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CHAPTER ONE
I’M GOING TO CATCH a big one, I can feel it.
Holding my breath, I lay flat on my surfboard, feeling the rhythm of the tide beneath me. Anticipation tugs inside my chest, like the ocean pulling me into its ebb and flow.
Water begins to rise just behind my board, and I paddle fast, angling my board slightly ahead of the building wave. I won’t let this chance to ride a monster slip through my fingers, not after a whole afternoon of losing waves to summertime tourists clogging up the swells, or more experienced surfers dropping in when I’ve clearly got the right of way.
This one is all mine.
“Get it, Callie!” The excited whoop of my best friend, Will, echoes behind me.
A smile forms on my lips around ragged breaths, and I swim faster. The wave starts to crest, and my arms shovel the salty spray like long, spindly paddles. I won’t miss this wave. I’ll ride it all the way to the break.
As soon as the giant wave peaks, I hop to my feet and drop in. Water barrels under the nose of my board and I zip away, fast as a rocket cutting through the swell. Salty droplets cling to my lashes and an ecstatic laugh escapes, ringing through the air over the crash of roaring water. Will and a few other local surfers cheer me on.
“Yeah, Callie!”
“Way to go!”
The rush of the wind and stinging spray nips my face, blowing my hair away from my neck. I pull up the nose of my board, spiraling into a quick, spinning turn. Will might call me a show- off, but he’ll be secretly jealous he didn’t catch my wave.
All too soon my ride is over, and my board slows in the flats. That’s the thing about waves—all that hard work for a ride that lasts about thirty seconds, and then, poof, the wave is gone, little more than a ripple against the shore. But while they last, they’re the most fun I’ve ever had.
I kick out of my ride and hop off my board into the icy Pacific, basking in the bluer-than-blue California sky and the brilliantly white August sun.
“Dude, Callie, that was awesome!” Will rushes up, trudging through the knee-deep water, dragging his board behind him.
“Did you see the whole thing?” I grin and pull my heavy board out of the surf, walking next to Will toward the shore. He flips his mop of floppy hair out of his face in one swift motion, his eyes dancing in the sunlight.
“Yeah, it was totally sick!” A smirk turns up the edges of his mouth. “You didn’t have to crank that turn, though. You make the rest of us look bad.”
I laugh again, the sea breeze tearing the sound away. “You need to rise to my level. I’m not going to suck just to make you feel better about yourself.”
“Whatever.” Will rolls his eyes, but smiles anyway.
Will Avila has been my best friend since the first day of kindergarten. He’s like another brother, only we don’t fight and I’d rather hang out with him than my three real brothers. He even looks like he could be my brother. We have the same smattering of freckles on our cheeks, almost the exact same shade of golden brown hair, large brown eyes, and olive skin, and nearly identical bow-shaped mouths. The only difference is I’m long, lean, and lanky, whereas Will is short, bordering on stocky. Will knows me better than anyone in the whole world—which is more than I can say for everybody else in my life.
We deposit our boards on the beach, then unzip our wetsuits and peel them off like orange rinds, flopping onto the white, sugar-fine sand in our bathing suits while the sun dries our soaked skin and hair.
“I think you like showing off in front of all the big-league Verona Beach surfers.” A teasing grin lurks around the edges of Will’s mouth. “Don’t let it go to your head, because I’ve got all kinds of embarrassing stories about your early epic fails, Calliope James.”
“I asked you not to call me that in public, Wipeout Will.” Will is notorious in the Verona Beach surf community for his hardcore bail-outs. Seriously, arms and legs flying everywhere like a confused pelican. It’s hilarious.
“Your name is not that big of a deal,” Will counters.
“It is, too! Some lurker from school could hear you and my life would be over.” Eh, a touch dramatic. Whatever.
“I know you don’t like being called Calliope, but I think it’s awesome.” Will nudges me with his elbow. “Don’t you remember reading The Odyssey freshman year? Calliope was a muse. Even the gods were in love with her.”
“The only thing I remember about The Odyssey is that it bored me to death. Besides, my parents didn’t name me after ancient Greek poetry. They aren’t hipster.” I whip my hair over my shoulder, wringing out the salt water before it becomes a frizzy mess. Tiny droplets turn the white sand tan. “I’m named after my Great-Grandma Cal on Dad’s side.”
”At least your mom and dad didn’t have you as an afterthought right before they retired.” Will scowls. “Mine only wanted a kid to take antiquing with them. Or caddy golf clubs. Take your pick.”
“At least yours aren’t in your face about college morning, noon, and night.” I roll my eyes just thinking about it.
“College? Seriously?” Will makes a face like he just stepped on a sea cucumber, or something equally slimy and gross. “Did they forget you’ve got two more years of high school?”
“Dad says I’ve got to start thinking about my future,” I summarize the lecture I’ve heard daily. All. Summer. Long. “I’m aimless, and have no motivation, and no college will take me with my mediocre grades and lack of extracurriculars. He wants me to play sports, like Jase, get straight As, like Ryan, and learn every musical instrument in the orchestra, like Tyler.” I tick off the list of my brothers’ accomplishments on my fingers as I rattle them off.
Will shoots a smirk my way. “Not the last one. You tried to learn flute in 7th grade, and you were so terrible, he begged you to quit.”
“That’s true,” I say. “I thought he was going to take a screwdriver to his eardrums.”
Will laughs. I smile, to humor him, but I don’t laugh. It’s not a very funny subject for me. There are five kids in my family, and I’m the only one who isn’t talented at anything. Jase has been king of the soccer field since before he started high school, Ryan is a certified genius (Mom had him tested), Tyler is a modern-day Mozart, and Olivia, the three-year-old, is adorable and sweet, and does modeling for one of the boutique children’s clothing shops in town.
And then there’s me: stuck-in-the-middle Callie James
Actually, I’m not entirely incompetent. I’m getting really good at robotics, and I’ve practiced coding all summer. Not that Dad would care about robotics, or anything else I love that he has no point of reference for, but at least it’s something I can say I’m good at. Also, I’ve never been lost. I just know how to get places without looking at a map. Mom would get lost going to the grocery store if not for me. I’m basically a human GPS with fantastic night vision—Dad says I move like a cat in the dark. They’re useful skills, but not exactly talents, especially compared to my prodigy siblings.
