“Who’s that? Is that your mother?” —Spelvin, I think, attempting to sound cocksure but really only sounding frightened and small.
I looked to where the girl-thing stood nude and alone, her hair entwined with seaweed, her one visible eye white as milk. None of us said anything as the Benson g**g approached her and slowly gathered around—triangulating her, isolating her.
“Well, well,” said Benson, “This makes sense.” He turned to face us, regarding us slyly. “So this is what brought you pervs all the way out here. And here I thought you were just queer.”
He looked at the girl again, who couldn’t have been more than 15, same as us, and said, mockingly, “Is that seaweed in your hair, or are you just more experienced than you look?” Everyone tittered; a few of them groaned.
“Careful,” said
