"Mr. Brookes, will you kindly pay attention!"

Desmond, who had been leaning forward onto his desk, his head bowed and his eyes fixed on the cell phone in his hands with which he had been browsing through images of the many gorgeous beaches and lakes in Montana, started and looked up. His eyes came to rest on the teacher, Mrs. Hathaway, who was standing at the front of the class. A very thin woman, dressed in an unnaturally crisp grey pantsuit with dark hair tied back into a short ponytail and black eyes framed in a pinched face, she was glaring at him with her bony arms folded closely, almost defensively, to her body. The other students had turned to stare at him as she snapped, smirking, and he now felt heat rising in his neck.

He stowed his phone in his pocket and sat up, his eyes on the board behind her. "Right. Sorry, Mrs. H," he muttered awkwardly.

She threw him a very dirty look, but thankfully returned to the lesson, though her dark eyes cast suspicious looks in his direction every now and then, clearly making sure he did not drift away again. Noticing this, he kept his face arranged in what he hoped was a politely interested expression, though his thoughts were slipping.

His mind was full of surf boards, of white sand beaches, of the roaring waves in Montana, their crests glittering in the bright sunlight. Only a few days before, Desmond's mother had announced that they would be spending the upcoming Christmas holidays with his grandparents in Livingston, Montana. Most sixteen-year-old boys would have been less than thrilled at this prospect, but Desmond, on the other hand, was extremely excited. His ensuing eagerness was attributed mainly to the fact that Bozeman Beach, one of the sites that he had spent the most time observing just before Mrs. Hathaway had caught him, was only thirty minutes away from his grandparents home, so he'd be able to go surfing whenever he pleased.

All that week the thought of being that close to the beach, to that vast expanse of sapphire water, lingered in his mind. The closest he'd ever gotten to that in the rest of the year was a splash in the community swimming pool. But there was something about the beach that always got his veins pumping harder than normal. . . .

The bell rang, and the wistful vision of himself gliding across the face of a massive, ten-foot wave imploded in his mind's eye. Everybody was packing up, dragging their chairs across the floor as they heaved themselves to their feet; he could see Mrs. Hathaway trying to get through the swarm of students at the front, clearly coming to tell him off. Desmond, who had no intention of allowing himself to be berated on the very last day of school, least of all by this miserable old bat, seized his bag, jumped over the desk in the row to his right, which was emptier, being nearer to the door, and ran, pretending he couldn't hear her shrill voice calling to him over the chatter of his peers.

Outside in the corridor, he slowed down, slung his bag over his shoulder and, grinning, sauntered towards the front of the school, where the entire student body had gathered to exchange goodbyes. He peered around for a moment; then, finding his target through the immense crowd, hurried over to it, bidding several friends farewell on the way.

"Hi," he said, coming up to a scarlet Honda Civic. Inside sat a square-jawed youth with messy brown hair, light blue eyes and freckles, and a pale, slender girl with waist-length strawberry-blonde hair and large, amber eyes. He opened the door and sidled into the backseat.

"Look at these," said the girl, thrusting a pile of pictures into his lap without so much as a preliminary "Hello." He took them, slightly nonplussed, and began to sift through them as the blue-eyed youth pulled out of the parking lot and began to make his way slowly through the traffic at the gates.

"What are these?"

"Vacation sites," the girl said brightly.

As he passed through the photos he saw a handsome, two-floor wooden cabin nestled in a beautiful forest with a wraparound balcony in Whittier, North Carolina; a luxurious ocean-front mansion with a huge swimming pool in Myrtle Beach; and a beach-front home in Fort Bragg.

"Hmm . . . I like the cabin," Desmond said, returning the pile with the labeled photo of the Whittier cabin on top. "Why d'you want to know anyway, Kayla?"

"Because we're going out for the holidays, and Mommy and Daddy said I could pick where!"

"Nice. And you, Ethan?" he said to the boy.

"Going to Colorado, skiing in the Aspens," he said, smirking in the rear view mirror. "You?"

"Visiting my grandparents in Montana," Desmond said.

Both whipped around to face him at once, looking scandalized.

"Are you serious?" Kayla demanded.

"Yep."

"Oh, honey," she said sympathetically, reaching to pat his hand.

"Blink twice if you need help," Ethan told him in a very serious voice, actually staring into the rearview mirror again to see his eyes. Desmond tried to protest, but he cut across him, "I'm serious, my folks love you, I can definitely convince 'em to take you along. And if I can't, well . . . Can you fit in a duffel bag? Might be able to smuggle you onto the plane."

"No, I'm fine," Desmond said, half-laughing. "I actually want to go!"

"That's even sadder," said Ethan, shaking his head.

"No, it's cool, really. They live, like, right beside the beach, basically. I'm gonna go surfing all day long!"

"Still sad," Ethan said.

Desmond rolled his eyes and caught Kayla's gaze. She mouthed, "Little bit," and held her thumb and index finger together.

"Anyway, we're going on a flight tomorrow, two hours long and I might just die of boredom on the way. So you two better enjoy my company as much as you can right now."

