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99/higher in canada
author photo by dana gallagher
pr aise for
UNDERTOW
Undertow overflows with innovative, terrifying monstershuman, emotional and undersea. Landmark Coney Island becomes a dystopian state where two different species battle
for dominance, and Lyric Walker is both a unique, quirky heroine and a fearless crusader.
Allegorical and romantic, the book nevertheless reads like an action movie with especially
awesome CGI.E. LOCKHART, author of we were liars and the disreputable history
Undertow crashes over you in waves of emotion, allowing glimpses of family and loyalty,
before dragging you into the depths of human prejudice, cultural mistrust, and political
corruption. Once you resurface, youll view the world through different eyes.
A.G. HOWARD, new york times best-selling author of the splintered series
MICHAEL BUCKLEYs two bestselling series, the Sisters Grimm and NERDS,
have sold more than 2.5 million copies and
appear in twenty-two languages. He has also
worked as a standup comic, a television writer,
an advertising copywriter, a pasta maker, and
a singer in a punk rock band. He lives in
Brooklyn, New York, with his wife, Alison, and
their son, Finn.
Visit his website at
www.michaelbuckleywrites.com.
Undertow will unexpectedly grab hold and pull you out into a world of epic romance and
gritty suspense. A must-read tale of how love can survive under the most dangerous circumstances. It will leave you gasping for air, and for more.TONYA HURLEY, new york times
best- selling author of the ghostgirl series and the blessed trilogy
A gritty, turbulent novel as sweeping and deep as the ocean itself. Undertow will pull you
in and hold you down.REBECCA SERLE, author of when you were mine and the
edge of falling
Lyric is a girls girlas savvy as she is soulful, as sharp as she is tender. Lyrics fierce,
distinctive voice is the core magnetic force of Undertow, and why we will all be stampeding
for more.ADELE GRIFFIN, author of all you never wanted and the unfinished life of
is full of anger, and violence follows him everywhere, yet she finds herself drawn to him. Their
addison stone
A solidly entertaining adventure with the perfect amount of romance and danger. In
Lyric, Buckley has created a phenomenal new heroine. Smart and snarky, with rough edges
and killer fashion sense, Lyric is a girl to be celebrated. SLJ, starred review
was a baby.
$18.99/Higher in Canada
ISBN 978-0-544-34825-7
www.hmhco.com
Follow us on Twitter: @HMHKids
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c h a p ter one
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mob of men and boys armed with bats and booze, our neighborhoods self-appointed guard dogs. They bark threats and
give chase. And then, to close the show, here come the police
with their lights and squealing squad-car tires. An amplified
voice demands that everyone clear the streets, while a helicopter hovers overhead, poking into backyards and abandoned
lots with its frantic spotlight. I hear a gunshot. Pop! Then more.
Pop! Pop!
Its after curfew in Coney Island.
You should be asleep, my mother says. Shes a silhouette in the yellow light of the hall. Tomorrow is going to be a
crazy day.
Theyre on the run tonight, I explain.
She nudges some space next to me at the window and
gazes into the now-empty street. Her shoulders and neck muscles tighten into knots. Her breathing is heavy. She uses her
thumb to dig into the meat of her palms. I dont like this version of herthis jittery deer ready to sprint for cover at the
slightest sound. I miss my happy mom, my bouncy, flip-flops,
cutoff-shorts mom. My Summer Walker, version 1.0.
With a snap the blackout blind comes back down, and
she shoos me toward my bed. Theyre probably scavenging.
Hows your head? she asks.
Its an F4, but it feels like its going to be an F5 soon.
Mom flinches. I have been getting migraines since I was a
toddler, and somewhere along the line we started categorizing
their shapes and sizes like hurricanes. F1 is the ever-present
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Mom, I squeak.
Shes pulling on my arm, trying to get me up on my feet
again, but thenboom!Im on my back. I can barely remember where I am, who I am.
Dont panic, Lyric! Just breathe. She crawls onto the floor
and wraps herself around me like shes trying to shield me
from hand-grenade shrapnel. Her arms are strong. They whisper and soothe. I am your mother. I will take care of you.
