3. While the cashier/pervert is drooling over her, fill up the backpack with necessities.
4. Run like maniacs.
For the most part, the four simple steps are foolproof, just so long as Bex has Cashier Boy’s attention. Unfortunately, today’s “shopping trip” has a bit of a snag in it. Bex is in a mood and not talking to me.
“It’s nothing,” Bex says as she applies a thick layer of eyeliner in the side-view mirror of our Dodge Caravan.
“It’s something,” I mutter. The tension between us grows like weeds these days. I assumed it was due to sleeping in construction sites and wearing the same clothes for days on end. Or maybe that’s what I wanted to think. My friend is an enigma, the queen of the emotional stiff-arm, and few can see the trouble behind her happy eyes. I’ve learned ways to get around it, but nothing seems to work now. All I know for certain is that “nothing” is about me.
“Forget it, Lyric,” she whispers as she touches up her lip gloss, then steps back to get a better look at herself in the tiny mirror. She looks like she just stepped out of Lolita. When you combine all the tiny clothing, makeup, and her natural sun-kissed California-girl face, she’s impossible not to notice and, we hope, impossible to resist.
“How is it that we have both been washing our hair in park fountains, eating the same diet of Snapple and Swedish Fish, and yet you look like you’re ready for the runway, while I look like that thing that lives in the folds of Jabba the Hutt’s skin?”
“Let’s get this over with, all right?” she says, then walks across the empty street.
“I do not approve of this behavior,” Arcade seethes. She sits on the hood of the Dodge, staring at our target, the Piggly Wiggly across the street. Unlike Bex, Arcade’s stiff-arms are not so emotional. They’re more like angry uppercuts. There’s no beating around the bush with her feelings. Right now she’s looking at me like I’m something on the bottom of her boot.
“We’ve been through this a hundred times, Arcade. We’ve got to eat,” I explain, reaching into the back of the Caravan for my water bottle. I eyeball it to make sure it’s full, then slip it into my backpack.
“There is honor in hunger.”
“If we starve to death before we get to Tempest, that would be disappointing.”
She grunts.
“In the hunting grounds, my people threw thieves into the black chasm to feed the Leviathan.”
“Leviathan?”
“A mammoth beast as big as a ship with a thousand teeth and a taste for brains,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Is there anything where you’re from that’s not gross?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead she turns her disapproving gaze back toward the store. Out front is a sign featuring a cartoon pig with a big “Come on in, folks!” grin on his fat pink face. I don’t think he’d be smiling if he knew what I’m planning.
“Stay in the car and try to stay out of sight,” I beg her. Like Bex, Arcade is a beauty, but there is something slightly nonhuman about her appearance that draws a lot of attention.
“A Daughter of Triton does not hide,” she barks.
There’s no point in arguing with her, so I hurry to catch up with Bex.
I find her out front peering through the store’s big windows. A large NO COASTERS! sign is taped to the glass.
“He’s perfect,” she says.
I take a peek. The cashier inside is watching a football game on a tiny TV set he’s propped up on the counter. He’s in his late twenties, chubby, balding, and pink, not unlike the pig on the sign. He’s exactly what we hope for when we do this. Teenage boys are nervous as pigeons around Bex; same with the sad forty-year-olds we sometimes come across. The mid-twenties guy is our sweet spot. He’s trapped in a dead-end job, insecure about it, and desperate for some attention from a pretty girl.
“Lyric, make me a promise,” Bex asks as she reaches for the door. “Once you do your thing with the water bottle, turn off the magic mitten.”
“Why?” I say. I can hear the defensiveness in my voice.
“You scared the guy at the last store.”
I laugh.
“When that Slushy machine blew up, I thought he was going to have a heart attack,” I say.
“It wasn’t funny.” She’s dead serious.
“Bex, he wasn’t hurt, and besides, I need the practice for when we get to Tempest.”
She scowls and shakes her head.
“Promise me you won’t use it in here, or I’m not going in,” she says, and I can tell she means it. She takes her hand off the door as if she might march right back to the car.
