^ You Can Trust Me (4-18-20)

—

NERO

Monday, March 26, 2018

I was back in the Seawatchers' van, and we were speeding down a long highway through sunlit farmland. I sat in the middle beside a stony-faced Simeon. In the front were two Seawatchers I'd just met yesterday: one was Mae Baldwin, who was behind the wheel. The other was Lyle Vega from Travel, who'd set this entire arrangement up Sunday afternoon.

Berechiah was alone in the back row, again fashionably tone-deaf: today he wore a coat, a blazing orange one, over ripped pants and green gladiator sandals. His hair was up in a ragged ponytail, and two studs adorned his ears, glinting silver in the strong sunlight.

Mostly, it was silent, save for the low ramblings of the radio; we'd already done most of the talking back at the Sea House yesterday, during the three-hour-long discussion Simeon and I had with Lyle. We'd put together a plan for Magdalene, and now the pieces were moving, and I was strung out. I scratched my legs, which felt weird because they were wearing pants today — on loan from the Seawatchers — and thought about Jude.

I didn't like how easy it was becoming to leave him with the Seawatchers, but nothing thus far had given me reason not to. There had been no sign of Titus or his soldiers for months now, and since I was pretty sure that he only came onto land when he was on Drought or desperate, from a distance it appeared that Jude was safe as houses with the Seawatchers, especially since Kuma was still there. He'd been in one piece when I came back on Saturday and I expected he would survive today as well.

Especially since the other kids finally seemed to be warming up to him — or were finally tolerating the look of him, at least. He'd joined them for activities all yesterday afternoon, and this morning he'd swallowed his pride and approached them by himself at breakfast, asking if it was okay to sit with them. They hadn't been...stoked, or anything — in fact, they hadn't seemed to care much one way or the other whether or not Jude sat with them. But that hadn't deterred him — he'd eaten silently while they'd talked about...whatever it was kids talked about, and I'd felt a surge of pride. Before long, I expected he'd be stuck right in the middle of them, right where he was comfortable.

Until you get Madgalene. The wicked thought sent a flash of guilt through me. Right. Because when I finally got Mag back, there would be no reason to stay in the Slateport City Sea House or Delphirius. It would be time to move on. Again. The thought stirred up my stomach a little, but I swallowed it.

Not now. Focus on Mag.

At length, we arrived at our destination: Mr. Briney's house, hidden behind its wall of trees. Both of his vehicles were on the dirt drive when we pulled up, and when we piled out, Berechiah stayed behind with Mae Baldwin, buttoning and unbuttoning the top clasp of his coat. "Short sentences, my brother," he reminded Simeon. "I'm certain of a clean job, but too much of yer voice could trigger recall."

We went up the hill, Simeon and Lyle first, and me bringing up the rear, my fingers flexing with pent-up energy. At the porch, Simeon thumbed the doorbell.

The daughter, Heather, answered, and I stiffened a little when she swung open the screen — this was my second time seeing her, the first time without her eyes glazed over, and though dark, they were pointed like ice. She scanned the three of us head to foot, and it was so...odd to see no recognition in her face, especially when she looked toward Simeon. I was amazed — Berechiah's job had been clean all right.

"Can I help you?" She spoke with a brutal kind of bluntness, almost as though she was looking for a fight — a woman after my own heart.

"I'm Michael," Simeon said cordially. "I work with Mr. Briney. Is he home?"

Heather's lip curled a little, and she stepped back out of the doorway and into the house. Deeper in, she disappeared around a corner, and I heard a shout. A few moments later, Mr. Briney came to the door, dressed in weathered jeans and an old, faded T-shirt that had once been red.

"Hello, Simeon," he said; his smile was forced. "And Lyle! Good to see you, boy — it's been a while." Then his eyes settled on me, and his face became tired. "Nero. I suppose I can guess what this is about."

"We tried calling you this morning," Simeon said apologetically.

"Yes, I got your message. I'll be honest, Simeon, I wish I could have ignored it — I've only three or four hours of sleep under my belt. After I called you on Saturday, things went about as well as you'd expect."

"Didn't Director Munoz go with you?" Simeon asked. Behind him, I shifted impatiently in my blue flip-flops, also on loan from the Seawatchers.

