Secrets from the Deep

by Linda Fairstein

  “How about before there were radios or televisions or telephones,” Becca said.

  “That, too. Well, each town had a guy whose job it was to stand in the main square and ring his bell to get people’s attention to tell them the news,” I said.

  “It would have been Artie way back then, and it’s still the way Artie acts now. Showing Artie your gold doubloon is like making an announcement to all the good folks of Oak Bluffs,” Becca said. “I’ll have to get a safe to keep your treasure in. Artie’s my dear old friend, but he does have a big mouth.”

  Zee didn’t seem to care, but Booker did. He liked sleuthing every bit as much as I did, and he had soaked up all the tips that Sam Cody taught us.

  Booker put the platter of sandwiches on the wicker table and we each grabbed one to eat.

  “How about a swim after you digest your lunch?” Becca asked.

  Booker reached for his phone and clicked on the shark tracker app.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” I said. “Where’s Gertie now?”

  “Way off, near Cape Cod.”

  Zee nibbled at his ham and cheese sandwich. “Great whites cruise at about one and a half miles an hour. That’s a fact. Cape Cod is seven miles away.”

  “You have more shark info than anyone I know,” I said.

  “They can migrate across the Atlantic Ocean,” Zee said. “Thousands of miles.”

  “Cape Cod will do for today,” I said. “If Gertie got that far away, I’m ready to dive in the ocean.”

  “Be sure and grab a towel,” Becca said. “It’s hot enough for me to take a dip, too.”

  “That will be fun,” I said. “And just imagine if what we scooped up today had DNA from shark scales.”

  “Wrong again, Dev,” Zee said, munching on a brownie.

  “But even you said—”

  “Sharks don’t have scales,” Zee said. “They have denticles.”

  “Tentacles? Did I hear you say tentacles?” I said. “Squid have tentacles, but sharks certainly don’t.”

  Zee gave Booker a look and rolled his eyes. I’m sure he thought I was hopeless about great whites.

  “I said denticles, Dev. With a D. Sharkskin is made of denticles,” he said. “Instead of scales, sharks have these tiny V-shaped designs on their bodies that let them go faster underwater.”

  “Just like the fabric on the bathing suits Olympic swimmers wear,” Booker said. “Probably your swim team has them, too, and you’ve never noticed.”

  “It’s the same idea, guys,” I said. “There’s still likely to be DNA on whatever came off Gertie’s back and into the water.”

  “But what if you don’t get any DNA from our samples?” Zee asked.

  “We’ve got bigger fish to fry,” I said. “We’ve got the mystery of the doubloon to solve before everyone in town tries to claim it as his own.”

  10

  I helped Becca clean up after lunch, waited for her to put on a bathing suit, and then the four of us set off, with Booker carrying a beach chair for his grandmother over his shoulder. He and Zee were making tracks faster than Becca could walk.

  “How old were you when you started coming to Martha’s Vineyard?” I asked her as we crossed the road to stay on the shady side.

  “I was just a baby,” she said. “Been coming here summers all my life, and my mother’s family long before that.”

  “Why to this place? Tuskegee’s a long way from here.”

  “What do you see when you look around, Dev?”

  “It’s the most beautiful island I’ve ever seen. The beaches, the stone walls, the farms and the fancy houses, too. I get that.”

  “What else? C’mon, you’re smarter than that.”

  “The people?”

  “The island is very special,” Becca said, “and its diversity is part of its great attraction for me. The Vineyard’s got a long history of celebrating African American culture, especially here in Oak Bluffs.”

  “How did the Inkwell get its name?” I asked.

  We were crossing the street, making our way around Ocean Park with the sand just over the horizon. The old Victorian houses that ringed the park were framed by the pale blue and green flowers of scores of hydrangea plants, and the sun was sparkling on top of the water. I was searching the beach for Booker and Zee.

  “Well, things have certainly changed,” Becca said. “Most of the African Americans who came here all that time ago settled in this town. On a hot day in summer, the beach would be crowded with black people. It was others—white residents and tourists—who said this beach looked like an inkwell, and they didn’t mean that as a compliment.”

  “Boy, that was mean!”

  “I can laugh at it now, Dev, because we’ve made that name our own. Point of pride, if you will. Now the Inkwell is known worldwide. I can say to my friends in Chicago or San Francisco or even in Paris, ‘I’ll meet you at the Inkwell next July,’ and they’ll know right where to find me.”

  I smiled at her as we waited for two tour buses to pass by.

  “You’d better put strong sunscreen on, young lady. You’re likely to fry.”

  “I’ve got some in my bag,” I said, thinking about what Becca had said.

  By the time we spotted Booker and Zee, they were waiting for us at the edge of the shore. Booker had set up Becca’s chair and our towels in the middle of the beach.

  The scene was much more relaxed than it had been in the morning. The beach was crowded now, just like Booker had said it would be. There may have been a few more lifeguards than usual, but nobody seemed the least bit afraid to be playing or swimming.

  “Go ahead,” Becca said. “Booker and Zee are waiting for you.”

