A Misfortune of Lake Monsters

Chapter 1

Lemon

If it weren’t for the dry suit strangling me from toes to tonsils, hypothermia would have set in thirty minutes ago—and graduating from high school with all my digits intact is a record I want to hold on to. Inside the Old Lucy costume, my toes and fingers scrunch. The good news is that I can feel them. Being the gooey human center of a neoprene and latex lake monster burrito isn’t my favorite way to spend a Monday night. And here’s more good news: things are about to wrap up—a cluster of shadowy figures is suddenly flitting like moths around the hazy lights on the dock about two hundred meters away.

That this is what’s passing for good news is full-on crap, but whatever—it’s go-time. A sudden flash of heat in my veins chases away the April-cold Lake Lokakoma water, and I clear my throat. It’s sandpapered near raw from the oxygen I’ve been sucking from the tank strapped to my back. Now, Lemon, it hain’t no different than takin’ a breath on land, is what Pappap’s told me on more than one occasion. He keeps saying I’ll get used to it—like the longer I’m the supersecret Old Lucy impersonator, it’ll all magically feel normal one day.

Nothing about faking a lake monster is normal and ever will be. Not swimming around in a monster costume on a dreary night. Not hiding behind the boulders at Peter’s Island to keep watch for people on the dock. Not constantly lying to my best friends. And definitely not being trapped in Devil’s Elbow for the rest of my natural life.

The crisp air fills my lungs, even though it feels like it has to claw over broken glass to do so. Best get used to it now instead of wallowing in my misery. Hey, I want to wallow, but I can wallow when I’m dead . . . or at least after this impersonation is done. I check the silver dive watch strapped over the iridescent scales on my wrist and calculate how much time is left on my oxygen tank. Every thought in my head pares down until all I can do is visualize the Old Lucy impersonation routine, exactly as Pappap taught me. Nothing too showy. Just give them a taste, just a glimpse. And let them hear Old Lucy roar.

Light drizzle pings off the surface of the water and smacks my chin. I duck back behind the boulder, clear my throat again, and rip out the high-pitched ululation of an Old Lucy cry, complete with a long, eerie note that hangs over the lake as heavy as mist.

No wonder the oxygen doesn’t hurt Pappap’s throat—he probably doesn’t have any pain receptors in there anymore after a lifetime of ululating.

A girl’s voice is the first thing that comes sliding across the water. Did you hear that?

And then a guy’s whoop. Old Lucy’s out there! Can you see her? Get some video.

My phone’s not picking up anything—it’s dark as shit tonight.

I fit the regulator back into my mouth, swallow around the stale air from the tank, and adjust my goggles before clicking the face mask back into place. The new moon makes for a sky that might as well be a black hole, sucking all of Devil’s Elbow and the towns surrounding it into nothingness. Low clouds obscure the stars, and there’s a thick gloom hanging just above the water—all the better for that extra bit of mystery. It’s the perfect night to stage an Old Lucy appearance, whether I like it or not.

The urge to think and I don’t is hard to resist.

The words swim through my brain in big flaming black letters. Even the sweet almond perfume of forsythias blooming on Peter’s Island temporarily masking the stink of sweat-embedded monster suit latex isn’t enough to cheer me out of this funk. The cold water closes over me as I sink into the lake. I’ve practiced the sighting route so many times that even my seemingly perma-depressed mood isn’t a distraction. I’ve dreamed this route, woken up gliding through my blankets like a water bug. Ten yards clear of the island, five yards toward the dock for the tail flick. My body corkscrews up through the water like a drill, and I jackknife to thrust my legs and hips and the latex tail upward. For a brief moment, the absence of water resistance is glorious, and I’m something close to triumphant.

Then it’s off to the bottom of the lake, to the submerged wreck of a car that’s been there for as long as I can remember. The rough texture of the old rope that Pappap installed as a guide is evident even through my monster mitts. Hand over hand, I pull myself along the line and shoot up to the surface again, just out of sight of the dock. There are a few spots like that between here and our boathouse—places where I can splash around, make some noise, and hope the people on the dock can hear it, even if they can’t see me.

