Vicious Deep

by Zoraida Cordova

  I try to give her the best smile I can. I don’t want to disappoint her by letting her know I’m no closer to piecing the trident back together than I am to graduating from high school.

  The minute I step into school, I remember being on that field. I remember Kurt pointing his arrow past Ryan’s head at the creature. I remember standing there waiting for its poisonous needles to hit me and then feeling Layla jump in the way. The way her body stiffened around me as the poison worked through her body. I shut my eyes against it. I decide nothing like that is ever going to happen again, because I’m going to find Maddy. I’m going to get the pearl, and I’m going to find the oracles.

  I try to replay what Penny said at Neptune’s Diner, but I collide into someone. Someone who is really pissed off.

  “What’s your problem, man? Can’t you see where you’re walking?” Angelo shoves me into the locker. It doesn’t hurt, but the dagger in my backpack hums. “What’s up, pretty boy? Need me to teach you how to talk?”

  I wave Kurt off, because he’s ready to jump right in there. We’re gathering a crowd, people snapping pictures and running videos with their phones.

  “Relax, man.” I put my free hand on his shoulder. This is Angelo—pervy, wassa-matta-wit-you Angelo. Angelo who was born with a head of hair full of industrial-strength hair gel and a gold Italian chain, who always has your back unless he’s the one messing with you. He’s the asshole of your friends, but he’s your asshole friend.

  He grabs my hand and puts me into an I’m-not-kidding headlock.

  I can feel it in my spine, the magic that’s tattooed in my blood, in the ancient-as-hell dagger sheathed on my back. I elbow him and flip his arm around. I push him against the lockers, but not enough that it’ll hurt him too badly. Just to show him that I can. “What’s the matter with you, bro?”

  His eyes are glassy. I wonder who else has suffered his wrath, and it’s not even first period. I let him go, and he shakes his head as if he’s been sleepwalking. “I don’t know, man. I feel, like, jittery, you know?”

  I let the tips of our foreheads touch like we’re in a huddle before a meet. “Nothing you could’ve done.”

  “Yeah, but you’re my boy. We’re a team. My team needed me yesterday when you were getting attacked by some punks.”

  “We took care of it,” I say. I don’t know if I’m saying this for his comfort or for mine. It’s even worse because beneath his trademark dude-scented body spray is the smell of his guilt, like wet dirt being turned in a grave.

  “All right, you vultures. Get out of here!” Layla’s voice breaks up the crowd. She doesn’t always wear makeup, but she’s wearing it now. It looks pretty on her, but I can tell that she’s trying to cover up the puffiness from crying too long.

  “Thanks,” I say. I feel stupid standing and waiting for her to say something else. To tell me it’s good to see me. Maybe this was what it felt like when she thought I was gone. Like I’m freaking thirsty and no amount of water will fix it. Only her. Only Layla can fix me.

  She shuts her eyes and shifts the weight of her bag. “I don’t know about you losers, but I’m grounded till I’m married and popping out babies. In that order.”

  “I’m free third period.” Angelo raises his hand. Normally, Layla would punch him in the gut, but today she’s going to let it slide. The bell rings, and everyone scatters except for us.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, taking one step toward her.

  She nods once but doesn’t look at me. “Maddy’s in the fourth-floor bathroom with her friends. She invited me to hang. I just don’t like smelling like smoke.”

  “You need to go get her,” Thalia tells me. She links arms with Layla and gives me a reassuring smile. I want to stay with Layla, but I want to go get the pearl. I leave them at the entrance of homeroom and keep walking straight ahead to the next stairwell. I look back once to see if Layla is looking too, and she isn’t. She’s pulling farther and farther away, and I don’t know how to get her back.

  •••

  The fourth floor is the ghost floor.

  It’s the only part of school, other than part of the basement, that never got renovated. You instantly know where the bathroom is, because all you have to do is follow the thin trail of smoke. The thick wooden door has a little W tacked on like an afterthought. I press my ear against it, but all I can make out is mumbling, some laughter, more mumbling.

