The Siren Song

  Dr. Sorenson blinked at her.

  “And Philonecron had these creepy clay guys that wore tuxedos. And they were following me and Zee, right? And stealing everyone’s shadows. Because Philonecron took Zee’s blood, you see, to lead the creepy clay guys to him. But Zee got back at him. He took charge of the whole shadow army and stopped Philonecron. It was amazing. So we were in the Underworld and trying to stop the whole thing. And we did! We stopped it! But Philonecron’s walking around in the Upperworld now, and I’m not sure how the gods feel about me prancing through the Underworld, and plus it’s really hard to know all this stuff about the world and not be able to tell anyone, so it can be hard to focus in school sometimes.”

  With a contented sigh, Charlotte leaned back in her chair. Wow, Dr. Sorenson was right. It did feel good to tell someone!

  Dr. Sorenson eyed her coldly. “I see.”

  “You mean,” Charlotte said in her best unsurprised voice, “you don’t believe me?”

  “Charlotte”—the doctor shook her head—“I think underneath your exterior lies a very mature girl with a lot to give the world, if you’d just give the world a chance…. I don’t know what I have to do to get you to trust me. I’m on your side.”

  Right. The only person really, truly on her side was Zee. And he didn’t wear pantsuits.

  The rest of the session went like that, with Dr. Sorenson trying to convince Charlotte of her strength and maturity and Charlotte watching Charlotte Junior swim around fruitlessly. Time passed more slowly in therapy than it did in the Underworld.

  On the way out of the building, Charlotte stopped into the bathroom to examine Mount Olympus. It was giant and red and seemed to be bigger than her nose itself. She was surprised Dr. Sorenson was able to focus on patronizing her. Grumbling, she walked out of the bathroom to find she was not alone in the lobby. There, standing and looking at the building directory, was green-eyed, rumple-haired Jason.

  He grinned as soon as she came out. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Yeah!” Charlotte said, too surprised to worry about being hideously deformed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh,” he said vaguely, “I have an appointment.”

  “Right,” Charlotte said. “Me too.”

  She wondered if Jason was seeing a therapist too. Except she couldn’t imagine why someone that cute would be in therapy, for what troubles could he possibly have? Maybe he’d sneaked out to save the world and his parents were complete fascists and he was grounded for the rest of his life too. Then they’d have so much in common—though their relationship would be tragically doomed, since both of them were grounded. And it would be yet another way in which her parents had totally ruined her life.

  “Hey,” Jason said, “did you talk to Zee today?”

  “What? Oh!” Right, Jason was on his soccer team. “Um, a little….”

  Jason leaned in, eyes sparkling. “I think he likes Maddy!”

  Charlotte blinked. “How did you know that? Did he…tell you that?”

  “Naw,” said Jason. “I could just tell.”

  Charlotte didn’t know how Jason could tell that, but she did know that somewhere, just because the words “Zee likes Maddy” had been spoken out loud, Zee was cringing and he didn’t know why.

  “Hey, look,” Charlotte said reluctantly. “I gotta go. My dad’s waiting.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Mine too.”

  Charlotte squinted at him. Didn’t he have an appointment? She’d never known how confusing cute boys were.

  “You were great, by the way,” he said suddenly. “In gym.”

  Charlotte felt her cheeks flush. “Oh. Thank you!”

  “Yeah, you must be really strong.”

  Charlotte felt her cheeks reddening.

  “And,” he added, looking around secretively, “brave.”

  She blinked. What?

  “But of course”—he leaned toward her and whispered conspiratorially—“we knew that, didn’t we?”

  A chill passed through Charlotte. What did he mean? He couldn’t possibly mean—

  “Anyway,” he said, grinning again, “I’ll see you in school.” And with that, he turned and walked away.

  Charlotte’s head was spinning when she crawled into the passenger seat of her father’s sedan. She normally made an effort to sulk all the way home from therapy, so whichever parent was driving her understood the extent of her misery. And if they suffered as a result, so much the better. But tonight she was too preoccupied.

