by Steve Alten
I read the note several times. Then I refolded it, shoved it into my pants pocket, and stripped down to change.
Liam Naysmith never knew what hit him.
From the moment he touched the basketball, I was on him like brown on rice. My hands were so quick that, after I picked his pocket twice for breakaway slams, he was afraid to face up on me. When a guard has to turn his back to his defender, he’s no longer much of a passing threat. When a three-point shooter does it from beyond the arc, he’s no longer a shooting threat. And when your scoring leader can’t free himself from his defender to get the ball, he’s no longer your scoring leader.
For forty-eight minutes, I hounded Naysmith. He never scored, he didn’t have an assist, and he couldn’t defend me, as I scored thirty-one points, collected twelve rebounds, and had seven assists.
We lost 67 to 63.
With their shooting guard and leading scorer taken out of the game, Palm Beach Lakes fed the ball inside to their six-foot-ten-inch man-child, Levi Godwin, who beat Sal Salunitis like a rented mule. Sal fouled out midway through the third quarter. Our backup center, Chris Coriasco, was five inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter than Godwin, and played “turnstile D,” meaning the big man used him like a turnstile. Ley was bigger than Chris and would have defended the low post better, but with college scouts in the stands, the team captain wanted no part of PBL’s star center.
Replaying the game in my mind, I realize now that there were at least eight possessions where my man was on the same side of the court as Godwin when he received an inside feed from his guard. On those occasions, I could have dropped into the lane to help Salunitis and Coriasco, but to do so would have left Liam Naysmith open, and I couldn’t risk it—not if I wanted to shut him out.
And so we lost.
You wouldn’t have known it from the crowd’s reaction. As the final buzzer sounded, the student body rushed onto the court—to do what, I don’t even think they knew. A few attempted to lift me onto their shoulders; when I shoved them away others joined in. When a bunch of older nonstudents violently grabbed at my jersey, the Seacrest students charged to my rescue and a fight broke out, with yours truly at the center of the melee. The players on both teams were ushered to their locker rooms as the cops joined in, the pepper spray flying. Two people were arrested, a female student was taken to the hospital for bruised ribs, and Oprah’s people documented everything.
At some point, I made it downstairs to our locker room. My jersey was gone, having been torn off me, and I was physically spent. Coach Flaig hugged me and then offered me to the media as if he were feeding me to a volcano to keep it from erupting.
I answered questions for thirty minutes, and they still weren’t satisfied. Finally, Coach Flaig cleared the locker room. I went home without showering, fearing the camera crews were lurking outside, preparing to storm the bathroom.
The local cops gave me a ride home, wedging me into the back of their squad car. It was embarrassing.
Night arrived to soothe the day. Having avoided me at school, Jesse Gordon graciously “volunteered” to pick me up at my grandmother’s house and drive me to tonight’s beach party.
“I thought you didn’t want to be seen with me.”
“Not on camera. The men in black are always watching. So listen, I know you’re into Tracy, so if you could hook me up with any of her friends then I would owe you my firstborn. Literally, dude, you can have him.”
I guess even paranoid, guitar-playing conspiracy theorists are willing to compromise on a Friday night.
It was ten thirty by the time we found a metered parking spot on A-1-A, half a mile south of the Marriott Hotel on East Atlantic Avenue. The junior class had rented Anchor Park and its grills, picnic area, and showers. The cops were there to loosely enforce the one a.m. curfew and no alcohol rule, ignoring all but the obvious pot smoke.
Jesse and I smelled the beer and pot the moment we got close to the bonfire.
There were fifty to sixty students hanging out by the lighted picnic area, God knows how many were partying in clusters on the beach. We stuck to the shadows as I searched for Tracy—and ran into Li-ling and Anya.
“Hey.”
“Hey. Jesse, you know Li-ling and Anya.”
“Hey.”
I glanced over at Anya. She was wearing a black cashmere sweater and jeans, nursing a can of beer. With her hair down and no makeup she looked incredible.
Our eyes met, locked for a brief second, then she looked away.
Li-ling punched me on the shoulder. “So? Quite the celeb. When’s the Oprah thing?”
“Tuesday. At the Ritz-Carlton.”
“Cool. You feelin’ good?”
“Never better.”
Anya looked up. She was about to say something when someone leaped out of the shadows onto my back, her perfume and silky thighs identifying her as my favorite cheerleader.
Tracy hugged me around the neck and bit my right earlobe. “Kwan, where’ve you been? I’ve been looking for you all night.”
“We just got here. Tracy, these are my—”
Before I could get out the word friends, the intoxicated senior was in my face, in my mouth, groping my chest . . .
And then it was raining beer.
Tracy turned to face Anya, venom in her eyes. “What’s your problem, bitch?”
“Sorry. I thought I smelled silicone burning.”
I grabbed Tracy before she could reach Anya, who never flinched.
Jesse yelled “cat fight!” and within seconds we were surrounded by a crowd of people who pushed and prodded and demanded to know who was fighting whom. And then they recognized me and the gathering doubled, which brought the cops—whose presence immediately drove away the drinkers and partying members of the crowd, thinning the herd to maybe a dozen—Anya not among them.