The satisfied feeling is fading now, though I’ve successfully just pulled off my first solo Old Lucy impersonation. The neoprene strangles tighter. Being trapped inside a generations-old, disgustingly smelly, fake monster costume is just the perfect metaphor for the dumpster fire of my new life.

The bridge of my nose prickles. I dive toward the bed of the lake and practice fake smiling around the regulator for the benefit of my grandparents while swimming for home. I am a grateful granddaughter. I am a grateful granddaughter. I am a grateful . . .

Chapter 2

Lemon

Rain breaks overnight, leaving the sky bright and clear, with a blue so blue it hurts my eyes. The sun bullies its way into the cafeteria of Devil’s! Elbow! High! —that’s the way it sounds when the cheerleaders scream it at pep rallies—and shines up the scuffed linoleum floor. A beam of light gleams across the cheery banner hung against one wall that reads Home of the Lake Monsters with a cute purple Old Lucy illustration smiling from one edge.

Tuesday’s mystery meat glistens on Pepto-pink lunch trays around the room. The banana Troy left in my locker this morning looks safer by comparison, but the combination of blue, pink, and yellow is too cheerful for my mood. I set the banana on the fake wood table, close my eyes, and brood. I’m getting really great at it.

Pappap would tell me I’m being a baby, to soak up all the Old Lucy buzz and count it as a job well done. The talk in homeroom and the hallways this morning was Did you hear and Well, he said. That is a good thing. Danetta Harvey’s about ten feet away right now, recounting last night’s Old Lucy sighting for a rapt soccer team audience, which isn’t doing much for my sulking capabilities—but maybe it means I won’t have to do another impersonation too soon.

I never really believed in Old Lucy until now. Her voice is high-pitched, melodramatic. But Billy shined a flashlight out on the water and . . .

She’s even wearing a glittery Old Lucy T-shirt from one of the tourist shops on Front Street. She probably ran out this morning before school and bought it for this very occasion; it looks new. Maybe I should be proud of my contributions to Devil’s Elbow—Danetta’s family owns a pizza shop downtown called Monster Pepperoni that bakes up a special Old Lucy–shaped pie during the summer for tourists, and I can name at least two or three dozen more kids in this cafeteria whose parents make their living on summer visitors drawn to town for monster hunts at the lake. The monster I now impersonate. It’s not like there’s any other reason to visit this town. I know deep down that I’m doing a good thing, but I’d give anything for my biggest worry to be something more mundane and boring than keeping the economy of an entire town afloat. I mean, I’m seventeen, not forty-seven.

The table jolts, and I jolt with it. Skeet Jenkins slouches on the bench next to me, sitting backward, one elbow propped perilously close to my water. His eyes are aimed at what little cleavage I have in my V-neck. My stomach crawls like a wriggling pile of slimy worms have been let loose, squirming and poking.

Someone nearby stage whispers, Oh my god—look.

So, Ziegler. Skeet leers at me, all dimples and crooked teeth, topped with a lewd wink. It seems like my annual encounter with Skeet has arrived—he makes it a point to harass everyone with boobs at least once each school year. What I am not expecting are his next words: Prom’s coming up.

My guts go on turbo-spin. It’s exacerbated by a strategic rip in his jeans at the thigh that shows off an overabundance of black curly leg hair. I have nothing against body hair, but showing it off so carefully seems so . . . intentionally icky. Everything about him feels like it’s designed to cause a reaction. The sleazy way he feels entitled to hit on everyone regularly, the clear outline of a condom that’s always visible in the back pocket of his too-tight jeans, the rifle rack on his truck, the retch-inducing smell of too much musky body spray. I’m reacting, all right: it’s called nausea. He’s the small-town cliché in every television show . . . on hairy legs.

This is not what I had in mind when wishing for more mundane worries.

Prom, right. How could I forget. It’s becoming painfully obvious that half the people in the cafeteria have abandoned their Old Lucy talk and are now watching the impending train wreck that’s playing out at my lunch table. Why couldn’t he just stick to making some disgusting comment about my body and then running off, like he usually does? The weight of all those eyes on me—including Skeet’s—is almost as strangling as the Old Lucy costume.