  “Dad? Did you see a boy go inside? About my age? Dark hair?” (Impossibly cute?)

  “Oh, you mean Jason Hart?”

  “You know him?”

  “Sure. I met him when I picked Zee up at soccer the other day. Nice kid. Likes your cousin a lot.”

  “Oh,” Charlotte said. “Do you know anything about him?”

  He shook his head. “He just moved here. Not sure from where. Lives with his grandfather, I think. Why?”

  “Oh, no reason.”

  “Really?” Mr. Mielswetzski smiled slowly. “He’s an awfully handsome young boy, isn’t he?”

  Charlotte gasped. “Dad!”

  “Maybe I could introduce you? You could come to one of Zee’s soccer games, and—”

  “No!” Charlotte exclaimed. “No, it’s okay.”

  “All right,” he said. “Just let me know if you change your mind…. Oh! I have a surprise for you!”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, look in the backseat.”

  Charlotte turned. She couldn’t see anything but stacks of library books. They were clearly from the high school library and had titles like Revolution 1776 and Thomas Jefferson Unplugged. She turned to her dad and shook her head.

  “The books, Lottie! I got you a bunch of colonial history books. I think it will really enhance your experience on the cruise. You’ll have so much fun!” He was smiling so kindly at her that Charlotte didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was the lamest surprise ever.

  “The Jefferson one is particularly interesting,” Mr. Mielswetzski continued. “Did you know he and Alexander Hamilton really hated each other? It’s true! We think of our founding fathers as this big cohesive unit, but…”

  And so he talked, all the way home.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Friendly Skies

  JUST A FEW DAYS BEFORE, ON A VERY NORMAL transatlantic flight of a very normal commercial airliner, two very normal flight attendants huddled in the back room whispering about the somewhat abnormal passenger in seat 32E. Now, these flight attendants had seen it all over the years, and nothing and nobody fazed them anymore, including the guy in 32E. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t make fun of him.

  “That’s the oldest person I’ve ever seen in my life,” whispered flight attendant A.

  “I can’t believe he can sit up straight,” mumbled flight attendant B.

  “I can’t believe he’s not drooling on himself,” muttered flight attendant A.

  “Did you see his suit? It looks like it’s from a hundred years ago,” murmured flight attendant B.

  You cannot blame the flight attendants for whispering—you would have noticed him too. His suit was certainly nothing you’d ever seen before—an old-fashioned suit in the oddest shade of blue. Or was it blue-green? The color seemed to change slightly as you looked at it. He was thin and frail and, despite a lack of wrinkles, gave the impression of great age, and his skin seemed the texture and firmness of tissue paper. He was the sort of person you desperately hope does not sit next to you—and always does.

  Indeed, the boy in the seat next to him looked none too happy. He was quite a handsome boy too, with dark rumpled hair and eyes that were a startling shade of green. The boy sat with his arms crossed and gaze lowered, headphones in his ears to discourage any attempt at communication. Every once in a while the extremely old man glanced at him and opened his mouth as if to speak, but the boy would not acknowledge him.

  “He might be from a hundred
years ago,” whispered flight attendant A.

  “I’m worried he’s going to croak on the plane,” agreed flight attendant B.

  But the flight attendants were wrong. This man was not going to die on the plane, or anywhere else for that matter. For this man was not a man at all but a god.

  Most gods, of course, do not avail themselves of mortal transportation—and when they do, they certainly do not fly coach. But this particular god loved mortals. He loved all their inventions and aspirations, their conventions and contraptions, their synthetic flavors and stain-resistant fabrics. They worked so hard at it too—like if they could just invent a way to keep white shirts white, they might keep from dying a little longer. But they couldn’t, that was the thing—all the inventions and contraptions in the world wouldn’t change the fact that they always smelled of death.

  It was adorable.