  “Knock, knock.” I push open the door slowly.

  There’s a sudden rustle of kids gathering their things together and putting out their cigarettes.

  “Chill. I’m not Quinn.”

  “Sorry, we thought you were Umberto,” one of Maddy’s friends says. She relights the end of her cigarette, and the little red light flares with every pull. “He came by before to clean the bathroom and gave us a five-minute warning.”

  Umberto is pretty easy to bribe as long as he knows he won’t get caught.

  Maddy sits between two other girls. One girl has a short black bob and wears tons of pearls around her neck. The girl on the other side is less dramatic, with long chestnut hair and rectangular glasses. She digs her hand into a bag of neon sour worms. I can smell the sour sugar from here.

  Maddy stands, clearly uncomfortable that I’m in her space. “Are you lost, Tristan?”

  “I was looking for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need to speak with you.”

  The girls scoff and snicker and grin at each other. Am I really that bad?

  She looks like a blond Wednesday Addams with that dress and those stockings. She shoves me with her shoulder on the way out.

  “Guess I deserve that,” I grumble.

  We stand just down the hallway, where the cigarette smoke only lingers.

  “So talk.” She cocks her head to the side, so her braids look like uneven weight balances. I wish I had practiced. I wish I knew what to say that would make her hate me a little less. I came to school to find her, and now here she is.

  “How long have we been friends?” I start.

  “Since we started high school.” She doesn’t even hesitate. “Why?”

  “I know what I did was stupid. It was wrong. It proves that I’m an asshole.”

  There’s a tug of a smile at her lips. “Keep going.”

  “And I’m sorry I’m the reason—”

  “Trist, don’t flatter yourself. I know it looks like I changed drastically after we broke up when you kissed that skank at the beach, but that wasn’t why. Not entirely. I’m tired of being the Amish lady’s daughter, the girl no one can believe you’d ever date.”

  My stomach turns into nuts and bolts. “I wish I could change what I did, but I can’t. The truth is that you deserve better than me. I was so caught up in how sweet you are, and how honest and different from other girls. I thought, why not? Maddy’s pretty, thoughtful—”

  “Plus, I blew you.”

  My voice cracks, “Yes, you did. And, thank you. It was nice. Great, I mean. But, you know—”

  She sighs. “Spit it out, Tristan. Do you want to be with me again? Is that it?”

  Fine, now or never. “The necklace I gave you. It wasn’t mine to give. It was my mom’s. A real important family heirloom, and she asked me about it yesterday. So I kind of need it back.”

  She stares at her Converses. They’re all drawn on with black Sharpie. The laces on her right side are untied. I bend down and tie them for her but keep my eyes on her face. She has no idea how much I have riding on this. How much I actually need her to help me now. How I really wish I’d never hurt her.

  “Tell your mom I’m real sorry,” she says. “I’ll pay for it. I lost it. I—” She doesn’t finish. She walks away.

  It feels like the hallway gets longer and she’ll never reach the bathroom door again. When
she does, she glances over her shoulder to make sure I’m still crouched here.

  I am.

  I take the stairwell down one flight of stairs, but it’s blocked by three couples making out. They don’t even budge as I step between them and down to the third floor. Someone slams into me, pushing me against the hallway door.

  “Watch it!” Some guy holds on to his pants as he runs away from two bigger guys. The halls are filled with more students cutting class than usual. A poke on my ass cheek makes me jump. When I turn around, I see it’s a girl I hooked up with once at a party, maybe during freshman year—Samantha? She walks around me and stands in my way. She puts her index finger on my chest. Her eyes are glossy. Her smile is wide and manic. She leans close to my ear at the same time that I lean away.

  “I haven’t stopped thinking about you, Tristan.”

  “Thanks, Sam.”

  “It’s Jessica.”

  “Thanks, Jessica. Listen, I have to go.” I try to step around her, but she blocks my way.

