Fins Are Forever
Page 48
“By the time I’m done with you,” he says, “you’l drive like a NASCAR champ.”
I grin back at him. If anyone can teach me how to handle a car, it’s Quince.
I don’t see how this surprise party could get any better.
At the other end of the table, Tel in shoves back in his chair and stands.
“I regret to say I have no gift for the birthday girl,” he says.
Reaching for his water glass, he continues, “So I would like to offer a toast instead.”
Everyone else stands and lifts their glasses as Tel in speaks. I stand, too, because I’m not sure what else to do.
“To my guppyhood friend,” he says. “The princess of our hearts. A kind and generous and openhearted person who would give up anything and everything to be with the one she loves.” He flicks me an unreadable look. “Even her title.
To Lily.”
He lifts his glass, and everyone else says, “To Lily,” and fol ows suit.
Everyone except me. And Quince.
They’ve missed the subtle shark attack Tel in lobbed into the room.
“What does he mean?” Quince demands.
I swal ow hard. “About what?”
I throw Tel in a glare—does he know what he’s done?—
but he just smiles and lowers himself back into his chair. He knows exactly what is about to happen. This is al part of his plan, part of his proposal.
“You know what,” Quince says, his voice deceptively calm.
“Giving up your title? He’s not serious.”
“Quince,” I say, glancing around at the eager eyes watching the shipwreck in progress, “can we talk about this late—”
“What does he mean, Lily?” His voice has taken on that tone that says, Tel me the truth right now or I’m walking.
“By Thalassinian law,” I begin, “any royal princess who is not bonded by her eighteenth birthday…” It’s hard to say this out loud, but I have to. “Loses her title and her place in the succession.”
Quince’s Caribbean blue eyes bore into me, his brows drawn together in a look of utter confusion. He shakes his head, like this can’t possibly make sense.
“As of midnight on Tuesday,” I explain, “I wil no longer be Thalassinia’s future queen.”
Everyone stil standing drops into their chairs, except Quince and me, accompanied by various sighs and gasps.
Doe already knew this, of course, but it’s a shocker to the rest of the party.
The look in Quince’s eyes could melt a hole in the hul of a battleship.
He’s about to say something when the waiter pops in and asks, “Are we ready for cake?”
I don’t take my eyes off Quince, who closes his eyes, shakes his head, and drops back into his chair. Whatever argument we’re about to have isn’t over, but I get the feeling he doesn’t want to ruin the party. At least not for everyone else.
“Yes,” Aunt Rachel says with forced cheerfulness. “Now would be an excel ent time for cake.”
I slowly lower into my chair, not bothering to pretend I don’t know why Quince is upset. This is the one teeny-tiny part of the staying-on-land bargain that I’ve neglected to mention. I was going to wait until after my birthday, until after Tuesday and the ritual was done, before tel ing him al about it. Partly because this is the reaction I expected. Partly because the decision is a personal one. Mine and mine alone.
Thanks a lot, Tel in. I throw a glare his way just as the lights in the room go dark and the waiter, fol owed by the hostess and two sushi chefs, walks in with a candlelit birthday cake.
As everyone breaks into a chorus of “Happy Birthday,” I try to enjoy the moment. To enjoy celebrating my eighteenth year with my closest land friends and family. But even though he’s forcing out the words, al I feel is anger rol ing off Quince, in tsunami-sized waves.
“Make a wish,” Aunt Rachel says.
I take one look at the round white cake, decorated with blue-and-green waves and the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LILY, and tears fil my eyes. Closing them quickly before anyone notices, I suck in a breath, quickly compose my wish, and blow.
When I open my eyes, the candles are smoking and everyone is clapping. Everyone but Quince.
There’s stil hope for my wish, though. Because I didn’t wish for something as fleeting as for Quince to not be mad at me. I wasn’t about to waste the potential birthday magic on something that can be solved with a very long conversation.
No, I’ve been thinking about my wish a lot in the last couple weeks, preparing for this moment. In the end, it wasn’t hard to figure out what I real y wanted.
My wish is for Quince to be able to return to Thalassinia with me one day.
Let’s hope birthday-cake magic has some bite.
Aunt Rachel drives me home in my car— my car! —because I’m in no state for a driving lesson. Between the pending fight with Quince, tomorrow’s SATs, my interview, and the truth of the situation behind Tel in’s news flash (aka un-
becoming a princess), I’m a mess of nerves and nausea.
“It’s a standard transmission,” Aunt Rachel explains, moving the big stick in the middle of the car as we pul into our driveway, “which might take some extra getting used to, but it’s better in the long run.”
I nod absently, but my mind is on Quince. He’s leaning against the front porch of his house, waiting for me, looking ful -on rebel boy in his beaten-up jeans, snug-but-not-too-tight black T-shirt, and lovingly scuffed biker boots. He is so breathtakingly handsome that I don’t want to get out of the car and ruin the image.
