The Shark Whisperer. Ellen Prager

      Inside the Conch Café, Jade and two of the other older campers were directing things, telling the incoming teens where to sit. Seeing Tristan and Hugh, Jade gave them a lively wave and pointed to two tables up front.

      Tristan whispered to Hugh on his way to the table, “I think someone went a little overboard on the theme.”

      Everywhere they looked there were shiny pink conch shells. They were painted on the walls and strung up on old nets attached to the ceiling. At least twenty sets of chimes were hung around the room, each made of gleaming pink pieces of shell. The tables had the shape of conch shells carved into them and sitting on top were pitchers and glasses decorated with spirals of pink paint.

      Hugh rolled his eyes. “My mother would think it was darling.”

      A group of four girls came in and sat at the table next to them, looking over at Tristan and Hugh. Two of them were identical twins and hard to tell apart. Tristan thought he heard them say something about him being all wet just before they fell into a fit of giggles. A few minutes later a tanned, very good-looking blond boy (in that California surfer-dude sort of way) strode over to their table. “Man, do I really have to sit at the kiddies’ table?”

      A couple of girls at the next table put their heads together whispering.

      Looking briefly at Hugh, the boy nodded his head. “Hey.”

      “Oh, hi Ryder. This is Tristan. He’s in our room too.”

      “Hey,” Ryder said, giving Tristan the cool head nod. “Dude, what happened to you?”

      Before Tristan could say anything, Hugh jumped in, “Uh, he kinda helped someone who fell into one of the streams.”

      Tristan thanked Hugh silently. He shifted his weight, trying to look cool and give Ryder a head nod back, but only ended up nearly falling off the bench. This sent the girls at the next table into another fit of giggles. Tristan turned tomato red, slumping as low as possible on the bench.

      Just then there was a noise like someone trying to blow a horn, only it came out as a spluttering honking sound instead. The older campers laughed and a boy up front holding a conch shell to his lips shrugged. He then laughed along with the others and sat down.

      A sandy-haired man with a rugged pockmarked face walked to the front of the room. He was about average height, very fit, and wore khaki shorts with an all-too-clean white shirt that had the shark and wave logo on it. “Good try there, Carlos. I’ve heard worse.”

      “Hello everyone. Welcome to Sea Camp. For you first-timers, I’m Mike Davis, the camp director. Here’s a good one for you: how come clams don’t like to share their food?”

      The older kids looked at one another, shaking their heads.

      “Because they’re shellfish!” Director Davis exclaimed.

      The room was silent.

      “Oh come on, that was a good one. Shellfish, you know selfish.”

      “We got it,” someone shouted. “That’s the problem.”

      “Did you hear the one about the sea turtle crossing the road?”

      “No, no more! I can’t take it!” someone else yelled.

      “Oh you love my jokes, I know it. It’s just not cool to show it. Anyways, we’re so glad you’re all here. This is a very unique camp and each of you has been specially chosen to come here. You all have some amazing and unusual talents that we’ll help you to explore and develop over the summer.”

      Tristan looked skeptically at Hugh, whispering, “Yeah, I’ve got a talent all right. I can fall over anything you put in my way.”

      “Coach Fred over there . . .” Director Davis continued, pointing to a burly man in the front right corner of the room. His dark hair was slicked back into a short stub of a ponytail and he stood ramrod straight with an expression on his face that seemed more appropriate for a military inspection than a summer camp welcome. “. . . he’ll work on your in-water skills and navigation. Ms. Sanchez, our linguistics and camouflage expert, will teach you how to relate to and communicate with marine organisms. And I’ll be teaching ocean geography and also coordinating missions.”

      Tristan looked around, wondering if he’d heard right. The other Seasquirts appeared equally confused.

      “Did he say communicate with sea creatures? And missions?” Tristan said to Hugh.

      “Did he say in-water skills?” Hugh asked.

      “To use your abilities for the best possible purposes, we have several rules here that must be followed. Each of you will have to agree to them before camp officially begins. There will be no photos taken, no cell phones, and no computer use unless in a prescribed area with permission.”

      There was a collective groan from the two tables of Seasquirts.

      “What is this place, a prison?” Hugh said.

      As if on cue, a blue light began flashing over the doorway. There was an accompanying low rhythmic hum that they could hear as well as feel. Director Davis immediately looked to the back of the room.

      “We’re on it,” Jade said as she and an older boy ran out the front door.

      “Looks like we’ll need to cut this short,” Director Davis said. “Coach Fred will finish here. But before I go, does everyone have a glass of water?”

      The older campers at the other tables all filled their glasses. There was a silent pause as everyone in the room stared at the Seasquirt tables. The young teens quickly filled their glasses from the pitchers on the tables.

      Once they each had a drink in hand, the director continued, “Cheers! To a wonderful, productive, and safe summer at Sea Camp.”

      Tristan could swear everyone was watching as they drank the water.

      “Have a good night and I’ll see you tomorrow—I hope.” Director Davis then jogged out the door. Tristan noticed he had a distinct limp and was wearing two different colored sneakers.

      “After dinner, Snappers and Squids go to the Wave Pool for practice,” Coach Fred said sharply. “Dolphins and Sharks assemble at the lagoon dock. And Seasquirts get your butts to the Poseidon Theater, no dillydallying or detours. I’ll meet you there. And be sure to stay well hydrated here at camp. Now fuel up!”

      The Seasquirts all just sat there, looking bewildered, as if they’d just been told they’re at a camp for space aliens. So far, it was definitely not what Tristan had expected.

      “Like, time for some chow,” Ryder said, getting up and joining the older teens already at the buffet.

      Tristan and Hugh went to the back of the line. Fortunately for Hugh, conch was not on the menu. In fact, there was no seafood at all. The buffet contained only not-from-the-ocean choices, including pizza, pasta, something that vaguely resembled chicken pot pie, and bins of salad-making ingredients. While deciding what to eat, Tristan overheard the older campers talking. He didn’t catch the entire conversation, only a few words like “mission” and “accident.”

      Tristan and Hugh met back at their table. Ryder had gone to eat with some of the other campers.

      “Wonder what the blue light was for? An emergency or something?” Tristan said to Hugh. He wondered if there’d been an accident at camp and what kind of mission the other campers were talking about.

      “I don’t know, but look at this food. If this is not an emergency, I don’t know what is.” Hugh stared at his plate as if it was teeming with ants and wriggling worms.

      “I think it looks pretty good. What do you usually eat?”

      “The other night chef made quail with roasted potatoes and truffle oil.”

      “Quail? Is that some kind of duck? You have a chef?”