“Looks like the weather’s about to get gnarly.” Will frowns at the dark clouds rolling in from the north. As if on cue, the wind picks up, snapping the California state flag against the pole. My damp hair blows against my cheeks until it sticks to my skin.
“Dad said there’s going to be a storm this afternoon.” I watch the sun begin to fade behind thunderclouds. “I bet he’ll dock the boat at the marina early. He always brings clients back early when there’s a storm.”
Dad runs a sport fishing charter, and never plays around with bad weather. If there’s even a chance of rough seas, he hightails it back to port, stat. He never wants me to surf when there’s a predicted storm, either. I usually ignore him.
“That’s smart,” Will observes. He stands, and a strong gust whips his hair away from his forehead. “We should make like your dad and bail.”
“Why? It’s not storming yet.” I cast a hungry glance across the building waves. They’re intensifying rapidly, but it’s nothing Will and I can’t handle. Well, nothing I can’t handle.
“You want to surf in that?” Will arches a brow. “You’ve got a death wish.”
“The masses of tourists taking lessons are leaving.” I gesture at the churning water, where surf instructors call out to their students to make for the beach. “More waves for us, right?”
“No way.” Will shakes his head firmly.
“Scaredy-cat,” I tease.
“Text me later if you’re alive.” Will heaves his board under his arm. His eyes hold a querying look. “Is Jase coming to pick you up?”
“Yeah, at three.”
“He’s still hogging the car?”
“What was your first clue?” A scowl wrinkles my forehead.
“He took it early this morning to go to soccer camp and meet his new girlfriend, Jen, for lunch—and pretty much takes it all the time without consulting me, regardless.”
Mom and Dad allow the unfair monopolization because he’s super-star athlete Jason James, and “soccer will get your brother a college scholarship, surfing won’t.” Athletic skills equal car privileges in my family, and since you can’t varsity letter in surfing at Verona Beach High, any activity I want to drive to is automatically superseded by Jase.
By “activities,” of course, I mean going to the beach to surf, and sometimes Starbucks. It’s not like I actually do anything. But it’s the principle of car-sharing, right?
“I’m taking off. Don’t drown, okay?” Will calls over his shoulder, his surfboard cutting a trail through the sand as he plods toward the parking lot.
“See ya, Will!” I wave goodbye, then slip back into my wetsuit. Now that the tourists have cleared out, it’s my turn to ride a few awesome barrels.
I jog into the surf, water splashing all the way up to my face. Once the water reaches my thighs, I launch my board and stretch out on the deck. Forceful waves push me back every time they break. It’s laborious work, and I’m getting pretty raked over, but it’s worth it. See, Mom and Dad? I can work hard for things I really want. Just not stellar grades and varsity sports.
At last, I paddle past the edge of the pier. There’s something impossibly wondrous about looking back at the beach and the tiny, dollhouse hotels, nothing surrounding me but endless ocean. The feeling of being free and alive washes over me, settling deep into the calm place inside my soul—a comforting peace I can’t find anywhere but out here. A feeling like I belong.
Not many surfers remain in the waves, maybe two or three guys known for being extra gutsy. I guess it isn’t just tourists who are spooked by the impending storm. All the waves to myself? No complaints here.
“Hey, Callie!” One of the local surfers, Derek, calls to me from a couple yards out.
I wave my arm high. “Derek! What’s up?”
“You better head back, things are about to get dicey.” Derek straddles his board and points to the blackening sky overhead.
I smile brightly. “It’s cool, I’ll be careful!”
Derek looks incredulous, but shrugs, turning away. He stretches out on his board and surfs the next wave, hightailing it up the beach to the safety of the parking lot.
I catch two amazing waves early, but the surf is rapidly getting rough. Waves break violently all around, forcing me to bail in deep, dark waters. A strong rip pulls my board out toward the wildness of the windy sea, dragging me farther and farther from the safety of the shallows no matter how hard I swim against it. I’m the only surfer left in the water, and even I can admit when waves start to get sketchy.
“One more,” I tell myself. “One more, and I’ll go.”
BOOM CLAP
A deafening roar as the thunderclouds above my head rumble and quake, smashing into each other, shaking the sky. White, electric light flashes terrifyingly close, and I scream, heart pounding out of my chest.
Lightning on the ocean—instant electrocution.
Will was right. Surfing alone in the storm is going to kill me. He’ll never let me live it down. Except, I’ll already be dead. Have a good laugh about it, Will. Make sure everyone at my funeral knows you told me so.
I cower atop my board, breath sticking around a sob. Getting struck by lightning is a pretty fast way to go, isn’t it? Sudden and immediate death. Maybe I won’t even register the pain.
But nothing happens. I crane my head to look for the strike I’m sure I saw and heard. What I find instead takes my breath away .
“Whoa.”
No crackling sparks of electricity , no popping tendrils reaching into space. The light before my eyes doesn’t connect to the gloomy clouds gathering just a hundred yards out to sea, or split the fabric of the air. No, this light spirals from the water itself, stretching toward the sky like a glimmering, golden beam of pure brilliance. It is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
CRASH BAM
A rogue wave slams into me, dragging me under, my board spiraling out of control as the leash yanks my ankle painfully back and forth. The sea tosses me about, little more than a mermaid rag doll in the strong current that reels me in like a fishing line toward impenetrable depths.
You suck sometimes, ocean.
At long last, my face crests the surface. Gulp after gulp of salty air floods my lungs before another wave breaks over my head, taking me down deep with the undertow. Okay, fun’s over. I have got to get to shore. Swimming with all my might, fighting the push and pull of the storm surge, I heave my upper body onto my board. I’m paddling against the crest of a behemoth swell when something catches my eye. Something—odd.
Just past the edge of the pier, where the mysterious light rose from the surface of the water, there’s a thing stuck to the seabed. And it’s glowing.
“What the...”
Laying flat on the deck of my board, I paddle out closer to get a better look. Whatever it is, it’s clearly visible, despite the murky water. From the seabed, the glowing thing brightens, begins to pulse, and a strange, almost magnetic feeling of need overwhelms every sense, every fiber of my blood and bone. The longer I look at the glow, the deeper I fall under its magic spell.