  I dropped my bag and took off my T-shirt, rubbed lotion, all over myself and ran to the water’s edge. Zee had his boogie board, and we were each so happy to be able to go in to swim that we barely noticed how cold the Vineyard water was. “Bracing,” as Lulu liked to call New England temperatures.

  At five o’clock, Becca told us to gather our things so she could go back to the house to make dinner.

  “Can we take Dev to the Flying Horses?” Zee asked.

  “I don’t see why not,” his grandmother said. “But be home by six.”

  “What are the Flying Horses?” I asked.

  “It’s the oldest carousel in America,” Zee said.

  “You went there with me years ago, when we were just little kids,” Booker said. “You used to love it.”

  “I can barely remember it,” I said. “Of course I want to go.”

  “It’s just three minutes from here, right in the middle of town,” Booker said.

  Becca said she was fine to carry the light aluminum chair back to the house. She gave Booker money for a few rides and told us she’d see us at home.

  The brown wooden frame of the old building was so ordinary looking that you’d never know it held such a magical ride inside.

  There were six or seven kids sitting astride the wooden horses, younger ones held in place by a parent standing beside them, and older ones happy to be galloping around to the cheerful calliope music.

  “Twenty horses,” Booker said. “Take your pick.”

  When the machine came to a stop and the riders dismounted, Zee ran straight for his favorite pony. It was a palomino, with a bejeweled saddle and bright eyes.

  He stopped to stroke the long tail of his animal. “It’s real horsehair, Dev,” he said. “So is the mane.”

  “Need a boost?” Booker asked.

  “I can do it myself,” Zee said, standing on tiptoes.

  His pony was on the outside row of horses. “See that metal arm, Dev?” he asked me. “That holds the brass rings. And if you grab one on your way around, you get a free ride.”

  “I’ll be on the pony right behind you,” I said.
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br />   Booker took the horse next to Zee, on the inside track. Each pony was a different color, and each had been lovingly painted and restored.

  The music started up and the giant engine beneath the carousel platform roared to life, moving the entire field of ponies around, slowly at first and then faster and faster.

  I wondered if I was too old to admit how much fun it was to be back on a flying horse. Everyone around us was laughing and playing with their reins and shouting encouragement to their horses.

  There were so many happy sounds that I couldn’t hear the three boys—about my age, I guessed—who were waiting in line for the next ride and yelling something in our direction.

  We circled around twice and each time we got near their position they cupped their mouths and called out something again.

  I thought they were trying to talk to Booker, or maybe to Zee, but as good as my hearing is, I couldn’t make out their words.

  Then I noticed that Zee had stopped reaching for the brass ring as the carousel continued spinning. He was sitting back in his saddle, almost still.

  I saw Booker balance himself and swing his left leg out of the stirrup, walking around Zee’s pony and standing between his cousin and the edge of the moving platform.

  “Booker!” I said. “What’s happening?”

  And then my chestnut stallion neared the trio of rowdy boys, and this time, I could hear their words clearly.

  I held on tight to the horn of my saddle and copied Booker’s dismount, running ahead to stand next to Zee. I pulled out my iPhone and turned on the video camera, to capture the three guys and record their cruel words.

  I put my arm around Zee’s back, but when I looked up at his face, I saw that his smile had faded and his eyes had filled with tears.

  “Cray-Zee, Cray-Zee, Cray-Zee.” The three bullies shouted the word and chanted in unison.

  “Ignore them,” Booker said.

  But that was impossible to do.

  “Hey, Zee,” the leader of the pack called out, laughing as he did. “Did you know that you’re crazy, dude? Nobody who isn’t crazy reads as much as you do.”

  11

  The carousel was beginning to slow down.

  Booker and I surrounded Zee, ready to help him dismount.

  “Here’s the deal, cuz,” Booker said. “Nobody’s going to hurt you when Dev and I are around. And we’re going to help you learn to stand up for yourself.”

  The bullies had no weapons—only words—but it was clear just how much their words hurt.

  “You ready to tell these creeps to cut it out?” Booker said.

  Zee didn’t speak. His short legs barely reached the stirrups and he had to hold on to the saddle and slide down the pony’s side.

  “I know it’s hard for you to do,” I said. “We know they’re much bigger than you are, but Booker and I will be right next to you.”

  “The guy at the front of the line goes to my school. I’m pretty sure his name is Levi,” Booker said. “He’s picked on you for the last time. You’re going to look him right in the eye.”

  “He scares me,” Zee said, reaching for my hand.

  I grasped it and held it in mine. “We’re here for you. Can you tell Levi to stop?” I asked. “Tell him to stop calling you names.”

  “Be strong,” Booker said. “We know you can do it. We won’t let go of you.”

  “No, I can’t. I can’t do it,” Zee said. “I bet nobody ever made fun of you.”

  “Are you kidding?” I said. “That’s why I can help you. Teenage boys make fun of how skinny I am all the time. And if I lose a swim race at school, the other team’s swimmers taunt me about my name. They like to tease when I’m too slow—just because my name is Quick.”

  Zee wiped his nose and looked up at me. “Really?”

  Booker not so much. He was one of the coolest guys in school. But he’d always stood up for friends who’d been bullied.

