UnBound

by Neal Shusterman

  Roland should have known a storm was coming in. The signs were clear, but then again Roland is far too bullheaded to back off once he’s made a decision. Today was the day he was going to boogie-board the big waves. And since there was yet another screaming match occurring between his mother and stepfather, Roland knew there was only one place he could go to take out his own aggression: the sea.

  “Here comes another one!” his sister shouts from the top of the pier, like his own personal lifeguard, although her jumping in is out of the question. She only did that once. And she didn’t exactly jump.

  Roland focuses on the next wave. It’s bigger than the others. Maybe a ten footer, he thinks. He braces himself and takes it head-on, the ocean tide sucking him under and thrashing him around like a rag doll. The boogie board flies, and he feels it tug on the rubber cord around his wrist. By the time he reaches the surface, his ears are ringing, a shrill that crescendos into what sounds like distant screams, and it’s not until Roland looks up that he realize they’re coming from his sister. She’s frantic, pointing to the water. Roland feels a surge of adrenaline. He pulls the boogie board back to him and focuses his attention on the water, but the sun temporarily blinds him, refracting through the surface like a prism. He panics, trying to assess his surroundings, interpret his sister’s hysteria, but it only hits him when he feels something large brush past his leg. . . .

  7 • Seventeen

  Wrestling is always the first period of the day, and Roland knows that Zane will be there. He also knows that gossip travels at an exponential rate. So Roland makes a point to show up to practice ten minutes late, after all the wrestlers have already arrived—a controlled environment where everyone’s watching.

  Roland opens the gym door and surveys the room. Rows of wrestlers are stretching on the mats, per usual. He walks by carefully, scanning the faces of each of his teammates; however, Zane’s isn’t one of them, and only then does he realize that the coaches aren’t there either.

  Without warning, someone explodes into Roland’s side, sending him sliding across the mat. Roland doesn’t need to look up to know who it was.

  Zane towers over him, his red eyes more fierce than ever before. “Keep your paws away from Valerie,” he growls.

  Roland reflexively jumps to his feet, getting in Zane’s face. He clenches his fists, pumped full of rage, but it feels all too familiar—and it reminds him of the last time their eyes locked. The time when Roland let his emotions consume him. The time he was lifted off the ground and hurled down on his back. So this time he decides to remain in control. Rather than swinging, he forces his fists open, and responds calmly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Apparently it wasn’t the reaction Zane was looking for, because he pushes Roland even harder and snarls, “Don’t lie to me.”

  Roland steps forward again, refusing to back down. Roland knows that fighting is exactly what Zane wants him to do; it’s exactly what he expects Roland to do. And before long their teammates have started gathering around, encircling them, forcing the situation into a pressure cooker. Roland adapts to it and plays the crowd.

  He shakes his head convincingly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Already pushed to the edge, Zane doesn’t buy his show. He swings a right hook, connecting with Roland’s jaw, and before Roland can even react, his teammates are rushing in to break it up.

  Zane fights them off, never taking his eyes off Roland. “Go get unwound,” he growls.

  Wrestlers go to hold Roland back, but he remains calm, he doesn’t resist. Instead he smiles, letting the words roll off, and touches his fingers to his mouth, examining the blood, almost intrigued.

  Coach Pratt bursts through the gym doors and makes his way to the center of the mat. “What’s going on here?” he demands.

  Zane fumbles his words, still too heated to formulate a coherent sentence. So Roland decides to speak for him. “We were wrestling,” he says calmly.

  Zane is completely taken aback.

  Roland continues. “We were wrestling and things got out of control.”

  The coach looks at Roland’s fat lip and back to Zane, who’s still clenching a fist. “I oughta bench you till the next tournament.”

  But Roland takes up Zane’s defense. “Nah, you don’t have to do that. Everything’s cool. It was a misunderstanding.”

  Coach Pratt turns back to Zane. “Is this all true?”

