The Undrowned

by K. R. Alexander

  As expected, they’re talking about their trip to the adventure park tomorrow, working out who is going to ride with whom and when they’re going to leave and come back.

  “Can’t you talk about something else?” I grunt, poking at my spaghetti. It doesn’t even smell appetizing. I think they used ketchup rather than marinara.

  They look at me.

  “We could talk about how someone’s a grouch,” Skylar-or-maybe-Caitlyn says.

  I glare daggers at her, but she doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, she goes on happily talking about the trip, making side eyes at me every time she mentions just how excited she is to be with her real friends.

  Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I push up to standing.

  “I hate all of you,” I say. “You’re horrible.”

  To my surprise, it’s Felicia who speaks up.

  “No, Samantha, you’re the horrible one. I don’t know why we ever put up with you. You’re more of a loser than even Rachel. At least she knows how to be a friend.”

  My mouth gapes open.

  Felicia knows what Rachel did to me. And no, she was never consoling about it, but at least we’d used our general dislike of Rachel to bond us together. It was about the only thing we ever had in common—hating everyone else.

  For her to even mention being a real friend. It’s just … just …

  “Ugh!” I yell. I grab my tray and storm off.

  Toward an empty table in the corner of the room.

  It’s only when I sit down that I realize this is where Rachel used to sit.

  I glance her way. She’s smiling at me.

  Her, among her popular, cool friends.

  And me, alone.

  Her smile says it all:

  You’re finally where you’re supposed to be.

  I’m so busy glaring at my former friends that I don’t even look at the food I shove into my mouth.

  I gag.

  Spit the food back on the tray.

  It’s not food.

  It’s long thin tendrils of seaweed covered in sludge, and the Parmesan is nothing but glittering fish scales.

  I blink.

  Wait for it to vanish, to become normal again, like the pizza I had last night.

  It doesn’t.

  Disgusted, and before anyone else can see what’s happened, I leap from my seat and throw my lunch—tray and cutlery and all—into the trash.

  From across the lunch room, I hear Rachel laugh.

  I want nothing more than to run away, to escape Rachel’s torment, but Mr. Detmer patrols the halls and I know I can’t leave under his watchful eye.

  Which means enduring classes with Rachel.

  Starting right after lunch. With gym.

  Personally, I think gym after lunch is an absolutely horrible idea, since we all usually feel so gross after eating that running or doing sports is the last thing we want to do. Which is probably why the adults make us do it. I mean, gym class in general has to be their way to get back at us for being, well, kids.

  I didn’t eat anything for lunch.

  I still feel gross.

  I rush through changing into my gym clothes and try to ignore Rachel at the other end of the locker room, laughing and joking with the rest of our classmates—especially the sporty girls who have never actually spoken to Rachel before.

  “You really think you can beat me?” Christina says.

  She and Rachel seem to have gotten really close in the last twenty-four hours, which is ironic since she’s the reason Rachel and I stopped being friends in the first place.

  Rachel grins. “I know it.”

  Christina holds out her hand. “All right, then, you’re on. If you lose, you do my homework for a week.”

  “And if you lose, I get to go on the boat with you and Bradley this weekend.”

  “Deal.”

  Rachel smiles and takes Christina’s hand. I can’t help but notice the glint of Rachel’s skin, the water that seems to constantly drip from her. Christina doesn’t seem to sense it. Either that, or she doesn’t care. I have to think it’s the former, which makes me wonder what sort of strange power Rachel has over everyone.

  I don’t know what sort of contest they were talking about. Whatever it is, I really don’t want Rachel to win. Her on a boat with Bradley and Christina and the rest? Who knows what sort of terrible things she’d tell them about me?

  When we line up on the basketball court I notice all the stations of equipment grouped about the gym.

  Oh no.

  We’re doing our PE trials.

  A couple times a year we have to do the PE trials, which is basically the height of teacher cruelty. We’re actually graded on how much we improve over the year, over things like how fast we climb a rope that’s so frayed it gives you splinters, or how many sit-ups you can do without vomiting (again, especially horrible after lunch), or how high you can jump from standing.

