Emerge (10 page)

Melusine chooses that moment to interrupt.

“Can I borrow my
boyfriend
for a teensy sec?” She puts just a hint too much emphasis on the word “boyfriend.”

“Hey, Mel, what’s up?” Clay asks her.

She grabs his wrist and moves toward the door of the computer lab. “We’ll be right back,” she tells me.

She picked her moment carefully; Mr. Reitzel is engaged in a conversation with the librarian. Through the tinted glass wall that separates the computer section from the rest of the library, I watch Melusine guide Clay into the book stacks, where they disappear from view. What’s she doing with him back there? Is she angry we were talking? Friends are allowed to have conversations. Is she re-staking her claim to let me know she can? Maybe it has nothing to do with me. Maybe she just felt like a quick make out session in the middle of class.

A few minutes later, Melusine walks back in. Without so much as a glance at me, she takes her seat next to Laurie Kennish on the other end of the room. Clay follows a moment later and sinks back into the chair next to mine.

“You guys have fun?” I ask, keeping my voice nonchalant.

He doesn’t answer. He looks pretty dazed. His eyes are all unfocused as he stares blankly at his computer screen. Oh, great. Melusine must be some kisser. It takes all my effort to withhold a sigh.

“So,” I try, “any tips you learned from your dad’s friend that might help save me from Coach Crane?”

Clay’s voice is distracted when he says, “Let’s just get back to work.”

“Why are guys such much moody?”
I wince. That came out wrong.

“You mean, why are guys so moody?”
Caspian corrects. A powerful kick of his tailfin propels him even farther out into the ocean and sends resounding ripples toward my face. I kick my own tail to catch up.

On land, when I’m talking to older Mer, I speak a mean Mermenglish—grabbing English words I need and sticking them into Mermese sentences. But, when I’m underwater like now, that’s nearly impossible. No other language travels as well through the muffling waves as Mermese, which switches between high-pitched sounds that pierce the water and melodic notes that dance across it.

Caspian has a thing for languages, so he fixes my grammar without thinking. Can you say annoying in Mermese? Ugh. Tonight, though, I need his advice. As soon as I catch up to where he’s swimming in figure eights through a rich, green kelp forest, I ask,
“So why?”

“Are you calling me moody? Should I be offended?”

“Not you.”

“Of course not.”
The moonlight filtering from above glints off his silver tail as he twists his body through stalks of kelp as thick as tree trunks. I follow, accidentally disrupting a school of sassy
señorita
fish. I enjoy the tickle of their feather-light fins against my stomach as the tiny things rush back into formation.

“Are we talking about one guy in particular here?”
Caspian asks. His voice sounds only mildly interested, but he’s slowed down.

“No
…
it’s just a general question.”
I probably shouldn’t be asking Caspian when I can’t give him the full story, but I really need a guy’s opinion. What’s the point of having a guy for a best friend if I can’t take advantage of his inborn expertise?

“
Just general, huh? Well, speaking for my entire gender in general, sometimes it’s hard to know what a girl’s thinking.”
He stops swimming and his blue eyes fix on my face.
“And what she’s thinking about you.”

Is that it? Does Clay think that I think he’s flirting? ‘Cause I so don’t. I tear off a piece of kelp and munch on it as I roll this possibility around in my mind. I rip off a leaf for Caspian and offer it to him. We enjoy the salty, green apple-like taste for a minute in silence.

“Look, Lia, there’s a difference between being moody and being a jerk. If a guy doesn’t treat you right, he doesn’t deserve you.”

But that’s just it—Clay treats me great … when he’s talking to me. We’ve met four times over the past two weeks, and he’s usually super chatty. One minute he’s joking around, and the next he’s kind of cold and just wants to work on the project.

If Caspian’s right and Clay’s confused about what I might be thinking, then I’ll have to make it clear to him that I understand he has a girlfriend and our friendship won’t get in the way of that.
“That’s a big help. Thanks, Casp.”

Caspian smiles. The blond hair floating around his head looks almost like a halo in the dark waters. I wish we were allowed to swim in the ocean during daylight, but there’s too great a risk we’ll be seen. Luckily, I can see much better in the dark, and obviously underwater, than a human can because of the shape of a part of my eye called the Crystalline lens. My dad explained to me once how my eyes are actually more like a seal’s or a seabird’s than a human’s. When he first told me that little tidbit, I felt like more of an imposter than ever. My eyes may look human, but they’re no more human than I am. I have to say, though, it sure is useful, and it makes swimming after dark much more fun. Still, it would be heaven to be able to sun myself on the rocks out in the open ocean, the way my ancestors did. The sweet freedom of it is almost unimaginable.

Yet another rule confronts me as the Border grows nearer with every flick of my tail. The row of bioluminescent bamboo coral that the Foundation planted five thousand feet out from the coast halts my progress. No land-dwelling Mer is allowed to swim past it without special permission, and its eerie blue light assures that no one can claim to have accidentally missed it.

We both stop to stare.
“You ever wonder what it would be like to swim over it? To just keep going?”
I ask.

“It would be dangerous. Especially for you.”
He’s right of course. Going too deep into the ocean means entering the warzone. That could be fatal for any of us, but for me—a cousin of the hated Little Mermaid and the daughter of the two heads of the Foundation—well, it’s no secret I’d be a high prize for very public execution by the many
udell
still dwelling under the waves. The
udell
hate everything the Foundation stands for. They think my parents and everyone who follows them are a bunch of human-lovers who’ve turned our backs on our own ways. To them, I’ve betrayed my own kind by living on land, and they’d relish the chance to kill me if I ventured into their midst.

