"I had to unplug the house phone, because somehow every reporter in New York City has our number."

"Yeah," I go. "Layla said the Brooklyn Star is all over it. Maybe we should charge them a dollar every time they call."

"It's not worth the invasion of privacy," Dad says.

"Or the government people who'll want to take you away," Mom says, which makes everyone laugh. Except I think she's really serious.

Maddy runs a hand over the length of her braid, something she does when she feels uncomfortable and awkward, which is pretty much all the time. She's painted her nails black, which is surprising since her mother doesn't even let her own makeup.

"You got lucky," she says to me, but keeps her eyes on the road ahead. "I don't know how you got so lucky, but someone out there is madly in love with you."

I want to shrink into my seat at that. That was the last thing she said to me the night before the storm. The night of the bonfire at the beach when she saw me kissing another girl right after she said the words, "Tristan, I am madly in love with you."

"How does pizza sound?" my dad asks.

"Good," the three of us say in unison.

The sky rumbles, and the staticky radio station has completely gone into white noise. Dad pulls over in front of Dominick's Pizza on the corner of our street. Lightning crashes in the distance. The streets are uncommonly empty. Layla and Maddy volunteer to get us a table and run inside, even though it doesn't look necessary. I walk a little slower behind them as they whisper hand in hand and turn only once to look at me over their shoulders. Girls.

There is only one man sitting in the pizzeria at the counter in front of the window. The man's skin is sunburn-leather brown, and he wears a blue cap with the words "Save the Whales" st.i.tched in white. There's something funny about one of his eyes. It's coated with a yellow film. The other one is perfect. He rests his chin on his knuckles. I push the door and it jingles. The men behind the counter are already showering the girls with attention, getting the booth ready for five as if we're the only customers they've seen all day. With the exception of the "Save the Whales" guy.

When the man sees me, he sets his bad eye in my direction and points out the window.

"Can't be long now," he says.

"For what?" I'm born and raised in Brooklyn. I know better than to engage with the crazies. But his craziness makes me feel less so.

He shakes his head, picks up his paper plate, translucent with pizza grease, rolls it into the cylinder shape of a telescope, and puts his good eye to one opening. He points the other end toward the sh.o.r.e. "No, not too long. Must be quick. Vicious they is." He smacks his lips like he's still trying to taste the tomato sauce on them.

I'm about to say, "Quicker than who?" but Mom and Dad walk in with a jingle. They hold hands and look from me to the old man. I shrug and stand aside, kind of wanting to hear more of what he has to say but knowing I should really go and sit down.

The man crunches up his telescope into a little ball and throws it over his shoulder onto the floor, the way my mom does with salt. He makes for the exit. There's a heavy thud on the ground when his wooden leg struggles to hold his weight.

He leans in close to me and whispers, "Don't go trustin' them." He points at his face. "They'll take your eyes out, they will."

He looks at my mother as if he's surprised to see her standing there, like he knows her. He straightens out his cap and smooths his face where pizza crumbs cl.u.s.ter at the corners of his lips. He bows a little. "My Lady," he says, and then is down the street as fast as anyone with a wooden leg can hobble.

"Gotta love Brooklyn," Dad says with a smile. He tucks his Ray-Bans into his shirt, and Mom and I follow him to where Maddy and Layla sit.

After we decide on a meat-lover's pizza and a Hawaiian with extra cheese, Mom takes a sip of her ice water and looks right at me with her mirror turquoise eyes. "I hope you don't mind. We invited some of the other lifeguards and your coach for a little welcome-home celebration tomorrow."

I'm not really in the mood for people. I'm just glad I'm breathing. I scratch at my throat where I'm breaking out in a rash.

Layla looks over at me. "You need a real good shower, Finn."

"You're not allowed to call me that," I say. This is good. If I argue with Layla, I'll feel like something is still normal.

"Oh, you love it," she says.

"Can't you be nice to me for one more hour before you start hating me again? Pretty please?" I grab a garlic knot and put the whole thing into my mouth.

"I do not hate you" is her response. I can't see her face, because Maddy is sitting between us. "Maybe a little, but only because you didn't listen to me when I was screaming at you not to go into the water."

