Undertow

by Michael Buckley Narrated by Jennifer Grace

Overview

When Lyric Walker was 14-years-old her life was turned upside down when she witnessed a world-changing event-- the arrival of the Triton, a five-nation race of warrior merpeople who walked out of the sea and camped on the beaches of modern-day Coney Island. Suddenly, her neighborhood was home to a new minority group numbering in the tens of thousands. But the Triton' s arrival also revealed a shocking family secret: Her own mother was a mermaid.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

03/30/2015
Buckley (the N.E.R.D.S. series) jumps from middle-grade to YA with this trilogy opener, which sees two worlds colliding as New York City’s Coney Island becomes occupied by the Alpha, an ocean-dwelling race that is nothing like the mermaids of myth. The Alpha come in all shapes and sizes, from the alluring Sirena to the deadly Nix, resembling myriad aquatic species. Their arrival inspires fear, hatred, and confusion. Sixteen-year-old Lyric Walker, who hides secrets of her own, is chosen by her high school’s new principal to help several Alpha teens integrate into the school—a dangerous proposition with anti-Alpha sentiment rapidly on the rise. Buckley’s depiction of the Alpha relies much on standard supernatural tropes (they’re proud, honorable, arrogant, and warlike), but he also imbues them with an alien mystery. Lyric’s plight is predictable, especially her blossoming attraction to Alpha prince Fathom, yet her path holds some surprises, and Buckley draws clear parallels between the vicious anti-Alpha attitudes and existing racial and ethnic prejudices. It’s a fascinating, engaging, and tense tale, and a strong start to the series. Ages 12–up. Agent: Alison Fargis, Stonesong. (May)

From the Publisher

Undertow overflows with innovative, terrifying monsters — human, emotional and undersea. Landmark Coney Island becomes a dystopian state where two different species battle for dominance, and Lyric Walker is both a unique, quirky heroine and a fearless crusader. Allegorical and romantic, the book nevertheless reads like an action movie with especially awesome CGI.” — E. Lockhart, author of We Were Liars and The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks “Undertow crashes over you in waves of emotion, allowing glimpses of family and loyalty, before dragging you into the depths of human prejudice, cultural mistrust, and political corruption. Once you resurface, you'll view the world through different eyes.” —A.G. Howard, author of the critically acclaimed Splintered Series “Undertow will unexpectedly grab hold and pull you out into a world of epic romance and gritty suspense.  A must-read tale of how love can survive under the most dangerous circumstances.  It will leave you gasping for air, and for more.” —Tonya Hurley, NYT bestselling author of the ghostgirl series and The Blessed Trilogy “A gritty, turbulent novel as sweeping and deep as the ocean itself. UNDERTOW will pull you in and hold you down.” —Rebecca Serle, author of When You Were Mine, and The Edge of Falling “Lyric is a girl’s girl—as savvy as she is soulful, as sharp as she is tender. Lyric’s fierce, distinctive voice is the core magnetic force of UNDERTOW, and why we will all be stampeding for more.” —Adele Griffin, author of All You Never Wanted and The Unfinished Life of Addison Stone * "Sharp political commentary and strong parallels to the treatment of minorities in the U.S. ground the world in reality, while the well-rounded and ethnically diverse supporting cast will cause readers to root for them...the breathtaking action and cliff-hanger conclusion will leave teens desperate for more." —School Library Journal, starred review "There are some nice parallels to the civil rights movement and school integration in this novel, but the real attraction for most readers will be the romance and action, both of which are in high supply...should please readers looking supernatural romance with a bit of a twist." —VOYA "Civilization’s end is fast and furious in Michael Buckley’s Undertow. Cut your nails before reading or you will find yourself biting them off." —Campus Circle "Readers will find themselves immersed in this semi-edgy, race-against-the-clock world that's waiting to implode." —Kirkus "Buckley packs this propulsive novel with one walloping scene after another, and there's enough action, romance, and high-stakes drama to keep a wide array of readers interested." —Booklist "Buckley draws clear parallels between the vicious anti-Alpha attitudes and existing racial and ethnic prejudices...A fascinating, engaging, and tense tale, and a strong start to the series." —Publishers Weekly "A gripping story that is convincingly told, and astute readers may spot what is almost certainly some sharp political commentary about the ways our own nation has addressed "otherness" throughout our tumultuous history." —Bulletin —

