“What are you looking for?”
“Band-Aids, Neosporin,” I say. “An excuse not to be alone with him.”
“He won’t dress his wounds,” my mother says. “It’s dishonorable.”
“Mom, your people are really screwed up,” I groan as I throw the medicine into the sink. “Every day he has new ones. This Alpha tough-guy thing is going to get him sick.”
“It’s more a Triton royal family thing,” she says as she sorts through the medicine cabinet. “Though the other clans subscribe to the idea. Regardless, he considers them trophies, proof of his bravery and strength.”
“Yes, I’ve heard the whole crazy story. What are you looking for?”
She snatches an orange prescription bottle out of the cabinet. “Your father has some leftover antibiotics he didn’t finish that time he put a rusty nail through his hand.”
“Will Fathom take it?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Absolutely not, but if I dissolve it into a glass of water, he won’t even know.”
Moments later, we’re back in the living room and he’s downing the medicine mixture in one gulp. My mother gives me a wink. She’s proud she just dosed a teenage boy. Who is this woman?
I take him to my room because I’m tired of seeing my mother walking into walls while staring at him. We sit awkwardly on my bed while he rubs his neck and stares at the ceiling. I can see he’s going to lose it, and I brace for another temper tantrum.
“Let’s read,” I say, bouncing to my feet and digging into an old box of books my mother saved from when I was little. Then I return to my spot only to watch Fathom stand and pace the room. He goes to the window and looks at the blinds.
“Is it okay to open this?” he asks.
He’s so frantic, I can’t deny him, but when he pulls the cord he rips the whole contraption off the wall. I jump, remembering our last encounter in the classroom.
My mother rushes in and sees the mess, then looks at Fathom, who is still pacing.
“Why don’t you two go up on the roof?” she says.
“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.