Trident

By Ann Searle Horowitz

Twelve-year-old Richard Tomlin has almost given up on finding his dad. Instead, he focuses all of his energy on being the youngest swimmer ever on his team to qualify for Junior Olympics.

But everything changes when his new goggles transport him to the Lost City of Atlantis!

Confronting shapeshifters and dark magical fo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pell House Publishing
• Release date: Dec 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781734150322

Ann Searle Horowitz

Ann Searle Horowitz was a high school All American swimmer, and is a mother of multiples. She admits to knowing far too much about goggles and the twin bond, both of which provided inspiration for Trident. When not working on its sequel, she coaches YMCA swimming, plays team tennis, and hangs out with her husband and three kids at their home just outside of New York City. As a young reader Ann could often be found in her basement fort, bingeing on Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys mysteries. Now she can be found online at https://annshorowitz.wixsite.com/author

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Tsunami Minus One Week

Chapter One

Saturday, New Pell Y.M.C.A.

I was the anchor, the final swimmer, on the freestyle relay. If we won, we’d be the heroes of our meet against the Brighton Bluefish. If not, well, I’d rather not think about it.

My leg muscles tensed as I crouched on the starting block. I glanced over at Will, swimming anchor against me for Brighton, on the next block. He was shaking out the muscles in his freakishly long arms.

I re-focused on my teammate in front of me, pointing my fingers toward him to track his movement down the pool. He had lost our lead, so my feet needed to leave the block at exactly the moment he touched the wall.

I was almost oblivious to the deafening poolside roar. Almost, but not quite.

Two female voices reached me before I hit the soundproof water. Go Ricky! Mom shrieked from the bleachers. Let’s go, bro! Lucy screamed like a lunatic, above the rest of the team on the pool deck. Cheering, and I mean loudly, for each other is one of our twin things.

As I dove, the impact shoved my goggles down into my mouth. Third time this season—Coach Andy is going to kill me. I managed to take my first breath, chewing plastic and rubber, and set my sights on Will slightly ahead. I’m faster at this distance. If I can just get even with him on the first lap, I know I can take him on the second.

At the flip turn I used my now-perfected chin-tuck-and-jaw-thrust move to slide the goggles down around my neck. The chlorine stung my eyes, but at least now I could breathe.

With half a lap to go, we were dead even. I was starting to feel tired. Okay, let’s be honest, my arms were numb, and my lungs were on fire. But Coach Andy’s voice was there in my head: Richard! This is what you’ve been training for!

I called on my last reserve of strength and put my head down. The oxygen debt created little black spots that danced in front of my eyes, as I stretched for the wall, muscles screaming. Every head in the pool area turned up toward the scoreboard to see our times. Our photo finish was way too close to call.

I’m not sure which hurt more: straining to catch my breath, or seeing that Will had used his super-sized arms to touch me out and win the race.

I crossed my normal-sized ones on the gutter, and rested my heavy head on top. I struggled to slow my breathing. Nice race, Knuckle Dragger, I gasped.

Ignoring the dig, he panted back, Yeah, good swim, Babaloo.

I jerked up my head.

Will climbed out of the pool. His smile was looking even more triumphant now. See you in the locker room.

I considered abandoning my clothes in my locker overnight. Clearly, my secret was out.

My mom is insane about this ancient TV show called I Love Lucy. How insane? Every trip to our downstairs bathroom involves a face-to-face with an especially hideous, heart-shaped toilet seat lid from the series. Lucy stuff is all over our house.

It gets worse. My sister and I are named after the lame star characters from the show. I promise not to tell anyone, Lucy had sworn, apparently with fingers, toes, and eyes crossed. So much for promises made.

I sucked it up and followed Will into the locker room, bumping into Coach on the way. Good effort. Crappy goggles, was how he summed up my swim in the relay.

You’re right, Coach, I said.

Will was waiting for me in the shower. He could barely hold it in. Katie Frost told me who you were named after.

My temples began to pound. Yeah? Big deal. I squeezed too hard on the shampoo bottle.

I asked my mom about the show. He grinned and his eyes narrowed. She said Ricky Ricardo was some Cuban dude who played bongo drums and sang a song called ‘Babaloo.’

