Fins Are Forever
Page 13
She must real y be freaked out. For a girl who can swim at a rate of almost fifty knots, you’d think a quick cruise through a residential area would be no big deal. I wil admit that Aunt Rachel drives like she’s commanding a high-powered race car instead of a rattletrap station wagon, but I’ve gotten used to it. Mostly I just close my eyes.
By the time we pul into a visitor parking spot near the Seaview High front entrance, Doe’s practical y a statue. I climb out onto the sidewalk, my backpack slung over my shoulder, and grab the handle on the back door. She doesn’t move when I swing it open.
“You can get out now,” I explain, hiding the fact that I consider her terror a little entertaining. “We’re here.” The look of grateful relief on her face washes away my joy.
It’s the same look I see on my best friend Peri’s face after a near-encounter with a jel yfish. Definitely no laughing matter.
I’ve never seen Doe look so vulnerable.
“Grab your bag and come on,” I say, uncomfortable with these soft feelings for my squid-brained cousin. “Aunt Rachel’s going to get you registered.”
Dosinia climbs out of the wagon on shaky legs, her new briefcase clutched in her fist. Yes, a briefcase. I couldn’t believe it either—I mean, how un cool can you be—but she said she couldn’t stand the feel of the straps from backpacks and messenger bags. I tried to explain Seaview social law to her, but she didn’t care. Typical.
Everything else about her is trendy perfect. A flowy-yet-curve-hugging purple tunic, black leggings, and knee-high black leather boots. Her stylishly straight caramel blond hair, makeup that would make a Hol ywood stylist proud, a big (fake) diamond-encrusted starfish hovering just above her cleavage. She’s on land one weekend, and she has more style than I’ve developed in three years.
Sea witch.
“You girls wait out here,” Aunt Rachel says as we reach the front office. “I’l get things taken care of in a jiffy.” As we sit, waiting, on a vinyl-covered bench in the front hal , I evaluate my own lack of style. A brown ruffle-tiered skirt that fal s just below my knees. A lime green tank top with little gold bits sparkling around the neckline. Gold bal et flats that Doe practical y forced me to buy. (“You might as wel get something out of this deal,” she said. Then, with a judgmental once-over, “And you can definitely use the help.”)
Today’s selection is not horrible as far as outfits go. It’s when you get to my head that things go awry. Frizzy blond hair I can never hope to control and face devoid of al makeup save lip gloss, because attempts at anything more result in pure disaster.
How is it that my human-hating cousin manages to pul off the movie-star look and I stil look like I’m fresh off the boat?
For three years I’ve blamed it on some mystical human-girl knowledge that no mergirl could ever hope to obtain. Now I have to admit that it’s just me. I’m style chal enged.
“So this school thing lasts, what?” Doe asks. “A couple hours?”
I try not to laugh myself right off the bench. “Look, I know you’re used to the relaxed schedule of the royal tutors, but this is a whole different thing.”
I give her a quick rundown of how school works on the mainland—seven hours of classes, homework after hours, sports and other extracurriculars. If I know Doe, she’l jump up and be out the door before I can say, “Truancy is a punishable crime.” Doe thinks responsibility is a four-letter word.
But she just slouches—fashionably—against the wal , crosses one leg over the other, and starts humming the Thalassinian national anthem. “No big,” she says. “I’ve been on an advanced study track for the past year.” She can’t be serious. When I stil lived at home we had lessons together with the royal tutor. Being two years apart, we were never studying the same thing, but she always seemed beyond bored and whol y uninterested in academic learning. I wasn’t much better, I know, but Doe doing advanced studies? That’s ridiculous.
“What do you mean, an advanced—”
“Morning, Lil.” Brody emerges from the front office, looking like his carefree, charming self. “How are you?” Forcing the Doe-induced scowl off my face, I smile. “I’m great.”
“Did you get the email about the news team meeting after school?” he asks. “It’s time to start planning our graduation coverage.”
I forget al about Doe and her advanced study track. News team cal s.
“Not yet. When did it go out?” I ask, shaking my head.
It took me a while, but I’ve final y got the hang of using the computer. We don’t have much—okay, anything—in the way of electronic technology in Thalassinia. Water and electricity don’t exactly mix.
But I’m mostly computer literate.
“Just now.” He jerks his thumb toward the office. “I was showing Principal Brown how to see the final earthquake safety video and managed to sneak a peek at email.”
“I’l ask for a computer-lab pass in homeroom so I can check.”
“Don’t bother,” he says with a charming grin. “We’re meeting in the studio after school. That’s al the email said.”
“What’s an email?” Doe asks.