"Not even the Director could ease the rage of this fire," Mr. Briney said bitterly. "I may have spared my grandson any complications from Berry's mindwashing, but it was at the expense of his love for me — I'm afraid that he hates me now that he was forced to become a Seawatcher."

I raised a brow. Darwin, a Seawatcher? I wasn't sure how I felt about that, but my jaw was grinding a little — it sounded like Darwin had been bailed out, and part of me definitely didn't like that.

Simeon laid a hand on Briney's shoulder, and the old man seemed to slump beneath it. "He'll come around," he assured the Seawatcher.

"I hope you're right." Mr. Briney tried to muster a smile and failed. "Well then... Shall we go?"

We returned to the van, and Mr. Briney climbed into the back with Berechiah. Then we were off, and it was silent again. But this time it was awkward — thirty minutes into the drive, and I glanced back to see Mr. Briney staring at me. Quickly, he looked away, and it occurred to me that the last time I'd seen this man, I had been holding his grandson to the wall, making him cry red tears.

How great would the risk have been if you'd had a little more patience? I shifted as Ms. Gray's barbed rebuke played between my ears, delivered more harshly than it had actually been. Simeon came to me with your concerns. I contacted one of the Program Leaders, and was fully prepared to put him in charge of your request. And then dear Cora comes to us and tells us that you've gone to Jon on your own to track your Sharpedo down yourself. And then, sadly but predictably, this happens, and you single-handedly put the futures of the merfolk and two innocent young boys at risk.

"Are you the one that knocked me out, Briney?" I asked quietly.

Immediately, the inside of the van sharpened into a pointed tension; Simeon flashed me an irritated look, and behind me, I heard Mr. Briney cough uncomfortably.

"I'm sorry I had to do that, son," he said after a moment. "It felt as bad to me as it did to you. But you... Darwin—"

"I think I deserved it," I said, staring out at a passing stretch of woodland and mottled houses. "I hadn't planned on going in there and losing my head. But..." I trailed off, biting back a useless excuse. I don't think anyone in the van cared about why I'd gone in that room and experienced an episode of sheer madness. The damage had been done, but it still felt petty to not even address it. I turned to look back at him again.

"Thank you for helping me find Magdalene anyway," I said. And this was sincere — Briney was a major part of the plan today, and he could have easily refused to help for what I'd done to his grandson. Yet he'd agreed readily, so readily that it left me a little speechless, even now. Do all Seawatchers take their jobs this seriously?

Yes, they did — Mr. Briney dipped his head, gracefully accepting my apology, or the closest thing I could get to an apology. Because despite my words, an ugly little part of me did not regret going into that room in a fevered rage, after more than a week of despairing over my Pokémon. "They're both alive and well," he told me, "and that's what matters." He crossed his legs. "Now let's see what we can do about your Pokémon, and put all this behind us."

An hour and thirty minutes later, we arrived in Rustboro City.

***

DARWIN

I had another goddamn headache.

I'd had it since the second I woke up this morning, I think, to realize I was still in the same world that had locked me up for knowing that mermaids existed, the same world that had forced me into signing a lot of paperwork — a lot of paperwork — to save myself from the threat of permanent brain damage.

But mostly, I think the headache was because of him: I want to help you, my brother. You can trust me, can't you?

Now I was somehow at school, and that asshole's voice was still rattling around in the back of my head, making my skull throb whenever I so much as thought about the Seawatchers, the merfolk. I was somehow at school, and I couldn't enjoy it, how nice it was to still be here, to still have a chance at battle college or the military, to still have a chance to raise a Pokémon team and advance in the world. Horrifyingly, this morning I didn't care about that sh*t — all I could focus on was what had happened over the weekend, the Seawatchers, Nero, and the mer—

I have a phone, just like you. So if you get anxious... Call me, Darwin, just call me. Another aching throb, and my fingers left the tangled mess of my hair and went down to my pocket, where I kept my phone. I stiffened, drew them back into my lap, and stifled the urge to slam my fists against my desk.

Dammit! I struggled to refocus on the class, but it was Advisory period and we were just looking up definitions to SAT words anyway, so it was especially difficult. I rubbed at my eyes with the back of my knuckles and checked my watch. Thirty minutes left, and then five more periods until the day was over. I was certain I wouldn't be able to last five more seconds without screaming.

