Pretty in Pearls: A Forgive My Fins Novella (HarperTeen Impulse)

by Childs, Tera Lynn

  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.”

  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.

  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.

  3

  Go now!” Shannen shoves me out of the lunch line. “Before the goons behind us get to his table.”

  Glancing over my shoulder, I see that she’s right. Brody’s posse—the swim team and cheerleading squad—are in line behind Shannen, behind the spot I just occupied. Out in the cafeteria, Brody is sitting alone at their table.

  If I’m going to ask him, I’d better do it now. It’s my best chance.

  With a deep breath, I hand my lunch to Shannen, push my way through the crowd around the registers, and make my way to Brody’s table. He doesn’t notice right away when I approach, so I clear my throat. He looks up and all the words in my mind wash away. He’s like high tide, clearing out my thoughts as easily as driftwood on the beach.

  For a moment I’m back to the first time I saw him. It was the afternoon before my first day at Seaview High. The nerves and the fears and the homesickness had gotten to me. I was a mermaid, a girl of the sea! What was I thinking, going to terraped high school? I’d never survive.

  So I’d left Aunt Rachel a note and headed for the beach. Leaving my clothes under the pier, I’d slipped beneath the water, intent on swimming home.

  Then there was a splash in front of me, and when the bubbles cleared, I saw a boy gliding beneath the waves. He was clearly human, but he swam like he belonged in the water. Like he was the water.

  That was the moment I knew. If a terraped boy could feel that at home in the water, surely I could survive a few months on land. After all, I was half human. And I wanted to find out more about my mom’s world.

  That was also the moment I fell in love with Brody. He’s the reason I’ve stayed in Seaview for all of high school, instead of the one year I’d originally planned. He’s my future mermate.

>   Of course, when I was little, I never imagined I’d be bringing a human boy home to meet Daddy, but I’m pretty confident Daddy will see that Brody’s meant to be in the water. And Brody will love Thalassinia.

  It’s way past time I finally tell him how I feel.

  Smiling, he says, “Hey, Lil.” He forks a bite of pasta into his mouth. “What’s up?”

  “Um,” I say, my voice suddenly quivering like an electric eel on full volts. “About what I was going to ask you this morning.”

  “Right.” He swallows his food and takes another bite. “Shoot.”

  “Well, I just—”

  “Hey, is this about that special report on price gouging in the school vending machines?” His brows drop to shadow his golden-brown eyes. “I verified my numbers with three independent snack food distributors.”

  I love that he is so dedicated to his work and excited about this exposé, but is a nickel a candy bar really price gouging?

  “Actually, it’s about Spring Fling,” I blurt. “Since you and Courtney broke up, I was wondering if you might want to . . .”

  My question trails off when I see his eyes soften with something that looks dangerously like sympathy. No, no, no. Not a good sign.

  He sets down his fork and stands up.

  “Oh, Lil,” he says, sounding sincerely sad. “You know I love you, but—”

  No phrase in the history of civilization that begins with “I love you, but . . .” has ever ended well.

  “Sure,” I say quickly, eager to get my humiliation over with. “No problem.” Tears prickle at the back of my eyes. “Forget I asked.”

  I turn to rush away, but Brody grabs my arm.

  “Listen,” he says, pulling me back to face him. “I need some time on my own right now. To find out what I really want for the first time in two years. It wouldn’t be fair to you—or any girl—if I said yes.”

  Whatever. He’s just too nice to say he’d never in a million billion years go with someone like me.

  “Of course,” I say, sniffing, hoping my tears don’t well up beyond the point of surface tension. “I totally understand.”

  And I totally need to get out of here. Breaking into tears in the school cafeteria only leads to one thing: gossip. Most of the school already thinks I’m part freak. I don’t need to feed the swell.