  They say it’s to motivate us to stay active.

  I think it’s because they like seeing us suffer.

  Our gym teacher, Mrs. Jenson, tells us the rules and points out the different stations, saying we’ll have one minute at each to do our very best. I only halfheartedly listen to her explanations. I’ve heard them before. We’ve all done these before. When we were still friends, Rachel and I had teamed up and spent the entire time making jokes, causing each other to flop down halfway through sit-ups or jumping jacks in tears of laughter. Clearly, that’s not the case any longer.

  I am really aware of her, a few kids down from me, and the hungry smile on her face as she looks out at the gym. There’s a glint in her eye that is positively devilish. Is she going to try to sabotage me here? Cut the rope while I’m climbing it or put thumbtacks behind my back while I’m doing crunches? I can’t even begin to imagine what she’ll dream up. It has to be horrible, for her to be so excited.

  Or maybe it’s because she wants to win her bet with Christina. My gut clenches. I never thought I’d want this, but I really hope Christina beats her.

  Mrs. Jenson counts us off into groups. I cross my fingers and hope she doesn’t group me with Rachel.

  My luck is really bad today.

  Rachel and I are grouped with two other kids, Hector and Raul. She leans forward to smile at me from down the row and even has the nerve to give me a thumbs-up.

  Our group is sent over to the sit-up station first. Hector and Raul partner up. Raul lies back and Hector kneels over Raul’s knees, holding him steady.

  “I’ll let you go first,” Rachel says sweetly to me. I grimace. I don’t want to be partnered with her. I don’t want her touching me. But it looks like I don’t have a choice. Mrs. Jenson calls out to get ready, we’re about to start. Too late to fake sick now.

  I lie on the cold mat and cross my arms over my chest. Rachel settles at my feet, resting her knees on the top of my toes and placing her hands on my knees.

  I jolt when she touches me.

  Her hands are cold and slimy, and I can already feel water dripping down my knees.

  Mrs. Jenson’s whistle blows, and all thoughts of being uncomfortable fly from my head as I start to do as many sit-ups as I can. My stomach burns and my chest hurts and all I can think of is doing more, more, and I have to close my eyes because if I look at Rachel’s smiling face I’ll freak myself out and run. When Mrs. Jenson finally blows her whistle again, I flop back on the mat with a huge gasp.

  Rachel squeezes my knees. Her fingers grip like iron, even though it seems like she’s pretending to be friendly. I bite back a yelp of pain.

  “Good job, Samantha,” she says. “I hope I can do as well as you.”

  We switch places.

  When Rachel lies back and I get up, I realize my knees are wet from her lifeless hands.

  I settle in the same as she did, trying not to wince at how clammy even her knees feel—like grabbing on to damp bones—and Mrs. Jenson blows her whistle for the next group to start.

  Rachel starts off normally enoug
h. I count out loud with every sit-up.

  “One, two, three—”

  But as I watch, she starts going faster. And faster. So fast I can’t even keep up with her anymore—she’s a blur in front of me, moving so quickly that even Hector stops his own sit-ups to watch in awe.

  When Mrs. Jenson blows her whistle again, Rachel sits up, not even winded, not even breaking a sweat, and smiles at me.

  “How many was that?” she asks, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes.

  “I don’t know,” I say when words finally work again. “I lost count.”

  “Good,” she says, looking over to Christina, who is at the jumping jacks station and clearly reconsidering her bet. “I’m just dying to get out to the lake with my new friends.”

  Then she hops to her feet to go to the next test.

  If I had any hope of Christina beating Rachel, it quickly vanishes.

  After the sit-ups, we have a high jump. To see how high we can leap from standing still.

  Rachel jumps four feet into the air and lands as lightly as a cat. The rest of us barely make it over one foot.

  She climbs the rope up and down ten times in a minute. Her face isn’t even flushed when she gets down. Of the rest of us, only Raul makes it to the top. I glance over to Christina and see her watching Rachel with shocked fascination—it’s clear she’s lost the bet.

