Sea Change

by Aimee Friedman

  Too bad the lady on his arm was wearing capri pants and a T-shirt.

  “Well, here is the mariner,” I said as we arrived in the small corridor where I’d had my nighttime scare. I took the opportunity to casually lift my hand from T.J.’s arm and point to the painting. In the gray afternoon light that fell through the front windows, the old seafarer seemed spooky once more.

  T.J. ran his eyes over the painting, his expression critical. “Excellent craftsmanship,” he declared. “Nice use of sfumato.”

  I had no idea what T.J. was talking about. “He gives me the creeps,” I said.

  T.J. laughed. “Nah. Head into Fisherman’s Village any day of the week and you’ll see hundreds of geezers who look just like him.”

  “Really?” I asked, my face becoming hot. Fisherman’s Village. Where Leo probably lived. I shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly uncomfortable with T.J.’s haughty tone.

  “Not that a girl like you should go to Fisherman’s Village,” T.J. amended with a quick shudder, then smiled at me. “Hey. Would I be too much of a nuisance if I asked to see the study?”

  “No,” I replied distractedly, pushing open the door. In the prerain gloom, the bookshelves sat in shadows. The window was open, and a cool breeze fluttered the pages of an old Town & Country magazine on the writing desk.

  I’d been in the study earlier that day; in her cleanup frenzy, Mom had asked me to start putting books into crates. I’d only made progress on two of the shelves and had purposefully avoided the shelf that contained A Primer on the Legend and Lore of Selkie Island. Though I wanted the book gone, I’d worried that if I picked it up, even to pack it away, I’d start reading again.

  “Wow,” T.J. murmured, walking in a slow circle. He stopped at the writing desk and ran his fingers over the gold-buckled black box that rested on its surface. Then he glanced up at the bookshelves. “Very impressive collection.” He smiled at me as if I’d had something to do with the room’s impressiveness. I shrugged.

  Then T.J. stopped and stared straight ahead at the portrait of Isadora. “Wow,” he said again, his chiseled jaw going slack. “My father was right. You do resemble her.”

  I blushed. When Mr. Illingworth and T.J. had arrived on our doorstep earlier, bearing brandy and chocolates, Mr. Illingworth had taken one look at me and said, “Isadora!” I’d felt both rattled and flattered and had wondered if I’d ever get used to—or believe—the comparison to my grandmother.

  Now, I shook my head. “I’m not sure,” I said, glancing up at the painting. Isadora seemed to smirk down at me, as if she knew something I didn’t. “She was so…elegant. Put together. I don’t think that trait can be inherited.”

  T.J. swiveled away from the painting so that he was studying me. He cocked his head to one side, and I felt like a work of art he was appraising.

  “You could be elegant,” T.J. declared. He reached out and gently touched the end of my ponytail, and I tensed up. “You could try wearing your hair like that.” He motioned to the painting. “Or even a dress like that!” He laughed. “I bet you’d look great.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, bristling slightly. I couldn’t tell if I’d been complimented or insulted.

  “Look, T.J.,” I said, walking backward and plopping down onto the high-backed chair I’d sat in the night I’d read Llewellyn Thorpe’s book. “That isn’t me. I’m not like CeeCee, or Virginia.” I paused, my throat tightening as I realized that T.J. must have admired—and unzipped—many of Virginia’s luxe dresses.

  T.J.’s dark brow furrowed, and he took hold of the love seat, dragging it next to my chair and sitting down.

  “Oh, no. Miranda, I didn’t intend to offend you,” he said, leaning toward me. “I think you’re pretty. I was only wondering…who you could let yourself become,” he finished, looking satisfied with this last statement.

  I opened and closed my mouth. T. J. Illingworth thought I was pretty? I was unable to fight the small glow of pleasure that filled me. God. Was that really all it took to soften me up? I was turning into such a girl.

  “Thanks,” I told T.J. again, half smiling as I met his gaze. “You know I think you’re, um”—don’t say pretty!—“very nice to look at, too.”

  For the thousandth time in my life, I wondered how I could be intelligent when it came to math and science and completely stupid when it came to boys.

  Fortunately, T.J.’s face lit up as if I’d said the perfect thing. “Thanks,” he said.

