Free Monstrum by Ann Christopher Page B

levers her up to standing again. “There, now,” he tells her. “It’ll be all right.”
    Mrs. Torres turns her tear-slicked face up to his and struggles to speak through her sobbing hiccups. “We h-have to get h-help. They can’t s-see us. They don’t know we’re h-here.”
    â€œI know,” Murphy says. “But I need you to calm down. You’re scaring the kids. Look at poor Esperanza.”
    Mrs. Torres doesn’t look at her daughter. Instead, she brightens suddenly, and a manic new light flickers to life in her eyes. “I have to swim to the yacht,” she announces.
    â€œNo!” several of us shout.
    Murphy keeps his cool, as well as a firm grip on Mrs. Torres’ torso. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea right now,” he says. “Why don’t we keep looking for the flares, eh? There’s a good lass.”
    Mrs. Torres hesitates and then nods in a sudden show of cooperation that doesn’t fool me for a second. Something about the way her eyes dart back and forth, as though she’s plotting her next move, makes me brace for the worst.
    â€œYes,” she says. “You’re right.”
    Murphy smiles, visibly relieved, and that’s when she springs, backhanding him with a balled fist in one stealthy movement that’s swift enough to make a lioness proud.
    Murphy yelps with pain, falls to one side, and ends up sprawled on the raft’s floor. The rest of us are still yelling with shock and scrambling to process what’s happening when Mrs. Torres climbs onto the outer tube of the raft and jumps.

M rs. Torres disappears into the depths, displacing so much water that it’s more of an explosion than a splash. The raft pitches in her wake, and the rest of us wobble before regaining our footing. Murphy lurches to his feet and curses, his mouth bloody. At first I’m afraid he’s going to attempt a rescue by swimming after her, but he merely leans over the side and gestures to Mike and Axel.
    â€œGive me one of the oars,” Murphy commands. “Quick, like!”
    â€œNo-ooo! Mami!” Espi is halfway to jumping in after her mother. But before she can do more than swing one leg over the side, Carter and Gray, whose reflexes have been honed by years of basketball, grab her arms and pull her back inside.
    Espi goes wild, thrashing, kicking and screaming to get free. The boys have their hands full trying to control her, and it’s all they can do to remain upright while protecting their eyes from her clawing fingers.
    â€œMami! Mami!”
    I can see the outline of Mrs. Torres’s head where she’s surfaced, about ten feet from the raft. She treads water for a second, catching her breath, sweeping strands of her long hair out of her eyes and getting her bearings.
    â€œEspi.” She raises her hand in a slow wave, like what she’s doing is no more dangerous than an outing in the kiddy pool at the local YMCA. “I’m swimming to the yacht, okay,
mija
?” She points to a distant spot that’s as empty and desolate as every other spot out there in the dark. “It’s right there, you see? I’m going to bring back help. You be brave for me, okay? I’ll be right back.”
    The sound of her mother’s calm voice manages to settle Espi down a little. She stills, although Gray and Carter keep their arms around her and seem determined not to repeat Murphy’s mistake by relaxing.
    â€œYou need to get back in the boat, Mami,” she calls. “The water isn’t safe. Stay there so we can row to you. I don’t want you going out in the dark where we won’t be able to find you again.”
    This sounds perfectly reasonable to me, but there’s no dissuading Mrs. Torres. With a blown kiss and a final wave, she starts swimming with what looks like a pretty strong freestyle stroke.
    Espi loses it again, twisting and trying to break free,