Forgive My Fins, Page 2

Forgetting Shannen and Quince and Brody—well, I can never entirely forget Brody—I focus on my transfiguration. Most of the time I shift between forms without much thought. But when I’m away from the sea, I use my powers less and less. Reheating my bathwater. Chilling my morning juice. Transfiguring for my bath a few times a week. Nothing like when I’m home. Sometimes it makes me feel closer to home to focus on feeling the transition.

  Drawing on the magical powers of my people—powers granted by Poseidon’s sea nymph Capheira, our ancient ancestor—I picture my iridescent scales dissolving completely away and pale pink skin appearing in its place. Why couldn’t I be lucky enough to be born with a tan?

  Still, it feels good to have my legs back. After spending the first fourteen years of my life with fins, it’s amazing how comfortable I am in terraped form. Three years on land and I feel like I was born to it. I suppose that’s because Mom was human.

  I wonder what she would think of me, lying here in her sister’s bathtub, dreaming about the boy I love. Would she be proud? Disappointed? Glad I’m embracing my human half? I guess I’ll never know.

  As I wiggle my lime-green-tipped toes, I hear a hiss and a loud crack…just before the lights go out.

  Prithi meows.

  “Lily,” Aunt Rachel shouts from down the hall. “Have you been using the phone in the bathtub again?”

  Covering my face with my hands, I wonder if I never should have left the sea in the first place. High school may be great for humans, but it’s no place for a mermaid.

  2

  Nothing escapes the scrutiny of a bathroom mirror. Especially first thing in the morning. Especially under the compact fluorescent glow of Aunt Rachel’s fixtures.

  The harsh lighting washes out my already pale skin, making the freckles painted across my nose and shoulders stand out in the contrast. My blond sea sponge looks more like a halo of yellow cotton candy than hair.

  I tug open my makeup drawer, sending the trays of tubes and compacts crashing to the front. Makeup application must be something human girls learn in kindergarten, because after three years of practice the only product over which I have any control is lip gloss. Even that doesn’t always go as planned.

  I twist off the cap of shimmery pink and swipe the wand over my lips.

  “Lily,” Aunt Rachel shouts up from downstairs. “You have a message from your father.”

  Startled, I lose control of the wand, jerking a gooey pink streak across my cheek before dropping the wand down the front of my shirt and onto Prithi’s furry back.

  Great. Two hours spent choosing the perfect go-to-the-dance-with-me outfit, and now I have to change.

  “Be right down,” I shout back, peeling the wand out of Prithi’s fur and rinsing it off in the sink. Thankfully, most of the gloss smeared onto my shirt, so there’s not much stuck to her.

  After a quick glance at the curtain-covered window—maybe I should staple the curtains in place—I tug my navy blue scoop-neck tee over my head. I duck across the hall and grab a last-minute replacement top. I’m just bouncing down the stairs when I hear Aunt Rachel say, “Good morning, Quince. What brings you over?”

  I freeze. What is he doing here? Hovering outside the kitchen door, I listen.

  “The paper boy misfired again.”

  I steal a peek and see him handing Aunt Rachel her Seaview Times. I don’t buy it. He’s not that nice. He’s probably here with some great new plan for my humiliation. Prithi catches up with me and proceeds to weave figure eights around my ankles. Well, I’m not about to stand around hiding like Lily the cowardly lionfish. Straightening my shoulders, I step around the doorjamb and walk into the kitchen.

  “Morning, Aunt Rachel.” I give her a smile as I cross to the counter and pour myself a glass of orange juice. The carton’s been out for a while, so I wrap my hand around the tumbler and chill the contents.

  As far as I care, Quince isn’t even in the room.

  “Quince brought over our paper,” she explains. “It was accidentally delivered to their porch again.”

  I snort. Quince probably grabbed it off our porch and just pretended to bring it over. To camouflage his true motives. That would be just like him.

  “Would like you some breakfast, Quince?” she offers, unfolding the paper and starting in on her morning read. “Lily, why don’t you pour a second glass of juice?”

