The Mermaid's Secret (14 page)

I can't be hearing him correctly. I take a step back. “What?”

“Don't come back. I don't need you and your excuses.”

My whole summer flashes in front of my eyes. No work. No tips. Season coming and going. Bank account dwindling to nothing. No way to pay rent by the fall. Me, moving in with Sheriff. Sheriff watching every move I make, getting on my back for every minuscule thing I do wrong, the constant concern over my well-being, my moral development. Losing the little bit of freedom I've managed to carve out for myself on Barefoot Lane.

My hands start shaking. I refuse to cry, but I have to choke back the tears.

“Harold, you can't do this. Not after all the years I have here.”

“I can, and I have.”
Tap, tap, tap
goes his pen. “Kids today. No ambition. You party all hours. You skip work when it suits you. At least it's early enough in season that I can train a new girl.”

The next thought races through my mind like a movie. If I had a knife on me, I could pry him apart like an oyster, letting his juices flow into the street, for the stray cats and dogs to devour. I could crack his neck like a lobster claw. A surge of aggression and violence overwhelms me. I blade my stance. My hands form fists. That thing deep inside of me that lashed out at the seal to protect my food, my territory, comes out.

Calm down,
a rational voice inside me says.

But my mind is turning black. Adrenaline surges through me. Someone other than me is in the driver's seat. I want to attack Harold, to rip him apart, strangle him. Give him a new story to tell. Instead, I back away from him, my legs carrying me from the terrible thoughts in my head.

I bolt out of the shop just as Matthew is turning the corner toward it. We collide. Matthew reaches for me and catches me, stops me from falling backwards.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

“He fired me. Harold fired me.”

“What?”

“Five years and he fires me just for missing one day of work. I want to kill him,” I say. I turn and I start running, afraid of what I'll do. Afraid that the animal in me is in control.

I run down the gravel lot of Buster's Wharf, past the boatyard and the marine salvage shop. I run down the last strip of road bordering the harbor, past the observation lot with its coin-operated viewers, and I keep going all the way down the jetty of Seal Point, jumping between rocks, escaping to the island's edge.

When there's nowhere else to run, I stop and catch my breath.

A strip of clouds hover low in the sky and the first star of the night shines like a lone pinprick. I can feel the pressure rising, like a barometer under my skin.

I can't believe I got fired from my crappy job. I'll have to find a waitressing gig, but anything good will be taken by now, which means I'll be doomed to the anemic shifts of breakfast and lunch. I could work as a chambermaid at a hotel, cleaning up after people and making beds. Or worse yet, I could ask Sheriff to get me a job at the park.

Hundreds of harbor seals crowd onto the rocks around me. I watch a big male hauled out on a rock just above the waves. A smaller male waddles up to him. The big seal barks and bares his teeth. You don't have to be a mythical sea creature to understand his language.
My rock,
he's saying. The smaller seal plunges back into the water.

Right near the ruckus, another pair of seals cuddles up together. One lies its head on the other's belly, and they close their eyes and sleep. I could be like these creatures. They play, they hunt, they stake out their rocks, they cuddle up to each other to rest.

I could inhabit that world. Go back to Tutatquin. Catch a wave. Never come back.

Forget about eking out a life by mopping up puke and forcing a smile for foreigners who may or may not leave a dollar in my tip jar.

As far as the sharks and the terrifying darkness—I could adapt, couldn't I? I have a human brain and a human heart. That has to count for something down there.

I try to picture it in my mind. How would I spend my days? Exploring and hunting? Could I learn to communicate with other animals? Could I observe life on Ne'Hwas from afar, maybe even check in with Sheriff and Sammy and Matthew right here at Seal Point?

All these thoughts are playing out in my mind, when I notice Matthew jogging up the jetty toward me.

“I got you your job back,” he says. He's windblown and shiny with sunblock from a day on the water. “You'll be on the
Mack King
for the next week. It's the best I could do. And I think it's fair.”

“How'd you manage that?”

Matthew shrugs, as if it was nothing at all.

