Of Poseidon Read Free Page B

the plane in Jersey? Since we turned twelve? “Yeah right, Chloe.
    You’ll have to do better than that if—”
    Her scream is blood- congealing. Her eyes balloon almost out of their sockets, and the creases on her forehead look like stairs. She grabs her left thigh, holding it so tight one of her fake nails pops off .
    “Stop it, Chloe! It isn’t funny!” I bite my lip, trying to keep
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    Another nail pops off . She reaches for me but misses. Her leg jerks back and forth in the water, and she screams again, only much, much worse. She clutches the board with both hands, but her arms are shaking too much to stay anchored. Real tears mix with seawater and sweat on her face. Her sobs come in huge gulps, like she can’t decide if she wants to cry or scream again.
    And I am convinced.
    I lunge, grasp her forearm, scoot to her on the board. Blood clouds the water around us. When she sees it, her screams become frantic, un- human. I lace my fi ngers through hers, but she barely grips back.
    “Hold on to me, Chloe! Pull your legs up on the board!”
    “No, no, no, no, no, no, no,” she sobs, choking between breaths. Her whole body shakes, and her teeth chatter as if we’ve somehow drifted into the Artic Ocean.
    And the fi n is all I see. Our hands separate. I scream as the surfboard tilts and Chloe is wrenched from it. The water snatches away her shriek as she’s pulled under. Blood trails behind as she becomes a shadow, moving deeper and deeper, further and further away from light, from oxygen. From me.
    “Shark! Shark! Help! Somebody please help us! Shaaaaaaaaark! ” I fl ail my arms and scream. Kick my legs and scream. Bounce up and down on the surfboard— and scream and scream and scream. I slide off , stick the board in the air, wave it with all my strength. The weight of it forces me under. Terror and water cocoon me. For a second, I’m four years old again, drowning in
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    my grandmother’s pond. Panic settles on me like stirred- up 0—
    muck. But unlike then, I keep tethered to reality. I don’t detach;
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    I don’t let my imagination take over. I don’t dream of catfi sh and striped bass pushing me to the surface, rescuing me.
    Maybe it’s because I’m older. Maybe it’s because someone else’s life depends on my staying calm. What ever the reason, I keep my grasp on the surfboard and pull myself up, swallowing part of a wave as I surface. The saltwater stings my raw throat even as the fresh air chases it.
    The people on shore are specks, moving around like fl eas on a dog. No one sees me. Not the sunbathers, not the shallow- water swimmers, not the moms hunting shells with their toddlers.
    There are no boats, no Jet Skis nearby. Just water, sky, and a setting sun.
    My sobbing turns into lung- bursting hiccups. No one can hear me. No one can see me. No one is coming to save Chloe.
    I push the surfboard away, toward shore. If the waves carry it in, maybe someone will see that its own er didn’t return with it. Maybe they will even remember the two girls who took it out. And maybe they will look for us.
    Deep inside, I feel I’m watching my life fl oat away on that glistening board. When I peer down into the water, I feel I’m watching Chloe’s life fl oat away with that faint trail of blood, blurred and weakened by each passing wave. The choice is clear.
    I breathe in as much air as my lungs can take without popping. And then I dive.
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    4
    TOO LATE.
    As fast as he is, Galen is too late. He powers through the current as the fl oor of the gulf slants steeper and steeper. Every time he hears Emma’s desperate screams, he pushes harder, harder than he’s ever pushed himself before. But he doesn’t want to see it. What ever is happening to her to make