The Vicious Deep Part 3

Her hair is loose around her shoulders, thick and brown like fresh earth. She's wearing a purple dress that ties around her neck and reaches all the way down to cover her toes. I am suddenly aware of my morning erection.

"What are you doing here?"

"What kind of a 'good afternoon' is that?"

I look at the clock on my nightstand. It's 2:43 p.m. "How long have you been sitting there, creeper?" I take an extra pillow and use it as a buffer between my erection and the world.

"You wish."

"I'm just saying."

"I only just got here," Layla says. "I told your mom I'd pick up some chips and salsa on the way. My mom was still making her fancy Greek dip when I left, and my dad was sneaking a cigarette downstairs."

"Doesn't your dad know by now that he can't keep anything from your mom 'cause she's got that all-seeing third eye in the back of her head?" I ask.

"I actually think she gets a kick out of watching him squirm," she laughs, "when she finds the b.u.t.ts hidden around the backyard."

"Just like a woman."

She punches me on the shoulder.

"I'm going to start charging you every time you hit me," I tell her.

"That would negate your purpose as my personal punching bag. And speaking of people who'd like to use you as one, Maddy called me. She's not coming because she's at her friend's house."

"See! And she got all mad at me when I said friends."

"Yeah, but you say friends in a mean way. I say friends because I don't like her new friends."

"Whatever. I don't need her crying all over the place, feeling guilty 'cause I'm not dead." I suck my teeth. I need a toothbrush ASAP.

We fall into silence. She tilts her head and combs her hair all to one side. She twirls a strand around her index finger and stares at my face. I wonder what she sees. If she sees something different from what everyone else does. I wonder if she's thinking I'm a piece-of-s.h.i.+t friend and an even worse boyfriend. I wonder if she's thought about our CPR kiss the way I have.

Instead she whispers, "What were you dreaming about?" She hesitates. "You were really tossing."

I shake my head. I know how this would make me sound. If there is anyone I let myself tell anything to, it's Layla. Well, almost anything. "Just some crazy stuff. You know, I still can't remember anything that happened to me out there. I see this blur. Then last night I was going through the apartment, reading, Googling, pacing, trying to make myself remember, like maybe it's memory loss. But nothing.

"I mean, I wasn't expecting an instant replay. But when I fell asleep, my dream was so impossible and it still felt so real. More real than this-" I pinch her and she squeals. "What if something happened to me down there? It would explain how I got this-" I pull my T-s.h.i.+rt at the collar so she can see the red scratches on my chest.

"Yes, Tristan, you have pecs of steel. The guys are outside. You really don't have to do that with me-"

"No, dumba.s.s. I mean, I do, but look-" I really don't want to get up for fear of the pillow s.h.i.+fting. "Scratches."

"There's nothing there, Tristan." There's a sort of pity in her eyes.

She's right. I rub my hands on my chest and can't feel anything. Not even the impression of scabs.

"Is he awake yet?" My mom is standing at the door.

"Just now," I say, as Layla stands and pulls at where her dress clings to her thighs.

Mom lingers at the doorway. She stands half in and half out. There's something about the way she's looking at me. It's not exactly wonder, but similar to it. I mean, I can't even imagine what it must've been like to think I was dead.

"Hurry up and get dressed, honey. People are on their way."

"Yeah, I'll be ready in just a minute." Though I don't feel ready for anything at all.

While my mom spared me a Welcome Home sign, my friends-if I'd even call them that after what they're holding up-have made a crude sign on white cardboard. It reads: "IT'S ALIVE!" With thunderbolts on the side.

Jerry, Angelo, Bertie, Ryan, and some other lifeguards and members of the swim team hang around the living room. They pat me on the back and tell me they've never seen anything like this. They can't believe it. I'm a miracle. I'm the coolest dude that ever lived on Planet Cool. They show me my mug on three newspapers, an awkward picture that I recognize from Mike's camera phone at the pizzeria, and one that looks like a girl was edited out of the left half. I'm halfway between a smile and a grimace, and my eyes don't really come out right in black-and-white. They almost look colorless.