Thomas felt the same, maybe worse: I was checking my face in my locker mirror during class change — which looked pretty horrific, with Nero's bruises and the bags under my eyes; was it any wonder that Mr. Phelps had kept me behind, wondering what was up? — when he suddenly appeared behind me and slammed my locker shut, nearly slicing off my f*cking nose in the process.

I jumped, dropping my books to the floor. That raised some heads, and a few guys stopped to watch, two of them Riley and Patrick, probably because... Sh*t, I thought I looked bad, but Thomas looked like he'd spent the night in hell. That, or he had neglected to take care of himself over the rest of the weekend: his eyes were red, his lips dry and cracked, his clothing rumpled and... He smelled a little bad. He clearly hadn't brushed his teeth this morning, and I detected the sour edge of light BO, the BO of a person who had been too staggered by what had happened to take a shower or clean himself up.

This was especially apparent with his hair: he'd dug out his braids sometime after I'd last seen him, leaving it a fuzzy, chaotic mix of neon blue and fire-engine red. No green, though, a slightly hysterical part of me thought.

"You and me need to talk, Darwin," he hissed in my face. "Right-f*cking-now."

There was that thing in his eyes again, that mania I'd seen on full display in quarantine, and it was threatening to break out right here in the middle of the school hallway. I took a breath, trying to tamp down my own panic beast.

"Okay," I said agreeably. "But I have class—"

"F*ck class!" Thomas snapped; behind him, Riley fished out his phone, anticipating a fight. Thomas fisting my polo didn't help. "Skip it. You have before without giving a sh*t."

I tried to stand my ground. "I have study hall next, and—"

"Exactly! F*cking study hall doesn't matter. None of it does! I—" Very abruptly his rage broke apart, revealing something highly vulnerable and terrified in its place: the panic beast, peeking through. Mine stirred more restlessly as he leaned close and said, "Don't you need to scream, Snowman? I need to scream. I need to f*cking scream. I need you and me to go outside somewhere, and I need to scream, or punch something — you maybe — and I need to say it, over and over and over. Say it, Snowman. Do you hear what I'm saying?"

I did. I understood completely, and it wasn't until he said it that I realized that I needed to outside and scream it too. "He won't let you say it?"

He looked up at me in astonishment, and then despair. "No! I can't say it to anyone... I've tried. I've f*cking tried, but I can't. I keep wanting to call the sonofabitch instead, and—"

"Okay, I get it." I pushed him back a step, and he straightened and reluctantly let me go. "Can you survive until lunch?" Thomas laughed without amusement and spun around, angrily rubbing the back of his eyes, and I said, "We can't skip class. Unless you want to wind up in Principal Reyes's office? We're getting enough attention as it is."

My eyes went pointedly over his shoulder, and Thomas turned to where Riley was still obviously filming. "What the f*ck are you doing?" he snapped, with such menace that Riley immediately dropped his phone. And his sh*t-eating grin.

"Oh, nothin'," he said, stumbling a little. "I just thought—"

"—that you could post this on your channel?" Thomas said, and with true anger, zero light-heartedness. "Delete it."

Riley gave a pinched smile, one laden with confusion — a what-the-hell-is-happening? kind of smile as he thumbed at his phone, deleting the footage. "Sheesh, there, man," he said. "What's your problem, it was just a joke—"

"Shut the f*ck up. And piss off." With a last, threatening glare at me, Thomas stormed off down the hall, his black mood following him like a trail of chimney smoke. Riley and Patrick stared after him with those same twisted, perturbed smiles, and Patrick said, "Man, why didn't you film that sh*t? Didn't think that guy could get pissed."

You have no idea. As I picked up my books, I remembered Thomas going berserk and whaling on the door in quarantine, frantic and barely recognizable. That made me realize that I now knew more about the guy than some of his closest "friends". And remembering my tears and the ginger ale last Friday, he knew me more than anyone else in these halls too. The thought made me shudder. What a f*cked up world I now live in!

***

As I predicted, the stretch of day between the argument with Thomas and lunch was excruciating.

There was no other way to describe it — like Thomas said, I just did not want to school today. There were things to think about, things I hadn't had enough time to think about, and being made to type up Sergeant Marshall's two stupid essays in a rush and then go out into the baking heat to work my body into a molten sweat when I needed to lie down, stare at nothing, and process was borderline maddening.

