Read St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves for Free Online Page B

that serves only to make the rest of the ocean look scarier.
    “What exactly are we going to do with her, Wallow?”
    This question has been weighing on my mind more and more heavily of late. Because let’s just say, for argument’s sake, that there is a Glowworm Grotto, and that Olivia’s ghost haunts it. Then what? Do we genie-in-a-bottle her? Keep her company on weekends? I envision eternal Saturday nights spent treading cold water in a cave, crooning lullabies to the husk of Olivia, and shudder.
    “What do you mean?” Wallow says, frowning. “We’ll rescue her. We’ll preserve her, uh, you know, her memory.”
    “And how exactly do you propose we do that?”
    “I don’t know, bro!” Wallow furrows his brow, flustered. You can tell he hasn’t thought much beyond finding Olivia. “We’ll…we’ll put her in an aquarium.”
    “An aquarium?” Now it’s my turn to be derisive. “And then what? Are you going to get her a kiddie pool?”
    It seems to me that nobody’s asking the hard questions here. For example, what if ghost-Olivia doesn’t have eyes anymore? Or a nose? What if an eel has taken up residence inside her skull, and every time it lights up it sends this unholy electricity radiating through her sockets?
    Wallow fixes me with a baleful stare. “Are you pussying out, bro? She’s your sister, for Christ’s sake. You telling me you’re afraid of your own kid sister? Don’t worry about what we’re going to do with her, bro. We have to find her first.”
    I say nothing. But I keep thinking: It’s been two years. What if all the Olivia-ness has already seeped out of her and evaporated into the violet welter of clouds? Evaporated, and rained down, and evaporated, and rained down. Olivia slicking over all the rivers and trees and dirty cities in the world. So that now there is only silt, and our stupid, salt-diluted longing. And nothing left of our sister to find.
             
    On the fourth night of our search, I see a churning clump of ghost children. They are drifting straight for me, all kelped together, an eyeless panic of legs and feet and hair. I kick for the surface, heart hammering.
    “Wallow!” I scream, hurling myself at the crab sled. “I just saw—I just—I’m not doing this anymore, bro, I am not. You can go stick your face in dead kids for a change. Let Olivia come find us.”
    “Calm it down.” Wallow pokes at the ocean with his oar. “It’s only trash.” He fishes out a nasty mass of diapers and chicken gristle and whiskery red seaweed, all threaded around the plastic rings of a six-pack. “See?”
    I sit huddled in the corner of the sled, staring dully at the blank surface of the water. I know what I saw.

    The goggles are starting to feel less like a superpower and more like a divine punishment, one of those particularly inventive cruelties that you read about in Greek mythology. Every now and then, I think about how much simpler and more pleasant things would be if the goggles conferred a different kind of vision. Like if I could read messages written in squid ink, or laser through the Brazilian girls’ tankinis. But then Wallow interrupts these thoughts by dunking me under the water. Repeatedly.
    “Keep looking,” he snarls, water dripping off his face.
             
    On the fifth night of our search, I see a plesiosaur. It is a megawatt behemoth, bronze and blue-white, streaking across the sea floor like a torpid comet. Watching it, I get this primordial déjà vu, like I’m watching a dream return to my body. It wings towards me with a slow, avian grace. Its long neck is arced in an S-shaped curve; its lizard body is the size of Granana’s carport. Each of its ghost flippers pinwheels colored light. I try to swim out of its path, but the thing’s too big to avoid. That Leviathan fin, it shivers right through me. It’s a light in my belly, cold and familiar. And I flash back to a snippet from school, a line from a poem or a science book, I