Forgive My Fins

by Tera Lynn Childs

  “How did it happen?” she asks as we pour into the hall. “Was it sweet? Did you have a date last night? Does this mean you’re over Brody?”

  “No!” I blurt. “No, no. Of course not.”

  Instead of taking notes during class, I focused on preparing my answers to the questions she was bound to ask. Not good for my flagging GPA, but a worthy sacrifice.

  I’ve got my story all worked out. “It’s kind of a misunderstanding. After he kissed me”—I ignore Shannen’s sigh of envy—“I was so startled, I just kind of nodded. I didn’t even realize he’d asked me out until he dropped me off at home and said he’d pick me up at seven.”

  “But then you told him, right?” She hitches her bag up higher on her shoulder. “Why is he still acting all possessive if you told him it was a mistake?”

  “Because I, um, didn’t.” I hadn’t considered that totally logical follow-up question. Geez, this is getting more complicated by the second. Now I remember why I usually never lie.

  “Then what?” she demands. “You’re, like, actually dating him?”

  There is no easy way out of this, so I might as well dig in. “Well, kind of.” At Shannen’s shocked look, I add, “For a little while.” Then, remembering what Quince said Friday night before we left for the dance, I get an idea. “It might make Brody jealous.”

  Shannen’s brown eyes narrow. “You’re using Quince?”

  “Don’t make it sound so awful.” Then, because the idea of using someone like that, even someone I generally despise, makes me feel a little sick, I add, “Besides, he’s kind of in on it. It was his idea.” Not a lie.

  “Oh.” Shannen sounds disappointed. I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m not using Quince, or because I’m not actually dating him. She asks, “How long do you two plan on keeping up this façade?”

  “A week,” I blurt. “Just a week. Then we’ll break it off and be back to normal.”

  Quince and I can play nice for a week, right? I just need to explain to him why this cover story is necessary. He’ll understand. I hope.

  “Absolutely not,” I tell Quince the next day after school. “I’m going to the swim meet with Shannen. You’re not invited.”

  I slam my locker shut and turn away from the stormy look on his face.

  “It’s a free country,” he says, falling into step beside me. “I can go if I want to.”

  I shrug as if I don’t care, when the last thing I want is Quince at the swim meet. This is my Brody time, and I don’t want the bond muddying my thinking.

  “Besides,” he says, shoving his hands into his back pockets so his leather jacket pulls open and his T-shirt stretches tight over his chest—not that I noticed or anything. “If we’re pretending to pretend to be an item, I can’t just let you go swoon over another guy for a few hours.”

  Swoon? Ha! I don’t swoon. Get anxious and tongue-tied? Yes. But I got over the whole swooning-at-the-sight-of-him thing ages ago. Last month, I think.

  “I’m not going to swoon,” I insist. “I’m the team manager. I have official duties, like submitting the roster, recording the times, making sure everyone’s at the starting block on time.”

  “Right,” Quince says with complete insincerity. “So I’ll be there to support you in your official capacity.”

  We push through the exit and out into the late-afternoon sun. Shannen’s car is in the front row, and I can see that she’s not in it yet. Since I’m waiting for her—driving and I are like oil and water…literally—I turn on Quince.

  “Listen.” I drop my backpack and cross my arms over my chest. “This whole fake dating thing is a cover, to explain things we just can’t explain. It’s not real. I’m not your girlfriend, pretend or otherwise. You don’t have the right to act all jealous and possessive.”

  Quince steps closer. “It may be an act,” he says, his voice low. How does he still smell of mint toothpaste at the end of the day? “But as far as most of Seaview High is concerned, it’s the real deal. I’m not about to play the school fool while my supposed girlfriend drools over another guy.”

  I can feel his male pride swirling around me, wrapping me in a cloud of possession. Even if we both know this is pretend, the bond magic is making the fake emotions feel real. Clearly, Quince can’t tell the difference. Who am I kidding? I can’t tell the difference, and I’ve been around this magic my entire life.