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  I drummed my fingers on my lap. T.J. and I seemed to be adept with pleasantries.

  The sound of laughter—my mother’s laughter—interrupted my thoughts. I glanced over my shoulder at the open study door and saw Mom and Mr. Illingworth pass by on their way to the living room. I swallowed hard.

  “Don’t you feel like we’re sitting at the kids’ table?” I asked, looking back at T.J.

  He smiled. “Yeah, I think that was pretty orchestrated.” He raised his eyebrows. “On the way over here, my father wouldn’t stop talking about what a good match you and I would make. And that was before he even met you!”

  My heart skipped. Nervously, I started picking at my fingernails, and then remembered my manicure and stopped. T.J. was watching me and I tugged on my ponytail, feeling ridiculously self-conscious.

  “CeeCee seems to agree,” I finally said, speaking to my flats. If CeeCee knew this moment was happening, she’d be doing backflips.

  “I picked up on that at the Heirs party,” T.J. said with a soft laugh. He was still leaning toward me, and I could smell his cologne—sophisticated and spicy, just like I’d imagined it. “People aren’t too subtle, are they?” he added.

  “Like my mom, back in the kitchen?” I looked at T.J. and rolled my eyes. “She’s usually never so jumpy. She was acting like—like a different person,” I admitted. It was sort of a relief to be able to confide in someone regarding my new, mixed-up feelings toward my mother.

  “Aw, it’s sweet,” T.J. said. He moved his hand from where it rested on his knee to the edge of my chair. “My father used to mention your mother on and off over the years, and I think he still might carry a torch for her. I don’t know what exactly happened between them, but my guess was always that she broke his heart.”

  My own heart was beating harder now. I remembered what Mom had said to me yesterday, about making mistakes in her youth. She must have meant Mr. Illingworth.

  T.J. and I looked at each other, and I wondered if we were thinking the same thing: that, in us, our parents saw a way to somehow correct those mistakes of their past. As if T.J. and I, together, offered a second chance to get things right.

  “You know what would make my dad happy again, though?” T.J. asked.

  “What?” I prayed that he wouldn’t say something inappropriate about my mom.

  “If I found a nice girl,” T.J. replied, his face looming closer until I was sure he could hear my loud heartbeat. Then, with the air of someone experimenting—in the same way I approached a test tube full of sodium bicarbonate in Chemistry lab—T.J. took my chin in his hand and put his lips on mine.

  I forgot to close my eyes, so I stared, incredulous, at T.J.’s smooth, perfect earlobe as he kissed me. It was a gentlemanly kiss—closed-mouthed and soft and well choreographed. I was registering that T.J. had clearly just brushed his teeth, or eaten a mint—had he planned this, then?—when a loud thud came from across the room.

  T.J. and I jerked back at the same time, and I glanced over at the bookshelves. The wind had knocked, of all things, A Primer on the Legend and Lore of Selkie Island smack onto the floor.

  “I—I should pick that up,” I stammered, leaping to my feet.

  “Allow me,” T.J. said, getting up at the same time. I was sure I was bug-eyed and blushing, but he appeared utterly unruffled.

  “No, that’s okay,” I insisted, hurrying across the study. My head was spinning as I leaned over to retrieve the book. I couldn’t help but skim
the page it had fallen open on:

  The island’s merfolk blend in nearly seamlessly with their neighbors. However, certain oceanic markings often adorn their places of residence.

  I shook my head. I’d been right; I couldn’t touch the ridiculous book without starting to read it. I straightened up and jammed the thick volume back onto the shelf.

  “Well.” I heard T.J. exhale. I spun around to see him standing by the love seat, adjusting his shirt collar. “Intense, huh?” he asked, grinning at me.

  I stared at him, unsure if he was referring to our kiss or to the book falling. Had our kiss been intense? I couldn’t say. I felt too close to it, too bewildered.

  “We’d better go make sure there’s still some cobbler left for us,” I replied. I quickly touched my hand to my lips, wondering if Mom would be able to tell what had happened, and if she would be pleased or scandalized.

