Over My Head

  "You son of a bitch!" I yell.

  I come up off the sand, done with playing around. But before I can even take a swing at him, he grabs me by my throat and lifts me from the sand. I dangle like a doll in his grip. My head's still ringing from the tire iron. Now I'm seeing stars and I can't breathe. But I can't get loose. Every time I try, he gives me a shake. Just before I black out he tosses me back on the sand.

  I lie there wheezing. I've never run into anybody this strong before and I don't know what to do. I want to kill him for what he did to Lenny, but I play it smart and just lie there, catching my breath. Gathering my strength.

  He hunkers down, sitting on his calves. There's still no emotion on his face. He doesn't say anything, just stares at me.

  "I don't like repeating myself," he finally says. "Kill the boy and we're done. And make it look clean. Nothing that even hints at an animal attack or that cousins were ever involved. I'll give you a week. That should be time enough to do it right."

  "Kill him yourself."

  Something flickers in his eyes, then it's like I'm looking at a statue again.

  "There's nothing I'd like better," he says, "but I have to stay out of this. The other cousins can't know I'm involved."

  I try to keep him talking, hoping he'll lower his guard.

  "What've you got against Josh?" I ask.

  "It's not the boy himself. It's what they have planned for him. We need to disappear back into story and legend, not parade ourselves like cheap whores."

  "Sure," I say. "I get it."

  I make a show of moving slow as I sit up. Get my feet under me. But before I can lunge at him he reaches out and hits me at the base of my neck with the side of his hand. Just like that I lose all feeling in the right side of my body and fall face down onto the beach. I choke on a mouthful of sand.

  "See that you do," he says, standing. "One week. If you don't have the job done by then, it'll be your grandmother lying here under the sand. Or that little Mexican girl that pals around with the boy. I know you like her."

  Then he walks away. I struggle to get up. By the time I get my left arm under me and lever myself into a sitting position, he's gone. There's just me and dead Lenny left on the beach.

  If I were human, I'd have to soldier through the physical pain. But I'm not. Wildlings aren't just stronger and faster than regular people. We heal quicker, too. It's just a matter of shifting from our animal shapes and back again. I guess the physics are the same as how we can shift our clothes with us and bring them back again.

  Still don't care how it works. Just that it does.

  I embrace the animal under my skin, then shift right back to my human shape. I look down at Lenny, his face bathed in the moonlight. You know how on TV, you always see somebody closing the dead guy's eyes? I never got that till now. There's just something wrong about poor Lenny's dead stare.

  I close his eyes and stand up. I pull out my phone and call J-Dog, tell him about Lenny's call, how I found Lenny murdered here at Tiki Bay. I don't mention the old-school cousin.

  It's too early to figure out how I'm going to handle this, but I know one thing for sure. That dude's going to be dead by the end of the week. I don't care how hardcore he thinks he is.

  Then I pull Lenny the rest of the way out of the sand and sit down beside him to wait for my brother.

  Marina

  I'm at my dad's house watching a documentary on TV with my stepsisters Ria and Suelo when my sister Ampora walks in. I'm surprised to see her since she usually makes herself scarce when she knows I'm coming over. She frowns when she sees me sitting on the couch with the girls, but that's the most she can do. The first time I visited after the divorce she tore into me and Papá laid down the law. So now I mostly get the cold shoulder. She waits until school to give me the finger and mouth "pocha" when she can't avoid walking by me.

  Ampora's a year younger than me. We look a lot alike—same crazy dark hair and trim build, same cheekbones and big brown eyes—but no one would ever mistake one of us for the other because of our fashion choices. I'm the surfer girl with the built-in tan, while she makes like she runs with the bandas. I don't know if she does or doesn't for real. She never wears gang colours and Papá would kill her if she got any tattoos.

  She never comes over to my house. She and Mamá both feel the other betrayed them—Mamá by leaving Papá, Ampora by refusing to have anything to do with Mamá and me. I'll be honest. I used to come here in the hope that we could be close again, but I gave that up a long time ago. Now I just come for Papá, my stepmom, Elena, and the girls.

