Waterfell

by Amalie Howard

  “I’m selfish?” I repeat carefully, unable to keep the anger from seeping into my voice. Speio is only here because his parents, Echlios and Soren—both Handlers—are sworn to safeguard me. There’s nothing he can say that will make them break their blood oaths. It’s a fact, but still, something in his last words sneaks under my skin, unsettling me. Maybe because there’s truth in what he says or maybe I’m still rattled from Jenna’s accusations on the field. “Why am I selfish?”

  “Because this is all about you,” he says. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

  I glare at him, a thousand fiery emotions running through my brain. “It is about me. And yes, I’m the one who’s decided to stay here. But you’re free to go back if that’s what you want. Go, and be one with the home none of us have anymore.” Speio’s eyes widen, but I don’t stop. My words slow and become more enunciated, exhibiting the fact that English is not my native tongue. I hate the way the words taste in my mouth, so clipped and guttural. I also hate the way the commands come so quickly to me as if being a ruler is an inborn trait.

  Because it is.

  No matter what I look like, I can never escape who I am.

  So I become the monarch. I become the royal with the clipped tones and the icy, immovable face. “You weren’t told because I didn’t want you to know. We don’t have a home anymore, Speio. The Gold Court is finished. Wake up.” He flinches at the cruel whip of my words. “We’re never going home. Do you understand that? We have nothing to go home to.” I gesture madly to the people walking around us and to the school behind me. “This is our home now. Accept it.”

  “But you’re—”

  “But nothing. I’m nobody.” I lower my voice, forcing a smile to my lips even though all I want to do is scream...scream all the pain and anger and loss seething through me at his naïveté. Speio’s expression is scared and confused. I gentle my voice. “Ask your parents. Get them to tell you the truth.” I pause and press my hand to his shoulder in a comforting gesture, an apology of sorts, but he shakes my arm off like it’s a snake. “Tell them that I commanded it.”

  I walk across the parking lot without looking back, and jump into my car. My hands are trembling with emotion and my throat is dry like sandpaper. I gulp and lean my head against the cool window, heaving breaths into my lungs, hoping to staunch the tide of helpless anger that’s threatening to overwhelm me. But it’s too late. I need to get out of there before I do something ridiculous like throw up all over the floor of my Jeep. Flooring the gas pedal, my tires burn a black path across the asphalt as I peal out of the lot, gasping for air and heading blindly for the shoreline. I need to get to the ocean.

  The drive seems endless even though it’s only a few minutes before I see blue on the horizon. Then I’m out of the car and running on the sand as fast as my legs can take me despite my exhaustion from the earlier hockey game. I don’t care. If I stop, I’ll break...I’ll collapse and never be able to get back up. My face is wet as the taste of salt dips into my mouth, making me ache even more. Driven by pain, my vision spirals into the raw memory.

  Days after my father’s warning, Speio’s father, Echlios, came back from a brief trip to Waterfell to see me. He was different that day. I’d never seen a Handler express emotion, but he did. He repeated exactly what my father had told me, but I already knew. My father never would have risked contacting me otherwise.

  “Your father is dead,” he said. “The High Court has been taken by Ehmora.”

  “Ehmora?”

  Echlios nodded. I wasn’t surprised. Queen of the lower Ruby Court, she belonged to one of the stronger families, always opposing my parents, always scheming to replace the Gold Court with the Ruby Court. She’d never been content to stay hidden. She wanted it all—the waters, the lands, every last bit of it. And now that she’d displaced my father, she’d do anything to take control of the High Court.

  And once I came of age at seventeen, I’d be the rightful heir. No wonder my father had urged me never to return. Leaving Waterfell was a part of my grooming—a necessary part of my training to understand the world in which we lived, to share the lives of humans, before I assumed the position I was born into just like all the heirs before me. But my training turned into something more with the death of my father. Without a home to return to, I took refuge in the human world.

  “How?” I asked.

  “It looked like a hunting accident,” Echlios said, his face shadowed. But I knew better. My father was murdered.

