Forgive My Fins

There. I’ve said it all. All.

I suck in a lungful of air and let it out, feeling my anxiety whooshing out with the heavy breath. Somehow, even though I haven’t done anything but spill my guts, I feel a million times better. Like I just gave half my burden to Aunt Rachel. I hope she doesn’t mind.

She smiles and hugs her arms around her waist, her rainbow-hued peasant skirt flowing out beneath her like a ruffled cake.

“Sounds like you know what you want to do.”

“I do,” I insist. “I want to get through this week, go through the separation, and bond with Brody as quickly as possible.” It sounds so simple. Three easy steps. “Then I’ll never have to talk to Quince again.”

“Is that what you really want?”

I don’t even hesitate. “Of course.”

But then the doubts come. The memories of the moments over the last few days where Quince was almost bearable. (Okay, more than bearable.) When he was kind and thoughtful and concerned and even nice. When he didn’t act like it was his mission to make me furious. When he seemed like he might be an actual friend.

Those moments, though, were too far apart. Too late.

“Well, then,” Aunt Rachel says, pushing away and speaking in a tone that means she might be humoring me, “I hope you get what you want.”

Me too, I think as she leaves me alone with my bath. Me too.

“Meow,” Prithi says.

At least she agrees with me.

I quickly strip down and sink into my bathwater. I’m just finishing my transfiguration when the phone rings.

“I’ll get it!” I shout. “It’s probably Shannen.” I told her I’d be home Sunday night, so she’s probably calling to find out how my visit with my dad went. Of course, she thinks my dad lives in Fort Lauderdale.

“Hey, Shan,” I say, jabbing the phone into the cradle of my neck. “I was just going to—”

“It’s not Shannen.”

Omigod.

Omigodomigodomigod.

My heart bursts into a speed that even key lime salt water can’t calm.

“Brody?”

“Hey, Lil,” he says, his voice that honey-smooth texture that I haven’t heard since Friday. “Do you have a minute?”

I have a lifetime.

Okay, I don’t say that. I don’t even really think of saying that. But I feel it.

“Sure,” I say, trying to act cool—as if that’s even a remote possibility for me. “What’s up?”

Besides my heart rate.

“I had a question about our trig homework.” He laughs nervously—Brody? Nervous? “Actually,” he says, “that was my lame-ass excuse for calling. I just wanted to talk to you.”

It’s a major miracle—and because of the iron grip I have on the phone—that I don’t drop the receiver into the water. My first thought is, Why? Why, after all these years, is he suddenly calling me now? But then I shake off the doubts. Who am I to question my good fortune—especially after the week I’ve had? Especially when Quince is nowhere around to mess things up.

Calm down, Lily. Just because he wants to talk to you doesn’t mean he wants to talk to you. Act. Cool.

“Oh,” I say, curling my tail fin nonchalantly. “What about?”

He hesitates before saying, “About the dance last week. About you asking me and me…saying no.”

“Oh?” I’m not capable of more than that single syllable at this point.

“I just wanted you to know that”—beep-beep—“I regret it. Saying no, I mean.”

Beep-beep.

“Um,” I manage. “Can you hold for a sec? I have another call.”

Beep-beep.

“Sure.”

I click over, thankful for the time to gather my thoughts and knowing that Shannen will help me calm down and figure out what to say in this situation.

“Hey, Shan,” I say. “You’ll never guess—”

“It’s not Shannen.”

Son of a swordfish. Why is this happening to me? I mean, every time I’m about to get somewhere with Brody—every time!—he has to go and stick his big blond nose into it. Well, you know what I mean.

“What?” I snap. “I can’t talk to you right now. I have—”

“I just wanted to apologize,” he interrupts. “I’m sorry for how things are turning out.”

“Fine,” I say, eager to get him off the phone. “You’ve apologized. Good-bye.”

“Wait!” It’s the desperation in his voice that stops me from clicking back to Brody. He waits long enough to hear that I’m still there before saying, “I wish things hadn’t gone this way. I wish I’d done it right. From the beginning.”

I sigh and sink back against the tub. “I do too.” Then, because I’m not completely taken by his charming side, “But that’s not exactly an option at this point.”

“I know.”

“Listen, I have Brody on the other line.” Is that the sound of his teeth grinding? “We can talk tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.” He sounds resigned. Until he adds, “You know, Lily, I don’t think he’s good enough for you.”

“And you are?” I snap back.

“No,” he says. “I’m not.”

Then the line goes dead. Why don’t I ever get to have the last word? Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’ve got Brody—my real future—waiting on the other line. I don’t care what a motorcycle-riding, land-loving, leather-wearing biker boy has to say about the situation.