Maddy whispers, "I was screaming that too." But no one addresses that.

"He's fine," Mom goes. "That's what matters."

Two steaming pies are set in front of us. My stomach is making happy noises, and for three whole slices I sit there eating without saying anything.

When the waiter comes around again, he looks at me and claps his hands together. "Man, you're that guy!"

People acting weird around me, Take 1.

"Man, can I take a picture with you?" he asks, grabbing his cell phone from his pocket. "I want to show my girlfriend. She thinks you're like awesome, man."

"But I didn't do anything," I say. He doesn't hear it, because he shouts toward the kitchen, "'Ey, Dad, it's the Perfect Storm guy!"

A round man in an ap.r.o.n stained with tomato sauce, giving him the look of an all-too-happy butcher, comes out. His thick, smiling mustache reminds me of Super Mario. "Oh, my boy!" He comes around the table, leans over Maddy, and kisses me on both cheeks. "The pizza is on the house! Brave boy."

Dad slaps the waiter on the arm like they're buddies and says, "Mike, no more pictures. You understand."

"No problem, my man." Mike puts away his phone, and they return to the kitchen.

"I really hope that's the last time that happens," I say, laughing despite myself.

"At least you got kissed by an Italian guy," Layla says. "How many guys do you know who have that street cred?"

"What about that time you and Angelo-" Maddy starts, but I cut her off.

"Whoa, hey. So anything else I need to know? As in, I don't have to go to cla.s.s for the rest of the month?"

"You really must've hit your head on something," Dad says.

"Great. Good, I'm glad we're laughing at my tragedy so soon." More garlic knots. It's not like I'll be kissing anyone later, I think.

"Listen, you kids can hang out at the house, stay up all night." Mom fidgets with her necklace. "Just don't touch my strawberry ice cream."

"Oh, actually, I have to go home, if that's okay," Maddy whispers. For a second I forgot she was there. "Do you care if I bring some friends to your party?" She looks at me with her big blue eyes and sort of reminds me of a lost kitten.

"What friends?"

She scoffs. "I have friends."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Yes, you did. You just don't know it."

"How can I do something without knowing it?"

She stands up from the table, her chair sliding back and falling with a thud. "You do everything without knowing, don't you?" She looks at my mom, her lips trembling, and I know she's going to cry and everyone is going to blame it on me. "I'm sorry," she says, looking down at her feet because she can't seem to look at my parents. "Thank you for the pizza."

"Maddy," Layla and I call after her. But she's already out the jingling door.

Dad picks up the chair and sets it straight. "Am I to understand that you two are no longer going out?" He says going out in quotation marks.

"No, we're not going out anymore."

My parents trade sly glances.

"What?"

They shrug together, but they don't answer. They look at Layla, who makes a zipper motion over her lips.

"If we'd known, we wouldn't have invited her to the hospital. Poor girl." Mom folds a napkin into an accordion.

"By we, your mom means she," Dad says in a whisper that's meant to be heard.

"Yeah, well, I was kind of lost at sea." I sit back and leave the piece of crust I was nibbling on alone.

Outside, the thunder breaks through the darkening sky. It starts to rain. I really do hope Maddy gets home safely. She only lives a few blocks away. I picture her answering my mom's call telling her I was alive. Maybe she was wishing I'd stay gone. I slump lower against my seat, feeling a little bit like the pieces of crust on my greasy plate.

No matter what they say on the news and in the papers, I'm not a hero. I didn't save the person I meant to save. I'm not even sure anyone was out there.

From the moment that wave crashed over me, I've felt different. I smell things differently. I hear differently. I know that there's something I can't remember. It's taking shape in my head, but it's like looking at a picture that's out of focus.

I throw the covers off and go to the living room. My mother has owned our apartment since before she met my dad. It is technically two apartments now with a few walls broken down to make one huge place. Two bathrooms, my room, my parents' room, Dad's office, a dining room, and a living room with huge windows looking out to the Coney Island sh.o.r.e. The walls are gray blue with white trim, except for the kitchen, which is yellow.