Great. Use that next time you play Trivial Pursuit, I said, pretending boredom. It was taking forever to rinse off the extra shampoo.

He wasn’t done. "I think your new nickname fits even better now that we’ve beaten you in the relay. And pounded your best time."

You’re hilarious, Will. Really. We’ll see who’s pounding who next month at States. I turned off the shower. Later, man.

Katie Frost! I’d have to talk to my twin about her choice of blabbermouth best friends, as well as closing her own big yap.

But I had even bigger things to worry about. The Bluefish had beaten us, straight up. Which got me thinking about our next meet, with our biggest rivals: How were we ever going to win against the Sharks?

Chapter Two

Monday, Home

I wonder if the big one is going to eat the little one?

I stared at the fish tank, fascinated, as a large catfish circled one of his tiny, reddish neighbors who had just gone belly up. A fake palm tree with three plastic branches reached up from the gravelly bottom, ready to cushion the fall when the dead body sank.

Time to get your snack, Ricky! Mom’s voice carried up the stairs.

C’mon, Mom! I answered back equally loudly.

"Sorry, hon. I mean, time to get your snack, Richard. Now stop stalling and turn off that game. ‘League of Whatever’ can wait until you get back from practice."

But I’m not even playing… Never mind.

As always, I plugged my nose as I passed by Lucy’s bedroom door and the smell of her scented candles assaulted me. Three framed I Love Lucy posters did the same from the wall along the stairway to the kitchen. I nudged them crooked with my elbow on the way down. Too many crazy women in this house, I complained to myself.

My sister sat in her usual spot, under the It’s Lucy Time wall clock, washing down an entire sleeve of Fig Newtons with her pre-practice cocktail of orange juice, cranberry juice and seltzer. For the zillionth time, Mom’s kitchen TV was screening the Lucy episode where they go on a cruise to Europe.

Just another typical day in the Tomlin house.

My stomach rumbled loud enough to compete with the TV, so I opened a family-sized bag of cheese popcorn. The sharp smell quickly filled the kitchen.

Can’t you eat that disgusting stuff somewhere else? Lucy said, looking up from a worn book of Emily Dickinson poems. It smells like puke. Mom tugged Lucy’s short, thick braid. Puke is a bad word? Really? Okay, it smells like regurgitation. You have to eat it here?

As payback for her stinky candles, I sat next to my twin and ate every kernel in the bag, one at a time, while I stared at her, licking my lips. I waved the empty bag under her nose on my way to throw it out.

Thanks, hon, Mom said, as I struggled to take out the overflowing garbage. In spite of all the jokes, we were still a team. A team of three. Lucy and I helped out with chores all the time.

Lucky your jock buddies are too dumb to move to another table in the cafeteria when your food smells, Lucy jibed, helping me pick up spilled burrito wrappers and tie the drawstring. Otherwise you’d have to eat lunch all alone.

I’d rather eat with jocks than with bigmouth Katie Frost and your other weird Social Justice Warrior—

Enough! Let’s go, Mom called from the mudroom. Get your swim bags and I’ll meet you in the—oof! Richard, you need to put those boats you call shoes all the way under the bench. I’m going to kill myself tripping over them one of these days.

But I’m wearing them to practice, was not the right response, if Mom’s door slam was any indication. As I laced them on I stared at the seashell wreath on the still-vibrating, red door to the garage. I wondered, like I did every time, if it was the last thing Dad had seen on the day he left us.

If I ever saw him again, maybe I’d ask.

RICH-ard! Mom barked as I scrambled up and out to the car behind my sister.

Rich-ARD! Coach Andy called from his office at the Y, after I’d changed into my suit. He didn’t sound happy, either. I saw why from the corner of the wraparound window. Mom was in there, the muscles in her jaw all tensed up. They were fighting. Again.

I thought back to when Lucy and I had first joined the team as eight-year-olds. Lucy had laid out her plan. Of course Mom and Coach Andy will get married. They’re both single. They’re both okay looking, for old people. They both have blonde hair, even though Mom’s is really brown. And they both used to be swimmers. Why wouldn’t they get married?