I don't care about any of this, I kept thinking as I scrolled through websites about the history of RTHS, about Sharpedos. I want to go home, I want to be still, my throbbing skull screamed as Sergeant Marshall set us up in practice matches with our classmates. I couldn't even take pleasure in Don doing surprisingly well against our opponent's Zigzagoon — he still lost the match, but his foe had actually felt his blows (basic tackles, something we were still working on for Midterm), and I could tell he'd noticed, and was proud.

But when he'd turned to me for praise, I could only give a painfully-forced smile, and a lame, "Good job."

Yes, scream, like Thomas had said. I needed to scream.

When I finally got to lunch, I was sincerely depressed that I still had Training Hall, Battle Mechanics, Pre-Calculus, and Basic Drawing after this. I need to get the f*ck out of here.

But I managed to keep on an even keel as I went to the cafeteria and looked around for Thomas. Normally, I didn't bother with this place — I never had anyone to sit with, so I usually ate outside on the back steps overlooking the highway, or hung behind in the classroom to eat with the other guys and gals that had no friends. And after stepping foot in the cafeteria, I kind of regretted not asking Thomas to just stop by my classroom — the place was a goddamn madhouse, and the tide of white noise was almost worse than having a conversation with f*cking Nero.

Go on. Just for today.

Fortifying myself, I waded through the room, ducking through the line and crowded tables and making my way for the far side, where a line of booths hugged the wall with the windows. Several of them were empty, but that wouldn't last long: this was prime real-estate away from the packed masses, and first-come, first-serve. I remembered fights breaking out on who had reserved what booth during freshman year, fights that had to be broken up by the teachers. The experience had made me lose a little faith in humanity.

I picked one that was empty — no lunch boxes or shoes or purses or cell phones holding it for anyone — and took a seat. I opened my lunch box — tuna sandwich today, and a Devil Crème on the side — and watched the door, trying not to be self-conscious at the fact that I was the only one in the cafeteria not sitting with anyone.

Ten minutes later, Thomas's class came in through the door and filled the line up by the grills. He was near the back, and Patrick and Riley were with him again, along with a bunch of girls, one of them Veronica Hughes. Not even she could make him smile today, though — he remained silent as they talked, looking strained, a stick of TNT with a shortening fuse.

He spotted me sitting in the booths and very abruptly stepped out of line, snatching a water bottle — which was free — out of the cooler on his way to me. As he sat down, I had to shift aside — his legs were so long that his knees nearly knocked against my side of the booth.

"Aren't you hungry?" I asked.

"Shut up. Are you my mom now?" He unscrewed the cap and took a drink. My lips pressed together. I wasn't here to get berated, but I had a feeling that was how this conversation was going to go. This was Thomas — could it go any other way?

Still, I took the high road: "How did the rest of your weekend go?"

"How do you think?"

"I think it probably went better than mine."

"So your mom didn't give a f*ck that you'd disappeared for a day and a half?"

"No."

The cynicism drained from his face, and he suddenly looked depleted of energy. "Really?"

"They... Did something to her." They, the Seawatchers. And it wasn't a hunch, either—Grandpa Jon had told me so very clearly on the ride back to the house. That awful, terrible ride back, filled with a silence that didn't know what it wanted to be: hateful? Confused? Terrified? Enraged? Definitely enraged on Thomas's end — he'd left after we pulled up onto the dirt drive without a further word, and when we'd gone into the house, I'd found Mom cooking in the kitchen and cleaning dishes. When she'd turned to greet me, there had been no relief on her face, no terror, no tears that I was back, safe and alive, no fury for Grandpa Jon, no questions about where I'd been and what had happened.

She'd said, "Welcome back. Did you get the onions I asked for from the store?"

I'd felt supremely ill afterwards, and had quickly excused myself to the bathroom. Grandpa Jon had told me, but seeing the effects of Pitch on my mother had been disturbing, painful. She'd been asleep for an entire day, Grandpa Jon had told me. And what she would remember of Saturday was not what I would remember: she would think that we'd arrived and moved in with no problems, and when me and Grandpa Jon returned, she would think that we'd been out at the store for groceries. Grandpa Jon had even brought in a bag of veggies from a local market to substantiate the illusion, and it was terrifying how well it had worked.