  I’m just about to tell him where he can stick his glass of juice when he says, “I already ate, Ms. Hale.”

  I nearly spill my freshly chilled juice. It’s so unlike him to pass up an opportunity to bug me for an extended period of time. When I spin around to figure out why, he’s standing right in front of me.

  “But,” he continues, watching me with his annoyingly Caribbean blue eyes, “I would love a glass of juice.”

  Why does he of all people have to have eyes the exact color of Thalassinian waters? Teeth clenched, I turn back around and quickly splash some juice into a glass. I shove it at him.

  “Here.”

  “Thanks.” He takes the glass—apparently not noticing that I’ve accidentally chilled it to the point of frost—but doesn’t step back. Just downs the ice-cold juice in one chug. He flashes that arrogant grin. “Just what I needed.”

  “Good,” I snap. “Then you can—”

  My suggestion that he go take a flying leap out the door dies in my throat when his gaze shifts to my mouth. His smile transforms into more of a smirk as he slowly lifts a hand to my cheek. I’m frozen. What on earth is going on here?

  He rubs his fingertips across my skin, then holds them up to inspect.

  “Looks like you missed the mark, princess.”

  Turning his hand, he shows me the smear of shimmery pink gloss he wiped off my face.

  “Aaargh!” I growl in frustration, and shove him as hard as I can.

  Of course, I forget the glass of juice still in my hand and wind up spilling it all over both of us. He just throws back his head and laughs.

  Prithi hisses at Quince. Good girl.

  “Lily,” Aunt Rachel admonishes. “What were you thinking?”

  Before I can defend myself—anyone who hears my side of the story would totally call my actions justified—he says, “It was my fault, Ms. Hale.” He winks at me. “I had it coming.”

  Then, turning to Aunt Rachel, he says, “Mom wanted me to thank you for the organic lemon bars. They were delicious, as always.” He grins. “We finished them in a day.”

  Aunt Rachel blushes. “I’ll have to make some more.”

  She’s always sending over stuff like cookies and casseroles to Quince and his mom. One time I asked her why, and she gave me some cryptic answer about neighbors helping neighbors, which I eventually figured out meant Quince’s mom struggles to pay the bills with her minimum-wage factory job. They’re like the poster family for single mom and deadbeat dad. Aunt Rachel might not be much better off with her pottery studio, but she likes to share her bounty.

  “I wouldn’t talk you out of it, ma’am.” His smile turns sweet, the rotten faker. “See you at school, princess.”

  Leaving Aunt Rachel beaming and me scowling, he walks out the back door. How does he manage to do this every time? I wind up feeling like an idiot, and he comes off looking like a perfect angelfish.

  “Nice boy,” Aunt Rachel mutters, returning to her paper. “Strange…but nice.”

  My thoughts exactly. Only instead of nice, I’d say awful.

  The damp sticky of fresh orange juice finally seeps through my top.

  “Ugh, I have to go change.” I glance down at my outfit. “Again.”

  I turn to head back upstairs when Aunt Rachel says, “Don’t forget your father’s message.”

  Right. Daddy’s message.

  I had forgotten, what with the whole Quince thing and the juice and—

  “Wait,” I blurt as a thought occurs. “Quince didn’t see the, uh…” I make a wavy gesture at the pale green curl of kelpaper, a waterproof parchment made from wax and seaweed p
ulp, sitting on the kitchen table.

  “What?” Aunt Rachel peers around the newspaper, looking confused. Then the light dawns. “Oh. No, he didn’t. The messenger gull was gone before he arrived.”

  Well, that’s one thing in a row that’s not a complete disaster. It’s not like I could exactly explain a seagull showing up at our kitchen window with a message tied to his leg. Especially not when that message is sealed with the royal crest of the king of Thalassinia.

  And, thankfully, the fact that Prithi had been upstairs fixating on me at the time means we didn’t have to deal with claws and feathers in the kitchen.

  I grab the message and stick it in my bra before rushing upstairs to find backup outfit number three. Maybe my one-item-long run of luck will continue with the Brody plan.