“Okay,” I say. I hide the glove behind my back.
She nods a thank-you, then steps into the frosty, over-air-conditioned shop. The bell tied to the door jingles a hello. I watch her approach the counter, suddenly wearing a smile she used to wear for me. She says something, bats her eyelashes, reaches out, and touches the cashier’s arm, throwing out the bait. A grin stretches across his face as wide as the Rio Grande. Reel him in, Bex.
It’s time for me to get to work. I unscrew the cap on my water bottle and pour the contents onto the sidewalk. Then I shove my hand up under my shirt and, with the slightest amount of concentration, turn on the “magic mitten.” The metal glows blue but, hidden beneath the fabric, it’s not so noticeable if someone happens to drive by right now. Above the crackling power, I hear voices fluttering in my ear.
What would you have us do?
“Make some mischief.”
I send the puddle into action, watching it seep under the crack of the door and into the store. I nudge it along so that it crawls up the wall to the ceiling, leaving a wet zigzag trail behind, until it finds its target, one of the dozen surveillance cameras mounted on the walls. The liquid invades the lens, swirls around in its electrical guts, and shorts out the entire system. A moment later it’s blind, and I direct my little wet sidekick to the next camera, then the next, then the next, until all twelve are busted. Proud of myself, I power down my glove and push open the door.
The bell on the door announces my arrival. This is the moment when everything can fall apart and it’s best to abandon the plan and look for another store. The jingle distracts the cashier, and he tears his eyes away from Bex and sends them my way. It is now that he will decide whether I’m suspicious or merely disappointing to look at. This part of the plan is hard on my ego. I don’t get to be the hot one when we shoplift. I have to be the Plain Jane, only this Plain Jane looks like she sleeps beneath an underpass—no makeup, ratty hair, and a pimple on the end of my chin that could take out Pompeii. I tell myself that I am unattractive on purpose. If I strutted into this store looking all kinds of yummy, the plan would not work. Secretly, I hope that he can see past the grime. It hurts when they don’t, but it means we’ll eat.
He gives me the once-over. Blinks. Sniffs. Then turns back to Bex. Sigh.
“I am so lost,” she coos.
“Well, maybe I can help,” he says.
The Piggly Wiggly has four aisles and refrigerator cases on three walls. There’s a soda machine and a microwave and a hot dog carousel. In my experience, the necessities are in the farthest aisle and the stuff that gives you diabetes is front and center, stocked on low shelves so little kids can grab it before their parents can say no. I hurry to the far back corner, where I find the first thing on my list—soap. You don’t know how important soap is until you don’t have it. Two bars of Ivory go into my pack, then a tube of Crest, a small bottle of green mouthwash, and—oh!—I can’t believe they have dental floss! That’s been on the list since I started making a list. A couple rolls of toilet paper are making things crowded, but after weeks of using gas-station t.p. . . . well, that’s TMI.
You’re stealing again, Lyric? I taught you better.
Oh, hey, Dad! I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show up to make me feel guilty. Yeah, I’m shoplifting again, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and these are the desperate-e
st of the desperate times. I’m living in a car. I’m dead broke. I’m on the FBI’s most-wanted list.
The second aisle is where the term food is thrown about with loose abandon. Here I find peanuts coated in honey, peanuts coated in peanut butter, peanut-butter-flavored protein bars, yogurt-covered raisins, “diet” desserts. This is the stuff that’s killing me, but it’s easy to carry and never goes bad. I stuff as many as I can into the pack.
There’s not much happening in the next aisle. This is the Death Valley of all convenience stores: cans of motor oil, NASCAR T-shirts, dusty country and western CDs, and tattooed-girlie magazines. One shelf has a stack of those little tree-shaped car fresheners that smell like pine or green apples. I grab a couple and put them in the pack. The Caravan is getting pretty rank.