Callie... Callie... It’s as if the glowing thing calls me, begs me to take it, urges me to dive deep. To lose myself in its unknown, strange brilliance.
Let’s back up for a moment and assess: this is the point where most people would decide it’s a weird, bioluminescent fish or a piece of equipment that fell off a boat. They would surf back to shore and wait for their brother to come get them. Because safety, and not-dying.
But I’m not most people. I’m... impetuous? Impervious? Whatever word Mom uses to describe my stupidity—because what I’m about to do is incredibly, entirely, and absolutely stupid.
I plunge headfirst into the raging water.
My lungs burn, my body pleads for air. The pounding in my head and ears creeps toward my eyes, and I blink against black spots, then white flashes. A rip current drags me farther and farther out, but I can’t leave the thing. The glow is so entrancing, so—hypnotic. One last reach, struggling against my board leash, and my fingers wrap around my prize.
I suck in breath after desperate breath the second my lips bob above the water, clutching the glowing thing close to my chest. It feels light, cool, and smooth against my palm, like it’s made of air, water, and solid matter all at once. About a foot long and narrow, cylindrical, and yet not truly formed. Somehow, it’s... sticky? No. Not exactly. More like magnetic, as if it’s somehow bonded to me. The thing molds itself into my hand, nestling against every crevice of my fingers. Wiping stinging saltwater from my eyes, I hold it up and out of the surf, getting a better look.
Whir—zum.
The object starts to vibrate in my hand, pulsing energy through my entire body, cutting to my core. Muscles and veins become unsettled, warmth and burning power ripping through them. The glow manifests brighter and brighter until it blazes like star-fire. Light dances white, gold, every spectrum of color, spinning through my field of vision until light is all I can see, all I can comprehend.
Birds scatter. The air grows silent. The water calms, becomes a glassy mirror despite the violence of the oncoming storm. All around me a gentle ripple spreads, growing more and more intense until the ripple builds into a violent rumble, like an underwater freight train charging toward the surface. Toward me.
“Ah!”
I shriek, shoving the glowing thing under the surface of the water, and will my hands to open, to drop the thing onto the seabed. But my fingers only tighten, moving apart from my consciousness. It slips even further into the curve of my hand, almost like it knows it belongs there.
Did anyone see it? Shallow, raspy breaths pant hard against my lips as I scan the horizon for other surfers, tourists strolling the beach or the pier. But everyone has taken shelter from the storm. Nobody lingers, not even the gulls.
Unzipping the neck of my wetsuit, I shove the glowing object inside, next to my skin. Immediately, the blinding light fades. The waves grow weaker, more predictable. Even the current, which had been so strong just minutes before, seems subdued, and the sky overhead opens with gentle rain.
But the glowing rod still hums, still pulses.
Everything about my discovery feels dangerous, wild, and untamed—as treacherous as the storm that tried to carry me out to sea. There’s nothing safe about it, nothing subdued. It is raw power made manifest, and I should be terrified. A rational person would immediately begin coming up with ways to get rid of it for good.
And yet, somehow, in ways I can’t explain, it all feels like me. Like the feeling I get when I’m waiting for a wave to crest, to take me on the most spectacular ride, or the sensation of freedom, peace, and belonging I get when I’m sitting alone in the midst of the blue deep, breathing clean air and drinking in sunlight. The rod feels like that, too. It’s as if the power in the rod and something deep in my soul are inextricably one and the same.
Whatever this thing is, it’s mine. And it’s coming home with me.
CHAPTER TWO
“YOU’RE LATE, LOSER!”
Jase waits in the parking lot with an absolutely murderous scowl on his face as he shouts at me from the driver’s side window of our beat-up Camry. Nice to see you, too, Jase.
“Sorry, lost track of time.” I secure my surfboard to the roof rack with bungee cords the best I can in the onslaught of pounding rain, then hop in the passenger side, combing my tangled hair with shaking fingers. Can Jase hear the rod in my wetsuit, humming away?
“‘I lost track of time,’” Jase affects his ditzy-girl voice, the one he uses to make fun of me. “You’re an idiot for surfing in that, by the way.” My brother nods toward the crashing waves beyond the abandoned beach. “Mom and Dad will kill you when they find out.”
He doesn’t hear the rod. Whew. “I was fine,” I assure him. "It’s just a little rain.”
Definitely not going to mention the sparkling light column spiraling from the ocean, or the freaky, glowing rod thing I’m taking home. The rod that’s still pulsing softly against the skin of my back as I lean into the seat. The rod I almost drowned trying to retrieve, that wormed its way through my skin and into being the second I touched it—that rod.
“A little rain? Dad’s already home, and Mom’s wedding was postponed,” Jase shoots me a sideways glance. “There was a huge lightning strike when I was driving to get you. Didn’t you see it?”
“Yeah, I saw it.”
It wasn’t actually lightning, but trying to explain a light phenomenon spouting from the depths of sea to Jase would be like explaining the theory of relativity to a bored first-grader. Jase has zero tolerance for anything that can’t be summarized in two or three words.
“You didn’t take that as a hint to get out of the water and come wait for me? You’re even more of an idiot than I thought.”
I start to seethe as Jase puts the car in gear and we pull out of the parking lot. I’m really not in the mood to be interrogated and called names, not when I’ve got a possibly-deadly glow stick of unknown origin hidden in my wetsuit.
“Lighten up,” I snap. “You don’t like me in your business. Stay out of mine.”
“I’m just worried about you dying, is all,” Jase retorts, his dark eyes narrowing. “Why are you so ticked-off?”
“I’m PMS-ing right now.”
It’s a lie, but all I need to say to get Jase off my back. Immediately, his face wrinkles into a look of pure disgust, like I just served him a plate of rotted fish guts.
“Majorly TMI, Callie.”
We don’t say another word as we drive away from the empty beach.
The second we get home, I dump my surfboard in the garage and slip past the kitchen. First order of business: hide the rod somewhere safe. Ideally, somewhere my family will never find it—ever. Maybe I can sneak into my room without Mom or Dad catching sight of me. A few tiptoes along the hallway, into the foyer, and I’m almost free and clear. I just have to cross the living room, and I’ll be—
“Hey, Callie, how was your hot surfing date with Will?”