Kayla and Ethan exchanged looks, then Kayla smiled at him and said, with a mock bow and a funny accent, "As you wish, Sir."

Once they had finally managed to extricate themselves from traffic, they visited the new mall that had opened up downtown, which had received many praising remarks from the students at their school, but which they had not yet had time to peruse. They contented themselves for a few hours bouncing between the food court, several jewellery stores, the pet store, and (to the displeasure of the boys), shopping, then rounding off the trip by watching a movie.

When they had said their final goodbyes, they parted ways, promising each other that they would remain in touch over the break (or else), and to have a good holiday, and that they would see each other in January. As Ethan pulled out of the lane, Desmond waved them off, then trudged up the driveway towards his house.

When he entered, he found the interior in a state of complete disarray. His mother was trying to cook dinner, while simultaneously keeping an eye on his younger, twin siblings, who were streaking around the house like a pair of loose fireworks, shrieking loudly. His father seemed to be trying to ignore them, opting instead to continue packing. He was a tall, stocky man with a face very like Desmond's, yet more mature and lined. His eyes, like his son's, were an onyx brown, and he was sporting a neatly shaved beard.

"Ah, Dez, thank God," he said in relief, straightening up when he caught sight of his son. "I know you just got back, but would you mind taking them out for some ice-cream, calm them down a bit, then come back and help me finish packing?" His voice was laced with desperation as he spoke, gesturing at the twins.

"Sure, Dad," Desmond said, depositing his bag on the already cluttered sofa.

"Yay, ice-cream!" squealed the twins, Stevie and Elena, in unison, and they shot off towards the front door, where they struggled fruitlessly to open the door, being too short to reach the handle.

Desmond's father took a wad of cash out of his wallet and pressed it into his hands. "Take your time," he whispered desperately.

Desmond laughed.

"Jackets and umbrellas!" his mother sang, wading towards them through the jumble of the living room holding an umbrella and three jackets in total; it seemed they had both been waiting for him to appear to rescue them.

"Mom, it's not even raining," Desmond protested, but his mother cast him a sharp look and said, "Do you see the sky outside? It might not rain, but there's a chance that it will and you will not have my babies get sick from being out in it. I don't think they'll be any less of a nightmare bedridden." She thrust the large umbrella into his hands, pressed a kiss to his cheek, then shunted him out the door, whispering as he went, "Your father's not joking, by the way. Please take your time."

So Desmond, seizing his backpack again, stuffed the umbrella and the jackets inside, slung it around his shoulders, and grasped his younger siblings' hands, leading them down the driveway. He hailed a passing taxi and they sped off downtown towards Devon's Ice-Cream Parlour, the only ice-cream shop Desmond knew, by which time it had started to rain, just as his mother had predicted.

"Whaddya know?" he said thoughtfully. He unfurled the huge umbrella as he stepped out of the car and his siblings dove underneath it, splashing around in the puddles at his legs. "Quit it, you two — Stevie — no, don't drink that!"

He stood holding the umbrella awkwardly between his chest and neck for a moment as he fished out the jackets from his restocked backpack, handed them to his siblings, helped them put them on, then began to stride swiftly through the downpour, which was gaining in intensity with every passing minute. It was as they had finally secured their treats and sat down on the benches outside the parlour beneath the awnings, fifteen minutes later, that Desmond's heart nearly leapt into his chest.

He had been staring absently into the channels of muddy water running ahead of them before he realized, with a thrill of shock, that the water was staring back. A face had appeared along the surface, elaborately humanoid, cool and regal in appearance, gazing back up at him. He choked on his ice-cream. Jerking upright, he rubbed his eyes and peered down at the water again.

"What's wrong, Dez?" Elena asked, slapping her lips together as she licked her cone.

"What?" Desmond turned to her, still startled. "Oh, uh —" He glanced back at the water; the face had disappeared. "Nothing," he said quietly.

They lapsed into silence again, listening to the rain pattering all around them. His father had given him a bit extra money than he had needed, whether accidentally or on purpose so as to provide the twins with more treats to keep them out of the house longer, Desmond didn't know, but he spent the money happily regardless.

The sky darkened around them. By now, there was almost no chance of stopping a new cab, so Desmond phoned his parents, who sounded severely disappointed when he told them they would need to pick them up but agreed nonetheless. Around half an hour later, Desmond saw their black SUV forging through the channels of flood water towards them. They pulled over on the side of the street and the kids filed inside, Stevie and Elena falling sleep where they sat along the way. They looked quite peaceful in slumber.

"Am I a bad person for wishing they could stay like that forever?" Mr. Brookes said wearily, glancing around at them.

"I'd say no," Mrs. Brookes said quietly. "But I imagine I'm a little biased."

They arrived home minutes later, and Desmond and his father each seized a twin and carried them to their bedroom upstairs, where they set them down to sleep.

"So the flight leaves at 10:00 tomorrow," Desmond's mother said, when husband and son alike had returned to the living room, "which means we need to be up at six to make sure —"

"Six?" his father said in disbelief.