One more aisle and I’m out of here. I turn the corner and nearly fall over in shock. Food! Real food: apples, bananas, oranges, whole-wheat bread, cans of soup! In the refrigerator case nearby is milk, string cheese, bologna, pre-made tuna fish sandwiches, and a package of bacon. I have no idea how I’m going to cook it, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve got bacon! Getting it into the pack is a bigger problem. It’s almost full. Screw the toilet paper! I’ll suffer. Once the t.p. rolls are out, I surrender a bar of soap and the mouthwash. Sacrifices have to be made, but now I’ve got room for a half gallon of milk and a loaf of bread. The pack is now officially overflowing. I fight the zipper, then heft the whole thing onto my back.
It’s time to go. As I pass down the aisle, I notice a newspaper rack. USA Today has a picture of my hometown on its front page. Coney Island is a battlefield. Soldiers charge toward the sea, firing rifles at dark-skinned Rusalka leaping out of a massive wave. There are two figures rising above the whitecaps who don’t fit in with the monsters. I peer closer until I finally recognize them. The first is the prime, Fathom’s insane father and king of the Alpha. He was bent on an invasion of the mainland even when his people were at their most vulnerable, and now he’s got it. The second is his wife, Minerva, a cackling partner to his madness. More shocking to me is that it appears as if the prime is leading the Rusalka. How did the bitterest of enemies join forces?
Other papers and magazines give me more glimpses into the world I left behind. One reports on states rising up against one another, sending in their own militias to defend their borders. There are stories of lynchings and soldiers shooting people for trying to cross state lines. Food shortages are rampant, mobs, looting, and fires are a daily event. One paper speculates the tensions will lead to secession and to a second civil war.
But no matter what these papers are reporting, there is one thing they share: a hatred of Lyric Walker, teen terrorist-at-large. They use photos of me at my worst. Facebook shots when I was a little buzzed or a sweaty mess in the humid Coney Island heat. I look unhinged, a bad seed who’s been on the wrong path since she was born. I guess they can’t exactly use the picture of me in my tenth grade homecoming dress. I wore a vintage lace shift with rose appliqués that night. I rocked that dress. Nope, I’m public-enemy number one, and I have to look the part.
I tell myself that it doesn’t matter. I did what I could to stop everything that happened. They turned on me! They kidnapped my family and now I’m the villain? It’s more of the same old racism now that they know I’m only half human. I guess it makes me all monster in their eyes. Well, let the world burn. It looks to me like it’s getting exactly what it deserves.
Furious, I tear myself away from the papers only to find the cashier in my path.
“So, this little scam the two of you pull would probably work if not for one thing,” he says.
Bex is just over his shoulder. She frowns and throws her hands up in surrender.
“I’m not a total idiot,” he continues. “I’ve already pressed the silent alarm, so the police are on their way. Let’s stay calm and let them handle this.”
“How about if I put it all back?” I offer.
He hesitates, considering the notion, but it’s too late. Two squad cars pull into the parking lot outside and stop. Four cops squeeze out of them, seemingly quadruplets, or at least clones—goatees, shaved heads, aviator sunglasses. Two of them circle around the back. I assume they want to make sure Bex and I don’t sneak out a rear exit. The other two swagger through the front door and look around.
“Ladies, I’m Officer Perry and this is Officer Casto. Let me tell you what’s going to happen here,” he says as he takes off his sunglasses. Behind them are two oval-shaped patches of white skin in a sea of sunburn. “We’re placing the two of you under arrest for shoplifting. It’s best if you cooperate. It will go better for you when you go to court.”
“Court,” I whisper to Bex.
We can’t go to court. We can’t get arrested, either. The moment I’m put into the system, the military will march into this town and drag me away, probably to Tempest. No, when I show up there, it’s not going to be in chains. Getting arrested is not an option today.
“Take off the backpack, please,” Perry continues.
I do as he says, mainly because it will slow me down when we make a run for it.
“We promise we won’t do anything like this again,” Bex begs, still hoping this will end well.
“Sounds like we have a couple of Coasters, partner.” Perry says to Casto.
Casto looks us up and down, then shakes his head like we’re an infestation of vermin.