Great, I’ve been spotted. Ryan and Tyler, my younger brothers, sprawl out on the floor, engrossed in a video game. Their skinny limbs resemble starfish on a rock. Neither of them bothers to look away from the television as I dart across the living room toward the hall. I swear Ryan has eyes in the back of his head. Must be a genius thing.
“It wasn’t a date, Ryan.”
“Seriously, Callie? You’re the densest person alive,” Ryan snarks over his shoulder, never once tearing his eyes away from the blood-spurting video game zombies he’s slaying. “Is he your boyfriend yet?”
Ryan’s asinine question irritates me. “I don’t like Will like that, and he doesn’t like me like that, either.”
“Can’t you like him just a little bit?”
Ryan keeps pushing the issue—probably because he can’t see my expression, which grows more lethal with every passing second. My brothers give me a hard time about Will pretty much constantly, and it’s not appreciated.
“I’ve always wanted a rich relative,” Ryan goes on. “Nepotism has perks. Vacation condos in Puerto Vallarta, private planes, Porsches.”
“Shut up and play your game, Ryan.”
“I’m telling you, Callie, you need to get in on the Avila money.” Ryan decapitates another zombie. “We’d all be set for life. It’s not like we can count on Jase. There are rocks smarter than Jase.”
I purse my lips. It’s so rude the way Ryan talks about Will’s family. I mean, yeah, they’re one of the wealthiest families in Verona Beach, and their house at the top of the hill has ocean views from all the windows, even in the bathrooms, and it has three gigantic balconies. So what? Will doesn’t act rich. He’s not a snob, he’s cool. Just not dateable. I mean, not to me. Goes to show how little my brothers actually know me.
“You’d better stop teasing me about Will,” I threaten Ryan, “because if you don’t, Old Man Ormandi will come get you in your sleep.”
Ryan snorts a laugh when I name-drop Verona Beach’s local boogeyman, but Tyler tears his attention away from the game to stare, gape-mouthed and bug-eyed. He’s eleven, young enough to believe in urban legends.
“Callie, don’t say that!” Tyler cries. “Saying his name three times will summon him!”
I remember the grade-school myths all too well. Leaning forward, I cup my hands around my mouth to whisper ominously. “Old Man Ormandi, Old Man Ormandi, Old Man Ormandi!”
“Stop it!” Tyler yells.
“Dude, Tyler, did Jase tell you what happened when he egged Old Man Ormandi’s house two Halloweens ago?” Ryan turns his head just enough that I can see his wicked smile. “He said a pair of glowing yellow eyes stared at him from the front window and followed him down the street.”
“Was it yellow eyes?” I tilt my head. “I could have sworn it was fires starting themselves behind all the curtains.”
Tyler’s face pales white as a sheet. “You better be joking, Callie.”
“When a pair of glowing eyes sets your room on fire tonight, let me know, okay?”
Tyler chucks a throw pillow at my face, and I sprint to my room, laughter ringing down the hall.
Okay, time to figure out what this rod is, and, most importantly, where to hide it in the meantime. I unzip my wetsuit slowly, careful not to let the rod fall to the floor, and ease it away from my skin. As soon as it’s in my palm, the rod sticks itself to me, and the glow intensifies. The pulsing becomes a tremulous whir, so powerful it numbs my hand.
“Ow!” The rod crashes to the rug, and I shake out my hand to ease the painful tingles. Except...
Except my fingers are glowing—brilliant, shimmering, and golden.
“Oh, no.” My heart thumps out of my chest when I hold my fingers in front of my eyes. The strange, wild power and all- consuming energy I’d felt when I grasped the rod in the surf cries to break free, trapped in my incandescent hands. Swirls of light, little more than threads, manifest in thin air from my fingertips— remarkably solid and near-sentient, dancing and twirling around each other as they explore my room, my hair, my face.
Stop glowing. Go away. Be normal.
As quick as the glowing in my hands appeared, it begins to fade—as if obeying direct orders from my unspoken plea. The power retreats through my hands and arms, settling against my heart until all is silent, dormant, trapped.
What is this thing I found? Why does it surge light inside me and all around, turning my hands into neon torches? If it can manifest unnamed power through my entire body, make the ocean freak out in the middle of a storm surge, and shoot a beam of light into the sky, who knows what else it can do?
I’ll google it later. The internet knows everything, right?
“Callie? Are you home?”
Just what I didn’t need—Mom barging in, unannounced.
I throw open my closet, pulse pounding in my ears as Mom’s footsteps approach my bedroom door. Frantic, I scour through my secret robotics nest of motherboards, motors, wheels, and claw clamps, desperate for something to hide the rod. In the very back, there’s a shoebox from a pair of boots I got last Christmas. Not. ideal long term, but for present purposes, it works. I dump the boots out of the box, shoving the glowing rod wrapped in my beach towel inside just as my door creaks open.
“Gah! Mom!” I drop the shoebox. It crashes to the floor, but by some miracle, it doesn’t open. I leap in front of it the second Mom peeks her head in.
“Callie?” Mom scowls at the box, then at me. “What’s going on?”
“Uh, nothing important.” I wasn’t hiding anything from you, Mom. Especially not some otherworldly, glowing, rod-thing I found in the ocean.
“Why is that shoebox in the middle of your room?”
I slide the box into my closet with my foot and shut the door. “No reason. Trying on my boots.”
“In August?” Mom looks skeptical. I just stare at her, like, really awkwardly.
Mom clears her throat and tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear. “So, how was the surf? You and Will were out of the water by the time the storm hit, weren’t you? I worry about you surfing when the weather turns. Dad hates you surfing in rough water, too. It changes so suddenly, the worst can happen any second.”
“It was great, really awesome.” I force a smile around grinding teeth. “Nothing out of the ordinary at all. We were out of the water in plenty of time.”
More lies. But Mom seems to have forgotten about the weirdness with the shoebox, so score one for Callie.
“That’s a relief. Get changed and come help me with recipe testing. I’m trying some new things I might want to put on the catering menu, since my wedding was postponed.”