“What’s going on here?”
“Nothing, officer.”
“Some bitch dumped beer in my hair.”
The cop shined his light on Tracy’s wet scalp, then in my face. “Kwan Wilson? Hey, Garrity, it’s the kid from ESPN. You played a helluva game today.”
“Thanks.” I felt Tracy slip her arm around my waist.
“No drinking and driving, kid. You got some future ahead of you.”
“What about me?” Jesse said, offering a goofy smile. “How’s my future looking?”
“Don’t be a wiseass.” The police officer took out his iPhone and handed it to his partner. “One quick shot, me and the kid.”
We posed together, the cops switching places for another shot; then they left us to break up another fight.
Tracy wiped at her arms. “I need to wash this beer off. Walk with me down to the water?”
“Sure.”
She detoured us to a picnic table to get her beach bag while I removed my sandals; then we walked hand in hand to the shoreline.
We had the whole thing planned—not the Anya thing, but the rest. Tracy had brought towels and a blanket. We’d find a secluded area away from the crowd, take a quick dip in the ocean, and then hook up under the stars.
We walked for ten minutes, leaving the streetlights and bonfire behind. Tracy droned on about school and taking the SATs and which colleges was I looking at, but only part of me was listening.
The rest of me was attuned to something else entirely . . .
The ocean at night has always affected my soul. The way it moves in pulsating waves of sound and foam, its salty hot breaths washing cold with the wind. At night, beneath the stars, the ocean was the only thing that could cleanse my mind of stress.
The shark stem cells acted like they recognized the water. My nostrils flared as I inhaled its saline fragrance; my skin tingled as my bare feet sank into its sandy, wet embrace.
Growing jealous, Tracy pulled me in for a kiss—the sensations of nature overruled by my anticipation o
f losing my virginity.
We walked another hundred yards before setting the blankets on a rise created by the last high tide. It was dark and deserted; the bonfire in the distance. Tracy kissed me again, then slowly stripped down to a string bikini, her barely concealed breasts beckoning me in the moonlight.
I had been paralyzed a virgin and a virgin I remained. Standing before me was a goddess who was offering to guide my journey from innocent adolescence into manhood . . . and boy was I ready!
I was down to my bathing suit in two seconds flat, my heart pounding in sync with hers, my hands gliding across her milky soft flesh, her scent of beer and perfume intoxicating. When she slid her hands between my legs it was as if I was jolted with electricity. She took an incredible five second inventory of my groin that rolled my eyes in ecstasy and rocketed way past Anya’s kiss as the highlight of my seventeen year existence . . . then she broke away and walked toward the ocean, teasing me to follow.
I ran in after her.
The sea was calm, the temperature more refreshing than cool. Tracy waited for me in chest-deep water and we embraced again, our hands exploring one another beneath the incoming four-foot swells.
Our mouths locked in lust, our legs followed, our groins grinding beneath our bathing suits, my fingers exploring her breasts as she slipped her hand inside my swim trunks.
“Oh my God, Kwan! Oh my God, I’ve never felt anything like this before.”
I smiled proudly.
Kwan Wilson—porn star.
She groped me again, intent on doing it right there in the water—and then her expression changed. “Oh . . . God.”
My heart stopped. “What’s wrong?”
She backed away. “What’s wrong? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
“Notice what?”
“Stay away from me, you . . . you freak!” She turned and stumbled to shore, while my hands frantically touched my privates—the blood rushing from my face as I felt something protruding from between my legs that wasn’t what I expected—
—and there were two of them!
24
Male sharks don’t have penises. What they have are claspers—grooved sexual organs located between their pelvic fins that resemble the long legs of a ballerina pressed together while she’s standing on her tippy toes. When the act of mating occurs, the male shark positions itself belly-to-belly atop the female, securing its distressed mate in place by biting her pectoral fin. One clasper then pirouettes away from its twin and inserts itself into the lucky female’s oviduct. The clasper is held in place by gruesome barbed spurs located near the tip of the organ—which may account for the female’s reluctance to mate.
Kneeling in the wet sand, I stared at the freakish twelve-inch paired organ now hanging between my legs, fighting the urge to pass out. The clasper felt like my penis, it moved like my penis—it just wasn’t my penis.
Don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic. If saltwater caused the mutation, then get the saltwater out!
Hearing voices, I turned. Advancing toward me a hundred yards down the beach was a horde of students, led by Tracy. They were carrying flashlights and tiki torches, and for all I knew pitchforks.
Fear caused my bladder to tingle. Standing up, I peed like a racehorse—make that a seahorse, since the urine was seawater. Miraculously, the more I peed, the smaller the claspers became, until gradually the divided organ shriveled back into my human penis.
“Oh, God, thank you!”
“Kwan, you all right?”
It was Rusty, the crowd gathering behind him.
“Yeah, man. Just drank a little too much.”
A dozen flashlights caught my penis as I tucked it back into my boxer shorts like a redeemed gunslinger.
All heads turned to Tracy.
“You think I’m lying? There were two of them!”
I laughed. “That’s the last time I wear a ribbed condom in the ocean. Sucker filled with water . . . geez.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as people teased Tracy. Jesse handed me my clothes, then left with the dispersing mob—leaving me alone with Li-ling.
