by Holly Gunn
With that thought, I realize the change is already happening. The fact that I’m even faced with this issue and the discussions of our coming out, means the time of change is here. Now.
“Tell me how we can stop the attacks and settle the waters, at least for now.”
Her eyes on me shift to a bright green, something I didn’t know witches could do.
It startles me so much I say, “Shit.”
She laughs a deep sound that’s rich but does nothing for me. Still, it’s soothing.
“Now, that right there … settling the waters and stopping the attacks? That’s why I agreed to help Jayden and Oula. I just have to find someone first.”
“Find someone?” I ask.
But she’s gone.
In the space of a second, she vanishes, the only indication she’s been here, a ripple in the water, and drops of rain falling where she stood. The rain smells of not only the salt of the ocean but of brine, of pond algae, and of lake moss.
When I start the trek down the winding path close to the local shark shiver’s land, it’s with a different thought in mind.
Because I’m my parent’s son, I make my own fun—and my own trouble. Because I’m a shark, I can sense the change in tides and ride the waves to new adventures. But I’ve come out of today with a new realization. Because I’m of the sea, riding the waves as a creature whose very evolution is grounded in being a part of the ebb and flow, more often than not, misadventures and troubles find me.
Is it bad that I’m smiling as I round the sand and grass path to my little cottage by the river? I think not. Riding the waves of new adventures is the spice of life.
LEXIE
I’m a nerd. It’s an acceptable life choice now. That means you (yes, you) aren’t allowed to judge. Is the fact that I’m waiting outside the Nashville Comic-Con when I’m from upstate Washington weird? Maybe. Is the fact that I am possibly more obsessed with being someone other than Lexie Leland just an eensy bit unhealthy? Well, that I can answer. No, it’s not. Lexie Leland is a half-Swedish, half my-momma-was-off-the-boat Chinese American who wears reading glasses, has dark hair and black eyes, is of average height, and lacks the social skills to hold a normal conversation.
But … Lexie Leland as Batgirl? She’s smokin’ and mysterious.
Lexie Leland as Superwoman? She’s intelligent and witty.
Lexie Leland as a devoted ally of the high sky-lord from Savage Darkness, a book series by an author no one knows but who is my favorite? Well, that woman’s just out of this world—amazing.
I’m not tooting my own horn. First, these characters aren’t really me. Second, it takes me months to get a costume together, weeks to get makeup down, a year to save up for an event. Last year was Rhode Island. The year before, San Diego. The year before that, Austin. Nashville is the most recent on my list of places I’ve been in the last six years.
I’m twenty-nine years old and life’s not exactly how I always pictured it. I’m not a vampire/werewolf hybrid saving my Fae Prince with my last-minute gifts, though he’s strong and Alpha and doesn’t need saving. I’m also not an intergalactic space ranger with a goofy, yet competent sidekick who protects Earthlings and Martians on a daily basis from the otherworld’s claws of destruction.
I’m me.
Lexie Leland, socially inept nerd and web designer.
Today, though, my license, a pen, several business cards, and extra cash tucked into the various compartments of my fabulous outfit, I’m a not-so-pale version of Trinity from The Matrix.
“Hey, how much you want to bet there will be twenty-three Batmans today?” Rudy asks from behind me. This is what we do. We bet before a Con. We’ve been friends since we were five. For most of my childhood, I thought he was going to be my future husband. He disabused me of that notion when he came out of the glam closet and admitted he likes men when were twelve.
In Seattle, there are a fair few guys who swing both ways. This might have created a problem since he’s way prettier than I am, had he not declared he was a Thor-lover at the same time he spilled the beans about his sexuality. I’m not a Thor-lover. I’m more a Deadpool-lover. This means I never had to duke it out with my best friend. Phew.
In case you're wondering, no and yes. No, this preference has not allowed me the opportunity to find the man of my dreams. And yes, I am terrible at relationships. So is Rudy. Hence, we Comic-Con.