I hate my brain, I whimper through snot and tears.
I know. She repeats it over and over again.
When I can stand, she helps me into the bathroom. I sit
on the edge of our claw-foot tub and watch cold water gather
around the rusty drain. When its full, she helps me out of my
clothes and steadies me. Stepping into it is like easing into a
cup of frozen yogurt: creamy, cold, comforting. It takes a while
to adjust to the temperature, but its the only thing that helps.
When I can stand it, I nestle down, deep as I can go.
I miss the beach, I say as I close my eyes for a moment,
flying off to the shoreline, where she and I would sit for hours
as the Atlantics roar scared off my pain. It eased the agony
without fail, like natures morphine, but were not allowed to
go to the beach anymore, not since they arrived.
I miss it too. Each word is interwoven with guilt. She
blames herself for what has happened to our neighborhood
the fighting, the martial law, the hate.
Wheres Dad? I say, hoping he wasnt one of the cops
down in the street.
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She dips a washcloth into the water, wrings it out, then lays
it over my eyes. At the precinct. Mike wants everyone to go
over the plans for tomorrow one more time. There are a lot of
moving parts with the FBI and all those soldiers. But theyll be
ready. Dont be worried.
Im not, I lie.
Things will get better. Youll see. Now shes lying.
I sink down farther, completely submerging myself. Its
down here where I feel most safe, where the headaches retreat,
where the roar of the water drowns out the thrum.
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Bex, I
She finds a black bangle I bought at a yard sale and slips it
onto her wrist. Then she takes a peek in the mirror. This is
now mine.
Bex, seriously. Are you okay? Is he still drinking?
Where are all your sexy clothes? You have to look hot.
Bex, dont change the subject.
We might be on TV.
Bex continues rummaging through my things. She has
said all shes going to on the subject. Shell share when shes
ready and not a moment sooner.
Lets skip school, I say.
Theyre arresting everyone who tries.
My dads a cop.
You think the Big Guy wont arrest you? She laughs, then
opens another drawer. Where are the skirts, Lyric? Where are
the tank tops? Are you Amish all of a sudden?
Who cares what we wear? No one is going to notice us.
Not today.
Bex stops and stares at me with a mix of horror and bewilderment. Theyll notice us! There will be cameras everywhere, and I guarantee you we will both be on some website
like Hot Girls of Fish City dot-com. Unless you try to pull the
little-matchstick-girl look again, which I am here to prevent.
I lumber to the window and cringe at what I see below.
News trucks are parked up and down my street, each with a
massive satellite dish mounted on its roof. Reporters spring
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never coming home again. Her kiss leaves a wet ring of electricity on my cheek. Be careful, and dont forget to breathe.
You too.
She smiles at me. Its a crumpled thing, too small for her
face. I remember when it used to shine like a star, fueled by
her endless joy, but now its running on fumes. She cant even
muster enough power to bring her eyes along for the ride.
My father goes to his room and returns with his gun. While
I eat cereal, he checks the clip to see that its loaded, reinserts
it, and clicks off the safety. He double-checks the charge on
his Taser and gives two canisters of pepper spray good shakes
before putting them in his pockets. Then he turns to me.
Get Bex. Its time to go to school.
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I wish we had
taken the stairs. Mrs. Novakova, short and squat,
is lurking inside, like a creepy garden gnome peering out of the brush.
Getting off ? I ask.
She frowns and shakes her head. Of course shes not getting off. How else will she interrogate us? I press the button for
the lobby and hold my breath when the doors slide shut.
You take these girls to the school, Leonard? she asks my
father in her thick, growly accent. Shes been in our building
for fifty years, ever since emigrating from Eastern Europe
maybe Hungary, maybe RussiaI cant remember. Its someplace where the neighbors used to spy on one another for the
government.
Yes, Mrs. Novakova, my father says as he watches the
floor counter blink from four to three to two ...