That man...that asshole in the green polka-dot turtleneck, he'd put his voice in my mom's head, as easily as he'd planted it into mine. He'd told her to sleep, and hadn't wiped her memories, but had told her what to remember.

Thomas seemed to read my mind. "Was it that guy?"

Berechiah. "Yeah. Can you still hear him?"

Thomas's fingers drummed on the table. "I can't hear anything but him."

That meant that Thomas had been thinking about the Seawatchers and the merfolk — Call me, Darwin, just call me — all day. That meant that Thomas had wanted to talk about that with someone all day — someone that was not a newly-minted Seawatcher, like me. Someone that couldn't know. And not just talk — he'd wanted to scream it the sky, to anyone who would listen.

But Berechiah's voice wouldn't allow it. He'd been there in quarantine when the door had finally opened, when the people had come in: Grandpa, Director Munoz, and a few other Seawatchers, some of them armed. They'd put us at the kitchen counter and given us pens and papers, many papers. Several of them were NDAs. One was a binding contract, with legal guidelines and consequences. The others I don't remember. They'd walked us through it all, and I remembered none of that either — what did it matter? The only thing I'd cared about was where to sign. A signature, and me and Thomas got out of that room. So I'd let them talk, and I'd signed. I'd signed and signed and signed.

Then Berechiah had appeared behind me. A green polka-dot sweater and purple pants, and cowboy boots — the guy was either color-blind or didn't give a sh*t about the things he wore, maybe both. As I'd signed my name at the bottom of another legal document, he'd come closer, noticeably closer, invading my personal space such that when he spoke, it was directly into my ear:

"Hello, Darwin. My name is Berechiah. You can call me Berry. We're friends, aren't we?"

It was a struggle, even now, to accurately describe what he sounded like. Maybe this: while Nero's voice was like fire, Berechiah's was oil, cool and smooth and intrusive; I'd relaxed at his words, because when he spoke, the world finally seemed to settle into place, and things began to make sense in a way I couldn't explain. Berechiah was my friend, and he was there to help. I could trust him.

Even now, I couldn't remember if those were his words, or my own thoughts.

But I do remember him saying other things, things I kept hearing long after he was gone: This must be hard for you, my brother: this knowledge is a burden, isn't it? I want to help you, my brother. You'll have questions, things you want to say about the merfolk, about the Seawatchers, won't you? When you do, tell them to another Seawatcher. Or to me. I have a phone, just like you, so call me, Darwin, just call me, anytime. I'll help you. You can trust me, can't you?

The next day, I'd had a new entry in my phone, besides Mom and Thomas: Berry. And strangely, I felt no compulsion to delete it, even now.

"Did he work on your mom too?" I asked.

Thomas did another non-laugh, and his head went to the table. "No," he said, voice muffled. "But he didn't need to — she thought I was staying at Riley's house. I've done it before, so she didn't worry when I didn't come home on Saturday. And when I got back, I couldn't exactly tell her the truth, right?"

I imagined that, Thomas struggling to tell his mother about what had happened to him: that he'd been kidnapped by marine conservationists who worked with mermaids, and that he'd had a breakdown and a panic attack and had nearly broken his hands in the process. Only, he would fumble when he heard that voice rise up inside — Call me, Thomas, just call me — and reach for his phone instead. I imagined him trying again, and again, and again, only to keep hearing Berechiah's little plant, and to keep reflexively reaching for his phone every time. It would be infuriating — little wonder he looked so bad today. My shoulders slumped, suddenly heavy with guilt.

"Sorry," I muttered.

Thomas locked his arm around his head and peered up at me, but said nothing, and that was the correct response. What the hell did it matter if I apologized? This wasn't really my fault, any of it, and saying sorry wasn't going to suddenly erase what had happened over the weekend. But all the same, I felt foul for having wrangled Thomas into this, unintentionally or no — would any of this have happened if I hadn't agreed to let him help me and Mom move?

Yes and no — I still would've gone to Grandpa Jon's house. Nero would've still likely arrived and set all this sh*t into motion. And I would still have probably been thrown into lockdown and been forced to join the Seawatchers. The only difference was that Thomas wouldn't have been involved — I would've been in this all on my own. And for that reason, a very selfish part of me was glad that things had turned out the way they had.