“Forty-seven,” I counter with my own guess. There are always a crazy ton of Batmans at Cons. However, there is never a real-life Batman with the perfect harmony of brooding honorability when you need one.
He pulls out five bucks and says, “Let the games begin.”
I laugh and lean into him, my back to his side. He pulls me closer, and I think, not for the first time, that I don’t need anything beyond this. Me, in a costume, pretending to be someone else, with the only person I can be myself with.
Yeah, that’s me. Totally normal.
When the line moves enough that we’re finally allowed to present our tickets, I do what I always do at an event. Rudy knows me. He knows I need this time. So, while he moves in with the fray, I look around. Like it’s the first time, my dark-brown eyes survey the room in awe.
Cons are amusement parks for the socially challenged, fantasy-loving, self-proclaimed nerds. From the first time I came to one, I knew—these are my people. So, if every year, I save up in order to spend what equates to a trip to Europe on a costume, a nice hotel, and a seat in a tin can that makes its way across the sky, that’s what I’m going to do. Simply to get back to my people.
The freaks.
The weirdos.
The ones who’ve never quite fit in.
I breathe in the smells, some of them unwanted but still a part of the experience. I take in the sights and the smells of the room, and the feel of bodies as they shuffle by.
People rush past me, like a flowing tide, to get to the setup they’ve come here for, to meet famous folk, and to stand in the overabundance of endless lines. They’ll get to meet comic book writers, fantasy authors, gamers, jewelry designers, and basically live a dream.
For all that my parents try to love me, and they do in their own way, they’re computer nerds from an earlier generation and it shows. Computers are their life; I never have been. One of the reasons I’m so incredibly socially awkward is that they aren’t talkers.
We don’t do family dinners.
We don’t chat or have family game nights.
Dad once tried to ask me how my day was. I was ten. It was so shocking, my mouth hung open like a fish, and I believe I said, “Uh.”
He patted me on the shoulder and said, “Good, good. Keep up the good work.” If you include the number of “goods” in that sentence, he quite literally only said five words.
But I’ve never been without a roof over my head, food in my belly, or two people who’ve taught me that education and grades are the most important things in the world.
Education absolutely is. I’m of the opinion that if you spend your life learning and exploring, even if it’s just at your local library, it will be full.
Grades though? They’re just numbers. Mom and Dad like numbers. It’s their favorite part of learning. Numbers, computers, technology.
Me? I like computers, and numbers are my jam; it’s why I’m kickass at sewing outfits. But that’s not my whole life.
Rudy hates my parents and likes to believe I raised myself. He says it’s all me; I tell him it’s because he’s been my best friend forever. But the truth is, to an extent he’s right. I’ve shaped myself into a person who wants to learn, and not only the “smart” stuff, the real stuff. Real people. Real places. Real experiences. Real life. Just real.
So, while everyone else rushes to the exhibit of their choice, they don’t realize they are the exhibit for me. Not in a creepy way. In the way that I use these outfits and my vacation time to meet new people. When I go to these events, I choose a line, hop into it, then start talking to the n
erd in front of me. Rudy does too. He and I are best friends for many reasons, the most important of which being, we love people.
I look to the left and a girl with long, curly dirty-blonde hair is standing in line alone. She doesn’t have a fabulous outfit on. Well, she does, but only in the traditional sense. She’s got on deep-blue jeans, a white silk button-down, short-sleeved shirt, flip-flops with little fake gems along the ties at her feet and ankles, and a guitar strapped to her back.
I look to Rudy and he smiles.
We meet up behind her.
I dive right in with a, “Hi, I’m Lexie,” pointing to Rudy, “and this is my best friend, Rudy, who I was totally going to marry when I was like five but he’s gay, so well … that’s not gonna happen.”
The woman turns toward us and I see her eyes are a light, foggy blue. She’s not entirely focused on us, but she holds her hand out. “Henrietta, though everyone calls me Henry.”
Totally our people.
