There are five of us regulars, though, and while the others catch a fish or two to bring home to their own families, we pool ours and divide them up and save a few a day for Tuesdays when we haul them down to the marketplace. We can just hide them under a tarp until then. Magic fish do a lot of things, but they don’t spoil.
We don’t make a lot of money, but it’s enough for me to buy everything we need. And I usually get at least five fish a day to bring home, and that is enough.
My favorite on the team is Mr. Carlson, whose wife has MS. We trade secrets as we learn them. I was the one who figured out the bait. Well, it wasn’t me, really. I knew this fish once who really liked seaweed. I just put the pieces together.
Mr. Carson and I share our seaweed. We got here earliest today, at about four-thirty this morning. I don’t have much time to draw anymore. And it’s too cold to think about swimming.
It’s fine.
It’s whatever it needs to be.
Maybe Diana will come and bring me lunch. She never has, so far, but I haven’t given up hope. I still think she’ll leave the house again. Someday. She can take her time. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.
Sometimes I write her letters.
Sometimes I wish I cared, but mostly . . . mostly it’s fine.
Mr. Carson has a huge pile already. It’s been a slower day for me. “You gotta focus,” he says. “Be the fish.”
“Be the fish. Okay.”
By the end of the day I have fifteen fish. That’s enough for everyone to nod and say I did okay, but I still feel bad. I need to figure out how to rig up the net. Hand-fishing alone isn’t going to cut it, but it just feels less brutal. Everyone already thinks I’m stupid because every time I catch a fish, I pause and hit it against the cliff to break its neck. “Just leave him,” they all say. “They die on their own, y’know. It’s not like they breathe.”
“I know,” I say.
Our lures bob easily in the water as we reel in our lines. The ocean has been calmer lately, almost still.
The sun is starting to go down, so I sling my basket over my shoulder and go back up to the house. Dad’s always there, cooking, to grin at me when I get in. “How’d it go?”
“Eight,” I say, and I smack a kiss on his cheek.
We sit down and eat together at the table. Mom and Dad and I eat bread and milk. Dylan is going on and on about this new girl with cancer who’s about his age. Ever since he saw her at the marketplace a few days ago with Mom, he can’t shut up about her. He thinks she’s just the best thing in the world.
I smile like I’m listening, but I let myself drift off a little. I get like this in the evenings now. I stop fishing, and nothing seems real until I give everyone a weak smile good night and go up and touch the glass of my window, so cold.
And something small and insignificant inside me shatters, just like every night, and feelings hit too hard for me to stand. I bend at the waist and cling to the windowsill. I won’t scream. I won’t throw myself against the walls until the supports give and we fall into the ocean. I won’t think about swimming as hard as I can.
No. I’ll sit here with a pencil in my hand, pretending that I will draw instead of spend hours staring at a blank page. I’ll think peaceful, practical thoughts about baiting hooks and making idle chatter with the townspeople.
I close my eyes and listen to the ocean.
I’m thinking about sailing, to England or maybe France. The way the wind would feel on my face and the sound of his voice screaming my name through his laughter. The waves would crash like applause. God, I remember when I used to be afraid of the ocean.
acknowledgments
As always, I’m infinitely grateful to everyone at Simon Pulse, particularly my absolutely incredible editor, Anica Rissi, and her lovely assistant, Michael Strother. That Anica continues to let me write these weird little books is one of the strangest and most awesome parts of my life.
Suzie Townsend and the crowd at FinePrint believed in Teeth from its inception, and John Cusick has been a very lovely stepfather to the thing. The Musers encouraged me from the start, which is quite a feat when the start in question was “I want to write a book about magic fish!” Thank you, thank you, thank you.
My incredible magic gay fish, who were named for this book and who pushed me through draft after draft, deserve metaphorical fish food galore and the world’s largest metaphorical fish tank, particularly those who did reads for me. A thousand additional thank-yous to Leah, Kat, Gwen, Mikaela, Jen, Nicole, Rachel, and Erin, for loving my characters like they were their own and gently coaxing me away from many a Supernatural marathon when I should have been writing. Sometimes it worked. To my family, Seth, Madeleine, Alex, Galen, and Emma, for loving me.