  Rachel’s sprints are just as fast—she’s practically a blur as she runs, and the sight makes me shudder. If she can run that fast in here, what chance would I ever have if she tried to chase me down? Immediately, my thoughts of just running away as far and as fast as I could vanish. She could chase me down anywhere.

  And when we do push-ups, she only uses one hand, and she still beats us by a good twenty reps.

  She’s superhuman.

  Even Mrs. Jenson looks at her strangely when the class is over. At least I’m finally not the only one.

  I try to change into normal clothes as quickly as I can, but Rachel corners me.

  I slam my locker door, and there she is, standing behind it fully dressed and with that terrible grin on her face.

  “You’ll be happy to know that I spoke with Christina. She agreed that I could bring a friend to Bradley’s boat tomorrow. And I wanted to bring you.”

  Her words chill me colder than ice.

  “I, uh—”

  “You’re coming, of course.” She says it so sweetly. As though her words aren’t dripping venom. “You don’t have anything going on this weekend. Your parents aren’t taking you to the adventure park, remember? Because you did so poorly on your tests?”

  I can’t breathe. Can’t speak. I feel like I am drowning, like the air around me has turned to water and I am suffocating in the expanse.

  She leans in.

  “And if you don’t come,” she whispers, her breath like rotten fish. Bile rises in my throat. “I’ll tell everyone about our little accident on Wednesday. And you wouldn’t like that, would you?”

  She leans back, that smile still pulled across her teeth. She takes in my blank, shocked expression.

  “Great!” she exclaims. “I’ll see you then. Meet at the lake at noon. And don’t be late.”

  She doesn’t say the words, but I hear them anyway, laced deep within her cheer:

  Don’t be late … or else.

  I dread our next class together.

  I stand outside the classroom door as my classmates filter in. I’m used to kids skirting around me, but now they’re making an effort to knock into me. Trying to get back for all the mean things I’ve done or said to them. A few even stare and whisper things to each other as they pass.

  Whispering about me.

  Soon the hall is nearly empty. I’m going to be the last one inside.

  I don’t want to go inside.

  I know Rachel is already in there. Waiting for me.

  Our teacher, Mrs. Kavanaugh, looks over at me from behind her desk, clearly wondering why I’m waiting outside the door.

  There’s no way to get out of this without being really suspicious.

  I force down my dread and step inside.

  The only seat left is next to Rachel.

  She smiles when she sees my hesitation. Her perfectly sweet and perfectly innocent smile. Once more, the thought of turning around and running until I can’t run anymore crosses my mind, but Mrs. Kavanaugh clears her throat and glares at me.

  I’ve never been her favorite. Probably because I’ve never tried to be a good student. The only reason I’m passing this class is because Rachel does my homework. Well, did.

  As I make my way to the empty desk, I wonder if maybe I should have tried to be good. Tried to study and learn, rather than force Rachel to do it for me. Someone sticks out their foot as I pass, making me stumble. A few kids chuckle, and the kid who did it just looks straight ahead.

  If Mrs. Kavanaugh notices, she doesn’t say anything. She won’t come to my aid. No one will. I am completely alone. Just like Rachel wants.

  I settle in beside her and try not to flinch when she squeezes my arm in a gesture that is probably supposed to look comforting. I know it will leave a bruise.

  Mrs. Kavanaugh begins the lesson immediately. I can’t focus on what she’s saying—I am too aware of Rachel right beside me. Even a desk away, she smells unmistakably like the lake, like seaweed, and even though I can’t see it, I swear I hear a faint drip drip drip coming from her direction. I’m so focused on Rachel that I don’t even realize Mrs. Kavanaugh has asked a question until I see movement from the corner of my eye.

  I glance over to see Rachel with her hand raised straight in the air as the question registers in my mind: What is an allegory?

