Forgive My Fins

“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?