Mrs. Novakovas mouth curls in disapproval, revealing her
lipstick-stained teeth. You never catch me near that school
today. Mixing with us is wrong, especially the children. They
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had never amounted to anything, how she should have married Pavel, a very well-to-do tailor who had the common courtesy to die young and leave his widow a fortune. Her husband
passed away two years ago. He choked on some soup. Really. I
mean, who chokes to death on soup? Someone whos looking
for a way out, thats who.
By the time we reach the lobby, Mrs. Novakova has given
us an advanced-placement class on the Chinks, the Spics,
the Japs, the Kikes, and the towel heads, all of whom she
describes as filthy and up to no good and plotting to kill us
all. My father has a patience with her he never has with me.
He says Good day, and when the doors slide open he leads us
outside.
Someday shell die, he promises when shes out of earshot.
I wouldnt bet on it, I reply.
Unfortunately, outside its even more oppressive than
inside. Its ninety-frickin-eight degrees with a thousand percent humidity. Welcome to the early morning ugh of Coney
Island, a sauna trapped inside an aquarium locked in a carwash next to a water park in hell. I sweat from every pore. My
jeans glue themselves to my legs. My bangs drip like I used
maple syrup to get just the right look. Awesome. Im going to
look like I swam to school, and because the universe hates me,
here come the reporters to show the whole world my shame.
They pounce like dogs on a pork chop, running across streets
and through front yards, scampering over parked cars and
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nowhere else to go. The city doesnt help poor people move
unless rich people want their homes.
And then there are my parents and me. Weve got our own
screwed-up reasons for staying, but hopefully it wont be for
much longer.
No way, Bex cries when we turn the corner that leads to
our school. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of locals are here to
ogle. They mill about, taking pictures and uploading our lives
onto Instagram or Tumblr. Hot dog carts are parked along
the road; people sell bottles of water out of coolers. Theres
a guy making balloon animals, and another running around
with T-shirts commemorating todays historic event. It looks
like a street fair, but there is nothing festive about the mood.
Something threatening and dangerous is in the air. It brushes
past your arm, nudging you into an uncertain stride. It pokes
at your frustrations, reminds you that youre an animal in an
overcrowded cage.
Beyond the looky-loos is an angry mob of hundreds, shouting, chanting, bellowing threats into the air. Their words wear
brass knuckles. They carry signs, too. freaks! monsters! animals! satans spawn!all the classics, and, not surprisingly, a
lot with scribbled Bible verses.
Stay close, my father says as he takes my hand. In turn, I
grab Bex and we squirm into their numbers. Im elbowed and
jostled until one of the protestors blocks our way. Hes wearing
a T-shirt with an eagle ripping through an American flag on it
and those jeans with the elastic waistband I didnt know they
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made for men. Hes as tall as he is wide, sweaty and red, and
ten minutes from a stroke. His sign misspells the word abomination.
You dont have to go to school with monsters! He sprays
spittle all over me.
Actually we do, Bex says. Its the law.
Dont engage with them, my father barks as he drags us
onward. These people are on the edge. The slightest thing
could make them erupt. Use your head!
As we get closer I see soldiers in green camouflage uniforms. Each carries an assault rifle strapped to his or her chest.
Some stand on street corners watching and waiting, their fingers resting on triggers. Some cruise slowly by in black jeeps
with high-pressure water cannons mounted on top. Others
lurk on rooftops and talk into radios. One is on horseback. He
trots back and forth behind a barricade, barking a laundry list
of rules into the air.
Citizens must stay ten yards from the barricades unless
they are students, parents, or staff. Violators will be arrested.
Anyone can be stopped and searched. Individuals who do not
submit will be immediately arrested. Citizens who fail to obey
direct orders will be arrested.
In the crowd is a stocky boy with shaggy brown hair hanging in his eyes. Hes Latino, with milky brown skin and a wide
grin. His smartphone scans the crowd in every direction, capturing the protest and the vicious words. When he spots us, he
smiles, turning his lens on Bex and me.
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that ugly term. If he was allowed, hed rip Tommys head off.
But hes not allowed.
Bex reaches into her pocket and hands hers to my dad.
You keep it. No peeking.
Shadows next. Its like hes handing over one of his kidneys. People should be able to see what happens in there. This
is history, he grumbles.