  "Crap," she says looking at me. "Is it Tuesday already?"

  I feel the girls tense up on either side of me, but she doesn't go on and I keep my mouth shut, so that keeps the peace.

  The documentary we're watching is about Wildlings. They just ran that old footage that everybody who lives here in Santa Feliz has seen a thousand times.

  The grainy video, shot by a surveillance camera, shows a teenage boy crossing a parking lot, about to be swarmed by a half-dozen other kids. Halfway across the lot, he changes into a hawk—snap! Just like that. The film ends with him flying out of camera range. All that's left on the ground is a heap of clothes, a pair of running shoes and the other kids staring up into the sky with their mouths hanging open.

  It's been a little over six months now since that happened, and to this day no one has any idea why some kids change while most don't, or why it's only happening to kids in Santa Feliz. There's all this talk—repeated in the documentary—about how there are no genetic markers, no sign of a virus or anomalies in the blood, which makes it impossible to predict or treat, or even develop a vaccine to prevent further occurrences. Blah blah blah. All most people living here really know is that every week or so some poor kid or another turns into a shapechanging freak. At least, those are the ones that we know about.

  The male narrator's voice is low and ominous, trying to evoke fear. He speculates as to how many teenagers among our population of twenty thousand will be changed into Wildlings, how many already have and how one of them could be a seagull floating above the pier, a lizard on your garden wall or the kangaroo rat living in your garage.

  I have all this stuff memorized by now—pretty much everybody in Santa Feliz does. I guess you'd think if you lived in the place where it was happening, you'd be sick of hearing about it, but reactions are pretty much evenly divided. The phenomenon captivates and excites people like my stepsisters, who can't hear enough about it. And then there are others who are terrified by it, wish it had never happened and want it all to just go away.

  Or those like my sister, with her own blinkered view of the situation.

  She slumps into a chair and looks at the screen. "Is this all that's on?"

  "We like this," Suelo says.

  Ria nods. "Yeah, Wildlings are cool."

  Ampora laughs. "Come on. They're not even real."

  My stepsisters look at me.

  "Of course they're real," I tell them.

  I mean, I should know, right?

  "Oh please," Ampora says. "That's exactly what they want you to think."

  "Who's they?" Ria asks.

  There's only one year's difference between my stepsisters, the same as Ampora and me. Unlike us, they get along just fine. Ria's eight and the youngest, which makes all of us want to protect her.

  "You know," Ampora says, "the government. Big business. Whatever."

  "What would be the point?" I ask.

  I don't really want to be drawn into an argument, but this is just stupid.

  "To keep us under control."

  "Why would they want to control us? We're just another beach town. There's nothing special about us."

  "Until now," Suelo says.

  Ampora ignores her.

  "We're the guinea pigs," she says. "They're running tests on us to see what they can get away with."

  "By turning kids into Wildlings."

  She shakes her head. "No, by making
up a crisis. You just wait until the quarantine comes down and we're locked up tight. Under. Their. Control."

  The sad thing is, she's not the only person who thinks like this. I know it's not true, but with people like Ampora it's impossible to change their minds. I don't really care what she thinks, but I don't like her scaring my stepsisters.

  "Is that really going to happen?" Ria asks me.

  I shake my head.

  "God," Ampora says. "How can you be so naive?"

  "I'm not being naive. No matter what you might want to believe, Wildlings are real—not a government conspiracy.

  "Just look at the surveillance footage from the 7-Eleven," I go on. "That kid turns into a hawk. You can't fake that."

  Ampora rolls her eyes. "Have you been to a movie lately?"

  Before I can answer, my stepmother Elena comes out of the kitchen and fixes Ampora with a stern look.

  "What did your Papá say about starting fights with Marina?" she asks.