“His heels were dug in. How did you convince him?”

“I told him I'd quit.”

I laugh. “So you lied.”

“I wasn't lying. I wouldn't work for Harold if you weren't there.”

There's something in the way he's looking at me, like I'm the only person in the world, that tells me he's not joking. The last swell of anger inside me drifts away.

“You would leave if I wasn't there? Seriously?”

“I care about you, Creary.”

A wave crashes into the rocks below us, and splits into a million particles, the fine mist soaking both me and Matthew on the side of our bodies facing the sea.

“I care about you, too.” I want to spill my guts, because it's Matthew and he's like a big brother. And because it's Matthew with the biceps I've never noticed before and the smile that takes my breath away.

“Good. So you won't hate me when I tell you the other part of the bargain.”

I groan. “What's the other part?”

“Come with me.”

 

T
WELVE

By the time Matthew and I get to the pier, the nightly circus is underway. Crowds of tourists amble up and down the pier, looking to be entertained, searching for a post-card ending to their summer-perfect day. And there to entertain them are Ne'Hwas's finest amateur artists. Community-theater types. Ordinary people who emerge from their winter jobs laying sheetrock or stitching canvas boat covers to become seasonal street performers. Musicians, jugglers, clowns, contortionists. Hustling for the summertime surplus of tax-free tip money.

Matthew and I plant ourselves between the bagpipe player and the flame-eater. A small crowd gathers close, (but not too close), as the flame-eater lights a wad of gauze on the end of a baton and twirls it over his head. He throws the fiery thing high into the air and tries to catch it midshaft, but it lands on the ground with a thump. The crowd gasps. He picks it up and keeps going. For the finale, he tilts his head back and extinguishes the flame in his mouth. People clap and throw cash into his jar.

I recognize him as one of the breakfast cooks at Kotoki-Pun Diner.

“This is stupid,” I say, sounding more like a five-year-old forced into time-out than a twenty-three-year-old fighting to keep her job. I'm thumbing the stack of flyers Harold shoved into my hands back in the Slack Tide office.

“Come on, Creary,” Matthew says. “A few flyers and you'll be back in Harold's good graces.”

I hate the fact that I have to be in Harold's good graces in the first place. He was barely able to look me in the eye when Matthew coerced me back to the office to make peace. I had almost attacked Harold in his own shop, after all. He had seen the anger and wildness lurking below the surface, and it scared him.

It scared me, too.

So Matthew did the talking for both of us. “Jess will pass out flyers—off the clock. And she'll be at work on time from now on. And Harold, you'll let her keep her job. Okay? Okay.” Matthew, the peacemaker. Matthew, the big brother who's always watching out for me.

Kay was the peacemaker in my family. It's the role of the oldest sibling. The firstborn is supposed to be reliable, conscientious, cautious. I wonder if my last-born traits—carefree, self-centered, irresponsible—get lost when you someone drops out of the birth order? Do I automatically lose my free spirit and become an overachiever like Kay?

I wonder if animals are affected by birth order like we are. Does the oldest seal in the herd take care of its younger siblings? Does the youngest slack off, exploring the kelp forests while his siblings hunt?

I hand a flyer to a father with the young girl on his shoulders. He looks at it briefly, then drops it onto the pier where it's trampled.

“Litterbug!” Matthew yells out.

I laugh and try to hand a flyer to a mom with three kids. She pretends not to see me. The next five people politely ignore me, too. One tells me to buzz off.

Trying to pass out advertisements to people who've been overcharged for every soda and taxi ride since they stepped on the island is pretty much a lost cause, I decide, so I sit on the concrete bench of the pier and read one of the flyers in my best Harold voice.

“‘
Slack Tide fishing charters.
Voted
best, most excellent
party boat on Ne'Hwas. Experienced captains. Excellent service.
Deep-sea
cod and haddock fishing. Mackerel. Voted
best
friendly crew on the island.'”

“That is the
best, most excellent
Harold impersonation I've ever heard,” Matthew says, smiling.