I set mine into my fathers hand while trying to make it
seem like its no big deal, but it is a very, very big deal. There
are pictures on it I dont want him to see, pictures from when
I was not trying to disappear into the background. Theyre
ancient but not something I want my daddy to see. Please dont
look through the text messages. Oh, man! Dont look in the Gabriel
folder! My imagination is hyperventilating into a paper bag.
Satisfied, Irish Tommy jams his radio against his ear so he
can hear over the din. Get ready! Youre going in as soon as
they get her off the steps.
Who? Bex says.
He points along the barricades and up the stairs to the
front door. A middle-aged woman in a blue business suit is
blocking the doors and flashing her porcelain veneers to the
crowd. You cant call her smile pretty. Its a little too saccharine
and uncomfortable, like she has to stay focused on its corners
to keep it in place. She has crazy eyes, too, the kind where
you can see white all around the irises, but the crowd doesnt
seem to mind. They love Governor Pauline Bachman. Most
seventeen-year-olds wouldnt recognize a politician, but I
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know this one well. My folks have spent endless nervous hours
watching her self-declared war against the Alpha. Shes a proud
thorn in the Alphas side, pushing for laws that deny them
medical care (which theyve never asked for), and blocking
efforts to put them in permanent housing (which they would
never take). Some of her ideas fall squarely into the evil-andcreepy category, like implanting tracking devices into their
bodies, shipping them to Guantnamo Bay, and forcing them
to undergo sterilization. Before the president ordered our
school system to open its doors to the Alpha, she was crusading for an electrified wall to keep them away from us. Lots
of people write her off as a kook. They say her ideas are just
theatrics to appease her base of frightened voters and keep the
money rolling into her campaign. They call her a clown. I say
shes dangerous. Everywhere this clown goes, she brings her
own circus.
She lifts her trademark red-white-and-blue megaphone to
her mouth and releases a feedback whine over the crowd.
The National Guard, Homeland Security, FEMA, local
police, and even the president of the United States have asked
me to step aside. They want me to go away. They dont want
to know what the good people of the state of New York have to
say about this debacle. They dont want to hear that this misguided plan is putting your children in harms way! Well, folks,
thats why I brought a megaphone!
The crowds roar rattles my head.
Our schools are not the places to run social experiments.
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I have no problem with educating their ... I guess you can call
them children, but that should be done in their own schools,
not ones paid for by hardworking, red-blooded American taxpayers! No, sir! Over my dead body!
I will block these doors, and not one of them will step foot
inside, and I will not move until they drag me away. Hell, no, I
wont go!
The crowd adopts her chant and it shakes the air.
All right, Irish Tommy shouts at us. Lets go!
What about her? my father cries as he points to Bachman.
GO! GO!
My father grabs my hand and starts up the path.
No, Leonard, Tommy shouts. Just the kids.
Thats not what I was told at the precinct!
Things are evolving, Leonard. You cant go in!
My father looks pained. Be safe!
I will. I hope its a promise I can keep.
Ill keep her out of trouble, Big Guy, Bex says. She grabs
my hand and then Shadows, and the three of us sprint through
the barricades, past the ugly faces and their ugly signs.
Once we hit the top step, Bachman leaps in front of us. She
grabs my arm and turns my hands over to study my palms and
the skin between my fingers, then my neck. Shes putting on a
show for the crowd, and Im too stunned to protest.
Shes one of us, Bachman cheers. You dont have to go in
there with them, honey.
And then I hear the thrum. The governor hears it too, and
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she whips her head around, scanning for its source, but its
everywhere, a buzzing that grows and grows, and all we can
do is watch and wait. Bachman stammers, but words fail her.
Like us, shes trapped inside a pregnant pause in history.
When the noise is on top of us, I see a group of soldiers,
cops, and FBI agents rushing toward us. They push the crowd
aside to make room for another group that marches behind
themthe Alpha. Its impossible to call them men. Men are
not hulking, copper-skinned towers of muscle. Men do not
charge down a street with spears raised and ready. They do not
wear armor made from enormous shells and bones, monstrous
lobster claws, and teeth. They do not use oysters the size of
truck tires as shields. They do not chant in an ancient language
in which every word sounds aggressive and hostile. They do
not stretch their mouths as far as they can and bellow to the
clouds, growl and threaten the sky like they are challenging
the sun itself. These are not men.