What do you think? He licks his thin, chapped lips. Me and you at the prom? I’m getting my pickup detailed and everything. I’ll get one of my cousins to buy us a few cases of beer. We can party in the woods after. It’ll be a good time. He runs the tip of his finger up my arm. I’ll even pack a tent for us to camp overnight.

The worms move from stomach to skin, leaving gross goo trails where Skeet touches me. A polite if tense smile is spreading over my face, and I hope like anything he doesn’t mistake it for interest of any sort. He studies me, smutty-eyed and calculating.

Danetta whispers to her admirers and smirks in my direction.

I adjust my shirt over my chest and flinch away, trying not to be too obvious about it. Uh, Skeet, wow. I . . . don’t . . . I mean, thank you for asking. That’s so sweet of you. My brain trips over itself. Anything I say is going to make him mad—and convincing people to forget I exist is my only goal in life these days. Confrontation gives me a raging headache. It’s just that . . . I’m already going with someone else. But really, I’m so flattered.

The lie hangs between us like a balloon blown too full of air. The urge to cram the silence with awkward chatter is loud in my head, and so is my silent, horrified screaming. Even though I’ve just said no, he has Expectation face. Maybe he thinks I’ll bail on my hypothetical date and go with him—or maybe he knows I’ve made zero plans for prom and will admit it if he smolders at me long enough. The pained smile feels perma-affixed to my face.

Skeet’s mouth tugs into a scowl, and a small measure of fear hisses over my skin when I think again of his gun rack and that time I saw him punch someone in the lunchroom for stepping on his cowboy boots.

Bitch. I don’t want to go with you anyway. He jerks toward me, threatening, then stalks away, heels banging on the linoleum sharp as gunshots.

I slam my head into my hands as soon as my muscles loosen enough to move. I’ve had my fill of drama today. The thought of giving up, ditching school, and trying again tomorrow is attractive—if I was the kind of girl who did that kind of thing. I’m too afraid of Grammy and Pappap finding out. I suppose I should be grateful to Skeet on some level—Old Lucy has been out-of-mind for the entire four minutes of our delightful encounter.

Maybe if I concentrate hard enough I really will just—poof—dissolve into a hazy cloud of discontented smoke.

Taking a nap, Lem? Darrin Flanagan climbs onto the bench across the long, rectangle-shaped table ten minutes later and grins when I look up. Or were you knocked unconscious by the glory of the cafeteria? He tosses his brown bag down, and it spins like a top.

My anxiety calms to a dull twitch.

Both, simultaneously, I say, just before Troy Ramirez slides into the spot beside Darrin and plunks down his own pink tray of shiny meat. His shoulders are suddenly taking up a lot more space than they used to. Sitting next to him, Darrin looks like a mouse next to a moose. To be fair, Darrin is the opposite in almost every way, with a light brown mop of unruly curls and a soft, round face that makes him look like a sixth grader.

I reach over and squeeze both their wrists for a few seconds. It’s a relief to have company that doesn’t actively make me uncomfortable for having skin.

Troy smiles at me, brown eyes sweet and untroubled as usual. Hey, didn’t see you this morning. Everything okay? I left you a ban⁠—

Yeah, thanks. The banana still sits exactly where I left it. You saved me from having to eat—I gesture to his own tray of mystery meat—"whatever that is."

Troy laughs and gently nudges my arm. Here to serve. I know you’re opposed to Turkey Loaf Tuesday. Hey, heard about the Old Lucy sighting last night? Classic.

The polite, frozen expression crawls back onto my face.

Oh, fuck Old Lucy, Darrin says. Can’t you see our Lemon is bored of that noise? She wants to discuss the mysteries of the universe beyond the limits of Devil’s Elbow. She’s all about the unending enigma of spontaneous combustion. False flag conspiracies and crisis actors. He cocks his head and looks across the cafeteria—everyone has gone back to minding their own business—before glancing back at me. The corner of his mouth quivers. Or maybe she wants to talk about Skeet Jenkins.

Troy frowns at Darrin for a split second.

Okay, someone has had one too many coffees today. I point my banana at Darrin for emphasis, hoping he won’t see that my hand is shaking a little. Drop it, I think in his direction. Drop it. That’ll stunt your growth, you know.

Not all of us can be giants.