  Mrs. Kavanaugh seems shocked at Rachel’s boldness. Normally, Rachel stays in the back row with her head down and doesn’t answer any questions. She knows that if she seems like too much of a smarty-pants or shows off in class I’ll make fun of her. Well, more than I usually do.

  Not that I would dream of insulting her now.

  Can you insult something that’s supposed to be dead?

  “An allegory is when a story has a hidden meaning or represents something else entirely,” Rachel says smartly.

  “Right you are, Rachel,” Mrs. Kavanaugh replies. “And who can tell me what a fable is?”

  Again, Rachel’s hand shoots straight up. No one else raises their hand, and after a moment of looking around, Mrs. Kavanaugh chooses Rachel once more.

  “A fable is a short story, often with a moral.”

  “And a moral is?”

  “A lesson,” Rachel responds before Mrs. Kavanaugh can pick anyone else. She looks over to me. “Usually, fables involve children who do bad things and are taught a lesson by a stranger to change their ways.”

  “Correct.” Mrs. Kavanaugh seems a little flustered at Rachel’s quick answer. “And who can tell me—”

  “A myth is like a fable, but it’s longer, and often older, and it tells about the nature of life and death.”

  Mrs. Kavanaugh doesn’t answer for a moment. She stares at Rachel, awestruck. Everyone in the classroom does.

  Rachel knew the answer before Mrs. Kavanaugh could even ask the question. Despite the heat of the room, chills race over my skin.

  I can’t take my eyes off Rachel. Her blue eyes gleam with an otherworldly fervor and her hands are clawed on her desk. I blink.

  Her hands are claws on the desk. Gray flesh and blackened fingertips and long, grimy nails, water puddling in rivulets she’s dug in the wood.

  She catches me looking at her, and quick as a flash, her hands are in her lap. The puddles remain.

  “But a myth can also mean a lie,” Rachel goes on, as if talking to me alone. “Something we tell ourselves so we feel better about all the terrible things we’ve done. But like a fable, the heroes in myths always have to face their lies. They always have to pay for their mistakes. And they don’t always make it out alive.”

  She tilts her head. Her lower eye rolls slig
htly, turning toward the desk, and the skin around her eye sags. I want to throw up.

  “In fact,” she says, and I swear I’m the only one who hears her words, “most of the time, they don’t.”

  Every single class that Rachel and I have together goes exactly like it had in English. She answers every single question right. Oftentimes, before the teacher even asks it. It’s weird. It’s weirder than weird. But the worst part is that no one seems disturbed by her sudden braveness or knowledge. In fact, the teachers seem to love it. Even our classmates—the very ones who, just days earlier, pretended she didn’t exist—go out of their way before or after class to talk to her. To ask her how she knows everything.

  I hear her answer as I push past everyone after our final class, history—no one makes space for me as they crowd around her desk. No one seems to notice I exist.

  “You can thank Samantha for that,” Rachel says when some girl asks why she’s never raised her hand before. “Because of her, I’ve learned how to stand up for myself. I’ve learned that if you want something, you have to be willing to do anything—anything—to get it. No matter what.” Rachel looks at me. “And now that I know what I want, I think I’ll follow her lead and take it.”

  In the back of my mind, I can hear the splash of water as I shoved her into the lake.

  I don’t wait around to hear what else she has to say.

  I run.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Jessica asks when I get in the house. She sits in the living room, a show barely watched on the TV and her phone in her hand. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Her statement makes me pause. Have I seen a ghost? Is that what Rachel is now? Only, she seems solid enough. More than solid. She’s more than capable of taking me down.

  “It’s nothing,” I say. I make my way to the stairs to lock myself in my room and try to figure out a way to get out of this mess, but Jessica’s voice stops me.

  “Someone’s been calling for you,” she says from the sofa.

  I pause, then turn around and stare at her.

  “What?”

  “Yeah. I told them to just call your cell, but they hung up. Then they called back. Like, a dozen times. You’re lucky Mom’s at yoga or she’d have a cow.” She gestures to the house phone without looking up from her cell. “I unplugged it. Sounded like some classmate of yours pulling a prank.”