Clay takes a step away from her and a step back. His body sways with the movement of the boat and the push and pull of the conflicting melodies.
I keep singing, hoping against hope something in Clay will recognize his own words and be drawn to them. But Melusine’s voice is stronger.
She looks menacing now, her sapphire eyes cold and sharp, her hands balled into white fists. Her voice is confident and clear as she unleashes her ancient Mermese song, and Clay moves toward her once more. She places a hand right where Clay’s shoulder meets his neck, and her long nails dig into his skin.
Not again. She can’t do this to him again.
Her lips twist upward in a victorious smile so frightening it makes me falter. In that second of silence, I grow aware of the ever-constant call of the ocean. The sea whispers all around me, causing a memory of something I read to bubble to the surface of my consciousness:
“Siren songs drew their magic from the call of the sea that all Merfolk hear.”
I focus on the ocean’s call and the sensation of longing it creates within me.
“Come, come, come to me
Let’s explore eternity.
Come, come, come to me
I want you irrevocably.
Come, come, come to me
And promise that you’ll stay.”
I stare into Clay’s empty eyes, begging him to move toward me. His song pulses deep inside me as I sing, and I feed it the fear and need and love I have for him. With all my strength, I push my voice over the thrashing tempest.
Then he’s walking. His feet move across the wooden deck, away from Melusine. She continues to sing, but it’s as if he can no longer hear her. He takes his place beside me.
The waves and wind settle to an eerie calm. I have won.
I turn to Clay and he stares back at me, glassy-eyed.
“Clay?” I ask. But he’s silent, awaiting my command.
I have sirened him.
Chapter Eleven
“This is a field trip, not karaoke night!” one of the science teachers shouts as she stomps her way toward us. Panic seizes me. This woman overheard us! I look at her—her hands on her hips, her beady eyes staring at us … why isn’t she sirened? I guess because Melusine and I directed our songs at Clay. “What are you three doing over here?” she continues, voice sharp. The lecture’s about to start. Now, march.”
She doesn’t feel like a part of my reality. So much has changed in the last few minutes, and this dowdy woman is oblivious to all of it.
The ebb and the flow of ocean magic still thrums through me. But I’m on a boat with an entire junior class of humans and I have to act normal. Clay’s still staring at me dutifully. I have to keep him acting normal, too. So, I walk in the direction of the teacher’s pointed finger, and Clay follows me step for step, all the way across the deck. Surrounded by witnesses, Melusine can do nothing but walk behind us. Her glower scorches my back.
When we stop in the throng of other students, Clay slips his warm, strong hand into mine. A thrill of excitement shoots up my spine. But then I remember: Clay isn’t holding my hand because he wants to, he’s holding my hand because the siren song—my siren song—is forcing him to. Up front, one of the crew members holds up the octopus, and even his googly gaze looks accusatory. What have I done?
On the bus ride back, Clay slides into the same bench seat I do. He still isn’t talking much unless I ask him direct questions. I must’ve asked some variation of, “Are you okay?” at least a hundred times. He just smiles and asks what he can do for me, but his eyes remain empty.
Then, I spot a sea lion on a nearby cliff. “Oh! Look out the window!” I say, trying to start up a normal conversation.
He does. And he doesn’t stop. He stares out the window long after we’ve passed the sea lion and entered the boring city streets. He looks when there’s nothing to see.
A few rows in front of us, Kelsey takes advantage of Clay’s apparent distraction and turns around to face me over the back of her blue nylon seat. She stares pointedly at Clay, then at Melusine (who sits alone on the long bench at the back of the bus), then at me before mouthing, “OMG!” She shoots me a huge, congratulatory grin before flipping back around. To Kelsey, this must look like a dream come true. If she only knew …
The short bus ride back to school feels like it stretches on for hours. I let Clay stare blankly out the window so I don’t have to see the vacant look in his eyes. When we finally pull into the school parking lot, I say, “Clay, we’re here.” He doesn’t react. The truth of what I have to do settles on top of me like a heavy weight. “Clay,” I try again, “you can stop looking now.”
