The Tail of Emily Windsnap - Liz Kessler [42]
“But the boat must weigh a ton!”
“Not in water it doesn’t, so long as I can get some momentum going with my tail. We do it in P.E. all the time.”
“Are you sure?”
“Let’s just give it a try, okay?”
“Okay,” I said uncertainly, and with a flick of her tail, she was gone. Shona’s tail! Of course! Not a shark fin at all!
I made my way up to the front deck, untied a rope and threw it down. Mom came with me. I tried to avoid looking at her, but I could feel her eyes boring into the side of my face. “What?” I asked without turning to her.
“Is she a . . . friend of yours?” Mom asked carefully.
“Mmm-hmm.”
Mom sighed. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, don’t we, sweetie?”
I carried on looking ahead. “Do you think I’m a freak?”
“A freak?” Mom reached over to pick up one of my hands. “Darling, I couldn’t be more proud.”
Still holding my hand, she put her other arm around me. The boat had leveled out again, and I snuggled into Mom’s shoulder; wet, cold, and frightened. Neither of us spoke for a few minutes while we watched Shona pull us ever nearer to the prison — and Jake.
A few moments later, Mom and I caught each other’s eyes, the same thought coming into our minds. Where is Mr. Beeston?
“He might be hiding,” Mom said.
“I think we should check it out.”
Mom stood up. “I’ll go.”
“I’m coming with you.”
She didn’t argue as we stood up and edged our way down the side of the boat. The deck was still soaking, and it was a slippery trip to the door.
I pushed my head inside. Mr. Beeston was standing by a window in the saloon, his back to us, the window pushed open and a large shell in his hands.
“A conch? What on earth is he doing with that?” Mom whispered.
Mr. Beeston put the shell to his mouth.
“Talking to it?” I whispered back.
He muttered quietly into the shell.
“What’s he saying?” I looked at Mom.
She shook her head. “Stay here,” she ordered. “Crouch down behind the door. Don’t let him see you. I’ll be back in a second.”
“Where are you going?” But she’d slid back outside. I hunched low and waited for her to return.
Two minutes later, Mom was back with a huge fishing net in her arms. “What are you doing with —”
Mom shushed me with a finger over her lips and crept inside. She beckoned me to follow.
Mr. Beeston was still leaning out of the window, talking softly into his conch. Mom inched toward him, and I tiptoed behind her. When we were right behind him, she passed me one end of the net and mouthed, “Three . . . two . . .”
When she mouthed, “One,” I threw my side of the net over Mr. Beeston’s head. Mom did the same on her side.
“What the —” Mr. Beeston dropped the conch and fell back into a chair.
“Quick, wrap it around him,” Mom urged.
I ran in a circle around him, dragging the net with me. Mr. Beeston struggled and lashed out, but we kept wrapping, like when someone’s dog runs up to you in the park and knots your ankles together with its leash. Only better.
Mom pushed him back into his chair and lifted his legs up. “Get his feet,” she demanded, dodging his kicks. I slipped under his legs with the net. There was still tons of net left over, so I ran around him again, fastening him to his chair. Mom grabbed my end of the net and tied it securely to hers, and we stood back to admire our work.
“You won’t get away with this, you know,” Mr. Beeston said, struggling and trying to kick out. All he managed to do was make the chair wobble on its legs.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice suddenly boomed from the other side of the saloon.
We all turned to see Millie clambering up off the sofa. She stood majestically in the center of the room, arms raised as though waiting for a voice from heaven.
“I put my back out for weeks once, falling backward off a chair. Had to see a chiropractor for six months. And they’re not cheap, I can tell you.” She swept into the galley. “Okay, who’s ready for a nice, hot cup of tea?” she asked. “I’m parched.”
The sea had calmed down, and the three of us drank our tea on the front deck. The sky