Emerge (12 page)

Even a brand new puppy isn’t enough to distract me from dreading school tomorrow. I keep playing through possible scenarios in my head. In most, Clay decides we shouldn’t spend any more time together; I picture him talking to me in that same cold voice, telling me I’m a threat to his relationship so we’ll need to split up the work for the project and finish it alone. If he actually said this, I couldn’t disagree with him. He’d be right.

Still, I much prefer the scenario that occurred to me right before I fell asleep—the one where Clay tells me he felt exactly what I felt, the same crackle of heat between us, and he’s breaking up with Melusine. He grabs me to him and, before I can say anything, kisses me the way I wanted him to kiss me on that mat. But then what? My logical brain knows we can’t be together. Sure, it’s a nice fantasy—a wonderful, tail-curling, butterflies flying, spine tingling fantasy—but we have no future.

Besides, it’ll never happen anyway. I can still hear Clay from his phone call with Melusine: “It’s good to hear your voice.” He likes
her
. Wants
her
. Kisses
her
. And he’s probably about to tell me we can’t even be friends.

By the time I get to school, I’ve done everything I can to brace myself. Then Clay drives into the parking lot in his Mustang, and I’m back to full-on nervous mode. He gets out and walks right toward me.

His words are the very last ones I expected.

“So, you coming over today?”

“Huh?” He can’t mean what I think he means.

“You came over the last couple Fridays, so I figured you’d come today. We didn’t really make any history headway last night, with the self-defense and all.”

“You don’t have plans with Mel tonight?” I hedge.

“I haven’t talked to her yet today, but we don’t have anything planned. She knows you and I have to get the project done. So, you’re coming, right? Our report’s not going to write itself.”

“Sure.”

“Cool, Nautilus.”

If I could do a cartwheel, I totally would.

“It’s weird that none of your ancestors have come up in any of the databases. You sure your family’s not from outer space or something?”

Stay calm.
“Hey, one of those sixty-three Margaret Smiths could have been related to me,” I tell Clay, using one of the many generic-named, made up relatives on my list. “Anywho, I spoke to Mr. Reitzel and he said, since I’m not getting enough results online, I can use interviews with my parents as research sources in our bibliography. So we’re covered.”

I dig out the notebook where I wrote down the interviews—combinations of complete fabrications and tweaked truths—and place them on Clay’s desk. We’re in his room again and, in an attempt to show him I respect his relationship, I’ve scooted my chair as far from him as I can. His desk is on the small side though, so we’re only a foot apart.

“We’re lucky we’ve got that Denmark connection. That can be the focus of our poster board,” Clay says.

It’s actually true that I have ancestors from Denmark—well, from the waters surrounding Denmark, but why quibble? My mother’s side of the family, including her distant royal relatives, lived in that area for thousands of years before the Little Mermaid refused to kill her prince and unleashed the curse by prizing a human life above her own immortal one.

Devastated and enraged at the loss of their immortality, the Mer dethroned her father, blaming him for her actions. He was executed. In the ensuing turmoil, ruler after ruler came to power, promising to find a cure for the curse.

As each one inevitably failed, a mutiny would break out to depose him. His supporters would cling to their hope and take up arms, arguing that all the current leader needed was more time to break the curse—that he almost had an answer—while others would rally behind a new leader who pedaled a new, useless method to save us all.

No sooner did the most recent leader take power, and begin strengthening his army, than those who saw the flaw in his plan turned to someone else who claimed access to better magic. What’s worse, criminals have always taken advantage of each new war to loot and ravage cities, spreading the violence and destruction past the battlefields, so even those who don’t seek to fight must arm themselves to protect their families.

Every new leader has brought more false hope, but no end to the anarchy. With each failure, the cycle continues, causing nearly constant chaos and peril. The sea has been in a state of continual war for two centuries. Hatred of many of the previous leaders is strong, but none is stronger than the hatred aimed at the memory of the Little Mermaid and her father. All their descendants, no matter how distant, became targets for annihilation.

It grew far too dangerous for my mother’s family to stay anywhere near Northern Europe. At first, my ancestors took refuge in the waters near North America, but within a century, the wars spread and those were just as unsafe. The only choices for anyone with royal blood were to live in hiding or leave the ocean for good.

After a boatload of internal debate, I told Clay my mother’s family lived near Copenhagen in Denmark until they came to America just before World War I. That way, I’ll be able to discuss U.S. immigration and the First World War for my part of the paper. Thank the tides he bought it. I hate lying—especially to Clay—but I seem to be getting plenty of practice.

“Did you find anything else about that Danish opera singer?” I ask, steering the conversation toward Clay’s family.

“Not really. I found plenty about her career, but there’s nothing much about her personal life.” He shuffles through a few printed articles on his desk, then reads, “‘After giving birth to a son out of wedlock, Astrid Ostergard withdrew from public life, eventually becoming a veritable recluse.’ Other than that, all I found was that her son moved his family to New York in the late 19th century. He’s the one who opened up that restaurant I saw the picture of online.”

“And that’s on your mom’s side?” I ask.

“Yep. A lot of his descendants died in World War I and even more in World War II, including my mom’s only uncle, so I think she’s the last one left. That’s why every one of my annoying cousins comes from my dad’s side of the family.”

“And there’s some info on your dad’s side?”

“Enough for a paragraph or two. I think I’ll focus mainly on Astrid, though. It’s strangely cool to find out you’re related to someone who was famous.”

It isn’t always cool. I don’t know what’s worse, that one of my distant, ancestral cousins is infamous for bringing death to millions, or that she’s been immortalized as a cartoon character.

“Do you think Astrid’s who you get your musical talent from?” I ask.

“Could be. My dad’s the one who taught me to play, so maybe I get it from both sides.”