  I jump in before Ampora can. "It's okay," I say. "We're not fighting. We're just talking about Wildlings."

  Elena crosses herself.

  Oh, yeah. That's another reaction: The Wildlings are a curse that can be warded off with prayers and by burning candles to the saints. Elena's reaction isn't so different from how Mamá sees it, but she's not nearly as intense about it as Mamá.

  There's footage running now on the TV of Congressman Householder being interviewed in his Washington office about the failure of his quarantine bill. Ampora points at the TV screen.

  "There," she says. "It's guys like that who are behind this. Rich old white men."

  Elena sighs and goes back into the kitchen. I don't like Householder any more than Ampora does. He's not even our representative, but I'll bet more people in Santa Feliz know who he is than they do the name of our own congresswoman. If you believe him, everything that's happening here is our fault and Santa Feliz should be sealed off before we start infecting the rest of the world.

  "Well, he's not exactly brimming with compassion," I say.

  "I could tell you what he's full of," she says.

  I smile. "Are we actually agreeing on something?"

  She pulls a face, gets up and stomps off to her room. The door slams shut. The girls and I enjoy the rest of the documentary in peace.

  We're watching a dance competition with Elena when Papá finally gets home.

  "I'm so sorry," he says when he comes through the door. "I tried to get away, but we really need to get this contract done and—"

  "It's okay," I tell him. I put my arms around my stepsisters. "I've been having a great time."

  "Elena said there was some trouble with Ampora?" Papá asks when he's driving me home.

  I shake my head. "We were just talking about Wildlings. She thinks it's a big government conspiracy and I don't."

  "Whatever the cause," Papá says, "it's a terrible thing to have happen to our young people. My heart goes out to the parents of those children who died in that laboratory."

  "Do you really think Wildlings are a terrible thing?"

  He gives me a sharp look before returning his attention to the road.

  "You're as bad as the girls," he says, meaning Ria and Suelo. "They think it's wonderful, like those books that they've read a hundred times."

  "The Animorphs," I say, referring to the girls' favourite series of books from back in the nineties, where superhero kids fight off an alien invasion by shifting into animals. Ria and Suelo can almost quote them word for word.

  "It's not natural," Papá says.

  "Maybe it's completely natural."

  He frowns at me, then shakes his head.

  "You really are as bad as the girls," he says.

  "At least I'm not in denial about it, like Ampora."

  "Ampora's stubborn—like her mother."

  "Hey, she's my mother, too."

  "You know what I mean."

  I nod and look out the window. We drive under the I-405, leaving the barrio behind. Going away from the barrio always gives me a funny feeling—like a big part of what makes me who I am has to be stripped away to become the gringa Mamá thinks I should be. But I can't turn into a good little gringa. It doesn't matter that I live on this side of the underpass, or even that I'm a Wildling now. I'll never stop being the Mexican girl whose roots are deep in the barrio. I don't care what Mamá or Ampora think.

  I'd love to come out of the Wildling closet, but that's not going to happen any time soon. I glance at Papá. Neither he nor Elena would take it well. Mamá would go ballistic and have me in church and praying for forgiveness every moment that I wasn't in school. But I'd love to see the look on Ampora's face. And the girls would be in my corner. It would be so much fun to share the secret with them, but that can't ever happen.

  I sigh.

  "You all right, mija?" Papá asks.

  I find a bright smile to give him. "I was just thinking of a history essay I have to do. I haven't even started the research."

  A short, but gentle lecture on the importance of doing well in school takes us all the way to the house I share with Mamá and my stepdad.

  "I'm sorry I was late," Papá says as I start to get out of the car.

  "I know."

  I give him a big hug and stand at the end of our walk to watch him leave. I turn to go in and my phone rings. I check the display. For a moment, "Theo Washington" doesn't register. When it does, I press Talk.

  "Chaingang," I say. "What's up?"

  "We need to talk," he says.

  "I'm listening."

  "Not on the phone."

  My pulse quickens. Something has to be wrong.