The protestors have never seen anything like this. They
fall back, tumbling to the ground, and shriek when the next
group emerges. The newest additions to Hylan Highs student
body have arrived.
Many have scales.
Others have jagged rows of teeth, and mouths like open
wounds.
One of them is a teenaged mountain of power, a slightly
smaller version of one of the giant warriors who led the way.
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He has sunken eyes and tiny spikes on his neck, shoulders, and
forearms.
A girl with ghostly, gelatinous skin and eyes as big and black
as plums steps serenely forward. If you look closely enough,
you can see the blood coursing through her deep purple veins.
Even closer and you can see the hint of bones.
Another boy is no taller than an eight-year-old and has a
head like a gourd planted atop a thin, tottering body. Hes a
skeleton shrink-wrapped in gray skin, with long fingers and
black nails. His eyes are enormous chunks of coal, and his nose
is nothing more than two wet slits.
The last three look almost human. One is a delicate beauty,
slender and tall with tight red curls that cascade over her shoulders and bounce lightly at the base of her spine. Pink and blue
scales freckle her throat, her shoulders, and the inside of her
arms. She looks terrified.
The other two look as if theyve never been afraid of anything in their lives. Theyre golden gods, tall and strong with
sculpted limbs. The female is close to my height and age, with
cropped hair and a body that clearly skipped the awkward
phase. Her face is a case study in symmetry, favored by dizzying cheekbones and bright, full lips, but its also unsettling,
sharp, and serious. Its not so much a face as it is a weapon,
as deadly as the spears of the titans who guard her. The boy
well, hes beautiful and troubling all at the same time. His
face is strong and fierce but marred with bruises. Murky green
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c h a p ter f our
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It shouldnt come as a surprise to anyone that our memories of the place are a little distorted. Back when I had time for
books, I read a poem that described memories as being like clay
malleable and squishy and easily molded into whatever you
needed. Over time, people sculpt their miserable experiences
into something more aesthetically pleasing, stretching the
interesting moments and kneading the uncomfortable facts.
What they end up with is no longer a memory but a story, and
the two rarely resemble one another. The story of the Alphas
arrival is just as sculpted. Some still call it an invasion, an act of
war, even a sign of the end of days. I cant say that my story is
any less convoluted, but I was there when it happened. I saw it
firsthand, not on television and not on some Internet site. And
I think my version has more merit than most, because I know
something that most people do not: the Alpha actually arrived
the night before the world went crazy.
It was the first night of the summer break between my
eighth and ninth grade year, the night when the wild things ran
loose. Thats what Bex used to call us, and that night was our
Wild Rumpus, only a lot less innocent than in that childrens
book. We drank. We hooked up. We launched bottle rockets
into the sky, motored down streets, assaulting the neighborhood with bone-rattling bass lines. Anyone who disapproved
could go to hell.
I ran with Bex and Shadow, the centers of my known universe even back then, and we had twenty kids following our
every step. We crashed parties and chugged beers in parking
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lots, and I flirted with boy after boy after boy. Anything we
missed was reported to us in texts, tiny bite-size dispatches
from the front lines of stupidity. Someone threw up on a cop,
so-and-so made out with so-and-so, and this person got into a
fight with that person. By midnight we had hundreds of texts,
each a blossoming legend of teenage debauchery we knew
wed talk about for years to come. I remember that a sophmore
named Jessie Combs woke up under the boardwalk spooning a
hobo. Jessie was a wild thing.
I drank up the hot June night, endless spectacle, and noise
until my brain rebelled and a migraine showed up around midnight to spoil my fun.
Bad head? Bex asked when I sat down on a vacant stoop.
Bad head. The steady pounding had started hours earlier,
but Id shoved it down and hoped it would wither from lack of
attention. Unfortunately this headache had a tenacious rhythm
that grew and grew.