The fantasy exploded for good when we were ten. I still remember the yelling in the office when Mom and Coach had The Big Fight. We disagree on training methods, was all Mom would admit. Then she told Lucy and me we were going to switch to one of the other local teams. Just like that. In the end, we flat-out refused to swim for anyone except Coach Andy. He was more than a coach—he cared about school, and stuff at home—and our team was more like a family.

You’re right, Lu, I had told my sister afterwards. Except for the fact that they seem to hate each other’s guts, and disagree about everything, they make a very nice couple.

I zoomed back to my twelve-year-old reality. Coach was nodding subtly for me to come in as Mom was making her point, …overly fixated on swimming. And he’s too young for this. He’s not ready yet.

Not ready for what? I blurted as I opened the door. Mom spun around to face me. When she did, Coach mouthed help. I tried to hide my smile. Mom saw, was not amused, and turned back to give him a look that said so.

Coach remote-muted the Grateful Dead song playing in the background. Richard, your mom and I are discussing whether you’re ready to take your training to the next level.

Oh, crap. It’s training methods battle 2.0.

We’re presently, um, chatting about two-a-days.

Mom shot back, "It’s your job to eat, sleep and breathe swimming. It doesn’t mean the kids on your team have to do likewise. They are only kids, you know. They have school and guitar and church. They have family commitments."

When Mom said this, Coach pinched the string of the whistle around his neck, forcing air out his mouth while running his thumb and pointer down to the clasp. I’ve been doing this a lot of years. I wouldn’t push it if I didn’t think this was the right time, Shelley.

He turned to me. I’ve explained that you need to start practicing twice a day, every other weekday, if you’re going to make J.O.s this season.

"And I’ve explained that I don’t want you to be one of those burn-outs whose promising sports careers end in high school because they overtrain." In my head I recited Mom’s favorite argument along with her, word for word.

Coach inhaled deeply. I think it might help to take a pause here and read your mom the goal-setting sheet you submitted to me. You okay to share that?

I nodded. He handed me the sheet.

The prompt is: ‘It’s my dream…’ I cleared my throat. "It’s my dream to be the youngest swimmer on the team to make Junior Olympics. I want to qualify by the end of this season. I want it more than anything I’ve ever wanted. More than winning the Science Olympiad. I want to do it for Coach. I want to do it for Mom. I need to prove to myself that when I’m in the water, I can do anything."

Mom turned and stared at me for several seconds. Although she didn’t often give up so easily, her shoulders slumped. She’d known since I was little that I’d spend all my free time in the water if I could; I was happier, a better me, in the pool than anywhere else. And she could see in my eyes that I was ready to work my butt off for J.O.s—that I would be devastated if she said no.

Okay, Andrew. Mom was the only one who used his formal name. I can see it’s two against one. I guess I’m going to have to trust you on this. But her teeth were clenched and her voice sounded mean. However, if I think he’s getting worn down, or his grades start to slip, that’s it.

Coach nodded his agreement. Anxious to move on, he turned to me. So, about those goggles…

I knew I hadn’t heard the end of eating my goggles in the relay. I stared down at my size-twelve feet. I fixed ‘em on the block. I thought they were tight enough.

He continued, I’m going to set you up with a guy I know, Ken. He has goggles that’ll be just right for you. His swim and dive shop is a little, well, unusual, but don’t let that fool you. He’s the best in the business. He paused a moment. Now, this is very important, Richard. I need to talk to you before you use them. Agreed?

Okay, Coach. But it’s just a pair of goggles. I mean, I think I can handle it. Then I saw that his face was serious, which wasn’t something I saw too often. Okay, Coach, I repeated. I’ll check in with you before I wear them.

Chapter Three

Friday, Lost City of Atlantis

Poseidon, awesome god of the waves, watched his stubborn heirs try to kill one another. As he shook his head in disbelief, his long hair drew paths of bubbles through the water, closely matching the chaotic, swirling pattern on his surf shorts.

Lord Zeus had given him the thumbs down on interfering under the sea. Even though these pseudo-mortals shared Poseidon’s own blood. Even though the leadership of Atlantis was in play.

He was forced to spectate from outside the water-tight dome that surrounded his Not-so-Lost City. The Fates—those thread-loving hags—would decide the outcome.

The fighting went on and on. Were these