  "I'm just getting home from my dad's place," I tell him. "And I'm still grounded, remember?"

  "Can you sneak out later? I could meet you on the beach."

  "This can't wait?"

  There's a long moment of silence, then he says, "It's about Josh."

  I stiffen as worry blossoms into full-out anxiety.

  "Is he okay?"

  "Yeah, so far," Chaingang says. "You sure you can't come?"

  "Not for an hour or so. I'll get away as soon as I can."

  "Call me when you're on your way," he says. "And sweetcheeks? Be careful. Make sure no one sees you once you're out of the house."

  He cuts me off before I can tell him not to call me that.

  I go into the house, trying to hide my worry. But it's hard. The last time Josh got into trouble we almost lost him for good.

  It's almost four a.m. before I can sneak out. Mamá's had one of her restless nights and she's been up talking to the saints for ages. I've been taking catnaps, waking up every half hour or so to see if I can still hear the murmur of her voice. When I'm sure she's asleep, I put on my running gear and slip out of the house.

  I'm not planning to actually go for a run—this is early, even for me. But it's a good excuse in case I get caught coming back inside. Officially, I got grounded for three weeks for staying out all night when Josh got kidnapped. Mamá thinks I was out looking for him, which she understands. She's only mad because I didn't call. But the reason I didn't call was because that little adventure took us into some whole Wildling otherworld that kind of sits on top of the one we live in. Or maybe it's side by side.

  I know. I'm still trying to get my head around it, too. But the point is, there was no cell reception, so I couldn't have called even if I'd thought of it. Trust me, when you're that far out of the normal world, calling your mom is pretty much the last thing on your mind.

  And then, ever since the news about those murdered kids got out, Mamá's been more protective than ever.

  So I'm grounded except for school, going to Papá's and my early morning runs. No band practice. No hitting the waves. Mamá knows I'd rather surf than run, so even though I get to stay in shape, not being able to catch a wave is a hard punishment. Running doesn't even come close.

  We live less than a block from the ocean. I send Chaingang a text, then let my Wildling s
enses flood out as I jog down to the boardwalk. My running shoes are almost silent on the pavement. I can hear the wind in the palms and the siren call of the waves. The air is filled with the scents of eucalyptus and brine and a thousand other smells.

  I stop at the boardwalk and look around. This early in the morning, even the treasure hunters with their metal detectors aren't out. The machines aren't smoothing the sand. There aren't any joggers or dog walkers or anybody. It's just me. I love being out when everybody else is asleep.

  "Hey, Marina," a voice says from behind me. "Thanks for coming."

  I just about jump out of my skin before I turn to look at Chaingang.

  "How …?" I begin, but I don't have to finish because I already know.

  He didn't sneak up on me. He was already here in his Wildling mouse shape. He's probably been close by all night, waiting for my text. This has to be serious.

  "No problem," I tell him. "What's up?"

  "Let's talk by the surf," he says. "Less chance of anybody listening in."

  "Will you stop being so mysterious!"

  "I'm not being mysterious—just careful. Walk with me."

  He grabs my hand and leads me to the shore, letting go when he sees he's got my attention and I'm staying with him. We walk along the water line. The waves wash in, erasing our footsteps almost as soon as we make them.

  "Lenny Mount's dead," he finally says.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry. He was the other Wildling in your gang?"

  "Yeah."

  "How did it happen?"

  "He was killed."

  I remember how Chaingang told me this had something to do with Josh, so I say the obvious: "Because he was a Wildling?"

  Chaingang shakes his head. "No, because he knew me."

  "I don't understand."

  "Some old-school cousin killed him as an example."

  I stop and he does, too, but he doesn't look at me. His gaze is out on the ocean, tracking the slow progress of a freighter.

  "An example of what?" I ask.

  Chaingang finally turns to me. There's something weird in his eyes and it takes me a moment to figure out what it is. When I do, a chill goes up my spine.