"Yes, Jonathan," Mrs. Brookes said dangerously. "Between breakfast, the time we need to do a quick recheck that everything is packed, the obvious hassle it's going to be to get the demons — I mean, the twins, ready," she said hastily, "and the drive to the airport, six is the latest we can get up."

And little though Desmond liked it, he had to admit she was right, and grudgingly set his alarm clock for six o'clock the next morning. He woke up, however, much earlier than he had expected. The rain had followed them into the night, and was still lashing against the window. Bleary-eyed, Desmond glanced at the alarm clock, which read 2:53, then around the dark room, illuminated dimly by the outside street lamp, and suddenly gasped.

His eyes had landed on the window, where the same face he had seen made into the water at Devon's was staring over at him once again. He could hear a kind of faint whisper drifting through the room, as though the face were talking.

"I'm going nuts," Desmond said matter-of-factly. He threw his head back against the pillow and fell asleep again almost instantly.

He was roused hours later by the harsh blaring of his alarm clock. Fumbling blindly with one arm, he switched it off, peeled himself from the bed and went downstairs to get ready. The next three hours passed in a haze of mounting frustration and much yelling. His mother had been right, the early waking time really had saved them, for unforseen complications plagued their day. Completely forgetting about food for the trip itself, as she had always hated the meals served on airplanes, Desmond's mother sent him and Jonathan out to the grocery store for a few supplies, where they found themselves locked in heavy traffic from and back to the house, for over an hour total.

The twins were more excited than ever today, well-rested and eager for their first flight, which made it all the more difficult to contain them long enough to get them ready. They had to check their luggage again to ensure that they had packed everything, which they hadn't, then they were finally piled into the SUV, where they got caught up in traffic again, barely arriving at the airport in time to thrust their tickets in the collector's face, stow their luggage and hurry to their seats.

But it was all worth it, in the end. After nearly four more hours of flight and driving times, they finally arrived at Desmond's grandparents' house. It was large and beautiful, but rather old-fashioned, similar to Victorian-style houses Desmond had seen in History lessons.

They had a polite conversation over a much-welcome dinner, catching up on what had happened over the year. Desmond tried his hardest to feign interest, but just as in Mrs. Hathaway's class, he found himself slipping. The allure of the water, which was so close he could practically smell the salty sprays, was drowning out the noise at the table, flushing all else from his mind. At last the final crumb had been scraped away from its plate and they were allowed to leave the table. He hurtled up to the room that had been chosen for him, grabbed his swim trunks and surfboard, and met his grandfather, Theodore, downstairs, who brought him to the beach.

Night had fallen by the time they arrived, and the area was mercifully scarce in regards to divers. The beach was as magnificent as ever, if not more so tonight, with the water glittering in the moonlight, practically screaming for him to dive. As his grandfather bid him goodbye, reassuring him that he would be just down the road having a drink, Desmond waded out to the bank, sand crunching beneath his feet, and leapt in. The water coursed over his skin as he plunged below the velvety-blue surface, wrapping around him like thousands of icy fingers. The water seemed to galvanize him. He felt suddenly energized, alert; in an instant, he became aware of the fish flickering below the surface all around him.

This was the miraculous effect that water had on him, why he was always so keen to allow the magical fluid to engulf him: like spilled ink, so the water seemed to sweep away his troubles, washing them along its roiling currents. But there was also the impossible aspect, the part that the water seemed to speak to him.

He had never spoken aloud of this development, because he knew whomever he told would simply scoff or scorn, but even now, as he always did when he touched the water, he could feel the critters darting along below him, feel them scurrying for food and shelter. He saw them as one sees flashes of memory, brief, vague glimpses, faint outlines, but he knew they were there. He could hear their tiny, shrill voices, like the buzzing of insects. How he could do this, he had never known, and he had never questioned. He supposed he was just weird like that, like the people who could smell rain or diseases, who could feel storms coming by the strange tingling sensations in their joints.

Time after time the water would guide him to schools of fish that were not threatened by his presence, who would spin him their tales of the sea. It seemed to work specially for him, materializing great waves out of nowhere, as it did now.

Minutes passed, maybe an hour, and still he rode, gliding over the increasingly large spouts, only vaguely registering the deepening darkness. As he rode off the crest of one particularly large wave, a voice called out to him, one that was familiar, yet chilled him to the bone.

"Hello, Desmond."

He stopped dead in the water and turned around. There, fifty feet away from him, was Mrs. Hathaway, who was standing on top of the water.

"Mrs. H?" he said, bewildered. "But — how —" He froze: the moon had just emerged from behind a patch of clouds, its pale, silvery-white rays shining down upon them, and Desmond suddenly became aware of what was happening. Mrs. Hathaway was not standing, as he had thought, on the water. She was standing on something in the water. A huge black shadow spanned a large portion of the water around where she stood, and as she smiled, the thing rose, slowly, appallingly: a gigantic, serpentine monster, with black, craggy scales, mossy green fangs the size of kitchen knives, and two glowing, fierce, bulbous eyes, shining purple through the darkness, both fixed on its target as it bared its fangs menacingly.