  “My father’s advisers? What of them?” I asked him.

  “All missing, presumed dead. My lady, it’s not safe for you here. Ehmora’s spies will no doubt have told her where you are.”

  I shook my head. If what Echlios said was true, this was the only safe haven I had left. Running meant I’d always be on the run, and I’d never give Ehmora that satisfaction. “No running. This is my home now. What does she want, Echlios?” I asked him, and then frowned. “What’s to stop her from just killing me, too?”

  “She needs you.”

  “Why?”

  But I already knew why. Rule of the High Court in Waterfell was determined by succession of birth, unless there was no direct heir. Then each of the lower courts—Ruby, Emerald, Sapphire and Gold—could present a challenger. Whoever won would become the next king or queen, and their court the new High Court. Since I was the only living heir to my father’s throne, once I came of age, the High Court would rightfully be mine. But the truth was, I didn’t want it.

  “Well, she can have the throne,” I said dully. “I don’t care.”

  The thought of returning to Waterfell was a bitter one, with my father gone. All his people—my people—would be looking for someone to lead them, and I wasn’t that person. To them, I’d been a frivolous child who’d shirked every form of royal responsibility and been indulged by a doting father. They’d loved him but only tolerated me. They’d be better off with Ehmora as queen. I said as much to Echlios.

  “You don’t mean that,” he said.

  “I do. I belong here now. I’m never going back.”

  As the memory fades, I’m hissing the word never through my teeth just as the smell of salt hits me like a rolling wave, and I pump my legs faster, stopping only to throw my backpack on the side of the pier and to kick off my shoes. Self-disgust pours through me in violent waves. I hate feeling so powerless. I hate the way that Speio looks at me as if I’m a loser...a coward who’s taking the easy way out. But it’s not like I have much of a choice, do I?

  In seconds, I fling myself off the edge of the pier in a graceful swan dive, letting the icy water envelop every part of me, and suddenly I can breathe again. I ignore the startled glances of the surfers clad head-to-toe in wet suits and churn my arms in a strong front crawl that takes me effortlessly past the breakers. The water is cold for February, but it feels balmy against my bare skin as I duck underneath the last of the breaking waves to make my way underwater to where the ocean rocks with a gentle wide roll.

  I’m careful to control my reaction to the water—it’s like life energy to me—and it takes work to stay focused and make sure I don’t transform when every part of me wants to give in to the magical pull of the sea. But I relax enough to let the cold salty water do what I came here for. I let it soothe me, fill me, pass over and through me until I am nearly faint with it.

  Until I am calm once more.

  It has been only moments but it feels like days. The arms of the water will always be my home, up near the surface or down in the deep.

  Floating on my back watching the popcornlike clouds sail across the sky, I don’t immediately notice the surfer paddling toward me. Or maybe I do and hope that he will go away, but I can feel the changes in the water that tell me he’s coming closer.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  I turn around with a flippant remark on t
he tip of my tongue that gets stuck as I make contact with a pair of the oddest-colored eyes I’ve ever seen—a bottomless blue, as if he’d leached the color straight from the depths of the ocean. The eyes belong to a boy not much older than me. He paddles closer.

  I must have imagined the strange, nearly navy color, or it must have been some trick of the sunlight, because on closer inspection, his eyes are more dark than light, almost blue-black. His teeth flash white at my look. Flushing, I realize that I’ve been ogling him for the better part of a minute.

  “I’m fine,” I manage, tearing my gaze away from his odd eyes.

  The boy shoots me another knowing glance before his gaze dips to my bare arms. “Um, you’re not wearing a wet suit. Aren’t you freezing?”

  “I’m fine,” I repeat, a little irritated by his smile and the fact that my private moment of bliss has been interrupted by what seems to be some annoying local—even if he does have amazing eyes—one who probably doesn’t even go to school and spends all his days tanning and surfing. “Look, thanks for your concern...”

  “Lo,” the boy supplies helpfully. At my blank look, he clarifies. “Name’s Lo.”

