She gives me a tiny smile, and for a second I feel even more

miserable because she’s here. It’s kind of pathetic. She means well,

she does, but she’s like a stray that won’t take a hint.

“Gave me quite a scare, Finn.” Dad looks at me in the rearview

mirror. He hasn’t called me that in a long time.

“I’m fine,” I say, but I’m not starting to feel so fine anymore.

Something I don’t say often, if ever. My stomach hurts, and my head is

throbbing. “Just starving. Oh, and Mom’s going to get us arrested.”

“Come now, honey. That’s absurd.”

Dad laughs. “I’ve already given them a check for the estimated

bill. Good thing you were only there a day.” He pulls into the

Brooklyn traffic. With his ash-blond hair and freckly Irish nose, he

and I look nothing alike. My hair comes down just to the bottom of my

neck in brown waves. It looks curlier when I just get out of water,

though. He’s five-foot-eight to my six-foot-two-and-still-growing. Dad

wears round glasses under his blue-framed Ray-Bans when he drives in

the summer. When he was my age, he was a Long Beach surfer who just

happened to be a computer whiz in the early ’80s. But I think I’m like

him in the way that matters. We love the beach, old rock, fried food,

and driving my mother crazy.

Mom turns in her seat and pulls down the sun visor. Her red hair

blows all over her face. Viking red, she calls it, though we’ve never

met any of her family, not even her parents, to compare.

“You should know that there are going to be a few people acting

strangely around you,” Dad adds.

I think of the old lady in the elevator, the white of her eyes,

and try to shake it off by staring at other things. There’s the Real

Taj Mahal restaurant and the DVD store that never has any new

releases. And the grocery store with all the expired canned food but

with the best illegal fireworks China can make.

“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” stitched 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

shore. “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 cluster 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