Mom softly closes the door, and I release a rattled breath. Close call. After changing out of my wet bikini into regular clothes, I check the rod in the shoebox one more time.
It’s still humming. And vibrating. Delicate strands of physical, floating light peek through the fibers of my towel, reaching for me like disembodied fingers. They tickle my skin, glittering specks of glowing gold erupting along the backs of my hands. I should be absolutely horrified by the rod, by everything it can do—but I’m not. I don’t know which part I find most unbelievable: the rod itself and the power it contains, or my total fascination with it.
A different kind of vibration buzzes in my pocket. I’ve got a text. Will.
Hey, are you alive?
I chew my lip, debating whether or not to tell Will about the glowing rod. No, I’m not going to tell him. Not yet. It feels a little deceitful, because Will and I tell each other everything, and we’ve never had secrets between us. But it won’t be a secret forever. I’ll come clean once I can figure out what the glowing rod is. If I can figure out what it is. I text back.
No, I’m dead.
My phone buzzes again a split second later.
Lol, very funny. Glad you made it back okay. See you tomorrow.
I don’t send a reply. Instead, I shove my phone in my pocket and check my hands one more time. No glowing. No power surge. No golden flecks. Just regular, suntanned Callie hands.
I close my closet door and march down the hall.
Mom and Dad chat in the kitchen with Jase about his soccer club schedule when I round the corner and don my apron. Mom hands me a chef’s knife and a bunch of tomatoes for bacalhau no forno, which is salted cod with tomatoes and potatoes, and we eat it weekly at home. Why Mom wants to put a rustic, Portuguese fish recipe on her fancy, French-inspired catering menu, I don’t know, but I also don’t care enough to question it. I get to work dicing in silence. Maybe Dad won’t notice my presence and I can go the rest of the day without a sermon, because this has been an unsettling enough afternoon without—
“Hey, Cal, did you finalize your school schedule this week?”
Never mind. Dad can’t go twenty-four hours without a lecture, it seems. I bristle instantly. “I’m all set with the required classes. English, US History, Chemistry, Algebra II.” The same answer I gave him yesterday. And the day before that.
Hopefully, he’ll sense my impatience regarding this particular topic and drop it. Dad and I used to be really close, but lately, all he wants to talk about is school, or extracurriculars—and my disappointing lack of participation in them. Which has made things incredibly tense between us.
“Junior year is a big year,” Dad goes on, oblivious. “You’ve got to start prepping for college.”
I purse my lips, focusing on the tomatoes, their juice dripping across the cutting board. “Yeah, I know.”
Jase turns eighteen in September and is going to be a senior. Why don’t you talk to him about college, Dad? Like Will said, I’ve got two more years to figure out my future.
“What about your electives?” Dad persists.
Tomato seeds stick to the chipping nail polish on my fingernails. “I’m not signed up for those yet.”
In the corner of my eye, I see Dad give his head a jerking shake—something he only does when he’s really frustrated. I recoil inside, the weight of his disapproval hitting my stomach like a leaden brick.
“Calliope James.” Dad says my full name. Not my middle name, that’s reserved for Mom when she’s about to ground me. But Dad only calls me Calliope when I’m letting him down.
Deep breath—salvage the damage. “I think I’m going to sign up for robotics.”
It’s the first time I’ve brought up my super-nerdy, super-secret interest to my family, and I’m not certain how they’ll react. Not even Will knows the extent of my growing fascination with robotics—he thinks the YouTube videos I stay up late watching are random vlogs, not teaching myself coding. But Dad perks up.
“Oh, yeah? What’s that all about?”
“You work with little machines and things,” I explain, tearing my gaze away from the tomatoes at the prospect of rare parental approval. “The class gets to design and build their own robots throughout the year, and program them to have different functions.”
“That sounds like a lot of fun!” Mom smiles offhandedly as she arranges sliced potatoes and onions into a baking dish. A small, semi-distracted gesture, but it makes me almost giddy after Dad’s stinging disappointment.
“It is a lot of fun.” I set aside my chef’s knife and add the diced tomatoes to the dish with the onions. “At the end of the semester, they build an arena in the parking lot for everyone to show off their robots, and—”
“News flash, Callie, that class has a huge waiting list,” Jase interrupts. “You would have had to sign up back in May if you wanted to get in.”
“I got an A in Design and Technology last year, so I got put at the top of the waitlist,” I counter. “My counselor called Thursday and said there’s an open spot in the class, but I have to let her know Monday or she’s moving down the wait list.”
“That’s great. I think you should take it.” Dad almost looks proud. “It’s been ages since you’ve shown interest in anything other than surfing with Will Avila. STEM classes look great on college applications, too.” He sips a cup of coffee, and I can practically see the ’how do I get my lazy, deadbeat daughter to take an interest in life’ wheels spinning around in his brain. “What about sports? Maybe volleyball? I always thought you’d be great at volleyball.”
I knew the sports conversation was coming. It always does. “Dad, I’m not very good at sports.” Except for surfing, which Dad considers a waste of time and not a real sport.
“She’s right,” Jase adds. Thanks for nothing, Jase. “Besides, she’s too old to start as a junior.”
“Not necessarily.” Dad sets the coffee mug he’s been nursing on the table. “There were a couple guys on the baseball team with me that didn’t start playing until they were juniors. Colleges like varsity sports.”
I lean into the corner of the counter, as if pressing against it with all my strength will allow me to turn invisible. “Yes, you like to remind me. A lot.”
“Because it’s true.” Dad frowns, stern, and I take a deep breath, steeling myself for inevitable flaying.
“You can’t go through life like a perpetual beach bum, Callie. All you want to do is surf, or waste time at the beach with your friends. You’re going to be seventeen in four short months. You need a purpose, a direction. People have to grow up and make choices about what they’re meant to do in life. Figure out what your choice will be, before life makes it for you.”
“I’ll do robotics.” My voice barely registers as a whisper over the booming fury of the storm outside the kitchen window. “And I’ll try out for volleyball.”
“Good.” Dad nods like he’s satisfied. “That’s my girl.”
Bitterness lingers in my mouth, and a lump in my throat makes it hard to speak, but that’s probably for the best. The less I say around Dad lately, the more we get along. Better to be ignored than for him to realize I’ll never be any of the things that are important to him.