  What crazy leap of logic ever led me to believe that we could pull this off without a hitch? Nothing ever goes that smoothly. Especially when magic and little white lies are involved. And clearly, Quince is using this as another opportunity to make my life miserable.

  The door we just came through swings open, and from the corner of my eye I see Courtney and two of her groupies emerge. Before I can even groan, I feel Quince’s arm wrap around my waist and pull me tight.

  “What the—”

  His mouth is on mine before I can finish my startled question. I’m too stunned to react, so I just hang there like a limp jellyfish in his arms. As Courtney and her crew pass by, I hear her say, “PDA much?”

  The groupies giggle on cue. Why do all the most embarrassing moments of my life have to come with witnesses?

  Quince releases me, gives me an arrogant smile, and then says, “See you at the pool.”

  Then he turns and saunters off toward his motorcycle. I’m staring at his retreating, leather-clad back when Shannen emerges.

  “Were you and Quince just…kissing?”

  “Yes,” I say, wanting to stomp my feet at his obnoxiousness. “That rotten sneak.”

  “Yeah….” Shannen’s voice sounds kind of dreamy. “Rotten.”

  “Come on.” I grab my backpack and set off toward Shannen’s car. “Let’s get to the meet.”

  “This is certainly going to be an interesting week,” she says, unlocking her car with the remote.

  We both fling our bags into the backseat and then climb into the front. Too bad she can never know just how interesting.

  Watching Brody swim the butterfly is like watching music in motion. One strong pull through the water. Head lifting for a deep breath. Arms flying forward in tandem. Diving ahead with a powerful kick.

  I could watch him swim forever.

  I laugh at the thought that, once I get this thing with Quince taken care of and I make things work with Brody, hopefully I will be watching him swim forever.

  “What’s so funny, princess?”

  My moment of bliss vanishes. My spine stiffens and my jaw clenches.

  Not only did Quince show up at the meet, but he’s sitting right behind me on the bleachers. The hair on the back of my neck keeps standing up every time I sense his movement. Like I expect him to grab me or kiss my neck or something.

  “Nothing,” I grind out. I glance at the scoreboard to get Brody’s fifty-yard split. Quickly jotting the time into the record book, I return my attention to the pool.

  Brody has the lead by at least a body length. Of course, Brody always has the lead. In my three years as team manager, I’ve never seen him lose a race. Even at the state meet.

  Shannen leans in close from my left and whispers, “Courtney at three o’clock.”

  Setting my feet on the bleacher in front of me, I twist my head to the right and see Brody’s ex settle in with her groupies a few feet down from us. Why is she here? She and Brody broke up. She shouldn’t be anywhere near the swim team.

  As Brody makes his final turn in the race, Courtney jumps to her feet and cheers. “Go, Brody!”

  She’s not the only one, of course. Everyone in the stands is now yelling every time he takes a breath. Shouting, “Go! Go! Go!” whenever there’s a chance he might hear them.

  Still, I’m surprised that Courtney is cheering him on.

  “Looks like she isn’t ready to let her man go,” Quince says, not bothering to whisper.

  I throw him a scowl. Then I remember that I’m pretending he’s not here, and I focus on the race. Brody touches the wall first. When his
time flashes on the scoreboard, I pencil it into the record book. Flipping to the page with his best times, I compare his latest result. It’s his fastest 100 fly by two-tenths of a second. At this rate he’s liable to shatter the state record.

  I don’t have time to thrill at his success, because the 500 free race is about to start. I check the roster against the lanes to confirm that our racers are in lanes two and seven. They climb onto the blocks, our coach lifts the starting buzzer, and then the blaring horn echoes through the natatorium—why do humans need such a long word for an indoor pool?—and the racers take off.

  I’m making notes about Jeff Fetzer’s slow start when I sense someone standing in front of me.

  I look up to see Brody, chlorinated water dripping from his dark curls and a towel wrapped around his waist, smiling expectantly at me. The smell of chlorine makes me nauseous—it’s toxic but not fatal to merfolk, so I try to keep my distance from pool water—but I can handle a little tummy ache for Brody.

  “So?”