And to everyone else I have whatevered, and to everyone else who has whatevered me.
How far is too far?
Break
by Hannah Moskowitz
THE FIRST FEELING IS EXHILARATION.
My arms hit the ground. The sound is like a mallet against a crab.
Pure fucking exhilaration.
Beside me, my skateboard is a stranded turtle on its back. The wheels shriek with each spin.
And then—oh. Oh, the pain.
The second feeling is pain.
Naomi’s camera beeps and she makes a triumphant noise in her throat. “You totally got it that time,” she says. “Tell me you got it.”
I hold my breath for a moment until I can say, “We got it.”
“You fell like a bag of mashed potatoes.” Her sneakers make bubble gum smacks against the pavement on her way to me. “Just . . . splat.”
So vivid, that girl.
Naomi’s beside me, and her tiny hand is an ice cube on my smoldering back.
“Don’t get up,” she says.
I choke out a sweaty, clogged piece of laughter. “Wasn’t going to, babe.”
“Whoa, you’re bleeding.”
“Yeah, I thought so.” Blood’s the unfortunate side effect of a hard-core fall. I pick my head up and shake my neck, just to be sure I can. “This was a definitely a good one.”
I let her roll me onto my back. My right hand stays pinned, tucked grotesquely under my arm, fingers facing back toward my elbow.
She nods. “Wrist’s broken.”
“Huh, you think?” I swallow. “Where’s the blood?”
“Top of your forehead.”
I sit up and lean against Naomi’s popsicle stick of a body and wipe the blood off my forehead with my left hand. She gives me a quick squeeze around the shoulders, which is basically as affectionate as Naomi gets. She’d probably shake hands on her deathbed.
She takes off her baseball cap, brushes back her hair, and replaces the cap with the brim tilted down. “So what’s the final tally, kid?”
Ow. Shit. “Hold on a second.”
She waits while I pant, my head against my skinned knee. Colors explode in the back of my head. The pain’s almost electric.
“Hurt a lot?” she asks.
I expand and burst in a thousand little balloons. “Remind me why I’m doing this again?”
“Shut up, you.”
I manage to smile. “I know. Just kidding.”
“So what hurts? Where’s it coming from?”
“My brain.”
She exhales, rolling her eyes. “And your brain is getting these pain signals from where, sensei?”
“Check my ankles.” I raise my head and sit up, balancing on my good arm. I suck on a bloody finger and click off my helmet. The straps flap around my chin. I taste like copper and dirt.
I squint sideways into the green fluorescence of the 7-Eleven. No one inside has noticed us, but it’s only a matter of time. Damn. “Hurry it up, Nom?”
She takes each of my sneakered feet by the toe and moves it carefully back and forth, side to side, up and down. I close my eyes and feel all the muscles, tendons, and bones shift perfectly.
“Anything?”
I shake
my head. “They’re fine.”
“Just the wrist, then?”
“No. There’s something else. It-it’s too much pain to be just the wrist . . . . It’s somewhere . . . . ” I gesture weakly.
“You seriously can’t tell?”
“Just give me a second.”
Naomi never gets hurt. She doesn’t understand. I think she’s irritated until she does that nose-wrinkle. “Look, we’re not talking spinal damage or something here, right? Because I’m going to feel really shitty about helping you in your little mission if you end up with spinal damage.”
I kick her to demonstrate my un-paralysis.
She smiles. “Smart-ass.”
I breathe in and my chest kicks. “Hey. I think it’s the ribs.”
Naomi pulls up my T-shirt and checks my chest. While she takes care of that, I wiggle all my fingers around, just to check. They’re fine—untouched except for scrapes from the pavement. I dig a few rocks from underneath a nail.
“I’m guessing two broken ribs,” she says.
“Two?”
“Yeah. Both on the right.”
