by Dana Langer
And what if it doesn’t work?
And what if it does?
At last, I see the parade winding its way up the main road. At Mr. Bergstrom’s insistence, each float is lined with flaming torches, and from this distance, the entire thing looks like one long dragon of fire. The Sunrise County Middle School marching band leads the way, and Mr. Bergstrom follows close behind, riding his float shaped like a Viking ship. Middle school mermaids flip and cartwheel around him while he sits atop his throne, wearing his crown and waving his flaming torch in the air. From my lookout, I can see that one rogue pinecone, Jason, has already broken free of the eighth-grade group and is edging closer to the float.
As the parade reaches the main doors of the school, Jason’s stepdad hands his torch to one of the mermaids for safekeeping. Then he reaches for his goblet. According to the script, he’s supposed to say, “Hand me my drink, for I am ready to carouse!”
Emma hands him his goblet.
I slip my arms out of my shell and stay curled in a ball with my antennae pressed to the glass and my fingers crossed.
Within seconds, Mr. Bergstrom stops shouting his lines and shuts his eyes. And then, just like that, he topples over. He falls off his plywood throne and lands in a heap on the glittery, felt-covered floor, and his crown goes rolling right off his head.
At first, everyone is silent. Stunned. The marching band stops playing, and the dancers stop dancing, and everyone stares in disbelief.
Finally, someone asks, “Is this part of the show?”
And then everything happens at once. Everyone starts rushing around, talking over each other and shouting for help.
“Call an ambulance!”
“Help him!”
“What’s happening?”
“Looks like a heart attack!”
“Extinguish the torches!”
In the midst of the commotion, Jason grabs the fallen crown from the edge of the float. “I’m his stepson,” he tells the crowd. “I’ll keep this safe.” People stand aside to let him pass, and then he takes off, running to our meeting place behind the school. An ambulance sounds in the distance, and I hop down from my perch on the windowsill and race into the hallway, shoving crowds of little kids in fish costumes out of my way.
Emma comes bursting in through the front doors and barrels right into me. “What did you do?” she hisses. “Did we just, like, kill him?”
I pull her into the corner. “No,” I tell her. “Calm down. It’s—”
“Don’t tell me it’s a long story!”
“It’ll be fine,” I tell her. “He’s not— We didn’t kill him. Just don’t say anything, okay?”
“What would I say? You think I want to get blamed for this?”
We hear another squeal of feedback and then Coach Bouchard’s voice comes over the megaphone. “He’s all right, ladies and gentlemen! Everyone remain calm. I’m hearing now that he’s conscious and stable and they’ll be taking him to Sunrise County General for observation.”
“See?”
Emma shakes her head. “You know, you and Jason can have each other. You’re both, like, too weird to deal with.”
“Fine,” I tell her.
“Fine,” she says.
Jason and I meet at the old basketball court behind the Dumpsters, where nobody ever goes. The asphalt is uneven and the hoops are threaded with rusty steel chains.
“Are you sure we can’t just go to the island now?” I ask him.
“It’ll be dark soon, and we won’t be able to find the island or Fort O’Malley.” Jason is still hugging the crown to his chest. “I’ll keep this,” he tells me. “And we’ll go first thing in the morning, okay? As soon as it’s light.”
“Okay.” I nod. “I’ll meet you back at the dock in the morning.”
He shifts the crown to his hip. “Don’t you think I should go home with you?”
“To my house?”
“Yeah. I mean, just to make sure you’re safe there by yourself.”
I look at the cracks in the pavement. “No,” I tell him. “I mean, I’ll be fine.” Also, I’m afraid you might want to kiss me again and I won’t know how, and then you’ll change your mind about liking me. Or maybe, now that I’m an undead zombie monster, you won’t try to kiss me at all and that would be even worse.
Jason kicks at some loose gravel with his sneaker. “Okay,” he says. “Then I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”
“I’ll see you in the morning,” I tell him. “Definitely.”
