Milligan’s names are Jerry and Milligan.”

  “Oh. Right. I forgot about that. Rachel said she has more names than a phone book. What does that mean?”

  “It means she has so many names that no one can figure out who she is.”

  “Yeah, that makes perfect sense,” Rayna mutters, kicking the sand. “Thanks for explaining.”

  The phone rings. The safe number lights up the screen.

  “Hey, Rachel.”

  “Hiya, cutie. I can get you that name by morning,” she says. She yawns.

  “Did I wake you up? Sorry.”

  “Aw, you know I don’t mind it, sweet pea.”

  “Thanks. What about Jersey?”

  She laughs. “Sorry, hun, but Jersey’s not for sale. If it was, my uncle Sylvester would already own it.”

  “Well then, I’ll need a house there. Probably another car, too.”

  He turns away from his sister, who looks like she might eat Emma’s poor shirt. He prefers that she does—if it keeps her from biting him.

  After a long silence, Rachel says, “A house? A car? What will you be doing in Jersey? Sounds pretty deep. Everything okay?”

  He tries to put distance between him and his sister before he whispers, “I … I might be going to school there for a little while.”

  Silence. He checks the screen to make sure the signal is good. “Hello?” he whispers.

  “I’m here, babe. You just, uh, surprised me, that’s all.” She clears her throat. “So umm … what kind of school? High school? College?”

  He shakes his head into the phone. “I don’t know yet. I don’t exactly know how old she is—”

  “She? You’re buying a house and a car to impress a girl? Oh, swoooon!”

  “No, it’s not like that. Not exactly. Will you stop squealing, please?”

  “Oh, no, no, no, I will not stop squealing. I’m going with you. This sort of thing is my specialty.”

  “Absolutely not,” he says, running a hand through his hair. Rayna grabs his arm and mouths, “Get off the phone now.” He shoos her away and is met with a growl.

  “Oh, please, Galen,” Rachel says, her voice syrupy sweet. “You’ve got to let me come. And besides, you’re gonna need a mother if you want to register for school. And you don’t know a thing about shopping for clothes. You need me, sweet pea.”

  He grits his teeth, partly because Rayna is twisting his arm to the point of snapping and partly because Rachel is right—he doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing. He flings off his sister and kicks sand on her for good measure before he walks farther down the beach.

  “Fine,” he says. “You can come.”

  Rachel squeals and then claps her hands. “Where are you? I’ll come get you.” Galen notes that she no longer sounds tired.

  “Uh, Dr. Milligan said Destin.”

  “Okay. Where’s Destin?”

  “He said Destin and he said Florida.”

  “Okay, gotcha. Lemme see.…” He hears clicking in the background. “Okay, it looks like I’ll have to fly, but I can be there by tomorrow. Is Rayna coming, too?”

  “Not in a million years.”

  The phone is snatched from his grasp. Rayna sprints away with it, yelling as she runs. “You bet I’m coming! And bring me some of those lemon-cookie things again, will you, Rachel? And some of that shiny stuff to put on my lips when they get too dry…”

  Galen massages his temple with fingertips, contemplating what he’s about to do.

  And he considers kidnapping Emma instead.

  5

  DAWN BREAKS unwelcome and hazy against the bay windows of the living room. I groan and pull the quilt over my head, but not before I see the stoic face of the grandfather clock in the corner. I picked the living room to sleep in because it’s the only room in the house with just one clock. All night I allowed myself to admire the driftwood clock, so long as I didn’t look at the face. The last time I failed was two a.m. Now it is six a.m. Which means, for the first time since Chloe died, I have slept for four consecutive hours.

  It also means the first day of my senior year will be starting in two. I am not ready for this.

  I throw off the covers and sit up. The bay window shows me that it is not light, not dark, but gray outside. It looks cold, but I know it isn’t. The wind whispers through the dune grass just off our back porch, making it look like a gathering of hula dancers. I wonder what the sea looks like this morning. For the first time since Chloe died, I decide to check.

  I open the sliding glass door to a wa
rm August breeze. A quick jump off the last step of the back porch and my bare feet sink in the cool sand. The beach is private, and I wrap my arms around myself, taking the path between the two huge dunes in front of our house. Past them is a miniature hill just big enough to block my view of the ocean from the living room. Had I slept in my room last night, I could already be soaking in the sunrise from my third-floor balcony.