  I beam. “Your best time. By two-tenths.”

  “Awesome,” Brody replies with a bigger grin, still panting from the race. Butterfly is the most exhausting of all the strokes. I tried swimming it in my terraped form once and nearly drowned. Well, figuratively. Anyway, his chest is still rising and falling with each labored breath, and his cheeks are red with the increased blood flow. It will take Brody several minutes for his vitals to return to normal. And I will enjoy watching every second of his recovery.

  His attention shifts over my shoulder, and my blood chills. He sees Quince at my back. This is a major moment. Since I came up with the jealousy cover story for Shannen, the idea has been growing on me. If I’m stuck with Quince, I might as well try to get something out of it. I’m about to find out if it’s going to work. What will Brody’s reaction be to seeing Quince with me? Will he be happy for me? (Bad.) Or ambivalent? (Also not good.) If I’m lucky, he’ll be angry or arrogant or possessive. (All signs of potential jealousy—aka very, very good.)

  He doesn’t get a chance to react before the blowfish says, “Nice swim, Bennett.”

  Brody smiles, apparently not as confused as I am by Quince’s compliment. “Thanks.”

  Then, before I can consider what’s going on, I feel Quince’s leather-jacket-less arms, bare up to the muscle-hugging sleeves of his tee, wrap around my chest and shoulders. On instinct, my hands grab at his forearm, ready to pull him off, when he says, “You’re lucky I’m not the jealous type, for all the attention Lily spends on you and the team.”

  I can feel the smile in Quince’s voice, but also the knife’s-edge undertone. He’s warning Brody off.

  “Quince—” I start to argue, but Brody cuts me off.

  “Lil’s a great manager,” he says with an overly friendly grin. Then his eyes flick to me, and there is something…appraising in his look. Like he’s seeing me in a new way. “We’re lucky to have her.”

  As an experiment, I soften my hands that were ready to pull Quince off me and instead hug him tighter. Brody’s eyes narrow a tiny bit. When I tilt my head against Quince’s and Brody’s jaw clenches, I know I’m on to something. Seeing me with Quince is making him jealous!

  I am so excited by the thought that I relax back into Quince’s chest.

  “I need to go fuel up for my next race,” Brody says, looking annoyed. (By my actions? Yay!) “I’ll catch you later.”

  “Later,” Quince says dismissively.

  As Brody walks toward the locker room—past a furious-looking Courtney and gang—I turn to Quince.

  “Did you see that?”

  “See what?” Quince says, staring over my head at the long-distance race still in its first hundred.

  I scowl. What’s his problem?

  I turn to Shannen. “Did you see that? Brody was totally jealous!”

  “Yeah,” she says, not as enthusiastic as I’d expected. “That’s great.”

  Oh, well. Maybe she just feels awkward in front of Quince. We’ll squee later. Turning back to the race—and realizing that I’ve missed the first two split times for both of our racers—I can’t stop smiling.

  It’s not until the six-minute race is over that I realize I’m still leaning back against Quince with his arms around me. For some reason—I’m telling myself it’s because he’s more comfortable than the backless bleachers—I don’t pull out of his embrace. Besides, the better the show we put on, the more Brody will see that he has feelings for me. It’s win-win.

  15

  “And congratulations to the swim team for their win last night over Parkcrest. Senior Brody Bennett set two school records and took home four blue ribbons. Come out and support the swimming Sea Turtles next Thursday at the city championship meet!”

  As the video announcements continue, my mind freezes on the image of Brody holding up his blue ribbons in front of the NO RUNNING OR HORSEPLAY sign. I still can’t believe Brody acted jealous over Quince. I mean, you can’t be jealous over a girl you’re not interested in, right?

  I’ve never felt so hopeful about my future with Brody—and I’m only slightly annoyed that it’s thanks to Quince’s interference. Someday, when Brody and I are an old bonded sea couple, I might even thank the blowfish.

  “Earth to Lily,” Shannen says, waving her hand in front of my dazed face. “We need to talk about our history project.”