  Zane nods. He doesn’t really have a choice. And even though Pratt doesn’t fully buy the story, the explanation is enough for him to overlook the fight. It’s not uncommon for scuffles like this to take place on the mat.

  As if nothing happened, Roland strolls quietly to the center of the mat and begins his stretching routines, because even though things didn’t quite go as planned, he knows that this is only round one. Sure, most people like to root for an underdog, but it’s human nature to side with a victim. So he grins, revealing a blood-painted smile, because this is Roland’s game, and now he’s in complete control.

  8 • Thirteen

  Roland searches the water in terror. To him, every dark shadow is instantly a predator; every splash sounds like a beast of prey. He tries to convince himself that it was a fish, or maybe even a seal. On the other hand his sister wouldn’t have screamed if that’s all it was. Roland paddles violently, his body tight to his boogie board, fighting against a riptide. He’s been dragged out too far. Dark clouds swell overhead, and the pier grows hazy in the distance. He decides his best chance for survival is to shift direction and paddle with the current, toward the adjacent ocean bluffs. But Roland is already running out of strength. His arms grow heavier with each stroke. And even though he’s moving with the current, the more he paddles the farther he feels from land.

  Whatever was there is gone. It has to be. The sea is the only predator now.

  Roland feels the shadow of a wave beginning to curl overhead. He snaps his eyes shut and clings tight to his board, letting the sea gobble him. He thrashes about in the ocean’s underbelly until he’s regurgitated to the surface once again.

  Roland braces himself for the next wave, but it never comes—instead only the ringing pitch of silence. His body shakes, still on the comedown from a nasty adrenaline rush. And when Roland finally opens his eyes, everything is still. He takes a moment to catch his breath and take in his surroundings. He’s alone. It’s nearly dark. The pier is no longer in sight. Everywhere he looks is hazy and blue, as if trapped in the infinitude where both the ocean and sky collide.

  Roland screams, but he’s been dragged out too far for anyone to hear. He tries to paddle, but his arms grow weak, and the water begins to feel like gelatin. So he cries, only to have his tears swallowed by the ungrateful sea.

  And then suddenly something bumps the bottom of his board.

  Roland’s heart quickens. He begins to hyperventilate. He feels a pulse in the water beneath him. Undulations that grow in intensity. The pressure swells until a powerful force explodes upward, launching Roland into the air, ripping him from his board.

  9 • Seventeen

  Roland keeps a close eye on Zane throughout practice, and it’s not until the last water break that he makes his next move. Roland notices that Valerie sits on the bleachers with a few friends, waiting for Zane to finish practice. Now is the perfect time to close in. He spots Zane across the room, off the mat on the hard wood floor, navigates through a sea of wrestlers, and settles over him.

  Zane looks up from his water bottle. “What do you want?” he sneers.

  “I want to settle this.” Roland is confident and collected.

  “You want a black eye now?” Zane scoffs.

  “No, I want to settle this like men. On the mat . . .” Roland decides to cut to the chase. “I want a rematch.”

  Zane beams arrogance. “I already beat you.” And he turns his back, letting it sting.

  “If you win, I’ll leave her alone.”

  This catches Zane’s atten
tion. He stops, growling over his shoulder, “You’ll stay away from her no matter what.”

  Roland knows all eyes are on them, so he takes another calculated risk. “And what happens if I don’t?”

  Zane’s eyes spark red with anger, and he spins back around.

  Roland grins. “Now we’re talking.”

  Roland knows that Zane wants to make a statement, especially with Valerie there in the bleachers. However, Zane takes in his surroundings and realizes that he’s cornered, unable to start another fight in front of everyone. He shakes his head, incredulous. “I don’t get you, Taggart. What hell do you get out of all of this?”

  “If I win, I take your spot on the team,” Roland says.

  Zane laughs it off with feigned bravado, but Roland knows at the end of the day he can’t back down from a challenge, especially with Valerie watching. So Zane takes the bait and clicks his headgear on. “You ready to be humiliated again?”