  No, this was not one of the gods who wished for the extinction of the species, for the world would be so sad without them, like a zoo entirely devoid of animals. And what kind of a zoo was that? A bad zoo.

  There were those, of course, who didn’t believe Immortals should travel in the human realm at all, literally or metaphorically. Because the whole point of this whole just-kidding-it’s-only-a-myth thing is that you don’t have to deal with mortals anymore. Because mortals are such lowly beings that even being around them gives you a rash. Because mortality as a notion makes you feel slightly oogy. And mostly because the next thing you know, your cover will be blown and you’ll be at the mortals’ beck and call once again, and no one wants that.

  But this particular god thought they should all lighten up, for what was the point of having humans if you couldn’t involve yourself with them? Oh, not involve involve—like, I’m your god and if you sacrifice to me I’ll really help you out when times are rough, you can count on me, I am your rock, a bridge over troubled water involve. Don’t be ridiculous. There are so many other ways for an Immortal to interfere. One might like to shoot a golden arrow at a woman’s heart and make her love a man from a neighboring village, another might like to toss the Apple of Discord between the two lovers and break them up horribly, a third might like to start a war between their villages that resulted in the complete destruction of everything around them. Everyone needs a hobby. What’s the point of having the ability to spread a horrid, pustule-induced pestilence across an entire famine-ravaged country if you’re not allowed to do it, eh?

  Officially, of course, the message from Up High these days was Do Not. Keep Away. Hands Off the Merchandise. Unofficially, the rule was simpler: Don’t Get Caught.

  In other words, one could not run willy-nilly through the mortal realm singing, “I am a god, bow before me, or else I’ll turn you into a chicken.” It just wasn’t done. Subtlety was the key. If you really wanted to turn someone into a chicken, you had to do it quietly.

  But even if this god wanted to, he couldn’t turn someone into a chicken. He couldn’t make people fall in love or make them hate each other, couldn’t start a war or a plague. He had only one real ability, one wonderful ability—and he rarely got to use it anymore. For it was his job to serve Poseidon, the Lord of the Sea—which he was honored to do, really, truly, and he wasn’t complaining by any means, and even if he was, you wouldn’t tell Poseidon, would you?—not gallivant through the fields of mortality. And after one of his rare excursions some years ago resulted in a rather troubled mortal son who took his attention away from his duties, Poseidon had put the kibosh on any more adventures. And by “kibosh,” he meant—well, you don’t want to know.

  But now Poseidon had forgiven him and given him a mission. A real mission. It was good for the ol’ self-esteem, really. It was important in life to use your skills, to reach your full potential. He was all about reaching your full potential. As he kept trying to tell his son.

  He had not been this excited in ages, really—he felt like a newborn child viewing the world for the first time. And he found himself whistling as he shuffled off with the mortals—talking to one another, reading their newspapers, plugged into their gadgets, entirely unaware of the Immortal in their midst. Sometimes he got the urge to reveal himself to them, to see their faces as they tried to comprehend his vast and terrible divinity, to—

  “Sir?”

  He looked toward the voice. A flight attendant was standing next to him, smiling a waxy smile. “Sir, do you need a wheelchair?”

  He blinked. “A what?”

  “A wheelchair?” she repeated loudly. “It’s a long way to baggage claim.”

  He eyed her coldly. “No,” he said, “I’ll be just fine.”

  Just outside of the gate, the green-eyed boy was leaning against a pillar, looking at the god suspiciously. The god walked over to him and whispered, “Wait here.”

  “What are you going to do?” the boy hissed.

  “Reach my full potential.”

  A few minutes later he stood inside the men’s bathroom staring into the mirror. If you looked at him, you might see a very old man with an aqua-colored bowler hat and a tuft of white hair sticking up from either side of his head, but he saw—well, he also saw an old man with an aqua-colored bowler hat and a tuft of white hair sticking up from either side of his head—but he also saw possibility. That is what it is to be a god—possibility.