A huge thunderclap rattles the walls, and the house shudders before going black. Olivia shrieks, scurrying into the kitchen to find Mom, who simultaneously comforts Livvy while griping about her ruined fish. Ryan and Tyler groan about their stalled game, and Dad grumbles about having to check the circuit breaker.
“Callie!” Mom cries. “Flashlights, quick!”
Having a perfect sense of direction and preternaturally good night vision makes me the favorite child in thunderstorms. I head down the darkened hall toward the supply closet, grabbing three flashlights and a few candles before heading back to the kitchen.
“Callie?” Mom whirls all around at the sound of my footsteps. “Is that you?”
“Yep.” I click one of the flashlights, light streaming across the darkened room. “Here. I got the supplies.”
Mom smiles, the flashlight reflecting off Olivia’s tear stained cheeks. “Thanks, honey. We can always count on you in the dark, can’t we, Livvy?”
“Big sissy!” Livvy reaches for me, smiling.
“Little sissy!” I’m wrapped in too-tight three-year-old hugs and sloppy kisses. At least Livvy likes me for me.
Just as Mom starts to light the candles, the lights flicker back on.
“Fixed it!” Dad yells from the basement. Ryan and Tyler cheer as the television crackles back to life. Mom turns her attention back to her recipe, Jase glues himself to his phone, texting ferociously, and Livvy begs to be let down so she can play. I’m ignored.
Now would be the perfect time to escape to my room. The last thing I want is Dad continuing his lecture on how I’m a horrible good-for-nothing who will never amount to anything in life.
The worst part is, Dad’s not entirely wrong about me. I am aimless. Thinking about my future, my purpose—my destiny, to borrow a super-dramatic turn of phrase—makes me feel like I’ve got an itch I can’t scratch, as if the answers I’m seeking about who I am and what I’m meant to do are just out of reach, dangling like the proverbial carrot I’ll never be able to snatch. But I’m only sixteen—almost seventeen, as Dad likes to point out, but still— isn’t that normal?
All the books, TV shows, and movies say it’s normal, anyway.
I sigh a really big, angsty, teenage sigh and flop down on my bed, fully embracing the obnoxious sixteen-year-old Dad says I am. If the shoe fits, as they say. The sky outside my windows looms black with clouds, the ocean peeking around the hills and rooftops even blacker. Appropriate. My world feels pretty bleak at the moment.
Inside my closet, the rod gently hums. I go to it, pulling the shoe box toward me. Light sparks, swirling from the corners of the towel. I sense its call, begging me to pick it up and cradle it in my hands. Like it wants to comfort me in my sadness.
I run my fingers over the towel, and the light attaches itself to my skin, turning my suntan into burnished gold mixed with diamonds. I let the power take hold, the light soak deep inside, and suddenly, I feel... clarity. Peace. A sense of belonging and home I don’t feel in my own house—not even in the surf with my board.
Another rumble of thunder, and for a split second, my room goes black. Multiple power outages in the space of an hour. Storms suck.
As I yell down the hall for Dad to check the circuit breaker again, an eerie cold creeps across my skin. The rod whirs to the point of pain as the darkness surrounding me takes on an almost tangible quality, like a swirling mist through space, before the lights flicker to life and the balmy warmth of August returns. The rod calms, settles into its familiar hum as soon as the shadows flee.
Well, that was creepy.
As I tuck the rod away inside my closet, goosebumps from the flash of icy chill rise like pebbles along the skin of my arms.
CHAPTER THREE
“OKAY, LET’S GOOGLE THIS THING. Glowing rod.”
I type the words into the search engine on my phone while I lounge on the hood of my car, waiting for my friends to arrive on the first day of school. Jase already ditched me for his popular clique, who are way too cool to acknowledge my presence.
Whatever.
I scroll through the websites that pop up, looking for anything remotely scientific. But the results I’m getting are... “Ew. Ew! OH MY GOSH EW!”
Who are these icky internet people?
“Callie!”
I stow my phone in my pocket. Isabella Hernandez, one of my two best girlfriends, rushes toward me, arms outstretched for a hug. She’s trailed by Emily Sawyer, the third member of our girl gang. Will hangs back with a sour look on his face. I leap off my car to embrace Izzy and Em in a tight friend-wich.
“Is it true you’re going out for volleyball?”
Em certainly didn’t waste any time confirming the rumors, because Em is a literal bloodhound for the smell of gossip. It’s eight o’clock in the morning on the first day of school, and word of my volleyball ambitions are traveling around Verona Beach High School. Great. Why can’t my peers forget about being in each other’s business for five seconds?
“Of course it’s true, Will told you.” Izzy faces Emily with a small look of triumph, and Emily flips her bouncy, blonde curls over her shoulder.
“Well, you know, Callie hates sports, so I feel justified in having doubts.”
“Would you both chill out?” I heave the heavy gym bag on my shoulder. “I’m only going out for a sport to get my dad off my back. It’s a requirement to pad my college resume.”
“That’s so not cool.” Izzy falls in step beside me as we make our way to our lockers. “Surfing is totally a sport.”
“Not according to my parents.” I roll my eyes behind my sunglasses.
“I can’t believe they’re so down on surfing.” Emily catches up to Izzy and me. “You could be sneaking out to party every weekend.”
“You’re getting me confused with Jase.” My girlfriends laugh.
“I don’t think any of this is funny,” Will growls, agitated. We all turn to stare at him. He’s scowling. Well, no, pouting is the correct word. I’m so irritated with him I can hardly look at his mopey face.
“Callie isn’t one of those stuck-up sports girls, and that’s what makes her cool.” Will glares at me. “Why do you have to be just like everyone else?”
“Hey, Will, drop it, okay?” I shoot over my shoulder.
This isn’t the first time Will has voiced his opinion on the subject of me trying out for volleyball, and—surprise—he isn’t very happy about it. He’s been texting me non-stop for a solid week about quitting before tryouts and sticking it to my dad, that I’ll break my ankle and won’t be able to surf, and I probably won’t make the team, anyway, so I should just forget it. He was even texting at five-thirty this morning, a whole hour before I’d normally wake up. Supposedly, he’s “concerned about me,” because the volleyball players are “snobby and popular,” and I’m—I don’t know, but not snobby and popular, I guess.