  Roland flashes his teeth, showing off a bloodstained smile. And he begins circling in his wrestling stance, ready to strike at any moment, closing in on his prey.

  10 • Thirteen

  The shark missed him in the first attack, but only because it caught the edge of his boogie board instead, taking out a chunk. Now it circles, its steely fin splitting water in the distance. Roland is getting closer and closer to the cliffs. He clings to what’s left of his board and kicks, his leg bleeding, having been grazed by the beast. He thinks about his sister, wondering if she’s found help; about his stepfather, who’s probably beaten his mother’s head in by now; about his screams, swept up and devoured by the wind.

  When Roland finally reaches the shale cliffs, his chest is throbbing. He searches frantically along the stone wall for divots that might help him climb, but the cliff is steep and slimy, offering little to grab hold of. Roland manages to stand on his board and pull himself up, but a wave washes him off the rock’s slippery surface, and he’s back in the water.

  The beast is coming for him. He can feel it—and his stomach knots.

  The dark mass ripples stealthily through the water, terrifying in its silence.

  Roland claws the wall of shale, his fingers raw and bleeding.

  The predator strikes and rips away the rest of Roland’s boogie board, tearing it to pieces.

  Roland clamps his eyes shut, wishing that he could snap them open and wake up, safe and warm in his bed—that this would all be just a dream—but reality hits him fast.

  The shark comes around again, brushing past his side.

  Roland tries the rocks once more, digging his raw fingers into the shale. And this time he pulls himself up, almost out of the water.

  The shark approaches one last time, even faster than before. Roland grips the next protruding stone and pulls harder. The shale stone cracks loose, sending Roland falling, rock in hand.

  Roland’s heart sinks to the farthest depths of his stomach, so low he feels as if he’ll be dragged to the ocean floor. Maybe that would be a better way to go. The thought of it makes him wish he were dead. And he finds himself filled with hate. He hates the ocean for plotting his demise. He hates the wall of shale that mocks him. He hates the beast. But most of all he hates himself for not being stronger.

  Then something begins to grow within him, an indescribable force—a powerful surge of energy like he’s never felt before. And it makes Roland’s fingers curl into a fist, clenching the shard of rock in his hand.

  And in a split-second decision, just a moment after he hits the water, Roland kicks off from the wall, gripping the stone shard so tightly it digs into his skin. But the pain doesn’t matter, because at this moment Roland is in control. Eat or be eaten. And now Roland is the beast of prey. Within seconds he’s staring into the eyes of the monster—blacker than infinity itself.

  It all happens so fast.

  . . . Suddenly a stabbing pain grips his ankle—pulling him deeper into the abyss . . .

  . . . Roland begins to feel himself drowning in his own vertigo . . .

  . . . Thrashing, kicking, stabbing with all his might . . .

  . . . Thrusting his spike into a soulless eye . . .

  . . . Digging deeper and deeper . . .

  . . . Until eventually . . .

  . . . It lets go . . .

  11 • Seventeen

  Zane bull-rushes forward. Roland swims past him with ease. Zane shoots a double-leg takedown, and Roland dives, clamping Zane’s head into a headlock. Zane tries to squirm out of Roland’s vise grip, but Roland doesn’t let go. Instead he flexes tighter, squeezing every breath of air out of Zane. Zane’s face is turning red, and his veins begin to protrude as blood collects in his head. He gasps for air, but Roland spares him none. . . . And just before Zane loses consciousness, Roland releases.

  And now Zane is bloodthirsty. He tries to stand, but he’s sluggish, his motor system failing him. He swings, hitting Roland in the face. He swings again, and Roland endures them, because he knows with every swing, Zane is running out of steam. And by now they’ve caught the attention of the entire room. Roland lowers his hips, shoots his own double-leg takedown, more powerful than Zane’s, then lifts Zane over his shoulder, driving him forward, off the mat. And in one crippling move, Roland slams him down—harder than he’s ever slammed anyone before. He can hear the crunch of bone the moment Zane hits the hardwood floor.

