Shining Sea

by Mimi Cross

  All at once she sucks in a breath.

  “What is it?” I ask in alarm. But then I see what it is. The Mercedes. It’s parked in the drive of the lighthouse, Bo and his older brother standing on opposite sides of it, arguing. I’m thankful Mary’s the one who gave me a lift and not Logan—not that I would have taken one from him today.

  Her eyes veer quickly away from the two boys. “Give me a buzz tonight if you want.”

  “Thanks. You’re the best.” I hug her, hard, then hop out of the car—

  My boots root to the spot where I land.

  “Five minutes, bro, five.”

  Jordan’s voice is a heavy cashmere blanket of sound. I don’t even hear Mary’s car drive away. He looks at me and my knees turn to water. In the shadow of the lighthouse, his dusky-blue eyes are almost black, deep and bottomless. A drowning pool.

  Bo strides toward me. “Come on.” His voice is a quiet command.

  His brother laughs as we walk away; it’s a laugh edged with knowing.

  We head around the side of the lighthouse, but when we get to the front and I try to open the door, my hands are shaking so badly Bo has to take the key. We step into the cool darkness of the hallway. Automatically I walk toward the second door.

  “No,” he says. I turn to him, my back against the inner door. “There’s no time.” He lays the palm of his hand along the side of my face. “I’m sorry I haven’t seen you since—that day. And I’m sorry, about last night.” He looks at my lips, presses his own together.

  The feeling of connection, the heat from his hand—But I’m so angry. Why hadn’t he gotten in touch with me? And what the hell was last night about?

  There’s another thought, deep down inside me, that’s nothing at all like those two:

  Tell him to go. And buried beneath that one, yet another: Make him stay.

  “When I saw you sing last night, when I heard your voice through the mic, filling the room, filling me . . . I—look, I have to go away. And I don’t have time to explain everything.”

  His voice is mesmerizing; the effect it has on me, undeniable. Still, I try to take a step back, wanting to be the one who walks away this time. His sea-green gaze sharpens as I shift, but my back is up against the door—there’s nowhere to go. He steps closer to me, until only a thin inch of air floats between us.

  Anger. Fear. Desire. Confusion. They tangle in me under his intense scrutiny. “Don’t use your Siren tricks on me,” I say, as coolly as I can. But my voice comes out breathy, the ache for him sneaking between my lips. “Why? Why didn’t you talk to me at the club?” The question doesn’t sound accusatory, the way I’d meant it to. It sounds like a plea. I hate myself.

  “I couldn’t. But after last night, I realized there’s no way to fight my feelings. I knew I needed to see you, needed to talk to you. Need to talk to you. I came to the school but—security.”

  “Security?” I ask blankly. His words, his energy—the very air itself—everything that’s somehow suspended between us pulses with persuasive rhythm. I can’t think.

  “Right. I couldn’t get in, so . . .” His smile is both rueful and wicked.

  “You couldn’t get in, so . . . Wait. Did you pull the fire alarm? You’re joking, right? Have you ever heard of a telephone?”

  “Arion, I have to go, but I wanted to say I’m sorry, things have been kind of crazy—”

  “You don’t know what crazy is.” I’ve been nothing short of obsessed with him.

  “Maybe not. I’m sure there are lots of things I don’t know. But I do know, I can’t go away without giving you this.”

  His hands slide behind my neck. “Hold still.”

  Beneath my feet, the earth drops away—

  Then something cool is touching my throat and I bring my hand up. My fingers touch a chain, a pendant. A pearl.

  “I found it, diving. Had the necklace made. For you.” His hands move to my waist—

  Something surges inside me, the tide, going out fast, taking everything with it. I reach for him at the same moment he pulls me close and his lips come down hard on my mouth—then he jerks back, his breathing jagged. Pulling away a little, he looks down at me, his eyes dark behind half-lowered lids, thick gold lashes.