"Can I say it?" Thomas groaned.

"You don't want to go outside and scream?"

"I don't think screaming would help."

He was right, I thought — it wasn't how loud it was said, it was that it was being said. And besides, screaming would just attract the attention of half the school and get us put on social media. "I'm listening," I said.

Thomas's face pinched, and, and it burst out of him suddenly like a gunshot, strained and desperate: "Mermaids. Seawatchers. I got f*cking kidnapped by people who work with mermaids. They f*cking exist. Mermaids. Mermaidsmermaidsmermaids. Did you know they exist, Snowman? They f*cking exist. And humans work with them. For them. Now I work for them. I'm a Seawatcher. I'm a goddamn Seawatcher. Know what Seawatchers are, Darwin? They work with mermaids. F*cking mermaids. Yeah, haha, did you know they actually exist?"

It went from a blast to a babbling, hysterical stream, but I saw the mania in his eyes cool and wane, and sensed rather than saw something in him condense and solidify: he'd seemed to come to grips with the fact that mermaids did in fact exist sometime over the weekend, despite seeing no evidence of tailfins attached to humans. Probably because of Berechiah and his Pitch — definitely because of Berechiah and his Pitch.

Finally, he was silent — not abruptly, but gradually, his word salad winding down to an agonized rasp. His head went back down to the table, and he moaned. I copied him, slumping to my side of the table.

"I know," I told him, fiddling with one of the pockets on my lunchbox. "Mermaids. Who would have thought?"

This seemed to greatly relieve him — I didn't see his face, but I thought he might've been crying. His voice came out broken: "It's crazy, right?"

"Insane." I scrubbed a hand down my face and suddenly grinned. "Maybe it's not all bad, though."

"I f*cking fail to see how this ain't 'all bad'."

"We're supposed to be working with them." Grandpa Jon hadn't said how, but he'd said soon. "Maybe one of them'll be cute."

"Shut the f*ck up, retard."

"Just trying to cheer you up." Pause. "Asshat."

That seemed to cheer him up — he finally rose from the table and rubbed at his eyes. "Seriously, Snowman," he muttered. "Where the hell do we go from here?"

I had no idea. But I was saved from having to issue that discomforting response by someone who approached our booth. "Hi guys. We okay over here?"

It was the valedictorian, Helena Stern. She was wearing a skirt and high ponytail today, and was staring down at us, looking intrigued. Greatly intrigued — she adjusted her red-rimmed glasses as she peered down at me unabashed, and it was almost like being glared at by the sun. I eased back a little, and bristled when I noticed that someone was standing behind her: Marjorie Ellis, tall and in navy-blue slacks, with a roll of flyers cradled under one arm.

Holy sh*t. I flashed a look at Thomas, who was still scrubbing at his eyes, now looking like he had a headache. "We're fine," he grumbled. "Why?"

"Nothing, just checking," Helena said cheerfully. "Some of the guys at my table were talking, is all — something about a fight by the lockers?" She turned her sun-glare stare back at me. "Just wanted to make sure you weren't over here bullying Darwin."

Finally, a cheeky smile — after the weekend we'd had, I almost thought it had gone extinct. "Aw, how sweet," Thomas snickered, finally letting up on his eyes. "Where's your cape, Helena? Left it at home? Don't forget it when you carry Snowman off to safety."

"Shut up," I snapped. "We weren't fighting," I told Helena. "It was just... Something about class. We're fine."

"Hum." Helena didn't look convinced, but she didn't push it. "Well, I actually came over to ask you guys about your club pick for this year. I got a list from Ms. Scales today, and she says you guys are, like, some of the only ones who haven't signed up for one yet. You want to stay at Rank One?"

Sh*t. Another thing I'd forgotten about — the list was growing disturbingly long. Being part of a club during sophomore year at RTHS was a requirement for obtaining Rank Two, the Specialist Rank, which was a graduation requirement. I remembered writing down a list of all of the active clubs about three weeks ago, with the intent of choosing one to join as soon as possible, but after the Water Safari, it had kinda gotten lost in the mail...