  “Right,” I say, trying to bring myself back into the moment, into homeroom. Then Brody’s news clip comes on and I tune out everything else. I know every word by heart, because I edited the piece, but it still gives me a thrill to hear his voice.

  “Yearbooks will be on sale next week.” He holds up the sample the yearbook staff made, flipping through the pages of pictures documenting our school year. “You can place your order during lunch and in your homeroom classes until next Friday. Be sure to reserve your piece of history before it’s too late.”

  As he holds the book open to the page with the swim team picture, I sigh back into my seat. I will never get tired of listening to Brody. Or looking at him. Or thinking about him—

  “Lily!” Shannen drops a history textbook on my desk, jarring me out of my daydreaming.

  Heart racing, I look at her and then the textbook. “Right,” I say, sitting up straight and opening the book to the chapter on the Fertile Crescent. “History project. I’m on it.”

  Shannen rolls her eyes at me but turns her desk around to face me so we can get to work. I’m proud of myself for focusing on our project—which is a report, analysis, and re-creation of one of Hammurabi’s laws—for the rest of homeroom. She only has to prod me back to attention once. Or maybe twice.

  When the bell dismisses us from homeroom, we head down the hall toward the gym. I hate gym. After spending most of my life in the water, it’s not like land-based coordination comes real easily to me. In fact, it’s a great day when I don’t walk out of gym with some kind of sports-related injury—red welts on my arms from volleyball, skinned knees from track, a lump on my head from a tennis racket. But the one shining light about gym class is that it’s one of the two classes I have with Brody. Sure, it doesn’t show me at my best like news team does—neither does trig, for that matter—but I’ll take any time I can spend with him.

  Plus Quince isn’t here to get in my way.

  “I think we’re starting a new unit today,” Shannen says as we push through the locker-room door.

  “That can only be a good thing,” I reply. “I don’t think I would have survived another week of soccer.”

  We change into our gym uniforms—hideous, itchy navy blue shorts and baggy white tees with SEAVIEW in big powder blue letters across the chest. Some girls—ones with more curves than me and less baby fat than Shannen—wear tight SEAVIEW tank tops instead of the baggy tees. If I wore one of those, it would only highlight my less-than-overflowing assets.

  “I don’t see any equipment,” Shannen whispers as we emerge into the stinky gym.

  She’s right. The gym looks
unnaturally plain. The bleachers that usually fill either side of the basketball court have been collapsed back against the walls. The basketball goals are in place, but there aren’t any racks of basketballs next to our coaches, who are standing at center court with their whistles at the ready. The few kids who have beaten us into the gym are loitering along the sidelines, looking just as confused as we feel.

  Shannen and I head for the padded wall at the end of the court and slide down to the floor.

  “Maybe we’re going outside?” she suggests.

  “Usually when we do that,” I say, “one of the coaches is out there waiting.”

  But not today. Both of our coaches—the tennis coach, Miss Bailey, who is always ultraperky, and one of the baseball coaches, Coach Pittman, who is the complete opposite of perky—are in the gym, watching us trickle through the doors.

  The bell rings and the last stragglers, including Brody, wander into the gym.

  Coach Pittman blows his whistle while Miss Bailey claps her hands, shouting, “Circle up, everyone.”

  Shannen and I reluctantly get up and move to center court, along with everyone else. I edge us as close to Brody as I can get without making it too obvious.

  “Today we are going to start a unit on playground games,” Miss Bailey says excitedly, as if her enthusiasm might be contagious. She ignores the fact that every last one of us groans—I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m groaning because I’m clueless. “For our first game, the rules are simple. Coach Pittman and I will select one of you to be—”

  “Freeze tag,” Pittman bellows over Miss Bailey’s instructions. He eyes the crowd for a second before pointing at me and Brody. “Sanderson and Bennett, you’re it.”

  Then he blows his whistle and all shellfish breaks out. Kids flee to the four corners of the room.

  I’m it? I’m it? What does that mean?

  “We’ve got this, Lil,” Brody says.

  “Got what?” I look around helplessly. “I don’t even know what we’re doing.”