  He moves slower now, his hands sliding lower, then tightening, his thumbs on my hip bones, fingers splayed out over my jeans, along the sides of my hips, each finger burning. Longing spikes inside me as he leans into me—the rhythmic pulsing that had been between us a second ago sweeping through my body as we kiss, our tongues sliding together.

  Still, we aren’t close enough.

  Slipping my hands behind his neck, I stretch up on tiptoe, inhaling, smelling the sun on his skin as his smooth hair falls across my face. His body touches mine everywhere and the dark space behind my closed eyes expands—until there are mountains inside me, and valleys. Canyons that cut deep. But I want more—want him closer.

  Pressing against him, I feel his music in my veins. Splotches of color spin in the darkness—

  But all at once I become dizzy, need . . . air. Still he kisses me, deeper.

  I try to pull away—he holds me tighter, his mouth moving on mine. Black water closes over me—I can’t breathe. I push against his chest—but he’s too strong.

  My own chest grows tight, and I hear a far-off sound, like a muffled sob.

  It comes from me.

  He staggers back— “Arion! I’m sorry!”

  Adrenaline races through my system as I strain to fill my lungs, my breath coming in short, desperate inhalations. Tears fill my eyes. He’s backing away.

  “No—” I choke out. Still struggling for breath, I reach for him—

  “This, me, this is exactly what I was afraid of. I could have—”

  “But you didn’t.” Grabbing hold of him, I try to breathe normally, will my heart to beat with a regular pattern. The fear begins to recede, leaving a strange certainty in its wake.

  “But I could have—”

  “No.” Crossing his lips with a finger, I wrap my free arm around him. “No, you couldn’t have, you won’t ever hurt me.” Am I making a statement? Issuing a command? I don’t know. All I know is I can never, ever allow those words to be a question. There can be no question, for either of us. No excuse to turn back.

  He takes my hands, keeping me at arm’s length now. “But I could. Not on purpose, but I could hurt you. Only minutes ago, I was out of control. The sensation, your fragrance as I breathed you in— These last few days, the thought of this, this is why I stayed away.” He releases my hands, eyes the door to the outside. “I wanted to forget about you.” One step back, two. His voice drops low. “But I couldn’t. And after last night—I know I need to stay away from you, but—” And then he’s back against me, his arms encircling me, his face, buried in my hair. “I can’t.”

  “And I don’t want you to stay away! At first, I didn’t think I could handle . . . you. But now, the only thing I can’t handle is being without you.” Even at the thought, my stomach twists.

  “But you’ll have to,” he whispers. “For a week, maybe two. That’s part of why I needed to talk to you, to see you. I couldn’t leave without letting you know how I feel.” He pulls away.

  “Where are you going?” I ask, head spinning.

  The blare of a car horn makes me jump. Bo says, “There’s something else I need to tell you. You heard about the boat from Portland, right?”

  The chill that clings to the granite walls seems to find its way into my bones. I nod.

  “From your dad—I figured as much. So you know that someone sunk that boat?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “My siblings and I have some thoughts about what happened, and we know some people, other Sirens, who might be able to give us more information. We’re going to see them. We’ll see our father as well.”

  Other Sirens. Another burst of sound reaches us as we stand in the dim hallway, an annoyingly long blast, as if the driver is literally lying on the h
orn.

  Bo grins. “Jordie.” Even abbreviated, the name makes me cringe. Bo cocks his head, but only says again, “I have to go.” Taking my face in his hands he kisses my eyelids, my cheeks, looks regretfully at my mouth. He says something about things being complicated, that I should be careful, but I can’t concentrate. He kisses my forehead—

  Then he’s gone.

  My heart’s beating fast. My fingers flutter to the necklace—and I look down.

  The chain is silver, the pearl—is the same size as that pink pebble that went missing, the one that sat so perfectly in the center of the shell Bo gave me, as if the two things were made for each other. Of course a pearl, while smooth and round like a pebble, is not a pebble, is far more precious than any pebble. And this pearl, it isn’t pink at all. Isn’t even white. It’s black. Dark and shiny as an eight ball.

  TORN

  Stupidly, Tuesday night during dinner with Dad, I let slip that Logan and I had a fight.

