Forgive My Fins (2 page)

I catch the phone against my ear before spreading my hands beneath the water to bring the temperature back up to a Zen-inducing near-steaming.

He chuckles once more before answering, “That’s a new one.”

“I’ve got dozens more where that came from,” I assure him as I sink back against the wall of the tub and close my eyes. “Care to hear some?”

The salty water envelops me, calming my electrified nerves. Slightly.

“Someday,” he says, “I might take you up on that offer.”

“Fraidy-fish,” I mutter, closing my eyes and imagining I’m back home, the warm currents of the Gulf Stream swirling around me as I float beneath my favorite spot of ocean—the shallow bank just east of Thalassinia where a forest of sea fans and staghorn coral gives me the camouflage I need so I can lie for hours, watching the colorful fishing boats pass above.

That spot is my bliss. I’ve never taken anyone there, not even Daddy. I’m saving it for someone special. I’m saving it for Brody.

When I feel homesick, I picture us there.

“Admit it, princess,” Quince says in what I can only imagine he thinks of as a teasing voice, “you’d be bored without me.”

“Without you,” I reply, wishing there were more than fourteen feet and two panes of glass separating me from neighbor boy, “I’d have a date to the Spring Fling.”

Sudden silence. The base of my neck prickles.

“A date?” he demands.

My eyes flash open.

I hadn’t meant for that to slip out. The reheated water relaxed me
too
much. I can’t let my guard down for a second when I’m talking to Quince.

“You’re not still panting after that Benson boob, are you?”

“Bennett,” I snap before I can catch myself. Then, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do—”

“In fact,” I say decisively, “I don’t know why I’m still talking to you.”

“You’re talking to me,” he says before I can click back over to Shannen, “because I can help you snag your crush.”

“Ha!” I say, brilliantly. Then I follow it up with some hysterical laughter. As if the bane of my existence would ever help me. As if he
could
. “Nice try, Quince.”

“Fine.” He
tsk
s, as if I’ve made a poor choice. “When you’re ready for help, you know where to find me.”

Yeah, in the house next door, peeping on me in the bathroom.

“I wish I didn’t,” I say. “Hey! How did you know I was in the bath, anyway?” Silence from the pervy end of the line. “Hello?”

Damselfish!
I wanted to be the one to hang up on him this time.

The phone beeps, letting me know that Shannen is still waiting on the line. I should have known she wouldn’t give up. We haven’t finished with the whole asking-Brody-to-the-dance thing. She never misses an opportunity to let me know how I’ve screwed up and how I can improve myself next time.

I’d wonder why I still speak to her if she weren’t my best human friend.

I click over.

“I’m back.”

“Who was it?”

“Nobody,” I answer, meaning it.

“Quince.” It’s not a question.

“Whatever,” I say, slapping my fin absently against the far wall of the tub. “Just get on with chastising me so I can go to bed.”

Shannen ignores my pouty comment. “What did he want?”

“What does he ever want? To bug the carp out of me.”

I’m not about to tell her about his offer—or about his spying on me from his bathroom. After three years of living next door to the pervert, I’ve stopped begging my aunt to move. In a few short weeks I’ll be heading back to Thalassinia to complete my education, learning how to rule at my father’s side. I’ll never have to see or hear him again. He’ll be nothing more than a distant—nightmarish—memory.

“He must have wanted something in partic—”

Not in the mood to discuss Quince, I turn back to the subject I know will derail her. “I think I’ll ask Brody before school tomorrow.”

She switches tracks instantly. “You’d better,” she warns. “Time is running out. The dance is on Friday.”

“Yes, I—”

“That’s three days away.”

“I know that.” I sit up, twisting around and slipping against the porcelain as I pull the plug out of the drain. “But since he just broke up with Courtney, I don’t think he’s exactly had time to troll for and reel in a replacement.”

I can practically feel her heavy sigh.

“I’m too tired to argue with your fishy phraseologies,” she says. “Have you decided what you’re going as?”

The water swirls slowly down the drain, leaving a fine film of salty soap on my skin and scales as it sinks. “No,” I answer as I cup some water up over my chest to rinse off. “I told you, I’m not going in costume. It’s stupid. I’m not a g—” I stop myself from saying “guppy.” Even after three years it’s hard to keep my sea slang in check. “I’m not a little kid.”

“You have to,” Shannen insists. “It’s a costume dance. A Seaview tradition.”

“I’ll think of something,” I say, just to pacify her.

The water gurgles as the last inch starts to disappear down the drain.

“It has to fit with the Under the Sea theme.”

“No, it—”

“I’ve got it,” Shannen shouts, excitement ringing in her voice. “I know exactly what you should be.”

“Really?” I ask absently, grabbing the washcloth draped over the side of the tub and wiping the traces of soap film off my scales. “What?”

“You should go as”—she pauses dramatically—“a mermaid.”

I drop the phone. Then quickly scramble to get it out before the remaining half inch of water fries its circuits. Aunt Rachel will never buy another one.

“No,” I say as water drips off the phone and I hear the distinct sound of snapping electricity. “No, that wouldn’t work.”

“Think about it. We could
both
go as mermaids,” she says. “We’ll talk at lunch tomorrow.”

I set the still-dripping phone on the base, its cords stretched under the bathroom door to the jack in the hall, and sink back against the empty tub.

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

N
othing 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 pulp, 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.”