“So . . . how’s it hanging, champ?”
“Funny. Very funny.”
“Was it a clasper?” Anya stepped out of the shadows, her tone more analytical than endearing.
“It’s fine.”
“If you don’t tell us what happened, we can’t help you.”
I stared into her eyes—radiant pools in the moonlight. “It mutated while I was in the water with Tracy. It was my first time . . . I guess I got overstimulated. It reverted when I, uh, peed.”
The ladies turned to one another, arguing. “Seawater enters the syphon sac—it’s what propels the shark’s sperm.”
“How’d it get inside his bladder?”
“Who said it did?”
“Hello? I’m standing right here.”
Li-ling took charge. “Anya, walk Kwan back to the party—act like you guys just made up. I’m going to get my car; I’ll meet you in the Marriott parking lot. I’ll call ahead to Dr. Becker—let her know we’re on the way.”
“We’re going to the lab? Now?”
“You’re right,” said Anya, sarcastically. “Let’s wait to see what else pops out of you. Maybe next time you’ll give your little cheerleader bimbo a ride on your dorsal fin . . . idiot.”
I could have argued, but I was still in shock. Instead, I dropped to my hands and knees in the wet sand and puked.
The three of us arrived at the lab around one in the morning. I had texted my grandmother’s cell phone during the drive, letting her know I’d be sleeping at a friend’s house. The girls did the same with their parents.
Dr. Becker let us in through the front entrance of the lab. She greeted me by shoving a light in my eyes as she examined my pupil. “Bring him downstairs to BSL-4. I want a full blood workup, hair and urine samples . . . what happened to your hair?”
“I shaved it off.”
“He was losing it,” Anya snitched.
“Fine. Get an EKG and tissue samples, too. And start a pot of coffee in the break room. It’s going to be long night.”
“Did you say anything to my father?”
“Hell, no. But you’re all over the news, and the Admiral’s no fool. I’m sure he’ll be in touch.”
Space and Naval Warfare Systems Command, San Diego, California
Before he had been promoted to assistant deputy general counsel of the US Navy, Jim Miller had spent thirteen years in the major leagues as a relief pitcher. Miller’s last appearance had been a memorable one, pitching the ninth inning for the New York Yankees in game seven of the World Series.
Baseball closers and lawyers are like predators—cold-blooded and full of bite. Miller had visualized himself in this manner whenever he took the mound, growling beneath his breath before each pitch like a wolf hunting Bambi. Now, as he approached Admiral Douglas Wilson’s office door, he clenched his jaw to steel himself once more for battle, lest the predator become the prey.
He reached out to knock. Changed his mind and entered, unannounced.
My father looked up from his laptop, his right index finger casually shutting down the com-link he had been using to contact the Malchut. “Jim? What brings you by on a Friday night?”
“We need to talk about your son. Helluva thing.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you know he had been interning at ANGEL?”
“Becker told me weeks ago while I was in DC. She let him go that morning.”
“Obviously not soon enough. Did you know he’s interviewing with Oprah on Tuesday? Her producer called to arrange an interview with you.”
“Christ. What’d you tell them?”
“I told them you were involved in other pressing matters and could they wait a few weeks. I figure they
’ll give us one pass before they air this thing, and you know Kwan’s internship will come up.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know, but you’re flying way above the radar on this thing. How’s your relationship with Kwan? Think you can muzzle him until a new news cycle knocks him off prime time?”
“Kwan never listened to me while we were living under the same roof; I seriously doubt he’d even take my call.”
“Then that only leaves us with one option.” Miller turned his attention to a series of framed photographs hanging from a wall. He took his time admiring a few, then straightened a picture of my father standing on the deck of a US destroyer. “We need to shut down ANGEL. Consider it a temporary solution to prevent some nosey investigative journalist from—”
“No! I mean, no—we can’t do that. Becker’s getting close to a breakthrough; I don’t want her to lose any momentum. As for the investigative journalism—that threat died out with the Internet. Besides, you of all people should know there are legal ramifications in play; technically ANGEL’s listed as an independent contractor, not a military lab. Even if you closed the doors they have animals on the site, requiring—”
“Fine. ANGEL stays open for now. But you need to monitor the situation; make sure there’s no trail of breadcrumbs. I don’t want any blowback on this thing . . . or anything else you may or may not be working on. You reading me, Admiral?”
My father gritted his teeth. “Loud and clear, Mr. Miller.”
ANGEL Lab, Miami, Florida
In retrospect, they probably shouldn’t have shown me anything. Not the blood test results. Not the video images of my white cells, magnified a thousand times. And they could have kept me away from Joe Botchin, who was checking the medical tank for leaks while the observation aquarium was being drained for cleaning. “Doc says we’re expecting a new species coming in on Monday. Must be something exotic for me to be collecting time and a half. When she called, I was in the middle of a technicolor yawn. Shoulda never gotten rotten on that cheap Milwaukee beer. Then again, it coulda been the oysters and cream.”
Or maybe all those things wouldn’t have added up to a hill of beans had I not seen the rats.