  Before I followed T.J. out of the study, I glanced back at the portrait of Isadora. I knew it was my imagination, but my grandmother’s dark eyes seemed disapproving as she gazed down at me from her imperious perch. I sighed, feeling chastised. Isadora Beauregard Hawkins surely did not expect her granddaughter to kiss two different boys in a matter of days.

  And the thing was, up until that moment, I’d never expected it of myself, either.

  By the time I’d gulped down a glass of sweet tea and endured one more golf story, storm clouds were gathering in earnest. As Mom rescued the wind-tossed napkins from the porch floor, Mr. Illingworth announced that he and T.J. didn’t want to overstay their welcome, anyway. Mom tried to discourage them, but I was secretly glad. I hadn’t been able to make eye contact with T.J. since our moment in the study, and I craved space and quiet so I could figure out how I felt.

  As we walked our guests to the door, I was surprised to see Mom extend her hand to Mr. Illingworth, who swiftly bent forward and kissed it. Their movements were so natural, it was clear they’d performed this dance many times before. My own hands were in my pockets, and Mr. Illingworth had to ask me to remove one hand so he could kiss it, which was beyond awkward. I decided to shake his hand instead. T.J. gave me a kiss on the cheek, murmured, “I’ll be in touch soon,” and then all the kisses were done, and the Illingworths were off.

  “How’d it go?” Mom asked me the minute she shut the door. Her gray eyes were shining and her hair spilled over her shoulders. Her eagerness, her happiness, made me sort of embarrassed for her. “Did you have fun with T.J.? Do you think you’d like to see him again?”

  “Mom, I don’t know,” I snapped, irritated. The whole afternoon felt jumbled in my head. I couldn’t begin to parse my thoughts on T.J., or on anything—an unfamiliar feeling for me. “Leave me alone,” I added, crossing my arms over my chest.

  Mom put her hands on her hips. “What did you say? Since when is it permissible for you to speak to me in that tone?”

  I gritted my teeth, retorts racing through my head. Since when did we get so prim and proper? Since when do you let some guy kiss your hand? But I didn’t want to argue with Mom. We never argued. We couldn’t start now.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  Mom was quiet for a moment, and then she walked toward me, her heels clicking over the compass on the floor. Her expression was suddenly solemn.

  “Miranda, I’m sorry, ” she said softly. “I’m being thoughtless. Here I am, going on and on about T.J. when I’m sure there’s someone else on your mind.”

  I caught my breath. She knew about me and Leo?

  “You’re hesitant because of Greg, right?” Mom went on, looking at me closely. “It’s too soon?”

  “Greg?” I said, blindsided. My heart stuttered. Greg was the last person I needed thrown into the mix right now.

  “I haven’t said anything to you,” Mom said, nodding, “because I know how you need time to yourself. But, look—I knew all along that Greg was more than a boy you tutored in physics. And when—when he stopped coming over, well, it wasn’t too hard to figure out that you two must have parted ways.”

  I put my hands to my warm cheeks, feeling my gut tighten. “Mom, I really don’t feel like talking about this now.” Or ever. I stepped around my mother, heading into the living room. “Don’t we need to finish cleaning up the back porch?” I added.

  “Miranda, I understand it’s painful,” Mom said, following me through the French doors and onto the porch. Thunder rumbled ominously overhead. “You probably still have feelings for Greg, and that’s why—”

  “I do not have feelings for Greg anymore,” I said, whirling around to glare at my mother. It was true; though my feelings about what had happened were knotty, even a little frightening, I didn’t miss Greg. I didn’t yearn for him.

  Not like—the thought jolted me—not like I was yearning for Leo.

  I turned away from Mom and looked out at the gray view. As always, the sight of the ocean settled me, and I imagined the life that teemed beneath the slate-colored waves. Leo had made appearances in my thoughts all day—every day since Friday—but now he was all I could think of. What was he doing? Was he thinking of me, too?

  Would he care that I had kissed another boy?

  Suddenly, I knew what I had to do. I knew who I had to see to make things make sense again. I wasn’t sure I would find him, but I had to try.

  “I’m going for a walk,” I told Mom, and without waiting for her okay, turned and started down the porch steps.

  “Miranda, are you insane? It’s about to pour!”