We look at each other for a second, and it’s like one of those weird moments where you know you’re making an important choice. Like you can almost feel yourself as an adult looking back and thinking about that moment and the choice you made. But you don’t know yet if it was the right one or the wrong one.
By the time I climb the driveway and put my key in the lock, it’s nearly dark. The second I walk in the door, I realize I can’t remember the last time I was alone in our house. Everything looks different. There are all kinds of strange shadows lurking everywhere, and the floorboards creak under my feet. The radiators all start hissing at once, and it’s pretty much the scariest sound I’ve ever heard. I can’t even bring myself to go upstairs and change out of my snail costume. Instead, I lock the front door and run down to the basement to grab Dad’s pistol from its hiding place behind the dryer. Even loaded with blanks, it scares me, and I don’t like touching it, but not having it feels worse. I slide it into my schoolbag and hurry back into the living room, where I leap onto the couch and pull a knit afghan up over my shoulders and face so only my eyes are peeking out.
The wind picks up and the weather vane on the roof starts to creak. I remember what Jason’s mom said about us. They’re so vulnerable up there in that house. At the time, I didn’t understand what she meant. But now the loneliness is overwhelming. There’s nobody to notice if I disappear. I could just vanish into thin air.
I stay awake for a long time, terror crawling like cold spiders down my scalp. For some reason, I keep thinking about this time after my mom died, the first time I went into her room alone and saw her glasses sitting there folded on the night table. I thought, She’s gone, but her glasses are still here. It was like a terrible arithmetic I couldn’t wrap my mind around. Mom’s glasses minus Mom equals what?
I think about maybe calling Jason and telling him I was wrong after all, that I should have let him come over. But now it’s practically the middle of the night. And what if his mom answers? What if Mr. Bergstrom answers? Instead, I reach into my schoolbag and pull out Hannah’s diary and one of Lula’s old sweatshirts. I pull the sweatshirt on right over my costume, clasp my arms around my knees, and curl up as tight as I can with the book propped open on the pillow next to me.
June 23rd, 1705
My mind is racked with terrible dreams. It’s been nearly six months since the Morgana sailed from Bishop’s Harbor, and still no word from Rebecca. She is such a sweet child, innocent of the events that brought her into the world. I sent her away from this village to keep her safe, yet I fear I put her life in danger. Perhaps the Morgana was lost at sea. Perhaps the captain never brought her ashore. Either way, I shall have no rest until I find her again. Neither will any of the sea captains or fishermen in this town. Rebecca is the only good thing I ever had in my life, and her memory, the ghost of her, is always in my thoughts. It may drive me mad. I fear it already has. But if it takes an eternity, I will never stop searching for her. And they will suffer for what they have done. Once, I learned a dark magic to protect myself. Now, again, I shall use it.
I wake hours later to the sound of car wheels crunching up the driveway. It’s still pretty dark out, and I watch as the reflection from a pair of headlights travels slowly across the ceiling. My first thought, automatically, is: Mom. She’s home, as if I fell asleep on the couch waiting up for her. But then I come more fully awake and the reality of everything comes crashing back around me. It can’t be her; it’s somebody else. Afraid al
l over again, I curl my fingers through the holes in the blanket.
Outside, a car door opens and slams and footsteps shuffle across the gravel and up the front steps. “Lorelei!”
It’s Mr. Bergstrom out there on the porch again, calling me and ringing the bell, tapping on the window. He’s wearing his work gloves, and he has a crowbar slung over his shoulder. “I see you in there, young lady. I see you.”
He starts digging at the lock with the crowbar, and I grab my schoolbag and slip my arms through the strap just as he bursts into the entryway. He looks like a giant, standing here in our house, backlit beside our collection of framed school photos and Lara’s spelling bee certificate. The door is hanging half off its hinges, and there’s cold air blowing through the living room, scattering papers across the floor.