Troy’s mouth loosens. He rubs a hand over his short dark hair. Heard Billy Voorhees was out at the lake last night. Said Old Lucy came right up to him and ate one of those fruit leather snacks out of his hand.

Before I can attempt another subject change, Darrin lets out a cackling laugh and bangs the table once with his hand. "Was he drunk? Because it sounds like he was drunk. More to the point, are you drunk? You believe him?"

It’s apparently too much to ask to exist in a space where Skeet and Old Lucy don’t exist, even for fifteen minutes. My sigh is barely audible next to the cafeteria din.

Sure, I believe him. Why not? Troy bites into his apple, chews, and swallows. "Look—not saying I believe there’s a lake monster for real, but I don’t not believe, either. Never seen it with my own eyes is all. Maybe it’s a law enforcement thing—only believe what you can see and touch, but never rule out the possible. My dad says it all the time. Says it’s something he learned from your grandfather when my dad worked under him in the police station, Lemon."

That sounds like Pappap, I say, though inside my head is filled with sour laughter. Pappap puts on a good show in public, but he flatly refuses to accept there are things beyond his knowledge—and he’s certain he knows everything. If people thought that way, Ziegler’s Ferry Tours would go out of business. No one would believe that Old Lucy could exist, so why bother looking for her on a ferry tour of the lake? For one brief moment, I fantasize about jumping up from the table and shrieking, It’s all fake! Old Lucy is a hoax! This whole town is a lie!

See and touch that.

Darrin smirks. So, Troy—you’re telling me that you’re agnostic about the existence of lake monsters because your dad absorbed the wisdom of sheriffing and receptiveness from Ike Ziegler? He throws a napkin at Troy. Something doesn’t seem right there. Ike is a bit too authoritarian to be open to the existence of cryptids. He turns to me. Come on—tell me the truth—does Ike come home and make fun of people for believing in our sainted lake monster?

My brain repeats back one of Pappap’s rules for the job: promote the hype—all day, every day. I hope I don’t look like I want to throw up all over the place when I say, We live with Old Lucy, plus with the ferry tour company, he knows she’s out there in the water, and I guess . . . I guess I do, too.

Troy and Darrin both gape.

"Screw Billy Voorhees—are you drunk? Darrin says. In the entire time I’ve known you, you’ve been sure Old Lucy is fake."

Not true, I say, fighting the bitter edge surfacing in my voice. I’ve just never cared one way or another.

And now you do? Troy says. You have a sighting we don’t know about?

I shrug. Grammy likes to say, Encourage the talk, say you believe, but never admit to seeing Old Lucy yourself. It gets you noticed, and that’s the last thing you want.

And that don’t do you no good, Pappap always chimes in. You just blend into the woodwork, easy as you please.

Here I am . . . blending like a champ.

Ever heard the theory that the Loch Ness monster is really an elephant? Darrin says. You know I’m not an Old Lucy believer, he says. I like conspiracy theories—I just don’t believe them. So, maybe it’s an elephant.

The struggle to keep my face neutral is real. Darrin doesn’t buy into the conspiracy theories he’s always going on about? Since when? That is so random, I say. Are you suggesting one of my neighbors has a pet elephant that regularly bathes in the lake?

Darrin steals my banana and peels the first strip. Elephants can live to be sixty years old or some shit.

Yeah, but Old Lucy sightings go way back further than the mid-1900s, Troy says. And elephants? That might be weirder than your conspiracy theory about the Denver airport.

You believe in Old Lucy but not that American Nazi pukes could be using an airport as their base of operations? Darrin finishes peeling the banana and eats it in two bites. "And hey, it’s a conspiracy theory, not my personal belief. Nazis and anyone Nazi-adjacent suck, no matter where they operate."

Fair enough. I’ll give you that one because Nazis do, indeed, suck, I say. If the elephant thing is true, though, it would make me the most unobservant person on the planet.

Darrin grins. Don’t sell yourself short—you’ve got that hot girl thing going for you.

Hey! I kick him under the table, but he’s not Skeet: he doesn’t say it like he’s picturing me naked.

Troy taps Darrin in the arm with his fist. Don’t talk about Lemon like that.

