Underwater by Brooke Moss

said as we drove through downtown, the sound of early Pearl Jam murmuring from the stereo speakers.
    We were heading home after my physical therapy pool session, and I shivered in my seat after rolling to the car with dripping wet hair. Resting my chin on my hand, I stared out the window. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
    It was almost April now, and though snow was no longer in the forecast, the sky had opened up and dumped gray rain from the night sky Noah’s Ark style. “I’m as chipper as a chipmunk.”
    “Come on, kid. Throw me a bone.” He turned on his blinker and waited his turn to make a left onto the two-lane highway leading out of town. “Your mom’s worried about you. She says you’ve been really rude lately.”
    My nostrils flared. “I’m always rude. Why’s she worried about it now?”
    I thought I saw a smile tickling the corner of my dad’s whiskered mouth. “She said the last few weeks have been exceptional.”
    Yikes. Maybe my attitude since Saxon disappeared had turned a little bit pissy. I hadn’t meant to let it bother me as much as it did, but between my disappointment and my raging teenage hormones, I’d soured a bit. “Yeah, well, she also says that I need to quit water therapy. Maybe Mom’s not the most reliable source for info right now.”
    My dad glanced at me. “What? Why? You love your pool time.”
    I shrugged my shoulders. The lights from the center of town faded, and we headed into the woods. “Guess she doesn’t care. She told my therapist that we need to focus on gym work.”
    “Why?” My dad frowned at the windshield.
    A trickle of cold water fell from my bangs. “She said I’ll never walk at graduation if we keep playing in the pool every week.”
    He drew in a deep breath, releasing it slowly. “I’ll talk to her.”
    My father was a man of few words. He spent most of his time away from the coffee shop with his nose stuffed in a book or—weather permitting—sitting at the end of our dock with a fishing pole. When my mother was home, she went from one end of the house to the other in a blur, a flurry of activity surrounding her. When my father was home, he sat in the corner. Observing. Watching. Taking it all in. It drove my mother crazy, and was reason #347 why they spent most of their time together either arguing or not speaking to each other.
    “Don’t bother.” I cracked the window and drew in the scent of rain. “I already told my therapist I’m not giving up my pool time.”
    He cleared his throat. “What about graduation?”
    I faced him with a scowl. “What about it?”
    We curved around a hairpin turn in the road. “I don’t think your mother’s going to be happy about that.”
    I glared at the side of my dad’s head. “So? Mom’s never very happy about much of anything these days. Neither are you, for that matter.”
    “Your mom just wants what’s best for you.” His jaw muscle flexed as he stared out the windshield. The rain was coming down by the bucketful now, and it was getting difficult to see more than a few feet past the end of the hood. “And I’m plenty happy.”
    “No, you’re not.” I tugged my dripping black hair into a makeshift bun on top of my head. “I heard you fighting again last night.”
    We turned onto an even smaller road, and my dad’s mouth pulled into a thin line. “Listen, your mom gets high strung because—”
    I sat back in my seat and rolled my eyes. “Oh, good grief. If you say she’s a raging control freak because she loves me, I’m going to puke all over your dashboard.”
    “Now, Luna, I’m serious—”
    My hand shot up, pointing toward the blurry windshield. “Watch out!”
    There, lumbering along the side of the thin road in the pouring rain wearing just his black T-shirt and jeans, was Saxon. His head was down as he protected his face from the pelting rain, and his shoulders were hunched. His soaked clothes clung to his body as he splashed through deep puddles at the