The Fires Beneath the Sea ebook - Lydia Millet (primary phonics .txt) 📗

When her dad wanted Jax to speak so that average people like her or Max could understand him, he always said Jackson, please use the King’s English.

“Horseshoe and hermit crabs. As you may know, neither is a true crab per se.”

She sighed.

“I could have squished it.”

“But you didn’t.”

She thought about telling him about the otter. She’d meant to when she came in. But now, somehow, she felt like letting it slide.

Because that was the other thing about Jax, the other thing that made him different from everyone else she knew. If he wanted to, Jax could suss out what she was thinking without asking her.

Jax, basically, had some form of ESP.

He didn’t like it when she called it that. He said there was nothing extrasensory about it, that it wasn’t paranormal but as scientific as anything else—just not yet understood.

Whatever it was, it made her hemmed in and claustrophobic: when Jax felt like reading her, her brain had no privacy. She’d seen him do it with Max occasionally, and even their dad—know what they thought before they said it, anyway—but the other guys didn’t seem to notice. Or if they did, at least, they didn’t say anything.

She’d told him not to do it with her, that it wasn’t his business what she was thinking unless she wanted to tell him. But sometimes she suspected he was doing it anyway. And one time, recently, he’d spied on her for sure—about a guy she liked, though only for about three seconds—and it was so embarrassing it had made her feel sick to her stomach.

He called it pinging. He pinged people.

Anyway, if he really wanted to know about the otter, she figured, he probably already would.

“I’m taking a shower,” she said, “so don’t flush the toilet,” and she went out and closed his door behind her.

Their house had eccentric plumbing; sometimes the shower water turned scalding hot if someone turned on the cold water in another room.

It was only while she was standing under the shower nozzle, feeling the warm water fall on her face, that it occurred to her: Jax and the otter—the otter who had spoken into her mind—might have more than a little bit in common.

“Pleash pash the rollsh,” said Max over dinner, his mouth so full of corn on the cob that Cara could barely understand him.

They were all sitting in the dining room, at the same oval wooden table they’d always sat at for dinner, with the same striped cotton napkins and polished wooden napkin rings. Above them was a dusty chandelier, and alongside the wall was a wooden sideboard beneath a large painting of the ocean with soaring white birds.

They’d taken one of the chairs away from the table a few weeks ago so they didn’t have to look at it, standing there empty, while they ate.

Max—still talking with his mouth full about something she couldn’t quite make out—was pretty much the opposite of Jax: girls loved him, and, being good at running and basketball, he was popular with boys too. He was smart enough, but he put his energy into other things, so he barely squeaked by at school. This summer he’d been using his money from the restaurant job to buy boards and board stuff, and hanging out a lot at the skatepark. And it was even harder than usual to get his attention. When he wasn’t at the restaurant, the park, or in his bedroom with the stereo volume turned way up, he was plugged into his iPod.

She had to admit, Lolly was a way better cook than their dad, whose range was limited to soup from a can and frozen pizzas that he took out of the oven when they were still cold in the middle. Tonight they were having baked macaroni, roasted corn on the cob, fresh rolls, salad, and for dessert a homemade strawberry rhubarb pie cooling on the sideboard.

“So,” said their dad, holding a newspaper open, “we may have to rush when we’re finished eating. Playing at the right time: a cartoon, an historical epic that involves cutlasses and ships, and a thriller that’s probably too scary for Jax.”

“I want to see the thriller that’s probably too scary for Jax,” said Jax.

“R rating,” said their dad.

“The cutlashes,” said Max, still chewing.

“The ships,” agreed Cara.

“The cutlasses used in films,” intoned Jax, “are often historically inaccurate, nineteenth-century weapons.”

“That is correct, Jackson,” said their dad.

Just then rain started beating down on the roof. Cara loved that pattering sound.

“Everyone’s bedroom windows closed?” asked their dad.

But the next moment Jax was staring into the front hall. Cara followed his gaze and saw only the closed screen door and the dimness of the unlit porch beyond.

“Jax?” asked Max.

Jax didn’t break his stare. Rufus, lying on the floor beside him with his chin on his paws, stood up and looked in the same direction, his tail held low.

“Jax,” urged Cara. “What is it?”

Slowly, still not blinking or looking at them, Jax raised one hand and pointed at the front door.

Their dad scraped his own chair back and walked to the door; Cara watched as he pushed it open.

“Hello?” he called, into the dark. “Anyone there?”

They waited silently. Cara’s stomach flipped. What if—what if … could it be her?

Jax’s finger still hovered in the air, pointing.

Their dad flicked on the outside light. The rain picked up.

“No one,” he said breezily, closing the outside door behind him. He sat down at his place again.

“What was that, Jax?” asked Cara. “Huh? Did you see something?”

Jax finally dropped his finger. After a moment he shrugged and shook his head, smiling at Lolly, who’d come in to cut the pie.

“He was playing with us,” said Max under his breath. “He’s just looking for attention.”

That made Cara feel bad for Jax. He was never nasty on purpose.

Still, she felt a hole in the pit of her stomach. He’d gotten her hopes up, even if he didn’t mean to.

In some ways he was still a baby, boy telepath or