  “I can see how a conversation about his brother might upset him.”

  “Me too.” I wish the fishing tournament Dad’s going to watch would start. I don’t want to think about Logan, or feel guilty that I’m seeing his—enemy. Imaginary enemy. Mistaken enemy. A case of mistaken enemy. Could be a song there.

  “If you want to talk, sweetie . . .” Dad gives me an encouraging dad smile. Nice, but we both know it’s not going to happen, and I’m certainly not going to sit and watch people fish.

  Later on, I’m at my desk, not studying, but thinking: If I phone Mary, we’ll talk about Logan. If I phone Logan . . . I’ll just want things to be the way they were before.

  Buzzing comes from the bottom of my backpack. My cell? Rifling through the pack, I grab it, having a hard time believing that it’s even ringing up here.

  “Finally.”

  “Alyssa?”

  “I’ve tried you a million times. I suppose you’re going to say that your reception is even worse out there in no man’s land than it is on the rest of this godforsaken peninsula?”

  “It is. What’s up?”

  “This is Rock Hook, not New York—so, nothing’s up. Why weren’t you at the party?”

  “What party?”

  “At the Elbow last night.” The Elbow is a muddy L-shaped beach not far from school where a patch of woods meets Wabanaki Bay. “Logan was there.”

  “Didn’t know about it.” And who parties on a Monday?

  “Oh, sorry, thought you did. Hell, I thought I told you about it. Oh well. Next time. Hey, I heard you guys had a big blowout yesterday. You and Logan. Did you kiss and make up yet?”

  I almost hang up, but then, maybe because I can’t see her snarky smile, or maybe because I just can’t hold everything in anymore, I tell her about the argument—certain parts. Of course the mention of Bo, how he’d been looking for me, is what she pounces on.

  “Well, duh, that’s it. Logan’s jealous. Not that you and Summers are going anywhere.”

  “Hmm.” I picture Bo’s hands on my hips. “I don’t know about Logan being jealous, but I wish I could help him. He’s been through a lot.”

  “What are you, a camp counselor? Come on, you know what he wants from you.”

  “He’s just a friend, Alyssa.”

  “A hot one. Why don’t you get over yourself, admit you feel the same way he does?”

  “Maybe because I don’t? And maybe because you’re exaggerating, about how he feels.”

  “Oh please. The way you guys look at each other?”

  “Hey, just because you fall in love every other day, like with Bonfire Boy . . .”

  A snort of laughter crackles in my ear. “Bonfire Boy was just for fun. You know, fun? Logan was totally sulking at the party, by the way. Probably because you weren’t there.”

  “Doubt it, he’s pretty mad at me right now.”

  Her voice grows quiet. “He beat the shit out of some kid from the mainland last night.”

  “He—he did? At that party? He wasn’t in school today—is he all right?” I picture the two of us, arguing out on the lawn, the sun on his face. The bruise on his cheek had barely faded since Friday when I first saw it. I’d noticed it at the club too, how dark it was still. I’d wanted to touch it, to trace it with my fingers, as if that would somehow make it better. But even asking about it would make whatever it is we have between us more complicated. I know this, intuitively. And I know it because one truth is a ladder to another. And lies? They’re like links in a chain. What happened last night? Is there another bruise on his face now? On his body? Or is it on the inside, where he thinks no one can see it.

  “He’s okay. But I thought you’d want to know. It kind of sucked. Seeing him bleed.”

  “I bet,” I say softly. Oh, Logan. Does that really make things better for you?

  “Maybe you ought to bring him a blankie or something.” The curl of her smile is audible. For a second, she’d been sincere. But it’s like, kindness, for whatever reason, is just too hard for her. And this, Alyssa pushing me toward Logan and his pain, is too hard for me. Why’s she doing it? He’s a friend, I want to insist again. But who am I trying to convince?

  A sigh of impatience escapes me.

  “Alyssa? You’re breaking up—” I hit “End” and set the phone down.

  But I can’t stop thinking of Logan.