He turns his head back toward me, “Oh. Okay.” His voice has more of a spark than it did earlier, but he still sounds out of it.
I swallow. Clay has rested his hand on my thigh. My heart speeds up, and warmth suffuses me at the feel of his solid, confident touch.
Considering that, traditionally, the only time Mer show their legs is right before they … Well, touching someone’s legs is one of the most intimate, titillating gestures you can make. His hand looks so innocent, sitting there on my leg, but I’ve never felt like this before. I doubt I could summon my tail right now if I tried.
I don’t want to move. I don’t want to breathe. I just want to feel the exquisite pressure of Clay’s hand. But when students file past our seat and out of the bus, the moment needs to end. Any second now, I’m going to move Clay’s hand and get up.
A disgusted sigh reaches my ears. Melusine walks up next to us on her way to the exit. She stares at Clay’s hand on my thigh, then pins me with a glare that says, “You’ll pay for this. It isn’t over,” as clearly as if she’d spoken the words.
I can’t waste any more time sitting here like a hormonal idiot. Clay is the victim of powerful magic. Magic I don’t understand. I need to find a way to make this right.
“Clay, we should get up now.” My voice comes out a whisper, but it may as well be the shout of a general. Clay gets up so fast, he almost bangs his head on the ceiling of the bus. With his hand gone, my leg feels cold.
“O-okay, go do whatever you want now,” I say to him once we’re off the bus. He doesn’t move, just stares at me. What am I supposed to do? “Be yourself,” I try. “Please.” My voice breaks with the intensity of my wish, but Clay doesn’t magically snap back to himself. He takes a small step closer to me and looks as lost as ever. If I … sirened him … and I want to free him, why isn’t that enough?
If I can’t end the spell myself, then I have to keep an eye on him until it wears off. It’s gotta wear off sometime like Melusine’s did, doesn’t it? School is over, but Clay’s mom might be home and I can’t risk her seeing him like this, and my house is out of the question. I gaze out across the emptying asphalt desert of the school parking lot. Where am I supposed to take him?
“What flavor do you want?” the pimpled teen behind the old-fashioned, gilded register asks Clay. The place is done up like a 1950s ice cream shoppe with two p’s and an e. Of course, to cater to all the beach-ready dieters near here, it only serves frozen yogurt.
Clay turns to me. “What flavor do I want?”
I glance around at the other patrons, then back at Clay. “That’s up to you. What flavor do you want?” I ask.
He scrunches up his face in thought. “I … ” He’s searching his mind for the answer, but it’s taking great effort. “I want … ”
“Spit it out, buddy,” says a guy in line behind us. “Some of us want to get back to the surf.”
I shoot him a death glare and he backs off, but several other people in line have begun to stare.
“Cold Apple Pie, two scoops!” Clay shouts. His face crumples in exhaustion.
Pimpled guy stands open-mouthed until I say, “You heard the man,” then place my own order for Salted Caramel Swirl. By now, we’ve caught the attention of the whole place, so I forgo toppings and pay for our over-price
d dessert before guiding Clay outside.
What was I thinking? I stole your free will, but here, have some fro-yo? Stupid.
By the time I lead Clay onto a more secluded residential street, his gaze has sharpened a little and he eats his yogurt without me telling him to. I wonder …
“What’s your favorite food?”
His face scrunches up again, but not for as long as before. “Sushi,” he answers.
“Really?” I expected his favorite food to be burgers or pizza or something else stereotypical for a human boy.
“Yes.”
I hadn’t meant that as a question, but it’s a good sign he answered quickly.
“What’s your middle name?”
I pepper him with questions as we pass by the bougainvillea-covered gates of one home after another. Each question takes him less time and effort than the last. Thinking about himself and his own desires seems to lessen the sireny’s grip, little by little.