"What a pain," Thomas growled. "I don't see how makin' us join a club will make our Pokémon stronger or our grades higher."

"It's more about social growth and responsibility than changing the numbers," Helena said. "Clubs foster teamwork and soft skills, and enhance problem-solving ability and critical thinking. And plus, clubs are great for networking! I don't know if you two are going to college, but it's best to know what major you're going to pursue before you start the semester, so you're not wasting time and money. Clubs can help with that, too. And since most of the others are full already..." Marjorie handed her a flyer, and Helena shoved one at me, and at Thomas. "You should join ours! We've still got slots open."

Thomas snorted. " 'Ours'? I'm not sure Marj wants to see any more of me, especially now that I'm dating Veronica. Right, Marj?"

Marjorie stormed away, and I could practically feel her boiling. I shot him a glare, and he shrugged. "See?"

"You don't really have a choice," Helena pointed out. "Like I said, the other clubs are closed to new members now. So I'll see you guys next Thursday after school. We're gonna be here in Ms. Scales's classroom. See you there!" With a wave, she headed after Marjorie, a pep in her step. Thomas stared after her, irritated.

"I love how she just assumes we're gonna be there," he growled.

"I guess we will, if we don't want to stay back a year," I said heavily. Thomas pursed his lips, then glanced down at the flyer Helena had left behind. He barked out a laugh.

"Check it out, Snowman," he said.

I looked down at the flyer. It said: The Oceanic Conservation Club. Great for students intending to pursue careers in biology and marine biology. Come learn more about the oceanic world! Thursdays at 3:30, Armstrong Building, Science Classroom.

Arceus, I thought, this isn't funny.

***

After blowing off steam with Thomas, the rest of the day went a little better. Don seemed to pick up what I put down in Training Hall, and I performed well on a pop quiz in Battle Mechanics II. I started to think I would be able to survive to the final bell without flipping a table or something.

Then I got called down to Principal Reyes's office.

The summons came during Pre-Cal, right in the middle of the A = Pertreview section of the Financial Models chapter. Murmurs went up as I cleared out my desk and headed out the door — I wondered how many of them knew about my previous visit to see Mr. Reyes. If so, no wonder so many of them looked amazed — I was the presumptive salutatorian, after all, and they weren't supposed to frequent the principal's office.

I'd assumed that this was about the Sharpedo — Magdalene — and I was right... Yet wrong. I expected to be chided for not getting Mom's ass down here to sign that liability paperwork, but when I stepped into Mr. Reyes's shadowy office, I found Mr. Kelley, two Seawatchers, Grandpa Jon, and f*cking Nero there, waiting for me. I froze in the threshold, a crazy part of me wanting to run right back out the door.

"Hello Darwin, come in," Mr. Reyes said before I could flee. "Thank you for coming down."

Like I had a choice! I went over to the chair he indicated and sat beside an irritated Mr. Kelley, my stomach twisting itself up into knots. Nero watched me like a Swellow tracking prey — I'd never thought I'd be intimidated by a guy wearing heavy earrings and a dive suit under his pants, but it was a struggle to look in his direction. I looked at Grandpa Jon instead, reluctantly — he smiled at me with a mix of discomfort and encouragement. "Hi Grandpa," I grunted, for the sake of civility.

His smile strengthened. "Hello, son. We're sorry to interrupt your day like this."

"Darwin, your grandfather has brought us some bad news," Mr. Reyes said, straight to business. "He works for a non-profit called the Hoenn Society for Marine Conservationists. They're an environmental watchdog." He gestured to Nero. "Recently, this young man filed a complaint. Apparently, his companion Pokémon, who is a Sharpedo, was captured on the very same day that your class was in Slateport City at the Water Safari."

He paused, waiting for me to get it, and I did, but I was suddenly caught between relief and terror. Yes, this was about Sharp — Magdalene, and I could see how it was going to play out, but at whose expense? Probably mine. I swallowed, my jaw suddenly leaden with dread.

"Mine," I croaked out.

"Yes," one of the Seawatchers said. He was tall and pale, of skin and hair, and he gave me a friendly smile and leaned over, extending his hand to me. "Hi Darwin, Lyle Vega. Mr. Jon's told me a lot about you. And Mr. Kelley has told us about the trouble you had with this Sharpedo. A bite, right?"

