Undertow by Michael Buckley

undies,” she says defensively.
    I bolt to her side and pull the pack away, then shove the scattered contents back inside.
    â€œLyric—”
    I look into her face and know she found the gun. She doesn’t have to say it. Her eyes are shouting it.
    â€œBex, the pack is—”
    I don’t know how to lie about this. What kind of story could I invent that wouldn’t sound like outrageous BS? I fumble a few times, starting and stopping, leaning toward spilling my guts, but before I can, she gets up and points to the closet.
    â€œIs this off-limits?” It’s a little sarcastic and sounds awful, like
What craziness are you hiding in here, too?
But it also sounds like an out. She wants to change the subject, and I’m grateful, but it feels like we’re now standing on either side of a fault line and the ground is rumbling.
    â€œI need something to wear today,” she continues. “I can’t go back home until Russell calms down.”
    I nod. “Take whatever you want.”
    She turns her back on me and opens the closet.
    â€œWhere are all the skirts?” she says, sorting through the survivors of my tantrum. “Didn’t you have a blue mini in here?”
    She turns to me with a cocked eyebrow. “Oh, wait! Did you say whatever I want?”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œThe flapper dress?”
    â€œIt’s yours. Early birthday present,” I say.
    â€œSeriously?”
    I nod because the next word would accompany sobs. Watching her pull it from my closet and squeal while she clutches it to her chest is excruciating. It feels like she ripped a child out of my arms, but it has to be done. Anything you want, Bex, as long as we get back to stable ground.

    Compared with today’s throng, yesterday’s crowd was downright chill. There are easily twice as many people gathered outside the school, and they are bigger, meaner, and shriller. And the biggest, meanest, shrillest of them all, Governor Bachman, is back in a fresh blue business suit and a brand-new megaphone. This one is painted red like the shirts the Niners wear. Her face is painted with phony conviction.
    â€œAmerica welcomed the Alpha with open arms. That’s what we always do. Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free! That’s what makes us so exceptional: the world knows that America is a place where you can start a new life. I personally extended an olive branch, but they turned their backs on me. I tried to show them all what our great nation has to offer those who work hard and pledge allegiance, but they’re an arrogant bunch. They call themselves the Alpha, the First Men. I hear they think they’re better than us. Their actions over the last three years tell me so. They don’t want to be part of our nation. But oh, are they ready for the handouts! Now they want a free education! Well, I say enough is enough. You want to thumb your nose at us? Fine! Human schools for human children!
    â€œI call on the president, Congress, and the mayor of New York to give up this failed experiment and let the children of Coney Island have the school their parents worked so hard to provide for them.”
    â€œThis is no place for sea monkeys,” someone shouts.
    Bachman smiles. “No sea monkeys!” she echoes, and it morphs into a chant.
    A reporter pushes to the front and begs the governor for an interview. “Governor, how is your plan to build an electrified fence on the beach coming?”
    â€œIt’s an uphill fight but one the people of New York will win,” Bachman says with a smile.
    â€œI reviewed your plans. You want it to be constructed five yards away from the shoreline.”
    â€œAnd thirty feet high, which I’m told is just higher than an Alpha can jump,” she sings.
    â€œThat will push them back into the ocean.”
    Bachman’s face is full of mock surprise. “Will it? Well, you know, that