Next to me, Doe looks Brody up and down before focusing her attention on his golden brown eyes. Oh. No.
Al of a sudden, life drops into slow motion. I see Brody’s attention slowly shift around me to Dosinia’s—fashionably
By the time we pul into a visitor parking spot near the Seaview High front entrance, Doe’s practical y a statue. I climb out onto the sidewalk, my backpack slung over my shoulder, and grab the handle on the back door. She doesn’t move when I swing it open.
“You can get out now,” I explain, hiding the fact that I consider her terror a little entertaining. “We’re here.” The look of grateful relief on her face washes away my joy.
It’s the same look I see on my best friend Peri’s face after a near-encounter with a jel yfish. Definitely no laughing matter.
I’ve never seen Doe look so vulnerable.
“Grab your bag and come on,” I say, uncomfortable with these soft feelings for my squid-brained cousin. “Aunt Rachel’s going to get you registered.”
Dosinia climbs out of the wagon on shaky legs, her new briefcase clutched in her fist. Yes, a briefcase. I couldn’t believe it either—I mean, how un cool can you be—but she said she couldn’t stand the feel of the straps from backpacks and messenger bags. I tried to explain Seaview social law to her, but she didn’t care. Typical.
Everything else about her is trendy perfect. A flowy-yet-curve-hugging purple tunic, black leggings, and knee-high black leather boots. Her stylishly straight caramel blond hair, makeup that would make a Hol ywood stylist proud, a big (fake) diamond-encrusted starfish hovering just above her cleavage. She’s on land one weekend, and she has more style than I’ve developed in three years.
Sea witch.
“You girls wait out here,” Aunt Rachel says as we reach the front office. “I’l get things taken care of in a jiffy.” As we sit, waiting, on a vinyl-covered bench in the front hal , I evaluate my own lack of style. A brown ruffle-tiered skirt that fal s just below my knees. A lime green tank top with little gold bits sparkling around the neckline. Gold bal et flats that Doe practical y forced me to buy. (“You might as wel get something out of this deal,” she said. Then, with a judgmental once-over, “And you can definitely use the help.”)
Today’s selection is not horrible as far as outfits go. It’s when you get to my head that things go awry. Frizzy blond hair I can never hope to control and face devoid of al makeup save lip gloss, because attempts at anything more result in pure disaster.
How is it that my human-hating cousin manages to pul off the movie-star look and I stil look like I’m fresh off the boat?
For three years I’ve blamed it on some mystical human-girl knowledge that no mergirl could ever hope to obtain. Now I have to admit that it’s just me. I’m style chal enged.
“So this school thing lasts, what?” Doe asks. “A couple hours?”
I try not to laugh myself right off the bench. “Look, I know you’re used to the relaxed schedule of the royal tutors, but this is a whole different thing.”
I give her a quick rundown of how school works on the mainland—seven hours of classes, homework after hours, sports and other extracurriculars. If I know Doe, she’l jump up and be out the door before I can say, “Truancy is a punishable crime.” Doe thinks responsibility is a four-letter word.
But she just slouches—fashionably—against the wal , crosses one leg over the other, and starts humming the Thalassinian national anthem. “No big,” she says. “I’ve been on an advanced study track for the past year.” She can’t be serious. When I stil lived at home we had lessons together with the royal tutor. Being two years apart, we were never studying the same thing, but she always seemed beyond bored and whol y uninterested in academic learning. I wasn’t much better, I know, but Doe doing advanced studies? That’s ridiculous.
“What do you mean, an advanced—”
“Morning, Lil.” Brody emerges from the front office, looking like his carefree, charming self. “How are you?” Forcing the Doe-induced scowl off my face, I smile. “I’m great.”
“Did you get the email about the news team meeting after school?” he asks. “It’s time to start planning our graduation coverage.”
I forget al about Doe and her advanced study track. News team cal s.
“Not yet. When did it go out?” I ask, shaking my head.
It took me a while, but I’ve final y got the hang of using the computer. We don’t have much—okay, anything—in the way of electronic technology in Thalassinia. Water and electricity don’t exactly mix.
But I’m mostly computer literate.
“Just now.” He jerks his thumb toward the office. “I was showing Principal Brown how to see the final earthquake safety video and managed to sneak a peek at email.”
“I’l ask for a computer-lab pass in homeroom so I can check.”
“Don’t bother,” he says with a charming grin. “We’re meeting in the studio after school. That’s al the email said.”
“What’s an email?” Doe asks.
Next to me, Doe looks Brody up and down before focusing her attention on his golden brown eyes. Oh. No.
Al of a sudden, life drops into slow motion. I see Brody’s attention slowly shift around me to Dosinia’s—fashionably
