The Secret Sea Read Free Page B

first time in forever.
    â€œSomething wrong?” Dad asked, sliding into a seat across the table with his own plate of eggs.
    Zak considered telling his father what he’d heard. But he figured after the disaster on the subway platform (or, rather, the non- disaster), that Dad was fed up with hearing about things Zak had “imagined.”
    â€œNothing,” he muttered.
    Dad sighed. “You know, you can be angry at your mom and me for punishing you, or you can think about what you did wrong and maybe direct some of that energy toward not getting punished again in the future.”
    Dad was big on “directing energy” to the right places. Zak was tired of it, honestly. When he’d gotten up this morning, he’d been surprised to find Dad in the apartment at all—it was Mom’s turn this week. But Dad was on summer hours from the university; he could work from home. Zak’s punishment was a week’s grounding, so Dad would stay here, work from home, and make sure Zak went nowhere and had exactly zero fun.
    Three more weeks until school started, and one-third of them was now a total waste.
    Stupid guardian angel.
    â€œWant to talk about it?” Dad asked. “Maybe tell me why you lied?”
    Zak shrugged. There was no point to the talk. If he told his dad the truth, Dad wouldn’t believe him anyway—he’d already proved that by punishing Zak in the first place. So his only option other than just keeping his mouth shut was to really lie this time and come up with some reason why he’d told the “story” about the subway flooding.
    Nah. Better just to say nothing.
    â€œYou know, Mom and I are just worried—”
    â€œYou’re always worried,” Zak snapped. “That’s all you ever do. Well, I’m fine. My heart is fine. I’m not dying or anything. I’m fine. ”
    Ah, crud. It had felt good—amazing, really—to go off on Dad like that, but there would be a price to pay. Zak managed to keep staring at Dad for a few seconds but quickly felt hot shame along his cheeks; as if controlled by some external force, his eyes drifted down to his plate. He’d stirred the huevos rancheros into a tumorous mass of black sludge.
    Dad cleared his throat. “Well, fine. And if you’re not going to finish those huevos, just put your dish in the sink and head to your room.”
    Zak did as he was told. His bedroom was cramped and small, but it was his . He was surrounded by the things he loved—old books, toys that he was too old for but secretly still adored, his iPad, his Xbox. Being confined to his room for a week wasn’t as big a torture as his parents liked to think it was.
    A moment later Dad appeared in the doorway, arms folded over his chest. He pursed his lips, then held out a hand.
    Zak sighed and handed over his Xbox controller.
    â€œAnd the iPad,” Dad said.
    Zak surrendered the iPad, too.
    â€œWhat am I supposed to do all day?”
    â€œRead a book,” Dad suggested, and closed the door.
    Read a book . Yeah, right. Usually, Zak loved reading, but he’d read every book in the house (even a few of the adult books he wasn’t supposed to read), and he didn’t feel like rereading anything. He could have finished up his summer reading list, but that felt less like fun and more like work. Besides, he didn’t want the silence. He was petrified of the quiet, all of a sudden. Quiet meant that he would hear the voice if it came back.
    When it came back. He somehow knew that it would definitely, definitely come back. And for the first time, that frightened him. He’d thought he’d understood the voice, the guardian angel. It had made him feel not just special but also powerful. For his whole life, his parents had treated him like something made of filament, like one of those lace cookies that fell apart if you picked them up too fast.
    One more reason he hated solitude: