My dad stiffens. I know he’s going to lose it, so I take his arm. It’s as hard as a lead pipe.
“I’ll see you at the station, Russell. I want my name on your arrest,” he says, then turns to face Tammy. “He just threatened my kid.”
“He’s drunk,” she cries. “He didn’t mean it.”
“So he didn’t mean it when he punched Bex in the face?”
Tammy watches the police car drive away with her husband in the back seat. He’s bellowing and kicking the windows, snarling like a rabid dog.
“I’ve let you handle this because we grew up together,” my father continues. “But you’re not handling it, Tammy.”
“You think it’s so easy, Lenny?”
“I don’t think anything is easy,” my father says. “Don’t think that any of your excuses matter to your daughter or anyone else. You’re her mom. You’re supposed to protect her. Be a mom for once.”
“Are you really sending the dogs?” she says, panicked.
He shakes his head, disgusted. “The next time I have to deal with him, I’ll bring them myself. C’mon, girls.”
Bex hefts her shopping bag over her shoulder. A toothbrush slips out and bounces on the sidewalk. I scoop it up and slip it into my pocket.
“Goodbye, Tammy,” Bex says stiffly, and then we take her home.
My mother is waiting with spaghetti, Bex’s favorite. My friend digs in and turns on The Bex Show, an all-smiles, all-wisecracks, boys, boys, boys, and shoes variety show that refuses to acknowledge that there is something terrible going on backstage. I let it happen until we get into my room.
“Your plan sucks,” I say.
“The plan is sort of a work in progress,” she says as she digs in her bag for a T-shirt to sleep in.
“You think? So, not doing anything and pretending like everything is fine is not exactly fleshed out? I think your lip tells me everything I need to know about the plan.”
“I don’t think you’re allowed to be mad at me. As the person with the damaged lip, I think you’re obligated to give me a pass.”
“Of course I’m mad at you. I am mad that you’re his new punching bag. I am mad that you have a place to escape to that you don’t use. I am mad that you have stiff-armed me all our lives. I am your best friend, and dammit, I get to be the one who helps you with your crap. That’s my right!”
“So you’re saying I’m being stingy with my drama,” she says.
“It’s not funny!”
She throws a glance at the backpack while she continues to dig for buried treasures.
“Yes, I’m a hypocrite!” I growl.
“I didn’t say anything,” she says, but the passive aggressiveness is loud and clear.
“The backpack is in case my family gets a chance to leave,” I admit. It’s not the whole truth, but saying it out loud—it’s freeing, like I just walked out of prison. It makes me want to tell it all, but I bite my lip. I’m not ready. She’s not ready.
“Are you leaving?”
“We’ve got some things to take care of first, but yeah, we’re going to leave the Zone.”
“Oh.” She slips out of her clothes and into an AC/DC shirt I found at a stoop sale, then slides under the sheet next to me. “And you’re going all gangsta?”
The gun.
“Just in case they won’t let us go,” I say.
“Very gangsta,” she whispers.
She closes her eyes, and I flip off the light.
“Your turn.”
“I think I love Shadow.”
“Something I don’t already know, Bex!”
“That’s big,” she says, then drifts off to sleep. I sit next to her, watching as my eyes adjust and her face reveals itself in the dark. It’s not what I wanted, but I have to admit, it’s big.
We lock ourselves in my apartment, binge-watching TV shows and trying not to think about how screwed up our individual lives have become. We don’t talk about Russell, and Fathom isn’t mentioned once. It’s not like old times, but we’re doing a pretty good job pretending it is. My father spends most of the weekend at the precinct. I hear him limp in and out at crazy hours, but he calls frequently to check on us, until we tell him it’s annoying and he has to stop. My mother keeps herself busy searching the web for the latest footage from the beach. She clicks on and off sites that report on the Alpha, mostly for people on the West Coast and the middle of the country who still think it’s a charming novelty to have “mermaids” living on our shores. One of Mom’s favorite sites is run by Shadow. Tonight she’s glued to it, hoping she might find her long-lost family amid the crowds.
“We’re running out of time,” she says when I urge her to take a break. “I have to find them now. We have to get out of here.”
I think about Doyle, and Fathom, and the Niners, how Russell knew I was talking to the prince, and the angry words painted on my locker. She’s right. Time is running out for us. The walls are closing in, and I’m feeling claustrophobic.