  But my room is full of all things Chloe. There is nothing on my shelves, on my desk, or in my closet that doesn’t have something to do with her. Awards, pictures, makeup, clothes, shoes, stuffed animals. Even my bedding—a quilted collage of pictures from our childhood we made together for a school project. If I took everything out of my room connected to Chloe, my room would be pretty empty.

  The same as I feel inside.

  I stop a few feet from the wet sand and plop down, drawing my knees to my chest. Morning tide makes a great companion when you don’t want to be around people. It soothes and comforts and doesn’t ask for anything. But the sun does. The higher it gets, the more I am reminded that nothing stops time. There is no escaping it. It slips by no matter if you’re looking at a driftwood grandfather clock or the sun.

  My first day of school without Chloe has arrived.

  I wipe the tears from my eyes and stand. I scrunch my toes in the sand with each step back to the house. Mom waits for me on the back-porch steps, smoothing out her robe with one hand and holding a travel mug of coffee in the other. Set against the gray-shingle beach house, she looks like an apparition in her white robe—except apparitions don’t have long ebony hair, shockingly blue eyes, or drink espresso. She smiles the way a mother should smile at a daughter who is overwhelmed by loss. And it makes my tears spill bigger and faster.

  “Morning,” she says, patting the wood next to her.

  I sit and lean into her, let her wrap her arms around me. “Morning,” I rasp.

  She hands me the mug and I sip. “Make you breakfast?” she squeezes my shoulder.

  “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”

  “You need some energy for your first day of school. I could make pancakes. French toast. I’ve got the stuff to make some good garbage eggs.”

  I smile. Garbage eggs are my favorite. She hunts down whatever she can find and puts it in my eggs—onions, bell peppers, mushrooms, hash browns, tomatoes, and whatever else might or might not have a place in an omelet. “Sure,” I say, standing.

  * * *

  I smell the concoction from the bathroom and try to guess what’s in it as I step out of the shower. Smells a lot like jalapeños, which brightens my mood a little. I fling my towel on the bed and pull a shirt off a hanger in the closet. I didn’t feel like shopping for new school clothes, so my classmates will have to accept my old standby—T-shirt, jeans, and flip-flops. That’s what everyone will be wearing in two weeks anyway, when the new wears off their carefully planned outfits. I twist my hair into a sloppy bun atop my head and secure it with a pencil. I reach for my makeup bag and stop. Mascara is not a good idea today. Maybe some foundation would be okay. I pick up the bottle—the shade is “porcelain.” I slam it on my dresser in disgust. It’s like putting Wite-Out on a blank sheet of paper—pointless. Besides, I can be porcelain all by myself. I’m practically made of porcelain these days.

  Trudging down the stairs, a spicy aroma stings my nose. The garbage eggs are beautiful. They are piled high, steaming, and full of stuff. It is a shame that I mostly just push them around my plate. The glass of milk next to it sits untouched, unneeded.

  I glance at my dad’s old place setting at the head of the table. It’s been two years since the cancer took him, but I can still remember the way he folded his newspaper beside his plate. The way he and Chloe fought over the sports page. The way the town’s only funeral home smelled the same at his service as it did for hers.

  I wonder how many empty place settings a person can look at before they begin to crack.

  Across the table, Mom slides a key toward my plate, hiding her expression behind her coffee cup. “Feeling up to driving today?”

  I’m surprised she doesn’t wrap it up with “hint, hint.” Or maybe a banner that reads, YOU NEED TO START DOING NORMAL THINGS, LIKE DRIVING YOURSELF AROUND.

  I nod. Chew. Stare at the key. Chew some more. Grab the key, shove it in my pocket. Take another bite. My mouth should be on fire, but I taste nothing. The milk should be cold, but it’s like tap water. The only thing that burns is the key in my pocket, daring me to touch it. I set the dishes in the sink, grab my backpack, and head for the garage. Alone.

  * * *

  As long as no one hugs me, I will be fine. I walk down a hall of Middle Point High School, nodding at the kids I’ve known since elementary school. Most of them have enough sense to just throw a sympathetic glance in my direction. Some talk to me anyway, but nothing too dangerous, just neutral things like “Good morning” and “I think we have third period together.” Even Mark Baker, Middle Point’s quarterback-slash-deity, gives me a supportive smile through the school-colored war paint smeared on his face. Any other day, I’d be texting Chloe to inform her that the Mark Baker acknowledged my existence. But the whole reason I don’t is the same reason he acknowledged me in the first place: Chloe is dead.