  “Morning, Brody,” I say, trying to act like I haven’t been waiting for twenty minutes, knowing he would be in before school to check on the news-team footage we shot yesterday. He slips into the chair next to me at the editing station.

  Without looking up from the screen playing raw film from his latest newscast, he says, “Hey, Lil.”

  My heart quivers. Every time I hear his voice, I feel like I’ve just had a brush with an electric eel. Little sparks of energy tingle along all my nerves, sending them into total shock. Which might explain why I lose all ability to form coherent thoughts, let alone actual comprehensible speech.

  With his attention fully focused on the editing screen, I indulge in a few seconds of unnoticed worship—er, observation. After three years, I know every feature by heart. Curving lips that would make Cupid proud, always spread in an I’m-the-king-of-the-world kind of smile. Lusciously curly hair, the color of Hershey’s Extra Dark, that is more often than not still damp from early-morning swim practice. His eyes aren’t like any I’ve ever seen, a pale golden brown that glows when he looks at you straight on.

  Which doesn’t usually happen to me.

  But that’s going to change. Because I have a plan. And a very important question to ask. Right now.

  “The tape looks good,” I offer, hoping to get his focus off the screen for a second.

  “Yeah…,” he says, not sounding real happy. He picks up a headset and holds one side up to his ear like a singer in a recording studio. My heart trips again. “Why does my voice sound so tinny?”

  He still hasn’t looked at me.

  “Oh,” I say in a voice as confident as I can manage—aka not very around Brody. “There was some feedback on the new mics. Ferret will fix it in post.”

  “Great,” he says as he tosses the headset on the table and swivels to face me.

  His smile makes me dizzy—in a good way. I know this is love. What else could make me sweat and smile and swoon all at once?

  If only he would realize this.

  Of course, that will never happen if I don’t ask the question. Right now.

  “So…,” I start hesitantly. “Are you going to the—”

  “You have beautiful eyes, Lil.” He tilts his head to the side, as if trying to get a better look. Or as if he’s just noticing for the first time that I actually have eyes.

  I feel the blush burn my pale cheeks, even though I know not to get too excited. Brody throws out comments like that all the time. At first I thought it meant he liked me, but he does that to everyone. It’s part of his charm.

  Certain I look like a red-cheeked clown fish, I swallow over the lump in my throat and try to continue.

  “I know you and Courtney broke up,” I begin again. “But I was wondering if—”

  “Yeah, finally.” He leans back in the chair, folds his arms behind his neck, and looks at the ceiling. “I was tired of her nagging. Always harping at me to buy her flowers or cut my hair or change my clothes. Can’t believe I put up with it for two whole years.”

  Me neither.

  Then again, I’ve been the one listening to his complaints for the last twenty-two months. I never could understand why he went out with her in the first place. She made him take her to La Piscina on their first date. He shelled out eighty bucks and she ended the night by slapping him. (Just because he didn’t get out to walk her to her door.)

  But that’s all over now. They’re over. It’s my turn. Right now!

  I have no excuses left, and Spring Fling is the perfect opportunity. Not too formal or too much of a social commitment, like prom or homecoming would be. Just two friends (are we friends?) hanging out, dancing, and drinking weak lemonade. Nothing intimidating about that, right?

  Then why are my hands shaking like a sea fan in a hurricane?

  Finally, dredging the depths for my last few drops of courage, I ask, “Do you want to go to the dance wi—”

  “Well, well, well,” a deep voice calls from the doorway. “You two lovebirds should just hook up and get it over with. All this tension gives me hives.”

  My cheeks erupt in flames.

  “Good one, Fletcher,” Brody says, laughing. He elbows me in the ribs like Quince just told the funniest joke. “As if Lil would have any interest in a ladies’ man like me.”

  Quince fills the doorway, arms crossed over his chest like some muscle-bound action hero. And, I think with a little pride, wearing a different shirt from the one I juiced earlier. He stares at me with those clear steady eyes, dark blond brows raised, silently daring me to say something.

  I stare right back.

  “Yeah,” I say, forcing half a laugh. “As if.”

