Teeth(17)

The part of this where I’m really scared out of my mind doesn’t come until I’m back in the house, tucked into my room, trying to get warm under the covers. I start thinking about the fishboy—Teeth, freezing cold Teeth—turning blue in the water, coughing and wheezing, and then bitching about his hair a minute later, like it’s nothing, like it happens all the time, maybe. All of a sudden I’m shaking so hard my teeth are chattering again. And I can’t get warm, no matter what I do. I’m just shivering like a nightmare.





nine


I’M TRYING TO DO MY HOMEWORK AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, BUT Dylan really wants me to play with him, and to be honest, I want to play with him, too, but Mom is giving me these hideously dirty looks because I was supposed to have all of this finished two weeks ago. So I have to give Dylan a hug and an “I’m sorry, buddy.”

I wave my math problems at my mom. “I’m doing these outside,” I tell her. To get away from Dylan. Yeah. That’s the only reason. Definitely the only reason.

I go straight to the dock.

I’m only lying there for a few minutes before he bobs out of the water. “Hey.”

I try not to look surprised. It’s been a few days since the rescue with not a lot of signs of him, and I guess I didn’t think that of the two of us he’d be the one seeking the other one out. Maybe I didn’t really think I was going to see him again unless he needed more saving.

I’m getting used to the look of him, at least, with his flaky scales and his millions of bruises. He’s like Dylan’s hideous stuffed dog that started looking cuter the longer he carried it. “Hey,” I say.

“Aren’t you cold?”

I shrug. What am I supposed to say, Yeah, but I was hoping you’d swim up?

“What are you working on?”

“Math.” Avoiding the essay.

“I can do addition.”

I look at him.

“I’m very smart,” he says.

Still, I don’t know where a guy like him learns addition, or where he even learns the word “addition.”

“Mm,” I say. “Not addition, though.”

“Let me know if any comes up.”

“Will do.”

He leans his elbows onto the dock and watches me work. Then he sinks under the water, and I think he’s gone for good, but a few seconds later he pops up behind me on the other side of the dock.

“What are you doing?” I ask him. He’s back beside me again, this time with his elbow right next to mine. I watch him out of the corner of my eye while I scratch answers. He smells like a fish, I’ll give him that.

“Keeping an eye on you.”

He reaches out to touch the page, then stops and wipes slime and water on my sleeve before he starts tracing the numbers as I write them. After a minute he turns his attention to the lines at the top of the page. He traces the date, which I still write on top of everything, out of habit, then puts his finger on the word next to it. He writes the letters with one finger, trying and failing to curl up the rest of his hand. The webs between his fingers stretch so thin.

I stop working and watch his finger. He’s left-handed.

After a minute, he says, “Rrrr.”

“Hmm?”

He’s staring at the top of the page. “Rrr. Ruh.”

Oh.

“Ruhd,” he says, after another minute. He’s frowning hard, the skin wrinkling between his eyes.

“Rudy,” I say, kind of gently, I hope.

He’s quiet for a minute. Then, “Oh.”

“Where the f*ck did you learn how to read?”

“I can’t read. You just saw me not reading.”


“Someone obviously taught you something.”

“Go away,” he says, in this small, angry voice, the exact same one Dylan uses when he wants me to think he’s mad at me but he really isn’t. It doesn’t work any better for Teeth.

I say, “You know, if you want? I can teach you to read.”

He studies me for just a second before he scowls and dives back into the water. He’s really gone this time. He splashed my page, and now the ink is all smudged.



I’m on my way home when I see Diana under the house. She’s craning her neck to try to see the dock from here, but she can’t. “Were you with him?”

“Not just now.”

“It’s very cool that you know him.”

“You should come meet him sometime.”

She shakes her head hard.

“Have you ever even been to the ocean?”

“It’s rough.”

“You don’t have to go in. Or you can go out past the waves.” I say this like it’s no problem, like I do it all the time.

She looks at me like I’m about Dylan’s age. “I didn’t mean that kind of rough.”

“Um . . . oh.” I don’t know what to say, but she seems done with this conversation anyway. She pulls a book out of her bag and hands it to me. A copy of The Metamorphosis. I would have read that this year, if I were at home in my real school.

I don’t know if she always carries books or if she was waiting for me, and I don’t know which I want to be true.

“I think you’ll like it,” she says. “We’ll discuss later.”