“Why?” I reply.
“I think the prince is feeling a little locked up,” she says. “Maybe the open sky will help.”
“Huh?”
“He’s claustrophobic,” she mouths when he isn’t looking. Of course he is!
I hurry him to the elevator. While waiting for it to arrive, I watch Mrs. Novakova’s door. She’ll charge into the hall the second she hears the call bell, so I have to time this just right.
“Can we not take the stairs?” he begs.
“The roof is on the twenty-fourth floor,” I say. “By the time we get there I’ll be dead.”
I hear the elevator slowing down at our floor and then the ding. As predicted, Mrs. Novakova’s door opens just as I shove Fathom inside. It’s like trying to push a statue, he’s so big and solid.
“What are you doing lurking out here in the halls?” the old woman snaps.
“Hi, Mrs. Novakova. Hope you’re well,” I say as I dart into the elevator. I can hear her heavy feet hobbling down the hall as I fumble with the buttons, hitting the top floor and the Close Doors button at the same time.
“Why aren’t you in school?” she growls. As the doors slide shut, her fat, creepy head appears. I have to stiff-arm Fathom against the wall to make sure she doesn’t spot him. She tries to shove her foot into the gap, but she’s not fast enough and it shuts in her face. “You’re up to something, girl!”
Fathom cocks a curious eyebrow but says nothing.
At the top floor, I push open the fire door that leads to the roof. Fathom blinks into the murky sky and smiles wide. It’s such a beautiful thing, calm and carefree, and for a moment I forget I hate him.
“You’re claustrophobic,” I say.
“I do not know this word.”
“It means you’re afraid of enclosed spaces,” I explain.
“I am afraid of nothing,” he growls.
“I’m not trying to insult you. I’m saying I understand the freak-outs in the classroom now. You don’t like the walls.”
“It is the ceiling that troubles me,” he says. “I am not used to having something over my head.”
This explains so much about him and about my mother, too. Before the Alpha arrived and she was stuck in the house, she couldn’t stand to be inside. If she wasn’t on the beach, she wasn’t happy. No wonder she’s so miserable and stressed-out.
“You fell,” he says as he peers toward the beach. From up here we can see the entire shore, the Wonder Wheel, the derelict roller coaster, and the crumbling sideshow museums. He walks to the edge and stares out at the ocean. The storm is stirring it up. The waves look dangerous.
“I passed out. I get these headaches, and the pain can get pretty bad.”
“But you are well?”
“I have a knot on my head as big as a clementine, but I’ll be fine. Were any of your friends arrested?”
“My friends?”
“Yes, Surf—”
“Surf is not a friend. He is a subject,” he says stiffly. “And no, none of the Alpha were arrested.”
“Oh, okay. And your bodyguard, is she a subject?”
He eyes me carefully, then nods. “You mean Arcade.”
I nod.
“She is a friend,” he says, then turns back to the beach. Not exactly subtle, but I get the hint. He doesn’t want to talk about her.
“Come and sit.”
I lead him to a couple of old chairs. No one is supposed to be up here, but Kelly, our super, must be ignoring the rules. There are a couple of spent joints, an empty liter bottle of Mountain Dew, and four Louis L’Amour novels tucked inside a Ziploc bag to protect them from the rain. Kelly has made himself a little reading oasis up here, and the cool breeze that blows unhindered from the ocean is heaven. No wonder we can never find him when something is broken. I notice a yoga mat stashed near a ventilation shaft. I guess Mom uses the roof too.
“Your name is musical.”
“What?” I ask.
“The woman with the red cross said that your name comes from songs.”
He’s asking about me. Why is he asking about me?
“Oh, yes, lyrics are the words in songs. My mother is sort of a free spirit,” I say.
He frowns. “Your mother is not dead.”
“No, a free spirit is someone who does things her own way.” I laugh, which only enrages him. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I’m, well . . . I bet I say lots of things that don’t make any sense to you.”
“Nothing in your world makes any sense to me,” he grumbles.
Ugh, he’s so prickly. Everything I say jabs some sensitive spot or, worse, completely offends him. I really don’t want this to go south again, especially up here on the twenty-fourth floor, where he could easily toss me off without any effort.
“The red-cross lady, her name is Fiona, she tries to explain things, but there is much that I am sure I will never understand,” he continues, shifting from anger to melancholy.
“Did Fiona tell you what your name means? Fathom is a measurement of depth. It means you are six feet deep.”
“Fathom is not my name,” he says.