Coasters. That word pops up everywhere we go, like a hateful jack-in-the-box. It hangs in storefronts and gas stations. I’ve seen it on T-shirts and the front page of newspapers. We come from the East, places that people used to move to so they could be near the ocean. Boston, Savannah, New Haven, Providence, Norfolk, Miami, Fort Lauderdale, New York City, they’re all devastated, destroyed by floods and tidal waves and monsters from the deep. People watch the tides. They leave everything they own when the Rusalka arrive. They run for their lives, but before they can get very far, cops and roadblocks try to stop them. The governors of places like Texas and Alabama tell us we are not welcome. They claim Coasters pose a threat to public health. They say it with a smirk. You don’t have to read a history book to know that half of this country has been waiting a few hundred years for a chance to screw the other half. Now they’ve got their chance.
“That could have been a possibility if you weren’t in violation of the governor’s executive order,” Casto says in answer to Bex’s offer. “No one from outside the state is permitted within Texas borders without the proper identification. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you don’t have it.”
He pauses for Perry’s laugh. It’s a joke only he and his partner find funny.
“I’m going to search you now,” Perry says. “Do you have anything dangerous in your pockets? Needles? Anything sharp I should know about before I put my hands inside? Drug paraphernalia? If I reach into that pocket and something sticks me, things are gonna get unpleasant.”
“Really, you don’t have to do this,” Bex begs, but she’s not looking at the cops. She’s looking at me.
Perry pats me down and mutters something about “Coaster filth” and how I smell. He’s “had it up to here” with “illegals” sneaking into his state, causing problems, “sleepin’ in the parks.” He’s not having it in his town, “no, sirree, Bob.” He’s “drawin’ a line in the sand” before the place he grew up in turns into another “stinkin’ refugee camp.”
“What is this?” he barks as he snatches my gloved hand and lifts it up to my face as if I have no idea it’s wrapped around my wrist.
“It’s jewelry,” Bex lies. “She made it.”
“Take it off,” Perry orders.
“I can’t. It’s locked on tight.”
It’s the truth. This thing won’t come off. I’ve tried vegetable oil, butter, soap, prying it open with a knife, smashing it with a hammer, everything short of amputating my hand.
“What are these markings?” he asks, twisting my hand roughly as he peers closer
. “What is this? A wave or something?”
He looks into my face, maybe for the first time, and there’s a burst of recognition. Yep, it’s me. He’s befuddled and turns pale as chalk, then falls backwards like I slugged him. On his way down, he knocks over a rack of candy bars, then a container filled with bottles of soft drinks in ice.
“Perry?” his partner cries. “What the heck? Get up.”
“Casto, she’s that girl from New York,” he croaks while fumbling for his gun. When he finds it, he points the muzzle right into my face. “The terrorist!”
“Holy crap! The mermaid?” Casto cries. He aims his gun at me too.
Perry snatches for his radio with his free hand and drags it to his mouth. He pushes the buttons over and over again, like it’s the first time he’s used it, then screams for backup like there are thousands of me, all with bazookas and machetes.
A door at the back of the store opens, and the other two officers enter. Neither of them is expecting to find this scene, but in a flash, they’ve got their revolvers out as well.
“I thought this was a snatch-and-run,” one of them cries.
“These are those girls from New York!” Perry explains. “The ones everybody’s looking for.”
I turn to Bex and give her a little “I’m sorry” frown. I have to break my promise. She flashes me an angry look, but what choice do I have? We can’t go to jail. There are too many people counting on us. I will my weapon to life, admiring how it crackles, and quietly giggle when I hear four grown men gasp. Yes, I am awesome, thank you very much.
The whispers call out from every corner of the store, in the plumbing, behind the refrigerator doors, dripping out of the soda machine. There is so much water here, and all of it is as eager as a child waving her hand in class and hoping the teacher will call her name. All I have to do is ask for its help. So I do.
It starts with a banging in the refrigerator case behind the four cops, causing everyone to jump with surprise. A fizzy bottle of orange soda slams against the glass door, dancing a hyperactive jig.