Jerry polishes off his can of root beer and burps. From somewhere in the kitchen, Layla's mother scolds him, and he sinks into the chair, which makes him look like a gra.s.shopper retracting his limbs. He's so tall that watching him swim reminds me of a log with branches flailing down a stream. "My mom was going to send flowers from her flower shop, you know? But half the girls in school were already buying them and sending them to your hospital room."

"Tell her thanks anyway."

Angelo sits up on the ottoman. "Bro, that nurse." He makes the symbol of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, then kisses his fingertips. I've seen his father do the exact same thing when they're sitting on their front porch drinking beer and a girl in short shorts walks in front of them. "You're the luckiest b.a.s.t.a.r.d who ever lived."

Now I'm a lucky-cool b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Hey, I've been called worse.

Layla walks over with a refilled bowl of tortilla chips, and the guys are all over her. I don't like the way Angelo's eyes linger on her. It's not like she's got giant b.o.o.bs. I mean, they're a nice size for her height, but she's also not wearing a bra, just a bikini top under her dress. What's with these guys anyway? She's on our team. They see her in a suit all the time.

Layla takes a seat on the couch between Bertie and me. She's used to being one of the guys, so she doesn't notice how different they're acting, all s.h.i.+fty and nervous because she's sucked their breaths out just by being here. Maybe she doesn't realize how she's changed. How practically overnight her Bambi eyes and full lips have grown into a face that all you want to do is stare at it. How she's set the bar pretty d.a.m.n high for every other girl.

Of course, none of the guys would try to get with her. She's still one of us.

I reach over the coffee table and eat chip after chip. My stomach lurches, and I can taste bile creeping up. I gulp down water, and I feel a little better.

"My mom actually wants me to quit my post," Angelo says. "She says the apocalypse is coming, so she's got these garlic wreaths all over the windows-"

"I knew I smelled something," Ryan goes, shrinking back from the threat of Angelo's fist.

"-and crosses all over the place. She asked Father Thomas to rebaptize me. He told her you're only supposed to do it once."

"Did you tell your mom that the apocalypse is coming, and not an army of vampires?" Layla jokes.

"Whatever. All I care is that she was so happy I woke up too late to go to work that day that she even let me sleep through school yesterday."

Angelo is a guy with no conscience and no worries. I almost envy him. He's the kind of guy who takes your lunch money at the beginning of the day and then asks to borrow another dollar after school so you can split a pizza. He smacks girls on their a.s.ses, and they actually turn around and giggle, because other than being macho and using more hair spray than the drama cla.s.s, he's a pretty good-looking guy.

Mom walks in with a gallon of root beer. "I heard you boys were thirsty."

"And girls," Layla chimes in. Sandy, who's been looking through my mom's collection of books, looks up and smiles.

"Yes, please, Mrs. Hart," the boys say in unison, all smiles and politeness. She doesn't know them like I do.

The minute she walks out, Layla looks up at Ryan and says, "Ryan, you've got a little drool right here."

He wipes at his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie. "It's kind of impossible not to. No offense."

"None taken." I shrug. I'm used to the guys all coming over just so they can be doted on by my mom. Even when we have school trips, the guys try to bribe me to get her to be the chaperone. Suddenly my living room, which has always seemed like a cave when I'm alone, feels too hot, too tight. The AC is on, and I'm still sweating. I want to tell everyone to get out so that I can jump in the shower, but that would be rude.

Ryan combs his fingers through his slick blond hair, a telltale sign that he's getting ready for a speech. Aside from being on the archery team, he writes for the Thorne Hill High School Press and is treasurer of the senior cla.s.s. He has parents who are still married, don't hate each other, and work in the city. They live in the Sea Breeze gated community not a five-minute drive from here.