I lie across the chocolate leather sofa, and when I can't find a soft spot, I lie on the giant, furry sheepskin rug. I remember being little when my mother bought this rug. I thought she'd gone out hunting and killed the abominable snowman. I used to stretch out reading a book, picking out tortilla chips and popcorn from the hairs before my mother noticed.

I push myself up and stand in front of our entertainment center, which my dad built from pieces of an ancient shipwreck. We call it the public library because books cover the whole wall, from floor to ceiling. I run a finger along their spines, leather-bound books older than this apartment building and slick new paperbacks.

I feel like I'm looking for something but I don't know what. I shut my eyes and stop at a black leather-bound book with a worn spine. Fairy Tales and Other Stories by Hans Christian Andersen. We have everything he ever wrote and everything everyone has written about him. Mom's always wanted me to read fairy tales. Sometimes I'd tell her she and Dad should've tried for a daughter, and then I realized I was telling my parents to keep having s.e.x. That's why I think she loves Layla so much. She's like the daughter Mom probably wanted me to be. Even though I never want to think of Layla as my sister, I never want her to go away either.

I flip through the black leather-bound book and notice something I never have before. It's signed. It says, "Maia, ever drifting, drifting, drifting." Followed by a signature scrawl I can't quite make out.

I shut the book and put it back in place.

My head is throbbing. A steady dull pulse at my temples. I drink a cup of water and take it back into Dad's study, where electronic parts go to die. I step on a little silver rectangle with green wires sticking out and bite my tongue to keep from yelling out. Dad likes taking things apart to see how they work, and then he tries to put them back together. Tries.

The Apple desktop computer is on screen saver, a stream of pictures from our lives. Us on the Wonder Wheel, me eating a corn dog, Mom holding me on the beach, me and Layla at Six Flags, me holding my swimming trophies, my elementary-school graduation, Mom jumping in the air at the park.

It's like all these things happened to a different guy in a different life.

I wonder if something happened to me in the water. I trace the cuts on my neck, which are already scabbing over. What happened to me? I can keep asking myself that, but I might as well be asking the ocean itself. And maybe I have to snap out of it, because I might never know.

I give the mouse a little shake, and the pictures go away. I click on the Internet icon and type "near-death body changes" into Google. It's all a bunch of white lights and tunnels, angels and the voice of G.o.d, and waking up with the ability to get radio signals in your brain.

I don't have that. At least I hope I don't start getting radio signals in my head. Then again, that might make sitting through cla.s.s more entertaining. But what if I only ever get one station?

My headache gets worse. The computer screen bothers my eyes. I finish my gla.s.s of water and go back to bed. My room spins around me like after riding roller coasters all day and then trying to lie down. I pull my covers tightly around me. I'm so tired, but I'm afraid to close my eyes.

The minute I do, I'm back in that water.

The first thing they tell you is not to panic.

Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.

I wasn't panicking when my gut told me to ignore how the clouds turned from white to black, how the waves got higher with each crash, the fleeing screams around me. I didn't panic, and I dove into the middle of the water to save her.

But every time I surface, she isn't there, and I keep getting farther from land. I'm pulled under with so much pressure I can barely move my arms and legs. The one gulp before I'm truly under escapes in tiny bubbles. The suction of the undulating waves tosses me like a bit of driftwood. I can't tell which way is up or down, but as the water stills, I swim to where it lightens. The moon makes a streak of weak light through the water, like my personal lighthouse beam leading me home.

Something ice-cold touches my spine. When I turn around, nothing is there. There's a trail of foam in its place, and I pray to every G.o.d that has ever or will ever exist that it's not a shark.

In the lighter water, blood clouds around me. I don't think anything bit me, but my throat and ribs burn like nothing I've ever felt before, like the skin there is burned to a crisp. My feet ache the way they do when I run barefoot on hot sand for too long. The still water churns faster and faster and faster, and I don't know what to worry about first-the cuts on my neck, the burning in my muscles, or the whirlpool that's starting with me at its center.

When I try to kick, I keep sinking. The whirlpool pulls me farther and farther away from the surface. I can't see the bottom, just pitch-black and more pitch-black. The pressure around me feels as though my bones will turn to foam. I scream because that's what my mind tells me to do. A m.u.f.fled sound and some bubbles is all I get, even though I know if I were on land, all of New York would be able to hear me.