School Library Journal

★ 02/01/2015
Gr 8 Up—In his first YA novel, Buckley delivers a solidly entertaining adventure with the perfect amount of romance and danger. Lyric Walker used to be a "wild thing." At 14, she and her friends ruled the dilapidated beach community of Coney Island in Brooklyn, NY. Then one night, Lyric witnesses the arrival of the Alpha, strange creatures from the depths of the ocean, and learns a terrible secret her family has been keeping from her. Three years later, Coney Island is a police state, with the Alpha living in a containment camp on the beach, and furious protestors roam the streets. When six Alpha teenagers are forcibly integrated into the public high school, Lyric's complicated web of hidden truths threatens to unravel. In Lyric, Buckley has created a phenomenal new heroine. Smart and snarky, with rough edges and killer fashion sense, Lyric is a girl to be celebrated. Sharp political commentary and strong parallels to the treatment of minorities in the U.S. ground the world in reality, while the well-rounded and ethnically diverse supporting cast will cause readers to root for them. The climax feels a bit rushed, as revelations and plot developments quickly pile up, but the breathtaking action and cliff-hanger conclusion will leave teens desperate for more. VERDICT Give this one to fans of Suzanne Collins's "The Hunger Games" trilogy (Scholastic) searching for the next big thing.—Elisabeth Gattullo Marrocolla, Darien Library, CT

Kirkus Reviews

2015-02-16
The Alpha arrive on the shores of Coney Island. Coney Island native Lyric Walker has always kept her secret hidden: that she's part Sirena on her mom's side. When the Alpha arrive—strangely beautiful yet violent half human/half sea creatures, of which Sirena are a variety—all of New York City erupts into confusion and intolerance. Lyric and her family fear the discovery of their secret, but all is mostly well until a troupe of Alpha teens is admitted into Lyric's high school, and Lyric is forced to give Fathom, the hot, proud, militant prince of the Alpha, reading lessons. Sparks and bodies fly in a maelstrom of stolen kisses and fights, and all of New York seems headed toward a budding war that only Lyric can stop. The Alpha concept is initially hard to swallow, but readers will likely eventually suspend their disbelief about halfway through the novel, seduced by the Twilight-esque feelings of lust and restraint between Lyric and Fathom. This first in a trilogy isn't without overt politics: racial intolerance runs amok, and Buckley even names the governor of New York "Bachman." Despite all of the deliberate, silly setup, the dialogue and characterizations mostly ring true, and by the end, readers will find themselves immersed in this semi-edgy, race-against-the-clock world that's waiting to implode. Odd but nevertheless exciting. (Dystopic fantasy. 13-16)

Product Details

BN ID:	2940170965700
Publisher:	Recorded Books, LLC
Publication date:	05/05/2015
Series:	Undertow , #1
Edition description:	Unabridged
Age Range:	10 - 13 Years

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

You can hear them coming from blocks away, a low thrum like the plucking of a bass string. As they grow closer it becomes a buzz in your inner ear, like hornets building a nest in your brain. By the time they reach your street, when they are right outside your window, the sound is unbearable: a rogue wave of moans and shrieks that rises higher and higher into a great crescendo of terror, the stuff of nightmares. You can’t sleep through it. There is no pillow in the world big enough to block out their howls. Just pull the blankets up over your head and wait for them to pass. They will. They always do.

I am not without fear, but my curiosity gets the best of me every time. I leap from my bed, pull up my blackout blinds, press my face against the windowpane, and squint hard before they melt back into the shadows. Like most nights, I am too late. They’re here and then they’re gone, like lightning bolts stabbing at the flesh of night. The only evidence they were here at all is the ragged wound in the peace and quiet.

But there’s still plenty to see. From not far behind comes a mob of men and boys armed with bats and booze, our neighborhood’s self-appointed guard dogs. They bark threats and give chase. And then, to close the show, here come the police with their lights and squealing squad-car tires. An amplified voice demands that everyone clear the streets, while a helicopter hovers overhead, poking into backyards and abandoned lots with its frantic spotlight. I hear a gunshot. Pop! Then more. Pop! Pop!