  I pull out my guitar.

  BREATHE

  The week goes by in a blur.

  It rains and gets cooler.

  The ringing in my ears gets louder, and every night, I have The Nightmare.

  It’s becoming more terrifying—and more real.

  The dream is always the same, and always different. Last night the sand and dirt wasn’t a path at all, it was the parking lot at Hive, and the boy with wings—who had no twisting scaled appendage at this point—kept disappearing. Each time he did, Jordan Summers took his place. He leaned over me as I lay prone in the parking lot, the sandy grit of the ground scratching my back where my shirt had ridden up, and his wild wet hair dripped seawater on my face. I know it was seawater, because when I woke up, I smelled it. Which sounds crazy. But is true.

  What gets less real is my friendship with Logan. He avoids me now, so I avoid him, not an easy trick, especially during homeroom.

  Mary is trying to stay neutral, although one afternoon we hang out after school and watch The Thing Called Love. This time, the movie seems different. The music feels less important, the story, more. Also, I think I understand now, how the main character could fall for two guys who are so different from each other.

  Though it makes me kind of edgy, I take long walks on the beach, sometimes running along the shoreline until my legs ache. Up on the gallery deck, I watch birds through the binoculars. And once, feeling like an idiot, I searched the sky for white wings.

  I worry that Bo might change his mind, might stay away. My body buzzes at the thought of seeing him—or not seeing him. It’s hard to study, hard to eat. And then, the severe pain I experienced when I thought I’d never see him again—returns.

  Recovering from a particularly bad spasm, I lie on the bed and contemplate the stacks of books piled on the bedside table, the desk, the floor. For the first time, I notice that nearly all the books I own are love stories, little more than variations on Romeo and Juliet. Does anyone else find it bizarre that the most famous love story of all time is a tragedy?

  “Lips, O you, the doors of breath . . .” I whisper the line. It holds new meaning for me now, and makes me shudder.

  Mary finds me throwing up in a bathroom stall at school one morning.

  “No,” I say, before she can ask. “I’m not.”

  Friday night, after lighting a candle and getting out my guitar, I open my notebook. Reading through some pages—stream of consciousness stuff about a rock and a river—I mess around with a few chords and am totally surprised by what comes out. No river. No rocks.

  “When I’m with you I can feel the heat.

  A thousand suns are
beating on the street where I’ve been walking.

  I don’t care if I burn both my feet.

  Put your lips up to my ear, just keep talking.”

  Pouring my feelings about him onto paper, I try different chords and melodies, until the song reveals itself, reveals me.

  “What I want, your hands on me,

  It’s the only thing I can feel . . .”

  A cry comes up through my body, a series of sliding notes leading to the chorus.

  “You breathe me in . . . I breathe you in . . .”

  Sometimes, you write the song.

  But sometimes, the song writes you.

  FOREVER

  Finally, Sunday morning as I stand on the deck of the lighthouse looking toward Summers Cove, I see a figure headed for the sunlit water. Energy shoots through me, then dies away. The boy isn’t Bo. One of his brothers? As the boy prepares to catch a wave, I notice someone swimming near him, but a second later my attention is riveted on the surfer. He rides the big waves more like a skateboarder on a half-pipe than a surfer on the sea.

  And the waves are definitely big. They’re at least as high as my head over there, higher, while the waves below on Crescent Beach are only knee high. Weird.

  A song pops into my head, a manic drum and bass groove slamming up against a caffeinated zigzag of a melody, perfect accompaniment for the surfer boy’s wild ride. My fingers tap the binoculars to the beat.

  “Good, isn’t he?” Nearly dropping the binoculars, I whirl to find Bo leaning against the doorframe. “Thought you weren’t afraid of me?” He joins me at the railing.

  “Bet I could scare you too, if I snuck up on you like that.”

  “But you couldn’t.” He twirls a lock of my hair around his finger.

  “Couldn’t sneak up on you? Why not?” The nausea that has become ever-present while Bo’s been gone suddenly lifts—like seasickness, when you step onto land.