“When were we voted best friendly crew?” I ask.

Matthew tilts his head and scrunches up his nose. “Probably when Harold asked Tony, Ian, and Stefan who they thought the best crew on the island was.”

“And they voted for themselves.”

He snort-laughs, which is completely adorable for a big, burly fisherman like him.

“You don't have to be here, you know. This is
my
punishment,” I say, fanning my face.

He looks at his watch. “I've got ten more minutes to give you. Then you're on your own.”

“Better get to work, then.” All the anger disappears around Matthew, and a lightness takes over in me. The quiet rage lurking below the surface spills away.

“Don't you want to know where I'm going?” he asks.

“Okay. Where are you going?”

“Since you ask … I have hot date tonight.” He smiles so wide I can't tell if he's joking.

“Oh,” I say, and slip a flyer into the bottom of a baby stroller when the mother isn't looking.

“What's the matter, Creary? You jealous?”

The bagpipe player marches rigidly by. The silver mime is right behind him, crouching in a crab walk, covering his ears, like he can't stand the bagpipes. The mime stops in front of us. He places a hand over his heart, flutters his eyelashes, and points to both of us with puckered lips.

I can feel my face burning with embarrassment.

I shove a flyer in the mime's vest pocket. He takes it out, flattens it, starts folding it. When he's done, he hands me an origami heart. Then he points to me and Matthew again with puckered lips to let us know what he thinks we should be doing.

“Can't,” I say to the mime. “He's got a hot date in a few minutes.”

The mime wipes away an imaginary tear and moves on.

“Mimes freak me out,” I say.

“Don't take it out on the mime. Admit you're jealous.”

My heart is pounding. “I'm not jealous. I hope you have fun tonight,” I say, trying really hard to sound sincere, but failing.

“You're practically green,” Matthew says.

“No, I'm not,” I say. Matthew is like a brother. We're coworkers. Colleagues. Friends. That's it. He probably flirts with everyone. Besides, I don't need a boyfriend. Especially not Matthew.

He's a fisherman; I'm a fish.

An attractive blonde woman in Lily Pulitzer and pearls walks by with her friends who look like they've just come from the spa. She flashes Matthew a smile which only seems to encourage him.

“Any of you ladies up for fishing? We were voted
best
party boat on the island,” he says.

“Do we look like fishermen to you?” one of the ladies asks, placing a manicured hand on her slender hip.

“If the fishermen I knew looked like you three, then I'd never set foot on land again,” he says, laying on the charm.

I roll my eyes.

They laugh and ask him if
he'd
be their fishing guide and whether or not there would be other young, handsome fishermen on the boat with them, and all I can think about is how high-maintenance these women would be if they actually did come out on the
Dauntless,
and how Tony would spend all his energy hitting on them, and fighting with Stefan and Ian over who had the best shot with them.

As the pearled Lily Pulitzer ladies walk away, Matthew turns his attention to me.

“Admit it, Creary. I want to hear you say it.”

“What?”

“You're jealous.”

What a flirt! What a terrible, gorgeous, sexy, charming flirt! “I'll admit I'm jealous if that will make you stop talking about it.”

He puts his hands up. “All right, already. You don't need to throw yourself at me like that. Don't be so obvious.”

I roll my eyes, loving and hating every minute of this.

“Since you ask, I'll tell you what Alice and I will do tonight. We'll probably hit the cafeteria right away to beat the rush, because she gets pissed when they run out of croutons and bacon bits at the salad bar. It's Tuesday, so they'll serve what I can only determine to be some version of beef Stroganoff. No salt, of course. Too many heart conditions. And it'll be weirdly soft beef because of all the dentures. Then we'll head to the TV lounge and watch
Jeopardy
and gossip about Mrs. Hansen's terrible grandchildren, and probably play a round of gin rummy with the ladies from the third floor. Afterwards, she'll give me a bag of Pepperidge Farm cookies, because I'm a growing boy, you know. We'll have a glass of Manischewitz and I will swear to her that I'll be back next Tuesday.”