I nod, gulping against the third feeling—nausea.
“Jonah?”
I ignore her and struggle to distract myself. Add today to the total, and that’s 2 femurs + 1 elbow + 1 collarbone + 1 foot + 4 fingers + 1 ankle + 2 toes + 1 kneecap + 1 fibula + 1 wrist + 2 ribs.
= 17 broken bones.
189 to go.
Naomi looks left to the 7-Eleven. “If we don’t get out of here soon, someone’s going to want to know if you’re okay. And then we’ll have to find another gross parking lot for next time.”
“Relax. I’m not doing any more skateboard crashes.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Enough with the skateboard. We’ve got to be more creative next time, or your video’s gonna get boring.”
She makes that wicked smile. “You okay to stand?” She takes my good hand and pulls me up. My right wrist dangles off to the side like the limb of a broken marionette. I want to hold it up, but Naomi’s got me in a death grip so I won’t fall.
My stomach clenches. I gasp, and it kills. “Shit, Nom.”
“You’re okay.”
“I’m gonna puke.”
“Push through this. Come on. You’re a big boy.”
Any other time, I would tease her mercilessly for this comment. And she knows it. Damn this girl.
I’m upright, but that’s about as far as I’m going to go. I lean against the grody wall of the Laundromat. “Just bring the car around. I can’t walk that far.”
She makes her hard-ass face. “There’s nothing wrong with your legs. I’m not going to baby you.”
My mouth tastes like cat litter. “Nom.”
She shakes her hair and shoves down the brim of her cap. “You really do look like crap.”
She always expects me to enjoy this part. She thinks a boy who likes breaking bones has to like the pain.
Yeah. Just like Indiana Jones loves those damn snakes.
I do begging eyes.
“All right,” she says. “I’ll get the car. Keep your ribs on.”
This is Naomi’s idea of funny.
She slouches off. I watch her blur into a lump of sweatshirt, baseball cap, and oversize jeans.
Shit. Feeling number four is worry. Problems carpet bomb my brain.
What am I going to tell my parents? How is this setting a good example for Jesse? What the hell am I doing in the grossest parking lot in the city on a Tuesday night?
The feeling that never comes is regret.
There’s no room. Because you know you’re three bones closer.
SOME GIRLS ARE ADDICTIVE.
INVINCIBLE SUMMER
BY HANNAH MOSKOWITZ
“ENGROSSING, MESSY, COMPLEX, AND REAL. MOSKOWITZ’S WRITING IS RAW AND SO RIGHT.”
—LAUREN STRASNICK, author of Nothing Like You
From
INVINCIBLE SUMMER
She’s eleven!” Noah and I protest the entire time Melinda’s patting our sister’s face with powder and dabbing lip gloss on her baby mouth. “Too young for makeup,” I whine, and Noah drops his head onto Bella’s pillow so he can’t watch. But I can’t look away. Bella and I are riveted—Bella by how old Claudia looks, me by the length of Melinda’s fingers.
“I’m only giving her a little, Chasey.” Melinda traces powder over the tops of Claudia’s eyes. “Making her feel just as beautiful as she is.”
Claudia’s positively beaming.
“She’s going to be swarmed,” Noah says, his voice muffled. “Do you want her swarmed by men?”
Claudia laughs, all grown-up in the back of her throat. Ha ha ha.
“Maybe someone will fall in love with her,” Bella says, and bites her lip and looks at me.
Noah looks at me, telling me it’s my turn to object. “Too young to be someone’s lust object,” I say, then turn to Bella and mouth Eleven, to clarify. Bella had her makeup done before we got here, and now she’s studying herself in the mirror, pinching her cheekbones and pressing the skin between her eyebrows.
“You’re all too young to be talking about this love and lust shit,” Noah says.
Melinda is calm, blowing extra eye shadow off her fingers. “The point is not to be loved. The point is to love.” She puts on some kind of accent. “‘For there is merely bad luck in not being loved; there is misfortune in not loving.’”