  Zane screams in pain, a shrill so earsplitting, it echoes in Roland’s eardrums. Zane arches his back, convulsing in agony. It’s only when Zane rolls over that Roland notices his arm snapped backward, hyperextended at such an obscene angle that it bends in the complete opposite direction.

  Roland stands up, invigorated, still rushing with adrenaline as Zane kicks and screams. Within seconds everyone’s there. Coaches, teammates, spectators.

  Coach Pratt looks to Roland, but Roland speaks first. “He hit me again. You saw it—he kept on hitting me. It was self-defense.” And, as calculated, his teammates back him up.

  The assistant coach hurries over, and attempts whatever first aid he can. Zane grits his teeth, and his eyes well up. Coach Pratt starts pacing, and as it all hits him, he buries his face in his hand and shakes his head—his star wrestler is down. “A new arm could take months to transplant. . . .”

  Valerie rushes to Zane and holds him, hysterical. She looks up at Roland, screaming, “What the hell did you do?”

  Roland doesn’t flinch; instead he looks down, wiping blood from his forearm, revealing his tiger shark tattoo. He then meets her gaze, grinning. “I won.”

  And like that Roland turns his back, smiling to himself. Because now he knows he’s the ultimate predator. He knows he’s the shark.

  UnClean

  Co-authored with Terry Black

  1 • Jobe

  Jobe Marin isn’t surprised by the unwind order.

  He feels no anger, just resignation. His dad’s litany still reverberates: This isn’t a free ride, son. A man has to earn his seat. Dad sees the world in Darwinian terms—you have to fight to get what’s yours—and Jobe’s on the side of the dinosaurs. It doesn’t help that his brother and sister are wildly successful, with Greg on his way to a basketball scholarship and Brittany on the dean’s list at Wellesley College.

  By contrast, Jobe has dismal grades, no awards or trophies or even friends to speak of. He’s exactly the sort of son Dad didn’t want, a nonachiever with no hobbies or interests or extramural activities. He should have seen this coming.

  When Jobe gets the order and the Juvey-cops show up at his doorstep, he doesn’t even try to resist them. All he feels is tired and hopeless and all used up.

  “Verbally confirm that you are Jobe Andrew Marin,” says one of the Juvies. The one with the eyebrow twitch.

  Jobe nods.

  “I said verbally.”

  “Yeah, I’m him.”

  Eyebrow Twitch pulls out a card and reads from it. “Jobe Andrew Marin, by the signing of this order, your parents and/or legal guardians have retroactively te
rminated your tenure, backdated to six days postconception, leaving you . . .” He drones on, reading the standard litany, but Jobe isn’t listening. He looks at his parents standing awkwardly in the foyer of their modest home, his dad self-righteous and his mom uncertain. With his sister off at college and his brother at a basketball tournament, it’s just his parents here to witness this. He’s glad his brother and sister aren’t here to have to see this sorry spectacle.

  At last, Eyebrow Twitch comes to the end. “. . . all rights as a citizen thereof are now officially and permanently revoked.”

  An awkward silence falls. Jobe’s mom starts forward as if to embrace him, but Dad grips her elbow, shaking his head. The Juvey’s eyebrow twitches.

  “Well, if there’s nothing further, we’ll be going. Thanks for your cooperation.”

  “Yeah,” says his dad.

  Jobe is bundled into a van, which takes him to a bus loaded with dozens of other kids like himself, all numb and listless, hardly knowing how they got here. They’re driven to the Woodland Bounty Harvest Camp in northeast Pennsylvania, outside Wilkes-Barre—a sprawling estate smelling of rose and juniper, surrounded by cyclone fencing. Topiary hedges show an assortment of woodland animals. They’re taken to a holding area and seated alphabetically at long tables, like it’s some sort of standardized test.

  “Jobe Marin,” someone calls after a short while. He’s escorted down a carpeted hallway and ushered through a door marked EXAMINING ROOM.