“You’re not allowed to just come in here!” I try to make my voice sound brave. I point at him the way I once saw Ms. Cross point at some older boys she found smoking behind the school. “This is my house! I live here. You can’t just come in.”
But Mr. Bergstrom ignores me, waving the crowbar around like a conductor of the world’s most violent and ridiculous orchestra, and I realize that yes, he can come in. I’m alone here, and I’m a lot smaller than him, and there’s actually nothing I can do to stop him.
Mr. Bergstrom takes his crowbar and starts smashing things. He smashes the lamp on the coffee table, and a framed article about my dad’s first album, and the vase my mom used to keep filled with flowers. He smashes a glass cabinet full of my grandparents’ dishes and trinkets from their old house. In less than a minute, our entire living room is destroyed. I want to scream, but I’m too scared now. I can’t make my voice work.
Mr. Bergstrom drops the crowbar and starts walking toward me. “You’re coming with me now.” He keeps coming closer, so I have to keep backing up, until I’m pressed flat against the wall with nowhere else to go. His enormous frame is looming in front of me, and I have to crane my neck to see his face. “Get your shoes on,” he says.
We drive a while in silence, me sitting in the back behind the passenger seat. Mr. Bergstrom keeps looking at me over his shoulder, and, every time, he nearly swerves off the road.
“I know you’re a nice girl,” he says. “This isn’t about that. But you’re still a predator, just like all the others. And me, my sons, my crew, and every other sailor in our harbor, we’re all at risk. Am I right?” He meets my eyes in the rearview mirror and smiles like we have a secret together.
“No,” I say. “I don’t want to hurt anybody.”
“Well, that wasn’t exactly my question.” The smile disappears from his face, and he rolls down the window and spits. “That’s the problem with your kind. You twist things, and you lie. You pretend, and you make promises. And then what happens? You hurt and kill us. Destroy our property. Now, when something like this happens, you only have yourself to blame. You and your sisters and all the others just like you.”
I look out the window. All the trees are bare, and the dawn sky is as thick and white as cotton. There’s nobody else on the road. Everything is empty and quiet, and I watch the highway drift beneath our wheels.
“Do you know where we’re going?”
I nod. “To the marina. You’re going to trap me in a net and cast a spell on me, just like you did my sisters.”
“It doesn’t hurt,” he explains. “The spell, I mean. You won’t feel a thing.”
I shift in my seat and clutch the bag closer to my chest. “How do you know?”
The marina finally comes into view, boats bobbing on the water. Some are already strung with red and green Christmas lights. Out on the main road, I see a flash of bright blue through the trees, and I know it’s Jason coming to meet me.
I glance at Mr. Bergstrom, but he doesn’t notice. He comes around the car and grabs my arm. “Let’s go.”
It’s much colder on the water. We board one of the fishing boats at the back of the marina, an older vessel streaked with rust and swaying slightly in the waves. The winches, spooled with sinister green nets, are taller than I am. “I’ll be right back.” Mr. Bergstrom lets go of me, and my feet skid on the slippery surface of the deck. He disappears into the wheelhouse, and I take the pistol out of my bag. It startles me a little, just the coldness and the sight of it out in the world. I’m not even sure what to say to announce its presence. Surprise?
I feel the wind pick up, blowing wisps of platinum hair across my face.
“Um, excuse me?” I clear my throat. “Mr. Bergstrom?”
“What?”
“Look. Look at this.”
“What now?” Mr. Bergstrom turns. He sees the pistol and lifts his hands in the air. He sort of laughs and sort of snorts. “What do you think you’re going to do with that?”
I fire the gun. It kicks back and knocks against my face, and for a few seconds, I can’t even see straight. I bring my fingers to my forehead and feel warm, sticky blood in my hair. Mr. Bergstrom is ducking on the deck, and I drop the gun and fumble for the railing, swing my legs over the ladder, and climb until I can feel the dock again beneath my feet.