  “I was thinking we could, you know, hang. You’re always so busy that I never see you around.”

  The smell that comes from her is like rotting fruit and the spearmint gum she’s chewing. I try to cover my nose politely. “Okay, how about I call you tonight?”

  “Okay!”

  “Good. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  “I’ll be waiting!” She blows me a kiss as I run the other way, slowed down by the crowded hallway of students. Another girl calls out my name, but I keep moving forward. I make a left into the stairwell, where more couples are grinding against each other. I mean, damn, there are plenty of dark corners in this old school without having to do it all together.

  A loud pop crashes against the wall, right over my head, and breaks into itty-bitty pieces. It’s a peppermint ball. Or it was a peppermint ball. Then another. And another, until one finally hits me square on the forehead.

  “I hate you!” she says. It’s Diana, from the tennis team. We dated briefly last summer. Her serving arm was impressive, but she never, ever stopped talking.

  She’s holding a bag of assorted candy and chocolates, the big ones you get at Coney Island for $4.99. “Why didn’t you call me back?”

  “Diana, look, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s Deanna!” She throws the bag of candy on the floor and runs up the steps.

  Okay. I have to find my friends. This is beyond my level of strange.

  I skid on the tiles when I round the corner to History. They’re gathered around the door. Layla is leaning against the wall. She smiles the way I haven’t seen in days. Her head is cocked to the side, and she’s twirling a silky strand around one finger until it makes a coil of its own. She’s flirting. She’s flirting with Kurt, whose shoulders are relaxed and easy as he mimics the movement of throwing a lance. She laughs, but when she looks down the hallway to where I’m walking, her laugh goes away.

  I’ve used the word killjoy plenty of times, but I never thought I’d feel like one.

  “Well?” she says. I have her and Kurt’s undivided attention. For the first time, I notice that the couple making out in the corner is Ryan and Thalia. Guess he can’t ask too many questions if he can’t form a coherent sentence. Not that either of them seems to mind.

  “She says she doesn’t have it.”

  “Oh,” they both say.

  “Yeah.” I walk past them. I’m not going to add to my recent Strange Encounters of the Mer-Kind, because that’ll just add to the list of things I haven’t figured out. I can smell their disappointment, like flowers wilting in heat. An outstretched hand stops my forward motion.

  “Must be careful, Mr. Hart, or you’ll walk right past my classroom for the third time since your miraculous return.” Mr. Van Oppen stands in white slacks and a dark green blazer over a crisp white shirt that looks like it resists wrinkles. He’s the only dude I know who can pull off all of that, plus a blue scarf tucked just so around his neck and into his collar. When he smiles, it’s sort of slanted, revealing teeth that look like he drinks too much coffee. His blue eyes are ringed with dark circles. I can picture him walking around his apartment, smoking cigarettes that he rolls himself and wishing he could burn our weekly essays.

  I take my usual seat against the wall. This is the whitest of all the classrooms. The shutters are pulled tight, and there are curtains that don’t let in any light. It’s one of the few rooms that’s air conditioned, so it always gets the most requests for transfers.

  There’s a small gasp behind me; it comes from Thalia. I guess even mermaids can’t resist his strange charms. She uses Ryan as a shield and pulls him to the back of the classroom. Van Oppen is ruffled himself, like he can’t resist her mermaid charm.

  The last time I saw Mr. Van Oppen was in my dream, something I would never admit to anyone. Layla sits in front of me, right at the front. I can smell her lavender shampoo and something else.

  “I forgot your cousins were joining us, Mr. Hart,” Mr. Van Oppen says.

  Kurt walks in slowly. He sits beside me. He sniffs the air, and by the subtle growl on his lips, I can tell he smells something he really doesn’t like. Everything about him, from his shoulders to the way he balls up his hands into fists, screams tense.

  “Where was I? Oh yes, Helen of Troy.” Van Oppen clears his throat and looks paler than usual. He stands over his desk and rifles through a stack of papers.