I reach out my hand and she grabs onto my arm first with one hand, then starts to shake with the other. I don’t miss a beat when I ask, “Do you have a walking cane?”
Her brilliant smile touches on me even as she shifts right toward Rudy, though if my guess is right, she can’t see him. She does the same maneuver with him, taking his arm in one hand, and shaking his hand with the other. Then she says, “My brother would disagree, but I’ve decided I don’t have a need for it. I can see the outlines of shapes, light and dark shadows, blurry forms, and I have excellent senses.”
“So excellent that you don’t need a cane?” I ask.
I’m curious by nature and usually, Rudy follows along, but when he says, “Lexie,” in a warning tone, I know I’m being my awkward self.
I lower my head and mumble, “Sorry.”
I see her eyes shoot to Rudy and her face is chiding when she replies, “Don’t be afraid to ask questions. Most people skirt around me like they can’t see me. As if me being partially blind will rub off on them.”
I want to defend Rudy. He’s just protective of me because I ask inappropriate questions. And yet, I can’t defend him. I’ve realized recently that him protecting me makes me feel stupid, and like my questions are unimportant or like I myself am not important enough. Everyone else can speak but me—because they’ve got the skills to do so.
She’s got that brilliant smile back, and I return the gesture, noting the way Rudy glances at me as though he’s never seen me before. Something comes over his features, something I haven’t seen since we were young kids and he didn’t need to protect me. I allow that look to fill me up, even as I smile with the girl in front of me. We talk about Cons (she’s been to four others), music (she’s a Little Big Town fan just like me), and the possibility of meeting a funny, kind, strong, and handsome blond man in Nashville (to which she secretly smiles, strangely squints at my forearm, and tells me she has someone she needs to introduce me to).
We hit all the lines together, Rudy having joined in on our conversation after only a beat of insecurity.
And when day one of the Con is done, Henry is still at our side.
“So, what are we going to do next? Hit up a country bar and catch us some big, strong cowboys?” Rudy asks, and I laugh. My laugh’s low and I always snort at the end, no matter how long a laugh it is. I used to be embarrassed by it until Rudy told me it’s one of his favorite sounds when we were teenagers, and a bunch of boys at school made fun of it.
I know Henry has other plans when she says, “How about we grab some subs and I take you someplace local? It’s my favorite place. A bunch of my brother’s friends spend summer nights there, building fires, and generally just goofing off.”
Rudy sets up an Uber so we can grab our bathing suits and Henry calls her brother, Lion (yes, his real name), to let him know she’s got a ride. After five minutes of trying to convince him she’s safe, she gestures with her head for me to come over and hands me the phone.
“Uhhh …,” I say, slowly bringing the phone to my ear. “Hi?” It comes out as a question.
“My sister’s blind.”
Huh, perhaps Henry isn’t weirded out by my awkwardness because her brother’s a bit awkward too. Maybe he’s single.
“Yes.” I draw out the word and then say, “I kind of got that.”
Silence.
“If she dies, I won’t be happy.”
“Lion-O, cool it. You’re gonna scare Henry’s new friend.”
I snort a laugh.
First, because the woman makes it sound like Henry, Rudy, and I are twelve. Second, because, of course, the awkward-speaking Lion is taken.
“Ummm, I’ll totally protect her with my life. Superhero promise.”
Too late to take it back, I realize he won’t get mine and Rudy’s version of a pinky-swear.
Before I can say another awkward “ummm,” however, Henry’s brother and the woman with him are laughing. Okay, laughing (the not mean kind) I can deal with. I smile.
“So, we’re good?” I see the Uber’s here and hate making them wait. I was an Uber driver, for all of two hours, in Seattle. When I started talking, my score went down. I might choose learning over grades now that I’m an adult, but grades still mean something. Two stars? Not cool.
“You’re fine. Lion-O’s really protective. Have fun with Henry!”
I don’t say anything else because they’ve hung up.
When I go to hand the phone back to Henry, she says, “He’s a little protective.”
“You think?” Rudy asks, and I again snort.