Darrin rubs the spot. Fine. Lem, you’re the smartest goddamn girl I know, a feminist icon for the ages. And you just happen to be a blond Amazon.

I kick him again for good measure, but my heart isn’t in it. Prom and graduation are only a monthish away, and Darrin and Troy will leave me behind not long after that. I’ll miss Troy’s directness and the way he’s always looking out for me. Darrin’s jokes. Troy’s willingness to just be a nice guy. Even Darrin’s casual manly crap and constant trucker mouth and his wild theories about secret societies, although I’ll never let on that I find that stuff endearing—at least on him.

Just because I’m taller than you is no reason to be sarcastic, I say, poker-faced.

"Everyone is taller than me, Darrin says. But I make up for it with my incredible charm and sex appeal."

"That has to do with elephants and lake monsters how?" Troy says, attempting a menacing growl that just comes off as too funny to be scary.

Quit encouraging him. I smile to mask the fact that I want to bottle the two of them up to have their friendship with me always. There’s no way to bright-side this because there’s nothing good about losing my best friends while simultaneously having my future ripped away. I know I should be thinking about it like I’ve had a future handed to me on a silver platter instead, but it’s hard to be excited when it’s not the one I want.

It doesn’t have anything to do with anything. Darrin shrugs. I’m just trying to make you forget I referred to Lemon as a hot girl. It’s true, of course, but you get so testy about it. It’s a good thing you ruled out following in your dad’s and Ike’s footsteps as a career move—you clearly do not have the temperament for being a cop. Or maybe you do. I’ve seen all those police brutality cell phone videos all over the place.

Troy rabbit-punches Darrin’s arm again. We’re all being a little loose with the violence today. I know why I’m all salty and tense, but what’s Troy’s excuse?

He opens his mouth to say something more, but the overhead lights flicker—once, twice, a pause, then another blink. The cafeteria is dead silent for a millisecond before it explodes into a din of nervous tittering and jokes.

Darrin says, Well, shit, Lemon—you didn’t have to go— He breaks off and winces, clapping his hands over his ears. What’s up with the air pressure?

A vibration like the buzzing of bees zings through the bottom of my feet.

Troy’s face goes confused. Whoa, feel that?

"What is that?" As the last word leaves my mouth, the floor lurches. A grinding scrape tears the air. My head jerks toward the commotion, but then it’s everywhere. The overhead lights swing. A voice—a boy—screams, and the cafeteria turns into a tinderbox of noise, louder than before. The table shudders, and Darrin’s brown bag goes flying.

Troy is on his feet. He clamps onto my arm and hauls me up. My feet hit the rolling ground. It’s total chaos. Everyone running. Shoving. Bumping into me. My legs are too liquidy to work properly.

Darrin clamors over the table like he’s in a movie, sliding over the hood of a car. Troy’s tray upends and claps some first-year girl in the chest. She doesn’t seem to notice as she bulldozes her way past, meat juice dripping off her. There’s a sound louder than the yelling, something that rumbles and cracks. The lights still swing. Troy wraps his arms around me and lifts me, backing us both out of the crowd.

What are you doing? We are nose-to-nose, and it occurs to me to worry about my breath.

Earthquake. His breath smells like apple. The fire alarm suddenly blares.

Earthquake?

Something cold and solid presses into my back, and Troy smooshes against me from the front. The sound of my ribs creak in my ears. I suck in my first real breath. My feet dangle. Troy has me pinned to a doorframe. I yell out to Darrin, but the rumbling and the alarm and the screaming drown out everything but what’s happening inside my head.

The pressure against me lessens. I slide down the doorframe. My legs are still like jelly, but the ground is solid enough now. Troy hovers over me. Where once everything was on fast-forward, now it’s all slow motion. People running by. Danetta puking into a garbage can. Nothing seems real at all.

Darrin appears at my shoulder. His voice shakes when he says, You okay?

I think Troy tried to suffocate me. I touch an achy spot on my ribs.

Sorry, Lemon. Troy shrugs, but his face doesn’t look anywhere near casual. He has High Alert face. You were frozen, so I moved you. The doorway seemed like the best place.

Darrin sags, hands on knees. Wow. That was . . .

"We