Chapter
6
And soon they saw a fair island . . . where the clear-voiced Sirens . . . used to beguile with their sweet songs whoever cast anchor there, and then destroy him.
—The Argonautica
I find our little green kayak and push it into the water, trying to balance as small waves lap the sides. I can get myself to the fort, I think, and meet Jason there. It’s light out now, but there are storm clouds gathering. In the distance, I think I hear Mr. Bergstrom start up the motor on his boat.
Thunder rumbles softly in the distance and freezing sea spray stings my face as I paddle unsteadily beyond the safety of the harbor. I have to sail against the wind, and my arms and stomach muscles ache with the strain of keeping the little boat on course. A storm is coming. And maybe I’ve made a terrible mistake. Maybe this whole thing is a trap. Maybe the Sea Witch is sending us all to our deaths. Maybe Fort O’Malley really was destroyed in the War of 1812 and there’s nothing at the end of this journey but a massive squall and an island that doesn’t exist.
But then I see it. It appears like a vision in the water, smaller than I pictured, but just as the Sea Witch described. The shoreline is jagged and dangerous, and the current swirls all around like a million tiny whirlpools. Strange seabirds perch solemnly along the uneven ridge of the cliffs, watching.
A huge wall of water slams the side of the kayak, and the little boat capsizes, dumping me into the freezing waves. I cling to it and kick the rest of the way to the beach, and I drag myself onto the sand and lie there with the tide rising all around, looking up at the trees. Shrouded in mist, they look like long, skinny arms. My head is filled with the sound of my own labored breathing, and my heartbeat, and the rushing of the water from the ocean and the storm.
I roll onto my stomach and look out at the water. Mr. Bergstrom’s boat is speeding toward me, and a familiar pulling sensation, bigger than the cold and the pain, starts in my throat. I crawl to the very edge of the beach, to where the ground becomes soggy and waves lap at the shore, and I close my eyes and try to clear my mind.
My sisters always say that being a good siren is mostly listening. People think it’s all about the singing, but really it’s the other way around. You have to be able to hear people. The singing comes last. Now, I start to hear something like a radio transmission from out at sea. It’s just static at first, layered with the sound of many voices all whispering at once, but I concentrate as hard as I can, and at last, I start to hear Mr. Bergstrom’s voice separate from the rest. It’s not his thoughts I hear; it’s more like his wishes, his hopes. They grow and build and flutter around in my mind like moths. The song has to be crafted especially for him. It has to promise him power and violence, because that’s what he wants. That’s what he desires most of all.
A perfect ribbon of melody emerges from my throat. At last, I sound exactly
like my sisters. It feels so natural to me too, like the first time I landed a handspring on the balance beam in gymnastics, that split second after tumbling in space when I felt the beam beneath my feet and knew exactly where I was.
It works.
In spite of the storm and the danger, Mr. Bergstrom’s boat keeps going, racing toward the island. Waves rise up over the prow and submerge it entirely before lifting and slamming it back down on the rocks. I don’t have to do anything else. The boat scrapes against the reef as the current pulls it back again, dropping it in a trough between the waves. The masts seem to reach desperately for the sky, and then the stern disappears completely, dragged down by the weight of the nets. For a second, the bow tilts straight up in the air, and a figure is visible inside the wheelhouse. Then another wave crashes down and the boat is gone.
The clouds are still dark and low when the outline of Jason’s boat appears on the horizon. I can’t stop him from coming, and I can’t stop the storm, but I can try to lure him someplace safe. Safer, at least, than here.
A few yards away, in a calmer part of the inlet, there’s a boulder, like a giant cauldron. I wade back into the cold black water and swim out to it just as I start to hear him whispering in my mind. Between the wind, the rain, and the claps of thunder, Jason’s thoughts, all of his hopes and wishes, the things he fears, and the things he loves, surround me. It’s so easy now. All I have to do is shut my eyes and listen.