By the time I’ve found out Clay’s favorite color (bright blue, like his car), his favorite song (The Verve’s “Bittersweet Symphony”), the type of dog he’d like to have (a Shiba Inu), and how old he was when he lost his first tooth (five and a half), our frozen yogurt is long finished and I’m running out of innocuous questions, but Clay’s voice has more life than it’s had since the boat trip.
For each answer Clay gives, I give my own. I don’t know how aware he is or what he’ll remember, but it feels more like a conversation this way. While we walk, he slips his hand into mine, warm and solid. I have to fight to keep my breathing even and focus on talking. As I rack my brain for more harmless facts to inquire about, other questions arise unbidden in my mind. What are you looking for in a girl? Do you have real feelings for Melusine? And of course, the one that’s been burning inside me for over a year: How do you feel … about me?
But I can’t let myself ask any of them. Clay would tell me anything right now—even things he wouldn’t want me to know. I’ve already violated him enough, so I bite my lip to keep from asking the questions I yearn to have answered.
“Now you ask me a question. Anything you want to know.” Maybe giving him some piece of myself will ease the guilt squeezing my chest.
“Why does my neck hurt?” Clay asks.
“Your neck hurts?” I ask, concerned.
“Yes.”
The window! I let him stare out that window for at least twenty minutes. The guilt grips my chest even tighter.
A low stone wall runs along the gate of a nearby mansion. I sit Clay down and reach a tentative hand forward. With a deep, steadying breath, I inch my fingers closer until they graze the warm skin on the back of his neck.
I want to run my fingers over the skin, explore his rich mahogany hairline. But that’s not what this is about. My carelessness has brought him pain, and it’s up to me to soothe it. I’ve never given a message before. Certainly never to a boy. Please let me do it right.
His neck feels so different from my own. Corded muscles run along his spine and down into his shoulders. They shift as I press against them with my thumbs and the pads of my fingers. Tension coils there in knots. Closing my eyes, I focus on the way it moves under his skin. I press harder, deeper—willing the pain away. My thumbs make small circles until his tension yields. The knots disappear, and Clay sighs in relief, turning his head from side to side.
I’m still touching him, my hand resting right where his neck meets his shoulder. I withdraw it and take a step back.
Lost in thought, I go too long without saying or doing anything. With nothing to distract him, Clay stands up and turns to face me. Suddenly, he’s the one touching me. He’s running his palms up my bare arms. My skin tingles under his touch, and I gasp. He strokes the back of his hand across my cheek where I can’t help but lean into it. He’s so close.
“Clay … ”
He’s going to kiss me. It’s as certain as the tides.
This is what I’ve wanted. Every time we huddled over our display board or practiced a self-defense move, I’ve wanted to know what it would be like to feel him, to taste him. I’ve been waiting for what feels like forever for my first kiss. If I’m honest with myself, I’ve been waiting for Clay.
Now the wait is over. We’ve strolled into the lush, green hills overlooking the ocean, and the sun is shining down on us to create a perfect, romantic moment.
Only, it’s not perfect.
As he leans in, his eyes remain open and filled with hunger. It’s the same blind hunger I’ve seen a million times when he makes out in the hall with Melusine. My heart sinks. That hunger isn’t for me. He can’t even see me right now.
His breath skates across my lips before I turn my head away.
“Clay … stop,” It hurts me to say the words, but the fact that he instantly obeys me proves I’m right. It’s the spell making Clay want to kiss me. It’s not real at all.
Then his tone, his whole demeanor, suddenly changes.
“Lia?”
His voice is groggy, like he’s finding his way back from a dream—or a nightmare. The spell must be wearing off. The universe sure does have a cruel sense of timing.
“Clay? How are you feeling?”
“Were we … did I just try to … what time is it?”
“About 6:00.”
“I should get home. Do you need me to walk you first?”
“No, but I’ll walk you to your house. It’s on my way.” It isn’t strictly on the way, but I doubt Clay’s in any condition to notice, and I don’t want to leave him alone just yet.