  “Well, thanks, Lo. See you around.”

  I duck-dive and swim a few lengths underwater before resurfacing several feet away. He hasn’t moved and is still staring at me with those strange dark eyes. Lo shoots another irritatingly white smile in my direction, a knowing grin as if he’s far too used to having that effect on girls. No effect whatsoever on me, of course. I’d been overemotional and caught by surprise.

  “Catch you later, then,” he says loudly.

  I watch him as he deftly paddles to catch a wave, his body sleek as a seal’s in his wet suit. He rides the wave expertly, skimming along the foamy lip of its crest to curl across its open face and twisting his body like a whip to bring the board up and around.

  Lo’s a pretty good surfer, I admit to myself.

  Then again, he probably surfs every available hour out of every day like half the other kids carving it up out there. He’s just another boy with a board, and I’ve certainly seen my share of them showing off their tricks, especially living in San Diego. Jenna’s boyfriend, Sawyer, is captain of the surf team at Dover, the reigning state champions. We’d always joked that if she and Sawyer ever had kids, they’d be born All-Star All-Americans just from the gene pool. Jenna likes her boys talented and driven, just as she is. It is one of the reasons I like her so much—she gives everything her all, from sports to studies to her relationships. She never shies away from anything.

  Typical surfer-boy bravado aside, for some reason, I can’t tear my eyes away from Lo’s lithe form. He moves as if he is one with the wave, a part of it instead of riding on top of it, in some kind of fluid symmetry. He surfs like how I like to surf, something that Sawyer calls Zen-surfing.

  As if sensing my stare, at the very last minute on his final turn, Lo rips backward on his surfboard to make eye contact with me one last time—a look that I can feel even as far away as he is—and winks before somersaulting backward into the surf.

  I feel that last glance of his all the way to my toenails. Not even the icy touch of the water can calm the deep flush that tunnels its way through me.

  2

  CLOUDED WATERS

  “Miss Marin, kindly report to Principal Cano’s office.”

  Even though all the stares of the students in the room suddenly converge upon me, my second-period Spanish teacher doesn’t look up from the pile of papers on his desk. I shrug, grinning at the kids in the front row, and sport a sneaky thumbs-up to Jenna and Sawyer sitting in the back next to my empty desk. Jenna rolls her eyes in an exaggerated movement as if I’ve just gotten off scot-free from a fate worse than death, but she’s kind of right. Anything’s better than verb conjugations in Spanish class, even if it is facing the resident dragon-lord of Dover Prep.

  The outer office is empty except for a familiar face. Cara ignores me, probably because she’s still mad about the match, or it could be that she’s just being Cara. She’s the principal’s niece, so she basically thinks that everyone at Dover is there to be at her beck and call. According to Jenna, the school is divided into Cara peons and Cara crap-ons. I’m definitely in the latter. Cara and I used to be friends—best friends even—but things had ended after a boy she’d liked asked me out, and I’d said yes. Apparently I’d broken a cardinal rule of girlhood, but technically, I didn’t steal anything that didn’t want to be stolen. And then when I took her place as starting striker on the JV team sophomore year, that’d been the clincher.

  I shrug and look around. Normally the waiting room has a couple students standing around but it’s empty so I sit after checking in with Cano’s receptionist. Pushing aside the stack of college brochures on the table next to me, I thumb through the only magazine I can find and nearly snort at some of the articles. Flipping through one about “Ten Ways to Talk to Your Teen About Sex,” I can’t stop myself from bursting into laughter despite the immediate quelling look from the receptionist. I can’t imagine any parent who would use a cucumber as a prop in any kind of meaningful conversation.

  “What’s so funny?” a voice behind me asks. The smell of salt and sand fills my nostrils, and I swing around. It’s the boy from the beach.

  Lo.

  He’s wearing a wool hat and black T-shirt with cargos instead of a neoprene hood and wet suit, but those eyes are unforgettable.