“Lighten up,” Izzy tells Will. “She’s obviously being coerced by unreasonable parental demands.” We arrive at our lockers, and she opens hers, setting up her locker mirror. “Do you guys have your schedules yet?”
“Got mine yesterday.” I whip my schedule out of my backpack. Emily reads it around my shoulder.
“I didn’t know you were taking robotics, Callie.” Em’s blue- green eyes meet mine with a strange look. “Isn’t that kinda nerdy?”
Izzy snorts. “Majorly nerdy.”
“Imagine all the mouth-breathing,” Emily adds with a laugh. “Maybe Callie likes geek boys,” Izzy teases. “The odds are in her favor.”
Embarrassment blazes across my face. Yeah, robotics is a huge geek class at our school. But who cares? I’m not a geek. Or a nerd. I mean, I don’t think I am. Everyone’s allowed a fringe interest— mine just happens to be robotics.
“Actually, this could be to our advantage.” Izzy fixes her hair in her mirror. “Callie can build a robot to sneak into the teacher’s lounge and steal the answer key for all the chemistry tests. Then, we’ll all pass. No studying required.”
“I’ll get right on it, Izzy,” I joke.
“Yeah, Callie’s gonna need all the help she can get this year, especially since the volleyball team will be taking up her free time,” Will snarls, shoving his backpack into his locker.
“Will.” I give him a warning stare. He sticks his chin out stubbornly .
The bell for our first period rings, and I stuff my sports bag into my locker.
“What do you guys have first period?” Izzy asks.
“English with Evans.” I fold my schedule and shoulder my backpack.
“Oh, me, too!” Emily smiles brightly, and claps her hands.
“Wait, you guys have English together?” Izzy heaves a groan after a glance at her schedule. “I’ve got Algebra II with Harmon. I’m changing my schedule. Like, today.”
Izzy heads for the math wing, and Emily, Will, and I walk toward the humanities building. It’s just past the main quad, which is my favorite part of the whole school— picnic tables, benches, a wide lawn for studying and games, and a perfect view of the Pacific. I pause, looking toward the ocean, breathing the smell deep into my lungs.
“You’re slowing us down, Callie, we’re gonna be late,” Will sneers. “I thought ace volleyball players had to be fast, or else.”
Okay, that’s it. I’ve had it. I grab Will’s forearm, squeezing so hard his eyes pop. “Go on, Em,” I call. “We’ll catch up.”
Emily nods, giving Will a you-royally-screwed-up look, and heads into the humanities building. Once she’s gone, I whirl on my best friend. I haven’t been this mad at Will since middle school when he told me my braces looked like tangled up barbed wire in front of my eighth-grade crush. He and his friends stared at me right as I was picking bits of tuna fish sandwich out of the aforementioned braces.
“What is your problem?” I snap. Will tries to wriggle away, so I dig my fingernails in even harder.
“Ouch, Callie, that hurts!”
“Yeah, well, you’re being awful about this volleyball thing, and it’s hurting my feelings.” I release him, and he rubs his arm. “Knock it off. Got it?”
“Or what?” Will retorts.
“Or I’ll—never surf with you ever again.” My threat is hollow, and Will rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” he grouches. “It’s not like you’re going to have time to go surfing with me anyway, not if you go out for volleyball.”
I pause, staring at his mopey face, and it dawns on me—the reason Will is mad has nothing to do with volleyball.
“Is that what you’re worried about?” My voice softens. “That you’re going to lose your surfing buddy?”
“Not just my surfing buddy.” Will shrugs, glancing at his feet. “We always do things together. We do our homework together, we hang out, we get coffee or food and mess around town.”
“I’m still going to do all those things with you, Will. I promise.”
“Are you sure?” He’s guarded—he’ll hardly hold my gaze.
“Will, I need you.” I put a hand on his shoulder, imploring him. “Who else is going to boost my self-esteem and make me feel like the best surfer in the world? Who else hardcore wipes out every single time? You, Will Avila.”
The corners of Will’s lips quirk, his eyes gleam, and, at last, a huge laugh escapes. I laugh, too. All is forgiven.
“Come on.” Will throws a playful arm around my shoulder. “You’re gonna make us late for first period. I mean it this time.”
We scoot into class seconds before the late bell rings.
I can tell right away English is going to be a good class. My teacher, Mr. Evans, starts off by explaining our theme for the year is following your dreams. We’ll read novels about characters overcoming obstacles to realize their potential, and view films and study true stories about kids who overcame the odds to become successful.
Our first assignment is to research a career field we would describe as our dream job and write a report to present to the class. Mr. Evans gives us the last fifteen minutes to brainstorm in small groups. Emily, Will, and I push our desks together.
“I think I want to be a teacher.” Emily takes out her Chromebook and begins typing. “Like, kindergarten or first grade. What about you, Will?”
“I don’t know.” Will shrugs, really noncommittal. “Maybe business or something?”
“What about you, Callie?” Emily glances at me.
I haven’t thought much about my future career, which I figure is completely normal—even if my parents think I’m a slacker for not having a twenty-year plan right now. I don’t think about much beyond next weekend. But I like engineering-type stuff: designing, building, and fixing things, especially robots. I almost tell Emily mechanical engineering.
Then, I remember the glowing rod, the light and the power, the hold it has on me every time I’m in its presence. How I found it in the storm, just beyond the end of the pier, stuck to the bottom of the ocean...
“Uh—oceanography .”
“Really?” Will can’t hide his surprise. “I thought for sure you’d say something to do with your robotics class.”
Don’t make me change my mind, Will. “Yeah, I mean, I like robots, but I also love the ocean.”
“Robotics would be cooler,” Will persists.
He’s right, it would. I’d have a lot more fun researching robotics, too. But this is the perfect opportunity to figure out what the glowing rod in my closet might be, since googling has been massively unhelpful and gross. Spending the next three weeks researching the ocean ought to give me some clue about its origins, right?
“Okay, oceanography for Callie.” Emily types some more. Sounds like I’ve got a lot of reading ahead of me.
“Well? Did you suck?”