Then, as fast as the whirlpool started, it stops spinning. The current changes to a gentle bob, and I swear-I swear on every trophy I've ever won-that the water is taking me somewhere.

I float over a cl.u.s.ter of giant black rocks that seem to be the beginning of an even bigger precipice. Bits of light start blooming. They're pinp.r.i.c.ks around the rock at first, then blooms of seaweed that glow like the buzzing neon sign of a bodega. Starfish with beads of glowing lights. Fish in colors that live in between other colors. A long red fish with the longest golden fins spins around my head. It presses its face against my cheek.

Somewhere in the distance there's a deep wail-an angry guttural sound that echoes on the rocks until it becomes the tail end of a sigh. The fish scatter, and everything stops glowing.

I'm alone again.

I fight the numbness in my legs and use all my strength to push myself up. I've spent every day of my life swimming, but doing laps around a pool is different from pushing yourself up to the surface when you're in the middle of the ocean. The pressure down here is like a vise grip around my limbs, but I swim, harder than I ever thought I could, until the water looks lighter and I can see my hand in front of my face again.

A white shape comes into focus in the distance. The echo is back. This time it's a song-cry, a lullaby that feels like it's slithering into my heart and finding pieces to break. I let it calm me, pull me back down. I stop fighting to get to the surface and think about my mom and her shining red hair, her sad turquoise eyes when they find me. She always told me I was born to swim, but I don't think this is what she meant. I think of my dad fixing computers alone in his office. I think of Layla, despite myself, and wish I'd chosen her every time.

The song-cry is closer still. My leg muscles get that familiar twinge when I'm in the water too long, like muscle bending the wrong way. My eyes are getting blurry. I keep stroking, but there isn't any strength behind it. I'm sinking, and there's a shark coming at me. Its nose points upward, like it's always smelling. The unmistakable rows of jagged teeth, the red gums that always look b.l.o.o.d.y.

This guy has chains, like he just busted out of shark prison and he's happy to see me. He speeds up, fin flicking whippet fast. I push myself backward, as if that's going to do any good. I hit something cold, a wall. Something grabs me. The singing is right at my ear. I try to pull myself out of the grip. They're hands. Cold, slender hands with nails like crushed gla.s.s.

It still sings, whatever it is. No words, just a sad wail, the low notes of a violin being plucked with a tire iron. It's the only thing I want to listen to. I want to wrap myself in those notes and sleep forever. A hand moves from my chest to my neck. I've stopped struggling. I want to close my eyes. The shark charges at me like a silver bullet.

I shut my eyes and wait for the bite that never comes.

The nails cut into my chest as the arms let go. The shark flips around, magnificent, and slaps the creature with his great white fin. It pushes back a few yards, but it doesn't stop. It wails, screeches into the expanse of sea, stretching out so I can finally see her true form. I can see her. From head to fins. A ma.s.s of silvery-white hair spreads out around her face, so pale she's almost see-through. Her eyes radiate in the water, white as lightning with needle pinp.r.i.c.ks in the center.

Her cheekbones are sharp and slope down to full blue lips that smirk at me. She's long and slender, so skinny her bones look like they're trying to poke out of her skin. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s are covered with slick silver scales that fade out at the slopes of her waist and bloom out to form her tail. There's an impression of legs, like they're under there right up to the kneecaps and disappear down to long silvery fins.

She swims in circles, a figure eight, her silver silhouette like a flash of light dancing in the water. Like she's dancing for me. She stops inches away from me with that smirk still on her lips, telling me she knows everything I don't. She grabs my wrists softly, like she's going to pull me to her and kiss me. And I want her to. I've never wanted anything this badly before.

The silver mermaid smiles, and when she smiles there is nothing more terrifying than the rows of her razor-sharp teeth.

She's holding my wrists when I wake up.

"You almost took my head off." Layla is staring at me with her giant hazel eyes. When we were little, I used to call her Bambi because her eyes were too big for her face and she was so skinny, almost frail-looking. It's just looks, though. Layla can swim almost as fast as I can. Almost.