  While Quince and I continue our staredown—to Brody’s complete oblivion—the school bell rings.

  “Gotta go.” Brody grabs his backpack and heads for the door. At the last second he turns and asks, “What were you going to ask me, Lil?”

  The side of Quince’s mouth lifts in a little smirk. But—much to my shock—he doesn’t say a word of what I know is running through his mind. He just holds my stare, daring me to ask Brody right in front of him.

  An audience is the last thing I need.

  I can just imagine the humiliation that would bring. Especially if Brody says no. Which he probably will. I mean, he sees me as a pal. A news-team buddy and swim-team manager. Maybe he’s noticed I’m a girl—I’m not completely devoid in the topside department—but I’m sure he’s never thought of me like that. As a girl who might be interested in a boy. In him.

  He’ll probably laugh in my face.

  If he’s going to give me the big letdown, I’d rather do this audience-free.

  Unwilling to concede the staredown to Quince, I answer Brody without looking away. “I’ll, uh, ask you later.”

  “Sure,” he says. “See ya, Fletcher.”

  “Yeah,” Quince says, smiling. “Later.” Then he winks at me.

  That is the last straw.

  As Brody slips out the door—heading for his first-period class, economics—I launch out of my chair and attack Quince with a howl of frustration.

  “Aaargh!” I try to pummel him with my fists, but he grabs me by the wrists and easily holds me back. “Why?” I shout. “Why do you enjoy ruining my life?”

  I keep yelling at Quince, struggling against his solid grip. Working on motorcycles must build muscles, because he looks like he’s not even trying hard to keep me from beating the carp out of him.

  I swear, I never used to be this violent. Mermaids are always a little more hot-blooded on land, but whenever I’m around him, I just want to break things. Starting with his nose—

  “Chill, princess,” he says in that annoyingly soothing voice. “I just saved you from making a huge mistake.”

  That gets my attention.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Asking Benson to the dance just then—”

  “Bennett,” I correct automatically.

  “—would have gotten you a big fat no.”

  I hold my fury for about three seconds before I slump. Great. It’s bad enough to know deep down that your dream guy doesn’t want you, but to have an outsider say the same thing really sucks seaweed.

&nbs
p; Okay, so maybe I’m not a knockout cheerleader like Courtney. My nose is a little on the longish side and my pale skin will never take a tan—sun exposure is pretty limited in the deep blue sea. My hair is, as previously lamented, a disaster. My curves aren’t totally lacking, but they’re not lingerie-catalog-worthy. I’ve got too many freckles, my eyes are too big, and I have the coordination of a giant octopus. Maybe Quince is right. I could never—

  “Don’t do that,” he says, as if sensing my train of thought, his voice softer. “Don’t twist my words.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I wasn’t saying you have no chance with him.” He finally releases my wrists and steps back. “You’re too good for a loser like him.”

  “Then what,” I bite out, ignoring his second comment, “were you saying?”

  “Asking him to the dance is not the way to catch his attention.”

  “Oh really,” I snap. “What do you know about it?”

  “I know,” he says, lowering casually into one of the editing chairs like he belongs, “that he’s not looking for a date.”

  “And just how would you know that?”

  “Courtney.”

  “Right.” I drop into my chair. “Why would she tell you anything?”

  He stretches his long, jeans-hugged legs out in front of him and sets one biker boot on top of the other. “Some girls actually enjoy talking to me.”

  “Only ones with jellyfish for brains,” I mutter.

  “Anyway,” he continues, “when Bens—”

  When I start to correct him, he holds up a hand and backtracks.

  “When Bennett broke up with her, he said he wanted to be single for a while, taste the fruits of freedom and all that garbage. He’ll be going stag to the dance.”

  I roll my eyes. As if I believe anything this sea slug says.

  “Ask him, then,” he says.

  “I will.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  I stand, grabbing my backpack and slinging it over my shoulder. “I won’t.”

  The tardy bell rings as I step out into the hall. Damselfish! One more tardy to American government and it’ll drop my already precarious grade. Yet another thing I can blame on Quince Fletcher.