Noah picks up his head. “What’s that?”
“Camus, darling.” Melinda takes a book from the foot of her bunk and tosses it down to Noah. “Only the most summer-oriented philosopher in the book.”
“What book?” says Bella.
Melinda examines her eyeliner pencil. “The book of life, my dear.”
“Man,” Claudia says. “That’s one big book.”
“Small font, too.” Noah sits up and cracks open the paperback. “He’s French?”
“Oui, but that’s supposed to be the best translation.” Melinda gathers her curly hair back in one hand and leans forward, examining Claudia’s eyebrows. “You guys would like him.”
Noah reads, “‘Turbulent childhood, adolescent daydreams in the drone of the bus’s motor, mornings, unspoiled girls, beaches, young muscles always at the peak of their effort, evening’s slight anxiety in a sixteen-year-old heart, lust for life, fame, and ever the same sky through the years, unfailing in strength and light, itself insatiable, consuming one by one over a period of months the victims stretched out in the form of crosses on the beach at the deathlike hour of noon.’”
We’re quiet.
“Well.” Claudia flinches at the mascara wand. “That was happy.”
“Shut up,” Noah says. “I’d almost believe he grew up here.”
I look at him, and I know by the way he’s smiling that I’m making the same face I always make when we agree. The one that looks really shocked.
“I think it’s beautiful,” Bella says, quietly.
“‘No love without a little innocence,’” Melinda recites, putting on that silly accent again.
Noah says, “Hmm,” and sticks the paperback in his pocket. “All right. You kids ready to go?”
The Jolly Roger isn’t much of an amusement park, and it’s farther away than we’ll usually stand to travel when we’re down here, but every few years we all get it in our heads that we need to go. We grab Shannon and Gideon from the living room, stuff ourselves into the van, and we’re off to see the creaky fun house and the carousel and the clumsy juggler.
All the windows are down and the wind sounds like someone yelling at us, but we’re laughing so hard we barely hear it. The girls rake their fingers through their hair to keep the tangles out, but it’s hopeless and they know it and it’s okay. The lights on every restaurant, mini-golf-course, icecream stand, and motel rush by just like the people, who are all dressed ten times better than they ever are during the year and trying ten times less hard. I feel like we’re stuck in a movie reel, roari
ng through as hard as we can and spinning the world into streaks.
“‘Gods of summer they were at twenty,’” Melinda says.
It takes Noah a few minutes to find this quote in his book. “‘Gods of summer they were at twenty by their enthusiasm for life, and they still are, deprived of all hope. I have seen two of them die. They were full of horror, but silent.’”
Melinda takes her eyes off the road to examine us all in the rearview mirror. Claudia, for a minute, stops punching Gideon and looks at us, her artificially enlarged eyes artificially sparkling. She’s beautiful—just normal, unscary beautiful—without all the makeup, but she never carries herself like she is.
“Which two?” Claudia asks.
Noah’s glued back to the book. “It could be an exaggeration.”
“I need to get a copy of this book,” I say.
Noah nods. “You so do, Chase. And so do I . . . . ”
“What’s mine is yours,” Melinda says softly. “As long as I eventually get it back.”
We park and wait by the ticket booths, calculating how much money we have and how many rides we need to go on. I’m trying to track everyone with my eyes; I feel older than the twins but younger than Claudia, who’s standing with Melinda, tossing her matted hair, while Bella and Shannon shriek and climb on each other’s backs. Gideon falls down. “Everyone needs tickets,” I say. “Someone has to watch—”
“I’ve got it.” Noah gives me one of those rare, reassuring smiles. “Melinda and I will take Gideon, okay? And you stay with Claude and the twins.”
I yank Gideon off the ground and sign Noah stay.
Noah run Gideon says, and I try not to concentrate on that.
Stay me? Noah signs.
I realize that we never try to do anything to Gideon without asking his permission. Even though he’s six, and I don’t think considering a six-year-old’s opinion usually comes with the territory. Some parts of being deaf are pretty sweet, I guess.