That’s why on one level, I’m grateful for the Border.

On the other, I can’t help feeling trapped. The hardest part of living on land is that no matter how many friends I make or how much time I spend trying to fit in, it’s not natural for me. The call of the ocean is constant. It thrums through me like a current in my veins.

During the day, when I’m surrounded by humans and I’m busy with school, I can suppress the urge to swim out to sea. At night, lying in the saltwater grottos soothes it enough so I can sleep. But, when I’m out in the ocean like this, the temptation to ignore every warning I’ve been taught and embrace my innate urge—to answer that call by swimming farther and faster than I’ve ever dared—reaches its peak. The sea whispers to me, sings to me, tells me to explore my one true home. Sometimes it scares me.

Caspian hears it, too. Resisting can be almost painful. But not swimming up to the Border, not swimming in the ocean at all, that would be worse.

“The rules exist for a reason,”
Caspian reminds us both.

“I know.”

I refuse to be melancholy. We still have the entire stretch of the coast, and that will have to be enough. So, I resort to the two words in Mermese that are always the right thing to say:
“Let’s race!”

As soon as I see Clay, I’ll tell him we need to talk. As soon as I see Clay, I’ll explain that I understand he has a girlfriend and our friendship does not equal a flirtation.
As soon as I see Clay, my mouth goes dry.

He opens his front door wearing a sleeveless white shirt. His loose-fitting workout pants ride low on his hips. My immediate goal becomes keeping my attention on his face. His eyes are … eager.

“Are you coming in?” Excitement jolts through his words.

“What’s going on?”

“C’mon.” His hand wraps around my forearm, and he pulls me into the entrance hall. Then he steps behind me and covers my eyes with his hands.

“What—”

“No peeking.”

His hands are cool on my cheeks and forehead. They feel good after the heat outside. And they smell faintly of cinnamon, a scent I’m starting to equate with Clay.

“Walk with me?” His breath tickles my ear. I hesitate, then nod, and he moves forward with me in front of him. At first, each step with my eyes closed is unsteady, the way it was when I first started using my legs, but soon we’re moving in sync.

I sense that it’s time right before he whispers, “Stop.” He uncovers my eyes. “Surprise!”

We’re standing in the doorway of his den. He’s pushed all the furniture against one wall and covered the floor in exercise mats.

“You’ve finally found your calling in men’s gymnastics?” I quip.

“I’ve finally decided to stop taking no for an answer. You’re going to stop fighting me about helping you in self-defense and start fighting me for real.”

“Clay, you didn’t need to do all this.” It was really thoughtful.

“Sure I did. I couldn’t spend one more day watching you get clobbered.”

Does that mean Clay cares about me or that he’s embarrassed for me because of my lack of coordination? I’ve spent every P.E. period this week falling on my butt while Coach Crane scribbled viciously in her grade book. Whatever Clay’s motive, I totally need his help.

“So, how do we do this?” I ask.

His smile widens.

Forty-five minutes later, Clay has run me through the basic maneuvers from class—blocks, punches, and even some kicks. Surprisingly, I’m still on my feet. It isn’t that he’s been explaining the process any differently, but unlike Coach Crane, who throws us at each other and expects improvement, Clay lets me take my time and repeat each move until I get it right. He isn’t barking out orders or corrections; he isn’t even teasing me for my lack of skill, the way I feared he might. He’s quiet as he watches me, only talking to make subtle corrections to my form.

“Let’s practice roundhouse kicks, Lia.”

Anything but that. “What about weapons? Shouldn’t you come at me with a rubber knife or something?”

“Weapons come way later. For now, just remember to keep as much distance between the weapon and the victim as possible. Okay, let’s see that roundhouse.”

I take a deep, steadying breath the way Clay suggested and assume the fighting stance he helped me perfect. Roundhouse kicks are the hardest because both my legs have to move in such different ways at the same time. I try to keep my front foot steady while I lift my back leg up and bend it in the air. Right when I’m about to bring it forward toward the couch cushion Clay is holding up as a target, my front leg attempts to bend at the same angle and I fall in a heap.

Clay drops the cushion and is at my side in a blink. “You okay?”

“My pride’s hurt a little.”

Strong hands help me to my feet, and I get back into position. “I’ve noticed something,” Clay says as he steps behind me. “You seem to want to move both of your legs in the same way whenever you kick.”

“That’s … weird.”

“The body wants what it wants.” He kneels and wraps his cool fingers around my back ankle. I shiver. My legs have been sensitive ever since I got them. When I look over my shoulder, Clay’s staring up at me.

“Pivot this foot so it faces forward,” he says, applying light pressure to my ankle. “When you kick, you can think of the whole thing as one circular motion. Even though your legs are doing different things, they’re moving in one direction to achieve one goal.” He rises. “Try it.”

His touch has made my legs feel stronger, like I don’t have to focus to maintain them. I picture the kick as one fluid move like Clay suggested. I pivot my foot, lift my leg, and in one powerful swishing motion, I’ve executed my first successful roundhouse. It isn’t perfect, but my shin hits the cushion with enough force to make Clay shout, “That’s it!”