  I slam the magazine shut, feeling a slow flush crawl up my neck and around the back of my ears. “Stalk much? What are you doing here, anyway?” I snap, noticing the golden sand grains covering his flip-flop-clad feet.

  “Not stalking. I’m new here.”

  “Sure you are.” Considering he isn’t wearing the Dover Prep required uniform, I’m pretty sure he’s taking me for a ride. I turn my attention back to the magazine, opening its pages and pretending to be absorbed in reading. A low chuckle alerts me to the particularly large headline entitled “Embarrassing Medical Problems.” I feel my skin getting hotter and toss the offending magazine to the table, turning to confront Mr. Nosypants.

  “Why don’t you go back to surfing or tanning or whatever it is that you beach boys do?”

  Lo smiles. I force myself not to notice that his teeth are whiter than I remember or to acknowledge the tiny response that makes my ears feel like they’re melting into unrecognizable nubs.

  “I thought you were watching me surf the other day,” he says with a grin.

  “Hardly,” I shoot back with feigned nonchalance. “Couldn’t have picked you out from the lineup of identical surfing doppelgängers if I tried.”

  “So that wasn’t you out beyond the breakers staring at me like I was a frosted cherry smoothie?” Lo’s smile turns impish.

  “What?” I splutter. “I was so not. I hate cherry.” I can’t exactly control the flush that seeps through my skin. I snap my lips shut, aware that I’ll only make it worse if I say anything more, especially in response to that annoying, knowing look on his face.

  “Hi, Lo,” Cara says in a breathy voice, walking past us on her way out of the office. “Nice to see you again.” Once more, it’s as if I’m invisible, but no surprise there. Lo has obviously qualified for the peon list. I snort and turn back to studying the other brochures on the table before selecting one on making informed college choices.

  “Hey, Cara,” Lo says to her with a smile that could melt butter, and then stands to move past her and sit in the empty seat next to me. With a death glare in my direction as if his actions are somehow my fault, Cara tosses her hair and stalks off. “So what’s your name?” he asks me.

  Despite giving him immediate brownie points for blowing off Cara, I’m still trying to think of a snarky comeback in return for his earlier comment. Just then Principal Cano himself walks out of his office. He heads over to his assistant,
holding a file in his hand. Cano is a tall swarthy, stern-looking man whose presence will make any classroom fall into immediate silence. It’s no different in the office. Well, except for Lo.

  He stifles a laugh and whispers against my ear, “That guy is a dead ringer for Borat. If he has an accent, I think I’ll die.”

  “Shut up,” I hiss back, leaning away from Lo’s warm breath. “So not funny. He’s Albanian and he’s a huge fan of detention, so keep talking if that’s your thing. Your funeral.”

  In the same breath, I have to bite the smile trying to break across my face because Principal Cano is the butt of much Borat-related humor at Dover, all, of course, expressed in secret. A couple years back, one student actually posted a photo of the offending infamous green mankini on her blog with Principal Cano’s face, and she’d mysteriously disappeared within the same week. Rumors varied from she’d been expelled, to her family had moved to the other side of the country, to she was being held in Cano’s garage to be tortured for eternity.

  I, of course, know better. Speio—who seems to somehow know everything that goes on in school—told me that there had been a very private lawsuit and an even more private settlement. So I know that it was definitely the second one, but who am I to curb the fun of speculation? Still, Cano is not one to be messed with—he takes his job as school principal seriously. Supposedly he used to be some kind of big-time molecular scientist in Eastern Europe and published several books on DNA research before he had a breakdown. I can’t imagine anything worse than managing a school full of hormonal teenagers, but different strokes for different folks.

  “Ah, Ms. Marin,” Principal Cano says in a thickly accented voice. Beside me, I feel Lo’s indrawn snort and I bite the inside of my cheek even harder. I paste my best impression of a cheerleader smile on my face and lean so far away from Lo that I’m nearly out of my chair. “Congratulations on the game last week. Coach Fenton said that you were instrumental in the win.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I say. “But it was a team effort.”