“When can I hear some of your stuff?”

“Oh.” He looks surprised at my request. “I don’t know. I just sort of play for myself lately.”

“You said you’re a musical prodigy,” I tease. “You must expect me to be curious.”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t want you turning all groupie on me.”

I blush. “Why don’t you play at any of the clubs around town?”

“I just don’t,” Clay says abruptly. Then, his voice softens, “You rocked it in P.E. today. Coach Crane looked like she was about to have a coronary from the shock.”

I pretend not to notice the change of subject. “Well, you did it.” I never could have survived today’s kicks without his help last night.

Clay lifts my chin with his thumb and forefinger and looks directly into my eyes, “Hey, stop that.
You
did it. All I did was help bring it out of you.”

His face is close enough that I can see the green and gold flecks in his eyes. The same heat I felt last night rises between us now. As if just realizing he’s touching me, he drops his hand, but he doesn’t move farther away. Something else flashes in his eyes. Decisiveness?

“My dad stopped coming.”

“Hmm?” I ask, confused.

“To my performances. I stopped playing guitar in public because he was the one who taught me … the one who always cheered me on. It was our thing.” Clay picks at the sleeve of his leather jacket where it’s draped off one end of his desk. “After the divorce, he came to a few shows. Then a few less.”

Clay’s voice is thick with hurt. “You don’t have to talk about this,” I tell him.

“No, I want to tell you.” He looks right at me before glancing down again. “When he moved onto the naval base in Point Loma, he got a girlfriend in town and stopped driving up to see me altogether.”

“Clay, I’m sorry.” It’s not enough, but it’s all I can think to say.

“I still write songs—I can’t really stop myself—but I haven’t been able to play for anyone since. So, please don’t take it personally.”

“I understand.”

He pastes his familiar smirk back on. “Well, Nautilus, I’ve told you my deepest, darkest. What’s yours?”

Despite his well-practiced expression, his eyes are still vulnerable. He needs me to answer, if only to divert the conversation away from him. My secret? Telling him I have a tail would make him think I’m either a.) crazy or b.) a disgusting, fishy freak.

“I’m kind of lost,” I blurt out instead.

“Your house is in walking distance.”

I whack him on the shoulder. “That’s my secret, genius. I sometimes feel like I’m … lost.” Articulating it for the second time makes me realize it’s true.

“What do you mean?” Clay asks. He’s listening now, his gaze completely focused on me.

“My parents have this image of me. All these expectations. They’ve worked so hard to build … the family business.”

“The Foundation for the something or other of sea animals?”

“The Foundation for the Preservation and Protection of Marine Life,” I supply.

“Right! I see your dad on the news all the time.”

“They expect me to devote my life to it, too.”

“And you’re not sure if it’s for you?”

“It’s a really important cause, and I totally admire everything they’ve done, but I don’t know if I can live up to their example.” I’m so human in the way I look at things sometimes that I’m afraid if I ever did try to take on a Mer leadership role, I’d be ousted as a fraud. “My older sister Em works at the Foundation part-time and she’s perfect at it.”

“I didn’t realize you had a sister other than the twins.”

“Yeah. Em’s in college and she does everything right. She’s smart, well-spoken, sophisticated—just like my mom. Then there’s my little cousin Amy—she lives with us and she’s definitely the sweet, adorable one. The twins are the witty, sexy ones. I’m just … me.” I sigh. I’ve never put it into words like that before; it’s like Clay’s honesty opened up some kind of dam, and everything just came rushing out.

He turns his chair slightly so that we’re facing each other, the front of his knees touching the front of mine. Then he takes my hand where it rests on my thigh.

“You know, no one expects you to have it all figured out.” He says as he rubs a soothing circle over the back of my hand with his thumb. “You’re not lost. You just don’t know where you belong yet.

“Oh, and for the record,” he continues, “Amy’s not the only sweet one and, even without meeting her, I doubt Em is smarter than you.” He’s been looking at my hand resting in his, but now he looks up at me with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “And if Mel asks, you didn’t hear this from me, but the twins definitely don’t have the market cornered on sexy.”

Did Clay just say he thinks I’m sexy? Am I still breathing? “Yeah, right. They hook up with new guys at practically every party, and I’ve never had a real kiss.” Why did I say that? What’s wrong with me?

“You’ve never been kissed?” Clay’s voice is all surprise. My face flames.

“I’ve had the opportunity.” I backpedal. “Lots of opportunities!” That’s kind of true. There have been at least three Merboys who have leaned in for kisses after less than spectacular first dates. “It just never felt right, so I didn’t go through with it.” Clay is listening carefully, but he looks curious, not judgmental. What the heck, I can’t possibly embarrass myself more than I already have, can I?

“I guess I’m just waiting for that heart-pounding, music-swelling, shooting star moment … and I don’t think I’ll find it until it’s the right person leaning in.”

“That’s—”

“Probably stupid, I know. I sound like I’m in middle school.”

“I was gonna say, kinda cool,” Clay finishes.

“This coming from the guy who makes out in the hallway every day.”

Clay withdraws his hand from where it still rests on top of mine and runs it through his dark hair, looking away from me. “Yeah, sometimes I don’t know what comes over me when I’m with Mel.”

“You guys are just really, I don’t know, passionate. I wish I had that with … someone.”

“That’s just it. We’re not. Well, I guess we are.”

“That makes sense,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“When I’m kissing Mel, all I can think about is kissing her more.”

Yuck. How did I get in this conversation?

“But, we don’t have that much in common. I mean, she’s never heard of most of the stuff I like, and she’s not interested when I tell her about it. She’s never asked to hear my music.” He looks up at me. “Somehow, we always manage to do whatever she suggests doing.”