"Yeah," I said, shaking his hand, and I didn't miss the small smirk that flashed across Nero's face.

"The Sharpedo may have not been officially registered under Mr. Delphiri's name—" He gestured to Nero—"but she belongs to him by heart, and so is reluctant to obey another Trainer, you understand. That's why you've been struggling to connect with her, we assume."

"Okay," I said, and suddenly I didn't give a damn about their opening statements — I needed to know the verdict. "So are you here to take her back?"

Lyle exchanged a look with the other Seawatcher — I could tell they'd had a whole song and dance prepared, to convince me to give Magdalene back to her rightful owner. Ha! Clearly they were having trouble connecting the dots — I think anyone who'd nearly been bitten by their own Sharpedo would be desperate to offload her as soon as possible. And again, I was more than happy to, but—

"I'm glad you seem willing, Darwin," Mr. Reyes said. "That will make this uncomfortable situation a little easier. However, as we were discussing before you came in, the problem remains that without a water-type on his team, Darwin is doomed to repeat his sophomore year of high school, until we are able to fund another trip to the Water Safari next year."

Nero spoke up for the first time, his face severe: "Can't he just catch another Pokémon?"

Arceus, please shut the hell up. His voice — his Pitch — was not the verbal firestorm it had been on Saturday, but it still had an edge, one poking at the wounds in my gray matter that were just beginning to close up. I rubbed at the inside of my ear, hoping that he would catch the hint, but he was staring at Principal Reyes. Principal Reyes was staring back, looking fascinated, probably at his voice. Though it wasn't harsh, it was still peculiar.

"I'm afraid that's not how it works, Mr. Delphiri," Mr. Reyes said. "In the eighties and early nineties, kids as young as ten could get away with running around in the weeds and rooting out Pokémon to catch, but after enough of them ended up in the local morgues, the journey became illegal for those under eighteen, at least in the Hoenn Region. If you are young and eager to catch a Pokémon nowadays, it must be in a supervised environment, under the close eye of a legal adult. For our high school, these are Safari Zones: the Water Safari in sophomore year, Mount Chimney in junior year, and the Lilycove Regional Safari in senior year. If Darwin was to attempt to capture a Pokémon on his own outside of these areas, without permission, he would be expelled immediately."

A bead of sweat raced down my face, and Nero's face twisted with a kind of contemptuous disdain, but he said nothing else. Grandpa Jon leaned forward.

"What about a trade?" he asked. "Exchange one legally-caught Pokémon for another."

"That would also cause a problem," Mr. Kelley said before the principal could respond. "The point of putting our students in Safari Zones is for the experience itself, not the actual Pokémon. They must prove that they have the wherewithal, the patience, and the courage to approach and capture a Pokémon, induct them into their team, and raise them, and to simply give them a Pokémon with a prior history with another Trainer defeats that purpose." He tapped his fingers against a small notepad he had in his lap. "This is of special import to the students of the Battle Branch: after all, they are as they do."

"I see." Grandpa Jon sat back, looking thoughtful. Then he said, "May I summarize, Mr. Reyes? You've stated that this Pokémon Darwin must have on his team must be a water-type and must be caught by him, and in a sanctioned or protected environment, under the supervision of responsible legal adults."

"Correct."

"Then a final suggestion. Should we, responsible adults from the Society of Marine Conservationists, accompany Darwin to a protected environment and oversee his capture of a new water-type Pokémon, would that check all of your legal boxes?"

I tensed up. What?

Mr. Reyes considered, then glanced at Mr. Kelley, who said, "I can't say up front... I would have to consult the guidelines again. But it sounds feasible."

"And magnanimous." Mr. Reyes frowned at my grandfather. "The Water Safari is an expensive venture, Mr. Briney, even with only a single person involved. For an outside third party... Would you have these funds to spare?"

"No," Grandpa Jon said, "but that's all right. I wasn't talking about the Water Safari."

—

BONUS FLOOD Artwork

Haha, I only have three pieces total of Berechiah, and here's the latest one. I actually used the "Magic Poser" modeling app to construct this pose for Berry, which is probably why his fingers are a little bit off...

Also, why the hell is he wearing a coat in 85 degree weather? Not even the author knows. -_-