  There was shuffling in a stall behind him, then a tall, dark-haired man emerged, washed his hands, and exited while the god studied him. A few moments later, the god gave himself one last appreciative glance in the mirror and then strode out the door, heading back to the gate. He ignored the boy who shook his head disgustedly.

  The flight attendant was still there, typing something into a computer. Straightening himself, the god approached her.

  “Excuse me,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I couldn’t help noticing you from across the room. Would you like to have a cup of coffee with me sometime?”

  The woman looked up, and when she saw him a slow smile spread across her face. She raised her eyebrows flirtatiously.

  “Well,” she said, looking him up and down. “Hello, handsome!”

  CHAPTER 5

  The Perils of Being a Fish

  WHEN CHARLOTTE CAME DOWN TO BREAKFAST THE next morning, her parents were still at the table, eating fiber-rich cereal and grapefruit. Every few months they went on a health kick, which meant that just about everything with any flavor at all disappeared from the house. Parents never considered how much their children suffered when they did things like that.

  “Good morning, sweetie!” Mr. Mielswetzski said. “Would you like a grapefruit?”

  Charlotte winced. “No, thanks, Dad. I’ll just make myself a bagel.”

  “Your loss,” he said congenially, plunging his spoon into the center of the fruit with such alacrity that a squirt of juice hit him in the eye.

  Right. Charlotte fixed herself a bagel with strawberry cream cheese and settled herself at the counter, where she flipped through the newspaper and tried to ignore her parents. At least when they talked about their diet, they weren’t yelling at her.

  “We’re going to have to be careful what we eat on the cruise,” Mrs. Mielswetzski was saying.

  “There’s going to be so much food,” agreed Mr. Mielswetzski.

  “It’s all about making healthy choices,” said Mrs. Mielswetzski.

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. If there was a lot of food on the cruise, she was going to make as many unhealthy choices as possible. She had to have some fun.

  When she was done, she hopped out of her chair. “Um, I wanted to get to school early today, if that’s okay?”

  Both of her parents looked at her as if she’d said she thought she’d like to live out the rest of her days in a convent.

  “Really?” said her father.

  “Why?” said her mother.

  “I’m supposed to meet Zee.” This was technically true, although Zee didn’t know it yet. Zee usually took the early bus, and Charlotte wanted to ask him about Jason Hart. T
he night before, she’d decided he couldn’t possibly have meant what it sounded like he meant by “but we knew that already”; she must have misheard him, or misunderstood him, or something. There was simply no way some random cute boy was going to appear in the halls of Hartnett Middle School knowing about everything. Or at least if he did, it would be to take her off to his evil lair and feed her to a Hydra, and Jason didn’t seem to be about to do that. Plus—and this was hard for Charlotte to believe—he seemed to actually like her. Still, she wanted to talk about it with Zee.

  “Oh,” Mr. Mielswetzski exclaimed. “Your cousin called last night.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes, when you were at therapy. I forgot.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “You forgot?”

  “It happens,” he said with a shrug. “Sorry, Lottie.”

  Charlotte grumbled inwardly. If she did that sort of thing, it was a sign of how irresponsible she was. If one of her parents does it, well, it happens.

  “Did he say anything?”

  “No, just to call him.”

  Charlotte frowned. Zee didn’t call her much, nor did anyone else; the terms of her grounding meant she could only talk on the phone for five minutes, total, which made it basically impossible to say anything at all. If he had anything to tell her, he usually waited until school.

  But maybe something had happened, something that couldn’t wait. Maybe Jason said something to him, or maybe he’d heard from Mr. Metos! With a quickening heart, Charlotte dashed upstairs to get ready for school.

  But Zee was nowhere to be found in the morning. When it got to be time for homeroom, she waited outside the room for him, but when the bell rang there was still no Zee. Maybe he was gone. Maybe Mr. Metos had come back to get them, and it was a now-or-never thing, and since her father hadn’t bothered to give her the message, Zee had left with him and now Charlotte was all alone. That would be typical of her life.