“I know it’s not—”
“They wanted to call me Thomas, but I chose a word that sounded closest to my actual name. I can’t pronounce it on the surface, but Fathom is similar. I am named for my grandfather.”
My mother told me her real name once. It was a complex collection of sounds, part grunt, part song, part lonely moan. She said it wasn’t so harsh underwater, but none of it sounded like anything in English. My father gave her the name Summer shortly after they met. I think it suits her, but I wonder if she misses not being able to say what her parents called her.
“It could be worse. Your name could be Ghost.”
“Ghost is not a good name? What does it mean?”
I laugh. “A spirit.”
He eyes me intensely and I brace for another tantrum, but instead he laughs. It’s a wild horse locked in a corral, but it’s real. I can tell he hasn’t laughed in a very long time. He’s not even sure he remembers how. I know because he laughs just like I do.
I find myself smiling at him long enough to feel weird about it. “Let’s read,” I say as I sit down. He sits next to me and nudges his chair closer. Having him within reach of my hand flusters me. I feel anxious, like I’ve had too many venti Frappuccinos. I must be hungry. Maybe I’m getting sick.
I open the first book in the stack on my lap. It’s called Caps for Sale. This was one of my favorites when I was small.
“What is this person wearing here?” he says, pulling the book out of my hand.
“Caps.”
“Caps?”
“Another word for hats.”
He nods.
“And this takes place on an island full of monsters?”
“No,” I say as I snatch the book back. “I think I learned my lesson on the monster books, thank you very much. I don’t want you to question the logic of these stories. I just want you to listen and follow along. I’m going to point at every word as I read it. The idea is that when you hear the word and see it at the same time, you’ll make a connection and be able to read it yourself when you see it somewhere else. Then when we have a good list, we’ll talk about—well, let’s just read for now.”
I read him the books. The monkeys that steal the man’s caps seem to trouble him, but he likes Peter’s Chair well enough. The illustrations in One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish bewilder him.
“That is not a fish. A fish does not smile.”
“It’s not supposed to look like a real fish. It’s supposed to be funny.”
“Fish are not funny.”
Harry the Dirty Dog seems to amuse him, but he’s at a loss with Goodnight Moon, completely unable to grasp saying good night to a chair and a balloon. He’s so literal, unable to imagine that the books might not require such careful examination. Still, when he’s not arguing about how Harry is far more intelligent than a real dog, he watches my hand and listens to my voice. When the hour is up, he stands and reaches his hand out to me. I take it and stand. It’s warm and careful.
“I must return to the school,” he says. “Before I go, may I see this knot on your head, Lyric Walker?”
“Um, sure,” I say.
He steps close to me, brushing his wide chest against mine. It makes me shiver, and when he glides his hands along the skin on my neck and brushes my hair aside, that odd overcaffeinated feeling washes over me again. His fingers slip through the strands, and he gently tilts my head until he can see my wound.
“That is a fine trophy,” he says.
When I turn, he is nodding approvingly.
“Um, I’m sorry for hitting you the other day,” I say.
“No, you are not.” He smiles and I can’t help but laugh. Then, without a word, he runs and leaps off the edge of the building.
“NO!” I scream, and race to the side, only to see him landing effortlessly on the apartment building next door. It’s the sister building to ours, though only twenty stories high. He just fell forty feet and landed like a cat, not including the thirty-or-so-foot horizontal leap he had to make to keep himself from smashing into the side of the building.
I watch him do it again, and it is no less terrifying. Then he does it again and again, until I lose sight of him. My heart couldn’t take any more of it. But it was kind of cool.
Chapter Twelve
My father is simmering with fury.
“He was fine,” my mother says, trying to calm him down.
“Until he jumped off the roof. That was scary,” I add.
“I’m not mad at that kid,” he explains. “It’s Doyle. He sent him here. Anyone could have seen him walk into this building. Holy crap, did Novakova spot him?”
“Lyric hid him,” my mother says.
“Doyle put us all in danger, and he’s not going to get away with it.”
“Leonard—”
He waves her off. Whatever he has planned has already been decided.
“Am I going to have to give you a lecture about respecting authority?” I say.
He growls. “Get your shoes on. We’re going to get Bex.”