Sometimes it annoys me how perfect he is. It's like he can do no wrong. When we took a school-required test that's supposed to tell you what you should be when you grow up, he got "President of the United States." I got back an empty piece of paper, because they'd lost my results. And it bothers me even more because he always says he was born to be something great. He just knows it in his heart, and so does everyone who's ever met him.

Everyone who meets me likes me, sure, but I'll never be suave like Angelo, and I'll never be as smart as Ryan. I don't even know what I'm going to do tomorrow, didn't even know before my near-drowning. So I've got that going for me.

"So," Ryan starts. "I was thinking of getting a group together and heading down to the Wreck. They're having some end-of-the-world party all week long. Who's down?" He looks at me eagerly.

I'm not, but I say, "I'll think about it. They gave me this prescription that makes me want to sleep."

Layla gives me a sideways glance, because she knows we weren't at the hospital long enough for them to give me a prescription. "I just got a text from Maddy. She just invited me to the same thing."

"Dude, I'm surprised she's not here," Jerry says. "She was pacing in front of your hospital room for like days. I only went the one time. It was so crowded. But she was definitely there a while."

"Yeah, she was there when I went too," Ryan adds.

Layla's quiet, arms crossed over her chest. She looks small, like she's sinking into the couch. I get up from the floor and sit next to her. So does Jerry.

"Why'd you guys break up anyway?" Bertie asks. The whole room turns to look at me.

"When I broke up with Rebecca-" Ryan starts, but Bertie has his hand up. "Hold up. No, man. We've already heard the Rebecca story a bajillion times."

I asked Maddy out three months ago. I think the pigtail braids did it for me. Plus, we were already friends. I don't want to talk about me and Maddy. I don't want to talk about it ever. I want to jump in some cold water. But they're not going to let it drop until I at least say something.

"She's nice and all, don't get me wrong. But she wanted to be with me every single minute. She wanted to call me as soon as we got home from school and watch TV together over the phone. She waited by my locker. She waited in my lobby downstairs before school."

"Did she let you kiss her?" Bertie raises his thick black eyebrows and wiggles his head, giving him the effect of a cartoon bobblehead.

"I mean, yeah?"

"How far did you guys go?" Bertie leans over Layla to ask me this.

Layla's body feels hot next to mine. I glance at her. I can't say it. Not in front of her.

"Don't you dare say a word, Tristan Allen Hart," she says, evoking my whole name as if it's the ultimate command. Her eyes squint at me like she has lasers and they're about to slice right through me. Oh G.o.d. I want to bang my head against the wall. I want to jump out the window. She knows. Of course, Maddy told her.

The guys take it the wrong way. Even Wonder Ryan high-fives the other guys for me. I try to deny it, but they talk over me.

"Look, she'll get over it. It's not like you're going to be the only one."

"Plus, that friend of Samantha you made out with at the bonfire was ten times hotter than Maddy," Jerry blurts out, emitting a round of manly man cheers.

The bonfire. The night before the storm. The reason I was hungover the next day. I'm not a good drinker. I'll have a beer and a half and be plastered. That's why I don't usually drink. I just nurse the same bottle the entire night and pretend like it's always a new one. The Hot Mess that was with Samantha. She saw I was miserable. I was trying to avoid Maddy the whole day after she told me she was madly in love with me and then started undoing my belt buckle. I could've stopped her, but I wasn't exactly thinking with my brain.

Either way. The screwed-up part is that I don't even remember the girl I was kissing. I don't remember what she tasted like. I don't remember her eyes. Nothing. I just remember Maddy walking around the big boulder and gasping. Then crying. Then throwing her beer in my face and then the empty cup at the Hot Mess. She slapped me and I let her.

Maddy was the girl I wanted to take a chance with because I was tired of dating girls who couldn't put a whole sentence together but knew their father's credit card number by heart. It's just-she wasn't the right girl.