I grin back at him. If anyone can teach me how to handle a car, it’s Quince.
I don’t see how this surprise party could get any better.
At the other end of the table, Tel in shoves back in his chair and stands.
“I regret to say I have no gift for the birthday girl,” he says.
Reaching for his water glass, he continues, “So I would like to offer a toast instead.”
Everyone else stands and lifts their glasses as Tel in speaks. I stand, too, because I’m not sure what else to do.
“To my guppyhood friend,” he says. “The princess of our hearts. A kind and generous and openhearted person who would give up anything and everything to be with the one she loves.” He flicks me an unreadable look. “Even her title.
To Lily.”
He lifts his glass, and everyone else says, “To Lily,” and fol ows suit.
Everyone except me. And Quince.
They’ve missed the subtle shark attack Tel in lobbed into the room.
“What does he mean?” Quince demands.
I swal ow hard. “About what?”
I throw Tel in a glare—does he know what he’s done?—
but he just smiles and lowers himself back into his chair. He knows exactly what is about to happen. This is al part of his plan, part of his proposal.
“You know what,” Quince says, his voice deceptively calm.
“Giving up your title? He’s not serious.”
“Quince,” I say, glancing around at the eager eyes watching the shipwreck in progress, “can we talk about this late—”
“What does he mean, Lily?” His voice has taken on that tone that says, Tel me the truth right now or I’m walking.
“By Thalassinian law,” I begin, “any royal princess who is not bonded by her eighteenth birthday…” It’s hard to say this out loud, but I have to. “Loses her title and her place in the succession.”
Quince’s Caribbean blue eyes bore into me, his brows drawn together in a look of utter confusion. He shakes his head, like this can’t possibly make sense.
“As of midnight on Tuesday,” I explain, “I wil no longer be Thalassinia’s future queen.”
Everyone stil standing drops into their chairs, except Quince and me, accompanied by various sighs and gasps.
Doe already knew this, of course, but it’s a shocker to the rest of the party.
The look in Quince’s eyes could melt a hole in the hul of a battleship.
He’s about to say something when the waiter pops in and asks, “Are we ready for cake?”
I don’t take my eyes off Quince, who closes his eyes, shakes his head, and drops back into his chair. Whatever argument we’re about to have isn’t over, but I get the feeling he doesn’t want to ruin the party. At least not for everyone else.
“Yes,” Aunt Rachel says with forced cheerfulness. “Now would be an excel ent time for cake.”
I slowly lower into my chair, not bothering to pretend I don’t know why Quince is upset. This is the one teeny-tiny part of the staying-on-land bargain that I’ve neglected to mention. I was going to wait until after my birthday, until after Tuesday and the ritual was done, before tel ing him al about it. Partly because this is the reaction I expected. Partly because the decision is a personal one. Mine and mine alone.
Thanks a lot, Tel in. I throw a glare his way just as the lights in the room go dark and the waiter, fol owed by the hostess and two sushi chefs, walks in with a candlelit birthday cake.
As everyone breaks into a chorus of “Happy Birthday,” I try to enjoy the moment. To enjoy celebrating my eighteenth year with my closest land friends and family. But even though he’s forcing out the words, al I feel is anger rol ing off Quince, in tsunami-sized waves.
“Make a wish,” Aunt Rachel says.
I take one look at the round white cake, decorated with blue-and-green waves and the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LILY, and tears fil my eyes. Closing them quickly before anyone notices, I suck in a breath, quickly compose my wish, and blow.
When I open my eyes, the candles are smoking and everyone is clapping. Everyone but Quince.
There’s stil hope for my wish, though. Because I didn’t wish for something as fleeting as for Quince to not be mad at me. I wasn’t about to waste the potential birthday magic on something that can be solved with a very long conversation.
No, I’ve been thinking about my wish a lot in the last couple weeks, preparing for this moment. In the end, it wasn’t hard to figure out what I real y wanted.
My wish is for Quince to be able to return to Thalassinia with me one day.
Let’s hope birthday-cake magic has some bite.
Aunt Rachel drives me home in my car— my car! —because I’m in no state for a driving lesson. Between the pending fight with Quince, tomorrow’s SATs, my interview, and the truth of the situation behind Tel in’s news flash (aka un-
becoming a princess), I’m a mess of nerves and nausea.
“It’s a standard transmission,” Aunt Rachel explains, moving the big stick in the middle of the car as we pul into our driveway, “which might take some extra getting used to, but it’s better in the long run.”
I nod absently, but my mind is on Quince. He’s leaning against the front porch of his house, waiting for me, looking ful -on rebel boy in his beaten-up jeans, snug-but-not-too-tight black T-shirt, and lovingly scuffed biker boots. He is so breathtakingly handsome that I don’t want to get out of the car and ruin the image.