My first volleyball practice just ended, and all Jase wants to know is if I sucked. Typical, Jase.
“Hi, little sister, how was your first day of school? Oh, it was wonderful, big brother, thanks for asking.”
I can’t see him roll his eyes behind his sunglasses, but I know Jase’s eye-rolling-face well. “Cool it with the snark, Callie.”
My brother puts the car in drive, and we exit the parking lot. Jase’s soccer club practices at the sports park across the street from the school, since the high school season doesn’t start until the winter. Usually, I catch a ride home with Will, but since Jase and I are both doing sports, we’re driving home together this semester. Yippee.
“Seriously, how did you do?”
“Okay, I think.” I wipe some residual sweat off my forehead. “The coaches seemed pretty certain I’d at least make JV, so Dad will be happy.”
“Sweet.”
Jase and I drive in silence a ways, until I remember my project. “Hey, can you swing by the library really quick?”
“Why?” Jase and libraries—well, reading in general—are like oil and water. There is no love lost there.
“It’s for an English project,” I answer. ”I have to use at least two books as resources.”
Jase huffs through his nose, obviously annoyed. “You’ve got homework already? It’s the first day of school. Who’s your teacher?”
I take a sip of water from my sports bottle before answering. “Evans.”
“Evans,” Jase mutters. “That guy is a tyrant.”
I glance his way. “Did you have him last year?”
“No, I had Heller,” my brother replies. “She was cool. But you know Caleb Rodriguez, right? He’s our fullback. Anyway, Evans almost failed him last year for no good reason.”
Now I’m the one rolling my eyes behind my sunglasses. “Let me guess, he only forgot to turn in three papers and bombed a test, but that’s no good reason to fail somebody, right?”
“He didn’t bomb the test, he got a D.” Jase scowls. “And he didn’t turn in two papers. Not three.”
“How do you and your friends even function, Jase?” Honestly, Mom and Dad think I’m the slacker kid?
“All I’m saying is Evans shows no mercy.”
I nod, agreeing. “Right, got it. So, now you understand why I need to go to the library and start researching my project ASAP. It’s due in three weeks.”
Jase hangs a sharp right, taking a detour to the Verona Beach Library. As far as city libraries go, it’s minuscule—the high school library is twice the size. Developers snapping up real estate for ocean-view condo complexes didn’t leave a lot of room for a decent-sized library, I guess.
“Are you coming?” I glance at Jase. He nearly gags on his chewing gum.
“No way, I’m waiting in the car.” Jase’s hatred for libraries and the “nerds” who haunt them is too great to risk a public appearance.
“Suit yourself.” I shoulder my backpack and open the door.
“You’ve got ten minutes,” Jase calls out the window as I approach the library entrance.
“Ten minutes!” I whirl, pushing my sunglasses down my nose, and fix Jase with a pointed look. “That’s not enough time. I need fifteen, at least.”
My brother remains unmoved. “I’m starving. If you aren’t done in ten minutes, I’m ditching you. You can walk home.”
“Oh my gosh, Jase, you are not seriously—”
“Nine minutes, fifty-eight seconds,” Jase interrupts, tapping the remainder of my time into his phone’s stopwatch. “Time’s ticking.”
“You’re terrible.” I spin around and duck inside.
The librarian at the front counter is a longtime local, a nice lady I remember from childhood library visits. She’s making small talk with an old man in a windbreaker and sunglasses when I approach.
“Excuse me.” The librarian turns at the sound of my voice, and the old man falls silent. “Can you tell me where the books on ocean science are located?”
“Non-fiction is to the left,” she replies. “Row H, Section 2.”
I flash a grin. “Thanks.” As I turn to go, the old man’s voice stops me.
“Good luck. The reference section is abysmal.”
I glance over my shoulder, giving him a once-over. His eyes are hidden by the sunglasses, and he’s got a Cal Bears baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, obscuring his face. Regardless, I haven’t seen him before. But then, I don’t visit the library much, and geriatrics aren’t my crowd. The librarian tsk’s her tongue at his remark, muttering something about reference books not being in high demand for preschool story hour or book clubs.
“Thanks for the heads up.” I rush off in search of Row H, Section 2. I’ve only got seven minutes left, and I have no doubt Jase will make good on his promise to drive off without me.
I snatch a few books from the shelf, anything with “ocean” in the title. I don’t know if these books will shed light on the glowing rod in my closet, but I’ve got to start somewhere.
Five minutes left. Time to check out. I go back through the shelves one last time, searching the titles for something, anything about strange ocean phenomena. Or, more specifically, light- emitting, pulsing rods stuck to the seabed.
“O’Brien, O’Neill, Ormandi...” I read the names of the authors aloud as I scan the book spines. That name makes me stop. “Ormandi.”
Dr. Richard Ormandi. As in, Old Man Ormandi? The boogeyman wrote a book? That’s about as believable as Jase getting straight As, or Ryan becoming a basketball star.
“Rare Oceanic Phenomena: A Scientist’s Explanation for the Unexplainable,” I read the title of his book aloud. “The unexplainable...”
I pull the book from the shelf. It’s old, with a cracking spine and yellowed edges. I thumb through the first couple of pages. Black and white photos accompany a distinct moldy paper smell. Yep, ancient. But maybe it’ll be useful. After all, it’s about the unexplainable.
Three minutes. I toss the book by Old Man Ormandi on top of my stack and rush to the check-out desk. The old guy with the sunglasses is gone, and the librarian scans my books. I scurry back to the car, books precariously balanced in my arms, just as the stopwatch on Jase’s phone beeps.
“Perfect timing, for once.” My brother pockets his phone, glancing at the books in my lap, then at me. “Ocean phenomena? Are you sure this isn’t for science?”
“We’re supposed to research our dream job and write a report.” I pull the door shut.
“Dream job? That sounds like some Mr. Evans bullcrap. Isn’t everybody’s dream job to be a professional athlete or YouTuber? I mean, that’s what I’d write a report on.”
Yes, Mom and Dad. I’m definitely the kid with the lack of realistic goals and expectations for my future.
Jase backs out of the driveway onto the street, and we drive up the hill toward home. Old Man Ormandi’s book watches me the entire way.