  “I won’t be long,” I called over my shoulder, my voice nearly drowned out by the wind. A fork of lightning split the sky.

  “Why are you running off again?” Mom asked, hurrying down the porch steps after me. She paused on the grass.

  “I need some air,” I replied. “And I’m not running.”

  And I didn’t. I walked at a steady pace until I reached the end of Glaucus Way. Then, when I knew Mom couldn’t see me anymore, I broke into a run.

  I ran all the way to town, where the stores had red, white, and blue HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY! banners strung up in their windows. People hurried to stand under awnings and preemptively opened umbrellas. In the green square, the women weaving grass baskets were nowhere to be seen, and mosquitoes filled the air.

  As I reached the boardwalk, I felt the first cold raindrops on my bare arms. Still, I ran down the length of the boardwalk, past The Crabby Hook, past the closed marine center. Something seemed to be propelling me, something I couldn’t name or understand.

  When I got to the end of the boardwalk, I stepped down onto the sand and asked myself what I was doing. Though it was only five o’clock, the sky looked like midnight. The ocean was furious, lashing itself against the shore, and the palmetto trees tilted in the wind. The beach was empty; anyone sane was indoors. Maybe Mom was right; maybe I’d lost my head.

  I scanned the barren dunes and churning ocean one last time before I sighed and turned away. I hugged myself and lowered my head against the wind, prepared to ascend the boardwalk steps and hopefully make it back to The Mariner before the storm.

  But then I heard my name.

  At first, I thought it was the call of a seagull, or the crashing of the tide.

  But then it came again.

  “Miranda!”

  I whirled around, my heart lifting, and saw Leo walking up the sand toward me. His hair was wet, and he wore only dark blue swim trunks that sat low on his slim hips. Droplets of moisture glistened on his bare chest, and, illuminated by a flash of lightning overhead, his skin looked as luminescent as pearl. I hardly let myself believe it was him until I could see his eyes, green and sparkling and gazing right at me.

  “How—where did you come from?” I shouted over the howling wind. I started toward him, too, getting sand in my flats. “Were you swimming?”

  “I told you,” he replied, a smile crossing his face. “You can always find me.”

  We stopped mere inches from each other.

  “I wanted to see you,” I s
aid, although no explanation seemed necessary. “I was on the beach yesterday afternoon, but I couldn’t find you, and—”

  “Nighttime is usually better,” Leo said. Lines of water ran down his high cheekbones, down his flat stomach. His hair looked like dark honey.

  “I—I never do things like this,” I told him, breathless. I felt more cold drops strike my arms. “And it’s starting to rain, and—”

  “I wanted to see you, too,” Leo cut in.

  “Leo,” I said. I didn’t know what to say next, only that his name on my tongue felt right. Natural.

  Then the clouds burst. Sheets of rain sluiced down, and thunder exploded, and suddenly, without warning, we were kissing.

  Leo pulled me tight against him as our lips met and the wetness of the rain mingled with the wetness of his body. Somehow his skin felt as hot and flushed as mine did. I wrapped my arms around him, opening my mouth to his, running my fingers down the length of his spine. Leo dug his fingers into my hair, raking loose my ponytail, and I didn’t care. I didn’t care that I was getting drenched and that my bra was probably visible beneath my white T-shirt, because all that mattered was our kissing.

  This was intense, I realized as we kissed and kissed in the pouring rain. This defined intense. My kiss with T.J. seemed faded, insignificant. Now I couldn’t help but close my eyes as every thought in my head—every question—swam away.

  I heard myself sigh when Leo pulled back. He pushed my sopping hair back off my face and grinned at me.

  “We should really go somewhere dry,” he told me, and encircled my waist with his strong arm. “You’re trembling.”

  I was, but not because of the cold. Still, I nodded my assent and gave Leo my hand. He began leading me away from the boardwalk, toward the jagged black rocks, yet I didn’t feel fear or trepidation.

  “Careful,” Leo said, squeezing my hand as he helped me over a big rock. The rain was as dense as a wall now. My feet slipped and slid, but I held fast to his hand, and when I reached the other side of the rock, I saw where we would shelter. There, in the sand, a collection of even larger rocks formed a grotto of sorts, complete with an overhang and craggy walls.