And now sitting here, with all my friends cheering me for being alive, for being their idol, I feel lower than low. Because Layla gets up, shaking her head at me. I try to grab her hand, but she pulls away, and I don't know what I can say right here, right now to make her want to stay.

My head is pulsing. I tell Ryan that I'll make it to the Wreck, but something doesn't feel right. I know I'll probably puke my guts out and go to bed. Layla and I take seats at the dining room table with our parents, who sip on red wine, and Coach Bellini, whose mustache is tipped in beer foam.

I vaguely understand now how it feels to be a wounded puppy that wants to be left alone to lick his wounds. A very manly, strong puppy, that is.

Mrs. Santos pops a cheddar cube into her mouth. Layla is a skinny version of her mother with her dad's hazel eyes. Mr. Santos is a tall and broad Ecuadorian dude with a mustache who always smells like his cigars. He extends his arm and pats my shoulder. I tighten my body against the pain that spreads down my entire back.

"Listen here, boy," says Coach, pointing a finger at me. Why do grown-ups seem to do that, like if they're not pointing in your direction, you're not going to know that they're serious. "What the h.e.l.l happened out there? Don't you ever go doing anything so reckless again. Think of your momma right here. Your friends. Your team."

"He was trying save someone," Layla interrupts. She thinks Coach is right, but it's her nature to take the opposite side. Ms. Contrary. "He was being heroic."

"Firemen are heroic. Marines are heroic. You're just plain reckless." I've never seen Coach turn so many different colors so quickly. I think even his mustache is twitching. Everyone laughs at his expression, and for this moment, it's just a regular Sat.u.r.day night with friends and family.

"I think what Arthur wants to say is that he's happy you're well," Mom chimes in, all smiles and bright eyes. She rubs my dad's back, and everything is calm again.

But then they all take a peek out the window, and we remember that something is changing and we don't know what it is.

I've started sweating. The rash at the side of my neck is getting worse. I want to crawl into my bed, but I know if I stand up I'll fall right back down.

My mom looks at me like she's snapping out of a nightmare. "I think Tristan needs to get some sleep."

"Do you need help cleaning up?" Layla offers.

"No, Layla, honey." Dad's voice is tight, the voice he uses when he's on the phone with his boss and trying to convince him he's working on a project but really hasn't started it.

"I don't feel so good," I groan. It's rude, but I wave at them and dash for the closest bathroom, which is my parents'. I shut the door and run cold water in the sink. I splash cold water on my face and all around my neck to calm the itching, which is spreading to my ribs. My mind flickers to a vision in my dream. The silver mermaid. The rows of teeth that don't fit with the rest of her beauty. I know it was just a dream, because I'm still here. I'm still here.

The faucet in the bathtub suddenly turns on by itself. The pipes squeak with the strong water pressure. I pull the sheer white curtain open and turn the water off.

I take off my T-s.h.i.+rt and soak it in the sink, then wrap it around my neck like a towel.

The k.n.o.b jingles, but I've locked it. "I'm fine!"

"Tristan, let us in."

"I'm fine, Mom!"

"Everyone is gone, honey. Just let me in."

"Son." Now it's Dad. He pushes against the door with all his weight. "Don't make me break down the door."

"Something's happening." I want to say it, but I can't. I can hear the water in the bathtub making its way through the pipe. It smells like salt, even though it shouldn't. The tub faucet comes back on, and it's like a fire hydrant during the summer. I'm turning the k.n.o.b, but the water doesn't stop coming.

In the sink, a tiny rainbow fish squeezes its way out of the faucet. I close the drain so that it doesn't get pulled back into the pipes. It jumps in the water until there's enough that it can swim in circles.

My stomach contracts. I can feel my insides s.h.i.+fting, moving apart, something inside of me breaking. My skin is on fire. My feet give out under me. I hold on to the edge of the sink on my knees, but I'm too heavy.