  “You’re the smartest guy I know,” I said. There must be a way he could show these punks that his big brain was an awesome thing to have.

  The flying horses ground to a stop. We were only a few feet away from Levi and his bully-buddies, who showed no sign of backing off.

  Zee was frozen in place.

  “I know you from Hunter High School,” Booker said, turning toward the trio. “You’re Levi, aren’t you?”

  “So what? So what if I am.”

  “Zee here is my cousin,” Booker said. He had one hand on Zee’s shoulder and the other on the long brass post at the edge of the platform. “There’s nothing crazy about him. What’s wrong with reading a lot? That’s nothing to make fun of.”

  “You’ve picked on Zee for the last time,” I said, not sure Booker and I had the means to stop them.

  Then Zee said something to me.

  “What?” I leaned in and asked.

  “That kid in the middle—the one behind Levi—he was on that boat that Artie Constant sent off looking for treasure today. That stinkpot.”

  “How do you know?” I said. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I saw him through the telescope. He had that same striped T-shirt on, and the marina is just around the corner from here.”

  “Good detective work, Zee.”

  “C’mon, Zee,” Booker said, as people were clearing the carousel for the next riders to get on. “Tell Levi it’s over.”

  I squeezed Zee’s hand. “Go for it. We’re going to turn the tables on them.”

  Zee took a deep breath and spoke. “I want you to stop. Stop making fun of me.”

  Levi had probably never heard Zee talk. He was looking back and forth between Zee’s face and Booker’s.

  “Good job, Zee,” I said to him, under my breath. Then I had an idea. “Now take Booker’s phone, and open the shark app.”

  He squeezed me back before letting go of my hand and reaching for Booker’s iPhone.

  Booker looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “What are you doing, Dev?”

  “What’s your last name, Levi? Unless you’re afraid to tell me! After all, I’m at Ditchley, and I could out you to my classmates as the biggest jerk at Hunter when we get back to school next month.”

  “You don’t scare me one bit,” he said. “My name is Levi Harts. What’s the difference?”

  “No big deal,” I said. “Just checking you out.”

  Levi folded his arms and snickered at me.

  “Got a sister?” I asked him.

  “No sibs,” he said, laughing at me.

  “How about you, in the back?” I said. “I could hear you shouting something nasty at Zee a few minutes ago, so why don’t you tell me who you are, so I can keep track of you, too?”

  “I’m Emil,” he said. “What of it?”

  I wanted their names just in case they did anything to hurt Zee in the next few days. I wanted them to think I was keeping tabs on them, as Sam Cody liked to say.

  “C’mon, Levi,” the kid in the middle said, acting real fidgety. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

  The three of them turned their backs to us and started to walk.

  “Mr. Bagby,” I said. “What’s your hurry?”

  All three stopped in their tracks.

  “How do you know my name?” Bagby asked. “I don’t go to Hunter. You can’t know me from there.”

  “Revenge seems like a pretty perfect name for a boat owned by someone like you,” I said.

  He seemed really spooked that I knew who he was and that he had a boat.

  “What’s your first name?” Booker asked.

  The kid hesitated.

  “Ross. My name is Ross.”

  “So you’re the one with a little sister,” I said. “She was on the boat with you this morning.”

  All three of the guys looked stunned.

 
“Where is she now?” I asked.

  “Now?”

  “Right this minute,” I said. “Is she here on the Vineyard?”

  Ross Bagby looked back and forth between his buddies and me. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Is she at Tarpaulin Cove?” I asked. “Or out on State Beach?”

  “You can’t touch her,” Levi said, standing up for his friend. “She’s on the Cape this afternoon. In Chatham.”

  “Go on, Zee,” I said.

  Zee’s fingers moved over the shark tracker app faster than I could say Chatham Beach. “Any sign of Gertie?” I asked.

  Zee shook his head. “Nope, she’s over near Hyannis.”

  “C’mon, Ross. They’re talking nonsense,” Levi said.

  “Got anything?” I asked Zee.

  “Well,” he said, standing up as tall as he could, “I hope your sister isn’t swimming right now.”

  “What’s it to you?” Ross asked.

  “’Cause there’s a great white shark named Hercules that’s circling the beach over there,” Zee said. “And his friend Moby is just a few feet behind him.”

  Ross Bagby was frozen in place. “But how—how do you know?”

  “C’mon,” Levi said. “The kid’s just pulling your leg.”

  “There are three hundred fifty species of sharks in the ocean,” Zee said, exuding confidence about something he knew better than anyone. “And two really huge great whites are munching on anything kicking around on Chatham Beach.”

  Levi and Emil started to run off. Ross followed, digging his phone out of his pocket. “Wait up, guys. I have to call my mom. She’s got to get those girls out of the water.”

  “Don’t forget to thank Zee next time you see him,” I called after them. “Walk back your mean words, why don’t you?”

  “And you ought to watch out when you’re over at Tarpaulin Cove,” Zee shouted to Ross, feeling empowered. “Great whites really like it over there. Pirates often buried their treasure at places sharks liked to hunt, ’cause it frightened other people away.”

  I could see that Ross’s hand was trembling as he tried to speed-dial his mom.