Cmon, well take you home, Shadow said.
The hangers-on groaned with complaints. Bex and Shadow
should have been pissed at me too; after all, I had ruined lots of
good times with my condition, but Bex turned on the others,
firing off insults and demanding their allegiance to me. Bex =
besty.
Drop me at the beach, I said.
Will she be there? Bex asked.
I nodded. She was always there.
Bex grabbed one hand, Shadow the other, and we ran
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toward Surf Avenue, dodging the livery cabs that sped past
at all hours of the night and zigzagging through the pervy
drunks who milled in and out of the seedy bars. At the old
wooden boardwalk ramp near the Wonder Wheel, we ignored
the Park Closed sign and rushed to greet the Atlantic Ocean.
I took in a greedy breath of salty air and anticipated the relief.
The beach would fix everything.
As I predicted, we found my mother sitting cross-legged
on the sand, her flip-flops tossed nearby and her hair tied back
with a band. She was a beautiful Buddha, hypnotically gorgeous with olive skin, full lips, and eyes both blue and smoky.
Her body, like mine, was tall, long-legged, and hippy like a
belly dancers, but she didnt have an ounce of the insecurities
that plagued me. She loved her body and it showed. Anothers
perceived flaw was her dazzling asset, and thus she was the
cause of much rubbernecking in our neighborhood. People fell
in love with her at first sight. Even her walk, a danceable jig
that made small children giggle, transcended goofy into oddly
seductive.
Can you sign for this package? Shadow asked.
My mother frowned. Your father would have a contraption if he knew you were out this late, she said.
Its a conniption, Mom, I said.
The group chuckled.
Im always messing up words, she apologized.
Migraine?
I nodded. Probably an F3.
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clients, some of whom traveled all the way from the Upper
East Side, an hour-and-a-half subway ride, to take her fiftyminute class. She knew her way around the om, so I surrendered to her wisdom and clamped my eyes shut. I inhaled
deeply and followed her instructions, imagining the air flowing into my limbs, my diaphragm, and my pelvis. I directed
it into my belly and guided it down my legs and into my toes
until my breath and body were one and the same. Soon I felt a
tap on my shoulder.
Now youre here.
And I was. We got on our hands and knees and pressed the
tops of our feet into the damp sand. I eased into the childs pose
and, oh man, that felt good. To this day yoga on the beach is
the best medicine for my migraines, better than teas or aspirin
or acupuncture. Even better than the Novocain injections I got
when I knocked my front teeth out the day I fell off my bike on
the Marine Parkway Bridge. Each new posethe downward
dog, the mountain, the pigeonsent me to the creamy vanilla
bliss of a quiet mind. Om kicked the crap out of my migraines
every time. I miss om.
When we finished, we sat on the sand, lazy as cats, and
watched the crews put the amusement-park rides to bed. I fell
asleep at one point and woke with her hand on my shoulder.
Your dad wont sleep forever, she said, signaling that it
was time to get back. We helped each other to our feet and
retrieved our kicks, but we hadnt taken more than a couple of
steps when we heard a rumbling coming from the water.
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Cursing had always been the right bait for a quick callback,
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but ten minutes passed without a reply, so I turned my frustrations onto my father.
IS EVERYONE ON DRUGS?
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I hopped the tiny fence that lined the beach and ran to her
side. When I reached her, I bent down and saw the same worried
gaze from the night before. She was transfixed on the ocean,
and it took me several seconds to pull her out of her trance.
Lyric, go home, she begged, suddenly frantic. Her eyes
were wild, her pupils dilated. She took my hands in her own
and I could feel she was trembling.
Why? What is this? Who are these people?
Dont question me. Just go!
I took a step back. My mother had never raised her voice
to me before, even when I deserved it. I had no frame of reference for her fury. It confused me, froze me where I stood.
We caught the attention of a woman kneeling beside her, a tall
beauty with platinum hair. She turned toward us and shot us a
wrathful glare, then barked threateninglyyes, barked, like a
dog, or rather like the deep-throated sea lions at the aquarium.