One minute later, we’re inside the black hatchback that fits us easily and still has another seat in the back. The Uber driver takes us to our hotel, where Rudy rushes upstairs to grab our suits.
I’ve already found out that Rachel, our driver, is a struggling musician. She’s saving up to move to L.A. in a month and plays guitar like Henry. Henry who hasn’t taken the acoustic off her back in six hours, but also hasn’t played once except when we did lunch, at one of the vendors, and she strummed a few chords.
Rachel has three cats, a younger brother she takes care of and who’ll be moving to L.A. with her, even though he’s almost eighteen and just graduated from high school. She also apparently likes to color her hair a different shade every few months. Right now, it’s pink.
“You should try green next time. It would look so cool with your eyes,” I suggest as Rudy pops back in the car. He’s only been five minutes.
Then Rachel is taking us across town, down winding streets, past a lot of trees, and into a little nook by the river.
No one is there. It’s quiet. The unlit fire pits, the lake glistening with the early summer-evening sun, and the small patches of sand interspersed with long grasses have me drawing in a long breath.
When Rachel drops us off, we exchange numbers, even hug, and say “goodbye.” Then we’re in our own little spots in the woods changing.
Henry stays on the sand and strips down to a suit underneath. At my questioning glance, because she’s obviously been wearing it all day, all she says is, “I hate bras and underwear.” And that’s that.
Two big splashes later, I watch them play for a bit, Rudy and Henry, thinking this is what life should be like.
Every year, I save up a ton of money to have one week of this, but I feel a pang in my gut when I realize I don’t want just one week. I want a lifetime of playing, of meeting new people, of learning and laughing and strange happenings.
I want to live—and for one week a year, I do.
As much as I want more than that, it won’t happen.
So, I brush off my ridiculous thoughts and dive in as well.
Too bad, when I do, my leg moves against something, something alive but soft, something that drags me under.
The last thing I hear are Henry and Rudy’s screams.
SHARK
My mouth is on hers, my hands on her chest, and this is not the way I thought I’d meet my queen.
My mouth on hers, yes.
My hands on her chest, absolutely.
The reason why, never.
“Breathe, damnit.”
My gut tightens and then I hear it. The slow thrum of her heart increases. Her breaths deepen and I lean back just before she starts coughing up creek water. I help her to her side, so she can get it all out. My hand draws slow circles along her back. When her eyes land on me, I suck in a breath. The late day sun reflects in them so she’s got a galaxy of black there with a ball of fire. Black eyes. Stunning.
“Am I dead?”
Her voice is hoarse, so I motion for Henry and say, “Grab a bottle of water from the cooler, little cat, would you?”
Henry starts to walk there but the woman’s friend is grabbing it before she can. Good thing. Henry is capable but because she’s partially blind, it takes her longer. And yet, while her brother, Lion, one of my best friends, thinks she could use a cane, she’s even more graceful than most of those who can see just fine.
The man kneels by us and starts to open the bottle. I take it from him, getting closer to my queen, and pretty much demand, “Drink small sips.”
Henry’s at my back and she’s waving furiously about, directing her gaze at the woman. “This is the guy,” she practically yells in my ear. Hell, even if she’d whispered it, I would hear. While my sense of smell sucks, according to shifter standards, my hearing is off the charts. Think sonar. Yeah, sharks have got it going on.
I push my finger in my ear and shake my head clear of the ringing.
“Oops, sorry!” Then she grabs my arm, where the tattoo that proclaims, to those in the know, that I’m the future king of the Shark tribe, one of thirty shifter tribes in the U.S. The woman recovering on the sand and grass in front of me sits up straight at what she sees. “I saw your fuzzy little mark earlier. I couldn’t see it entirely but it looked like a dark crown shape,” Henry continues looking to the woman who is my queen. But I’ve known this girl forever, she’s lying about seeing a ‘fuzzy mark’ as she calls it. I have to wonder why. “Isn’t this cool?”
