graffiti that stretches all the way down to Coney. We weave through

the late beach crowd, the kids with red, sticky Italian ices, girls

reading while two guys try to beat box battle beside them. Watching

Kurt fumble with the turnstile and having it hit him on the back is

the highlight of my day.

The car we board is fairly empty. A group of extremely loud kids

hang out on the opposite end from us. They swing on the metal bars and

dare each other to race between cars when the doors open.

“What are you thinking, Kurtomathetis ?” Layla stands beside him,

holding on to the bars with both hands so she looks extra long.

Even his shrugs are proper. “It’s amazing really, the way these

lines represent your city. It’s like the channels under the sea, the

veins in our bodies connecting everything.”

She looks like something is caught in her throat. Her hand goes

right to the protective shell that hangs just under her clavicle.

I could be all poetic and stuff. If I wanted to.

At the next stop an older lady sits beside us in our corner,

clutching her frilly purse. She snarls her thin lips at me, just like

the old lady in the elevator at the hospital. Unbidden, Nieve’s face

comes to mind. Her irises, like the white of lightning, her blue lips

and bloody gums. My temples burn as if someone is holding hot pokers

on either side of my head and digging in.

“Tristan!” Layla kneels in front of me. She puts her cool hands on

my face. Even with the air conditioning pumping from the vents, I’m

sweating.

The old woman pushes past us and gets off when the train stops and

the doors open. Well, that was that. The sensation subsides.

“I wish I could stop seeing her.”

“Nieve?” Kurt looks around the car as though we’ll be attacked any

moment.

What I don’t say is that I can feel her getting stronger, that the

white of her eyes pulls me in and I need all the strength I have to

shut it away.

The conductor shouts, “West Eighth, New York Aquarium! Next stop,

Coney!”

“This is us,” I go.

The kids on the other end of the car shout over something funny

someone says. The doors chime open, and we leave them to their

unbridled, unworried laughter.

The last time I showed up at the Wreck was the week before the

storm. Ryan wouldn’t let up about my making an appearance, because if

there’s someone you want as your wingman, it’s gotta be me.

The owner’s son, Jimmy Haggerty, mops the bar with a rag that

looks like no amount of bleach will ever get it clean. He nods at me

in that way guys do, while drying a glass with the same rag.

The Wreck is the coolest place on the boardwalk, hands down.

Angelo and the guys have taken over an entire corner of the place.

There is a Mount Everest order of hot wings so red they almost glow.

Kurt takes in the room and says, “Thalia would enjoy this. It

reminds me of Tortuga Cove. Except that there are no pirates here.”

A man in full pirate costume walks in. Pirate Pete and Captain

Loveday are part of a tour about the heyday of Coney Island, when the

streets were cobblestone and lit up like Vegas. When there was a hotel

shaped like an elephant, and the best rickety roller coasters in the

entire United States.

“I retract my statement,” Kurt says, breaking into a rare smile.

“Were you really so hungry you had to make a pit stop?” Layla

asks, taking a seat closer toward the entrance.

“Relax,” I say. “I have a good feeling about this.”

Her face becomes an instant smile, the way she used to smile at me

before-everything. She squints, and the black fringe of her lashes

looks like it’s nestling the gold of her eyes. The sun breaks behind

me and lights up her cheekbones and the rich browns in her hair. I

smile back, even though I don’t know what we’re smiling about.

Then she says, “Marty!” and her chair flies back as she

practically flies to him.

Marty pulls up a stool beside me. He shakes Kurt’s hand and avoids

my eyes when he holds out his hand to me.

“Fancy seeing you here,” I go, leaning casually against my chair.

“On land. Out here in the world.”

He slumps down. “Dammit! Shouldn’t you be in school right now?”

I sit up straight. “Guess today’s just my lucky day.” I add, “

Na-na-na, boo-boo ,” in a hushed voice so just he can hear it.

Marty fixes his cap from side to side. “Okay, I promised I’d tell

you what I am.”

I’m unable to keep the smugness from my face. “Let’s have it.”

“Not here, bro. It’s one of those believe-it-or-not things.” And

even though he says that, he leans into Layla’s ear and whispers. She

stares at Marty with a sort of wonder that is rare for her lately. It

was the same expression she had when she saw the Sea Court, when my

grandfather gave her the shell around her neck. I wish she’d look at

me that way, but all I get is Tristan Hart, her best friend, who

kissed another girl while he already had a girlfriend.

I turn to Layla. Trusted lifetime best friend. “Come on, spill

it.”

Kurt comes to my defense. Trusted merman sidekick. “Now, that’s

hardly fair to Tristan. He’s been very patie-” Layla cups her hands

around his ear and whispers to him !

“Interesting.” Kurt tilts his head at Marty, who in turn takes off

his cap and bows like he’s just finished an encore. “I never would’ve

guessed. Though it completely makes sense.”

“That’s not cool, guys,” I say.

Toward the back of the bar, Angelo and the guys have massacred

half of their wings. The princesses look at them with something that

crosses between hunger and disgust. Maybe with a splash of

fascination. I wonder how come Gwen isn’t with them.

“Trust me. You’re new to this world. You have to see it to believe

it, dude.” Marty puts his cap back on. I’m about to argue that Layla

isn’t even part of this world and is more human than I am, but I don’t

feel like getting her right hook again. Marty calls out to the

bartender, “Hey, Jimmy, let me get five bucks of the Rocky Mountains

to stay and the Andes Picante wings to go.”

I pull out the black leather wallet my dad gave me when I turned

fifteen. Behind my ten-dollar bill is a photo-booth picture I’d

forgotten about. It’s me and Layla from the summer before high school.

I’m holding my finger in my mouth like a hook. My face totally is

leaned into Layla’s. She couldn’t even hold her funny face without

cracking up. I push it down before she can see me looking at it.

“Put your pretzel monies away, Little Prince,” Marty goes. “This

round’s on me.”

Kurt, the rigid MerWonder, scratches the back of his neck and

glances carefully around the room. I hate when he does that. He says,

“This is all great, but we have some pressing-” But he doesn’t finish.

The distinct sound of a gunshot jolts us. We duck, but the screams

come from the boardwalk.

I grab my backpack and run out the door, pushing past the crowds

of onlookers. Straight ahead, where there are scattered

rainbow-colored beach umbrellas, people grab hold of their things and

run away from the beach. Memories of the day of the storm fill my

head. I realize it’s just a world of people who run the other way.

I search the clouds for a bit of black, anything that might

suggest it was thunder and lightning and another wave. But the sky is

an endless blue.

Emergency 4x4s honk at the traffic of people on the boardwalk.

Farther away, police sirens wail. The crowd parts for a man with a

bald head that’s been slicked with suntan oil. In his arms is a heap