  Bracelets jingle all over the class as hands fly up. The girls know to answer just by the way he looks at them, all Yeah, that’s right, I’m calling on you.

  A girl with purple-rimmed glasses leans forward so hard that I think she might teeter toward him. “Well, there was this thing on the History Channel about how this lady was trying to prove Helen of Troy was really real. But some text is missing. Or was it a building that was missing? I can’t remember.”

  “Ah, yes, the best thing about history is perhaps also the most frustrating. There are some things you can’t prove. Because the evidence has crumbled or washed away, or in some cases, it’s been hidden.”

  “So was she real or what?” a girl in the back asks sweetly.

  The girl beside her says, “I’d like to think she was. It’s romantic that they went to war over her.”

  “Kingdoms go to war over less,” Kurt says darkly.

  “You’re right,” Van Oppen says. He stands in front of Layla and lifts her chin with his finger. If he weren’t my teacher, I’d shove him off her. “Was this the face that launch’d a thousand ships, / And burnt the topless towers of Ilium? / Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss. / Her lips suck forth my soul: see where it flies!” He hands her the handouts to pass along, and I can swear I can hear their tiny hearts fluttering all over the classroom.

  “That wasn’t in the reading,” someone says.

  “No, it was written by Christopher Marlowe. This story has fascinated people so much that they’ve spent their whole lives trying to prove it could’ve been true. They don’t have much to go on, but they chase all over the world for clues. Sometimes it’s something as small as a rumor about a distant island claimed to be the home of the oracle that warned Menelaus about protecting Helen.”

  That’s a thought. I raise my hand. “What do you mean, Menelaus and the oracle?”

  “I’ll forgive the question, since you had a concussion for a few days. I’ll assume that’s the reason you don’t remember the reading on it.”

  “Uhm, thank you?” I go. “So what did Menelaus do to talk to the oracle?”

  Mr. Van Oppen bares his teeth in a curious smile. “I do not wish to fill your head with fodder, Mr. Hart. The Greek oracles were girls chosen for their beauty. It was their burden, but it also was a great honor. The oracles would sit in a room with burning herbs and stones, the smoke so potent it would make them hallucinate. This would be transla
ted as the prediction or sight. Hardly more than a girl’s delirious ramblings. It’d be like the president taking advice from a socialite tripping on acid, which, well—never mind.”

  “So you believe Helen might be real but not oracles?”

  “I did not say that, Mr. Hart. I merely stated what I know about village oracles in ancient Greece.” I just remembered why I always fall asleep in his classes or take extended bathroom breaks. “Now, if you’re asking me about real oracles, that’s a different story.”

  Maybe it’s his sharp blue eyes, maybe it’s that he dresses like something out of a Jane Austen novel, or maybe it’s the slightest trace of an accent. Whatever it is, the class is transfixed by his words.

  Kurt shakes his head at me. It’s not like I’m going to pull off clothes to show my Spider Man costume and reveal my true identity or anything.

  Thankfully, Layla asks for me: “Did he just go up to an oracle and ask?”

  “If only it were as easy as that. It’s not the high-school cafeteria where you ask Lourdes for extra fries and she gives them to you. You present the oracle with a tribute, and if she’s in a good mood, then she may give you an answer.”

  “What kind of tribute?” I go. And they say you’ll never learn anything useful in high school.

  People start to whisper. He’s so weird. Good thing he’s cute. Can you believe those are his cousins? I don’t care what anyone says, green hair is so clichéd.

  “Half your herd of cows. Your second wife. The blood of a virgin. The usual.”

  The sharp whistle of microphone feedback slices through the loudspeaker. A small voice announces that all after-school activities are canceled. I know we have a meet tomorrow and all, but my head’s not in it right now.

  Just then a sweet, soft hum fills the room. At first we look to the speakers, because it’s not the first time the announcer has left on the microphone while he’s jamming to his new-millennium pop collection. This time it’s different. The temperature in the room rises. The sound is like a lullaby, a pitch that wraps around you and leads you wherever it wants.