It’s after curfew in Coney Island.

“You should be asleep,” my mother says. She’s a silhouette in the yellow light of the hall. “Tomorrow is going to be a crazy day.”

“They’re on the run tonight,” I explain.

She nudges some space next to me at the window and gazes into the now-empty street. Her shoulders and neck muscles tighten into knots. Her breathing is heavy. She uses her thumb to dig into the meat of her palms. I don’t like this version of her—this jittery deer ready to sprint for cover at the slightest sound. I miss my happy mom, my bouncy, flip-flops, cutoff-shorts mom. My Summer Walker, version 1.0.

With a snap the blackout blind comes back down, and she shoos me toward my bed. “They’re probably scavenging. How’s your head?” she asks.

“It’s an F4, but it feels like it’s going to be an F5 soon.”

Mom flinches. I have been getting migraines since I was a toddler, and somewhere along the line we started categorizing their shapes and sizes like hurricanes. F1 is the ever-present storm in my gray matter. An F5 is a motherf’r, on-the-floor, curled-up-in-a-ball, puking, sobbing, wanting-to-throw-rocks-at God state of emergency.

“You’ve wound yourself up over tomorrow,” she scolds.

“How can I not wind myself up over tomorrow?” I cry.

“Why is this place so hot?” she says, then rushes out of my room. I follow and find her frantically twisting the knobs on our apartment’s sole air conditioner, a prehistoric, broken-down dinosaur my father purchased before I was born. Each night in the raging, humid heat of Coney Island it clings to life, wheezing out puffs of air one might describe as toasty. Mom pushes something, and the machine breaks into the hacking fit of an old chain smoker. She quickly turns another knob, and it kicks and spits before settling back into its usual fluttering rattle.

“We have money for a new one,” I say.

“That money is for emergencies,” she whispers.

“Mom, the emergency happened three years—”

“I’ll run a bath.”

“I think I just need some—”

Boom! The F5 has arrived. The pain is a sucker punch to the temple, an explosion that feels like the plates of my skull have just expanded and then fallen back down into a jumbled mess. Heat spreads across my face, a forest fire in my frontal lobe. It sweeps down my neck and burns down the base of my spine. I fall to my knees, hands on my ears, doing everything I can to not vomit.

“Mom,” I squeak.

She’s pulling on my arm, trying to get me up on my feet again, but then—boom!—I’m on my back. I can barely remember where I am, who I am.

“Don’t panic, Lyric! Just breathe.” She crawls onto the floor and wraps herself around me like she’s trying to shield me from hand-grenade shrapnel. Her arms are strong. They whisper and soothe. I am your mother. I will take care of you.

“I hate my brain,” I whimper through snot and tears.

“I know.” She repeats it over and over again.

When I can stand, she helps me into the bathroom. I sit on the edge of our claw-foot tub and watch cold water gather around the rusty drain. When it’s full, she helps me out of my clothes and steadies me. Stepping into it is like easing into a cup of frozen yogurt: creamy, cold, comforting. It takes a while to adjust to the temperature, but it’s the only thing that helps. When I can stand it, I nestle down, deep as I can go.

“I miss the beach,” I say as I close my eyes for a moment, flying off to the shoreline, where she and I would sit for hours as the Atlantic’s roar scared off my pain. It eased the agony without fail, like nature’s morphine, but we’re not allowed to go to the beach anymore, not since they arrived.

“I miss it too.” Each word is interwoven with guilt. She blames herself for what has happened to our neighborhood—the fighting, the martial law, the hate.

“Where’s Dad?” I say, hoping he wasn’t one of the cops down in the street.

She dips a washcloth into the water, wrings it out, then lays it over my eyes. “At the precinct. Mike wants everyone to go over the plans for tomorrow one more time. There are a lot of moving parts with the FBI and all those soldiers. But they’ll be ready. Don’t be worried.”

“I’m not,” I lie.

“Things will get better. You’ll see.” Now she’s lying.

I sink down farther, completely submerging myself. It’s down here where I feel most safe, where the headaches retreat, where the roar of the water drowns out the thrum.

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