  They all lost their track star. Their bragging rights. In a few weeks, they won’t even realize something’s missing. They’ll just move on. Forget about Chloe.

  I shake my head but know it’s true. A few years ago, a freshman riding on the back of her older brother’s motorcycle died when he ran a stop sign and careened into a car. Flowers and cards were taped to her locker, the student body held a candlelit vigil in the football stadium, and the class president spoke at a special memorial the school arranged for her. Today, I can’t for the life of me remember her name. She was in a few of the same clubs as me, some classes, too. I can see her face clearly. But I can’t remember her name.

  I test the combo to my new locker. It opens, third try. I stare into it, feeling as hollow as it looks. The hall takes awhile to clear out, but I wait until it does. When it is quiet, when the classroom doors ease closed, when the hall stops smelling like perfume and cologne, I slam the locker shut as hard as I can. And it feels good.

  Because I am late to class, I’m forced to sit up front. The back row is ideal for spacing out or for texting, but I have no one to text. Today, I could space out on a roller coaster, so the front row is as good a seat as any. I glance around the room as Mr. Pinner passes out a class-rule sheet. Model airplanes hang by strings from the ceiling, timelines stripe the walls, and black-and-white pictures of the Egyptian pyramids adorn a nearby information board. History used to be my favorite class, but in view of my new vendetta against time, I’m just not feeling it.

  Mr. Pinner is on Rule No. 3 when he looks up and to the back of the class. “Can I help you? Surely you’re not already violating Rule Numero Uno! Anybody remember that one?”

  “Arrive on time,” chimes in a do-gooder from the back.

  “Is this world history?” the presumable violator asks. His voice is even, confident, nothing like it should be, given that he’s violated Numero Uno. I hear a few people shuffle in their chairs, probably to get a look at him.

  “The one and only,” says Mr. Pinner. “Unless, of course, you mean the one down the hall.” He chuckles at his joke.

  “Is this, or is this not, world history?” the student asks again.

  A rash of whispers breaks out, and I smile at the timeline I’m looking at. Mr. Pinner clears his throat. “Didn’t you hear me the first time? I said this is world history.”

  “I did hear you the first time. You didn’t make yourself clear.”

  Even the do-gooder snickers. Mr. Pinner fidgets with the leftover rule sheets in his hand and pushes his glasses up on his nose. The girl behind me whispers, “Gorgeous!” to her neighbor, and since she can’t be talking about Mr. Pinner, I take the bait and turn around.

  And my breath catches in my throat. Gale
n. He is standing in the doorway—no, he’s filling up the doorway—holding nothing but a binder and an irritated expression. And he is already staring at me.

  Mr. Pinner says, “Come have a seat up front, young man. And you can sit here for the remainder of the week as well. I don’t tolerate tardiness. What is your name?”

  “Galen Forza,” he answers without taking his eyes off me. Then he strides to the desk next to me and seats himself. He dwarfs the chair meant for a normal adolescent male, and as he adjusts to get comfortable, a few feminine whispers erupt from the back. I want to tell them that he looks even better without a shirt on, but I have to admit that a tight T-shirt and worn jeans almost do him justice.

  Even so, his presence sends me reeling. Galen has been a key player in my nightmares these past weeks, which have been nothing but a subconscious rehashing of the last day of Chloe’s life. It doesn’t matter if I sleep for forty minutes or two hours; I smack into him, hear Chloe approaching, feel embarrassed all over again. Sometimes she asks him to go to Baytowne with us and he agrees. We all leave together instead of getting in the water.

  Sometimes the dream gets mixed up with a different one—the one where I’m drowning in Granny’s backyard pond. The events run together like watercolors; Chloe and I fall in the water, and the school of catfish materialize out of nowhere and push us both to the surface. Dad’s boat is waiting for us, but I taste saltwater instead of fresh.

  I would rather have the dream with the real ending, though—it’s horrible to see over and over, but it doesn’t last very long, and when I wake up, I know Chloe is dead. When we take the alternate endings, I wake up thinking she’s alive. And I lose her all over again.

  But the tingles never show up in my dreams. I’d forgotten about them, in fact. So when they show up now, I blush. Deeply.

  Galen gives me a quizzical look, and for the first time since he sat down, I notice his eyes. They’re blue. Not violet like mine, as they were on the beach. Or were they? I could have sworn Chloe commented on his eyes, but my subconscious might have made that up, the same way it makes up alternate endings. One thing’s for sure: I didn’t make up Galen’s habit of staring. Or the way it makes me blush.