We walk the rest of the way in silence.
“I-know-what-you’re-looking-at,” Kelsey sing-songs.
She’s not wrong; I’ve been watching him all day. I’ve also been watching for signs of her.
“Did he kiss you? How perfect was it? Was it like hot new outfit perfect or like chocolate soufflé perfect?”
I pick at the poached salmon I brought for lunch. I have no appetite. “We didn’t kiss.”
“Oh.” Her face falls but then immediately perks back up. “That’s no reason to look like a melted Popsicle. The important thing is that he broke up with Mel—and he talked to you about it! That’s big. It’s huge! You should be doing a happy dance!”
I muster up a big smile for Kelsey’s sake, but it’s soon replaced by a yawn. I stayed up most of the night. I didn’t have any konklilis on sireny at home, but I needed information more than ever. So, once everyone was asleep, I crept up to my room and made a list of everything I’ve learned about sireny so far. I had to make sense of what happened out on that boat … how I did what I did, and what in the Seven Seas I’m supposed to do now.
I nearly fell off my spinny desk chair when I remembered the tale of the Tudor-era bard. The one who was under such a strong spell the siren bragged about her power over him. How could I have not seen it before? He was a bard—a musician! She used his own song to siren him. Maybe that’s how she achieved such a strong hold. Did his own words strengthen the bond? I used Clay’s song … maybe that’s why I overpowered Melusine. She knows far more about sireny and magic than I do, so it’s the only reason that makes sense.
Now, in the light of day, all I can think about is where Melusine is. She didn’t come to school today, and I’m a wreck trying to figure out what that means. Is she bowing out in defeat or spending the entire day casting a spell so ancient and heinous I’ve never heard of it? Maybe, while I’m trapped here going to A.P. Bio and pre-calculus, she’s using these same hours to concoct some evil plan to get Clay back. And why does she want him anyway? The question plagues me again. Is he just a boy toy to her, or does she want him for something worse? Not having any clue what that something worse could be makes waves of fear rise up in me and swell higher than ever.
As for Clay, I’ve spent the entire day both avoiding him and keeping him in my sights—which is no easy feat. I want to be near him so I can check that he’s okay, but I need to leave him
alone to ensure the sireny has entirely worn off. My rational brain assures me that the spell wore off last night and that I’m being too cautious. But the memory of Clay’s empty eyes and dead voice … I can’t bear to talk to him again until he’s back to himself.
I’ve even ducked into the girls’ bathroom a couple times today when I’ve seen him coming down the hall, telling myself it’s because I want to give him the space he needs. I’m definitely not avoiding him because I’m terrified a part of him hates me for violating him. No, that’s not it at all.
In history class, my luck runs out. Mr. Reitzel gives us time to work on our projects and all of a sudden, Clay is making his way over to me. He sits without a word. After a pause that makes my stomach leap up and lodge in my throat, he says, “We need to talk about yesterday.”
His eyes are clear and he sounds fully back to himself, but his voice is more serious than I’ve ever heard it, and I’m afraid. Afraid that he remembers Melusine and me battling over him on the boat. Afraid that he’s figured out I’m not a normal girl, that he thinks I’m a freak. Afraid that he knows I’ve wronged him. I dig my fingernails into my palms, the pain of each small crescent moon keeping me from panicking.
“I need to apologize,” he says.
What? “Apologize?” I parrot.
“Yeah. Lia, I’m really sorry.”
He’s apologizing to me? It’s like the universe is tilting, off-kilter.
“The way I treated you yesterday, it wasn’t right.”
“Clay, you didn’t—”
“No,” he holds up a hand, “let me say this. I almost kissed you.”
“That’s … that’s okay.” I almost let you.
“No. No, it’s not. Not right after I broke up with Mel. I can’t imagine how that made me look … or what you must think of me.”
“It was a strange day.” Talk about an understatement. “A lot happened.” Like me weaseling my way into your mind.
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