It was loud and ridiculous and shocking, so I laughed, because
thats what you do when a crazy person does something crazy
and youre feeling a little crazy yourself. It only made the
woman howl at me louder.
Lyric, please, my mother pleaded. Just go!
But
We were interrupted by the loud vibrating sound that Id
heard the night before. In response, a man in the group cried
out in excitement. He leaped to his feet and pointed toward
the waves, but I couldnt look. I was too astonished. The man
was Mr. Lir, a guy who had babysat me, had put bandages on
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animal. It covered her entire body, exposing only her face and
hands, and the habit formed a strange hammerlike shape on
either side of her head.
And then there was the boy. He was about my age, with
hair cut short and eyes blue and bright, eyes that burned a glowing echo I could see even when I closed my own. He looked
lost and confused, troubled by what he was seeing around him,
like he was seeing the world for the first time.
Behind him came others who were far more strange and
whose names I would learn later: the Nix with their teeth and
claws, the quietly confident Ceto, and the Sirena, whose every
emotion was revealed in colorful scales. There were some I
havent seen since that daytranslucent-skinned ones and
people with tentacles for limbs. All of them were in a state of
metamorphosis. Tails became legs. Fins sank into flesh. Gills
vanished, causing their owners to choke on their first breaths
of air. There were elderly creatures, babies, teenagers, and
families, all climbing onto the beach, eyeing us with wideeyed wonder. At first they numbered in the hundreds, then
thousands, until eventually I could no longer see the sand for
all the bodies.
Panic broke out all around me. Sunbathers abandoned
towels, coolers, and chairs. They trampled one another to get
away, and children became separated from parents. Yet in the
chaos I heard someone calling my name. I searched the crowd,
careful not to get knocked over in the rush, and spotted my
father sprinting toward us with his gun in hand.
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My mother stared at him for a long moment, perhaps weighing every day of their life together against the responsibility she
felt to the strange visitors, and then she turned to the ocean and
her scales turned fire-engine red and blistering white.
Tell them Im sorry, Terrance, she said without even
looking at him. Try to make them understand.
Summer, you cannot turn your back on our people, Mr.
Lir shouted. Theyll call you a traitor. Youll be an untouchable!
We have to run, she said as she took my hand. My father
took the other, and we fled through the crowd while her odd
friends called out to us with their bizarre, angry words.
New York Post
School of Fish: Alpha Kids Cause
Chaos on First Day of School
by Naomi Rif kin
Today the President got his way. Six Alpha kids went to school
in Coney Island, soaking the city for millions to keep them
safe, and turning Hylan High School upside down. Before it
had even opened its doors, these nonhuman students had
started a riot predicted by this columnist and everyone else
with a brain. Two thousand police from all over New York,
as well as thousands of National Guard soldiers, tried to keep
order as thousands more came out to protest this bogus plan.
One hundred and four people were arrested, and there were
scores of injuries.
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DAILYBEAST.COM
CHEAT SHEET
Mother Jones
The Red Cross, Human Rights Watch, and the New York
Civil Liberties Union have teamed up to file a lawsuit
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against the federal government, charging that it has kidnapped members of the Alpha and their human families.
According to the filing, the suit also claims that officials
know the whereabouts of nearly fifty-two missing individuals, all of whom are connected with the Alpha. The
suit demands their immediate release.
Lawyers representing the State Department call the
suit baffling and claim to have no knowledge about the
missing individuals, but NYCLU lawyer Andrea Quindlin says she has proof, including a witness who claims
to have been inside a secret camp where the Alpha are
being held.
The government has been singing this song for three
years. They throw up their hands and claim theyre in
the dark. Its a lie, and we can prove it, said Quindlin
during a press conference held this morning at the Washington Memorial Arch. They cant pretend they dont
know anything anymore. Weve got a witness who was
there. He saw what is happening.
Quindlin declined to identify the witness for fear that
it would compromise his safety but said his testimony
would be damning.
Speculation has swirled since the first member of the
Alpha vanished three years ago, along with his human
wife and two young daughters. Charles Sands and his
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