Forgive My Fins
Page 2
“And what?”
“Quince Fletcher threw a wad of paper at my forehead.”
It had taken every last ounce of my self-control—and the dismissal bell—to keep from leaping out of my seat, apologizing to Brody as I vaulted over him, and pummeling Quince into seaweed salad. Merfolk are a peaceful people, but that boy makes me wish I had free reign of Daddy’s trident for a good five minutes. I’ve fantasized some pretty creative ways to shut Quince up.
“That dog,” Shannen says. “You’d think it was his self-appointed mission to make your life miserable.”
“I know, right?” I rub the shower pouf absently over my scales. “Why does he even bother? I mean, it’s like his two hobbies are working on that disaster of a motorcycle and tormenting me.”
Thing is, I don’t even know why he is so devoted to tweaking me on a near-constant basis. It’s not like I’ve ever done anything to him, other than move into the house next door. At first we were almost friends…until he started treating me like the enemy.
Boys aren’t nearly so confusing in the ocean.
“He needs to”—a beep-beep interrupts Shannen’s response—“diversify.”
“Hold on.” I wiggle myself into a semisitting position. “There’s another call.”
Aunt Rachel got tired of my bathwater frying the circuits of the upstairs phone about three phones ago. The latest replacement doesn’t even have Caller ID, and she swears that this is the last one. Ruin this one and there’s no more phone in the tub. So I’m very careful not to lose my grip as I hold out the receiver and press the button.
“Hello?”
“You should check the curtains before you take a bath, princess,” a deep, mocking voice says.
“Wha—” I half scream, half yelp as I bolt up in the tub.
The nearest towel is folded neatly on the toilet…on the far side of the room. With a powerful kick I flop myself over the side, onto the cold tile floor, and dive for the towel. I am just tossing it over my fins when I hear a roar of laughter coming from the receiver. Scowling, I snatch it off the floor.
“Priceless,” he howls, still laughing. “You never fail to amuse, princess.”
Aaarrgh! I slam the handset repeatedly on the floor, in what I hope are eardrum-damaging whacks.
“Why?!?” My flipper-fast heartbeat ebbs toward normal as I stare, first at the phone—which has suffered a few nicks from my display of rage—then at the tightly drawn curtains covering the bathroom window. Holding the phone back up to my ear and ignoring the laughter still echoing through the earpiece, I ask, “Why do you enjoy torturing me so much?”
“Because,” Quince manages between laughs, “you make it so easy.”
Grabbing a handful of now-soaking towel, I throw it against the wall next to the door and watch it slowly slide down into the hamper. Aunt Rachel’s cat, Prithi, meows in complaint from her position outside the door.
“You,” I say as I pull myself back up onto the edge of the tub, “are a vile”—turning, I sink gingerly into the water—“repulsive”—even lukewarm, it feels heavenly—“slimy-headed vent worm.”
I catch the phone against my ear before spreading my hands beneath the water to bring the temperature back up to a Zen-inducing near-steaming.
He chuckles once more before answering, “That’s a new one.”
“I’ve got dozens more where that came from,” I assure him as I sink back against the wall of the tub and close my eyes. “Care to hear some?”
The salty water envelops me, calming my electrified nerves. Slightly.
“Someday,” he says, “I might take you up on that offer.”
“Fraidy-fish,” I mutter, closing my eyes and imagining I’m back home, the warm currents of the Gulf Stream swirling around me as I float beneath my favorite spot of ocean—the shallow bank just east of Thalassinia where a forest of sea fans and staghorn coral gives me the camouflage I need so I can lie for hours, watching the colorful fishing boats pass above.
That spot is my bliss. I’ve never taken anyone there, not even Daddy. I’m saving it for someone special. I’m saving it for Brody.
When I feel homesick, I picture us there.
“Admit it, princess,” Quince says in what I can only imagine he thinks of as a teasing voice, “you’d be bored without me.”
“Without you,” I reply, wishing there were more than fourteen feet and two panes of glass separating me from neighbor boy, “I’d have a date to the Spring Fling.”
Sudden silence. The base of my neck prickles.
“A date?” he demands.
My eyes flash open.
I hadn’t meant for that to slip out. The reheated water relaxed me too much. I can’t let my guard down for a second when I’m talking to Quince.
“You’re not still panting after that Benson boob, are you?”
“Bennett,” I snap before I can catch myself. Then, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do—”
“In fact,” I say decisively, “I don’t know why I’m still talking to you.”
“You’re talking to me,” he says before I can click back over to Shannen, “because I can help you snag your crush.”
“Ha!” I say, brilliantly. Then I follow it up with some hysterical laughter. As if the bane of my existence would ever help me. As if he could. “Nice try, Quince.”
“Quince Fletcher threw a wad of paper at my forehead.”
It had taken every last ounce of my self-control—and the dismissal bell—to keep from leaping out of my seat, apologizing to Brody as I vaulted over him, and pummeling Quince into seaweed salad. Merfolk are a peaceful people, but that boy makes me wish I had free reign of Daddy’s trident for a good five minutes. I’ve fantasized some pretty creative ways to shut Quince up.
“That dog,” Shannen says. “You’d think it was his self-appointed mission to make your life miserable.”
“I know, right?” I rub the shower pouf absently over my scales. “Why does he even bother? I mean, it’s like his two hobbies are working on that disaster of a motorcycle and tormenting me.”
Thing is, I don’t even know why he is so devoted to tweaking me on a near-constant basis. It’s not like I’ve ever done anything to him, other than move into the house next door. At first we were almost friends…until he started treating me like the enemy.
Boys aren’t nearly so confusing in the ocean.
“He needs to”—a beep-beep interrupts Shannen’s response—“diversify.”
“Hold on.” I wiggle myself into a semisitting position. “There’s another call.”
Aunt Rachel got tired of my bathwater frying the circuits of the upstairs phone about three phones ago. The latest replacement doesn’t even have Caller ID, and she swears that this is the last one. Ruin this one and there’s no more phone in the tub. So I’m very careful not to lose my grip as I hold out the receiver and press the button.
“Hello?”
“You should check the curtains before you take a bath, princess,” a deep, mocking voice says.
“Wha—” I half scream, half yelp as I bolt up in the tub.
The nearest towel is folded neatly on the toilet…on the far side of the room. With a powerful kick I flop myself over the side, onto the cold tile floor, and dive for the towel. I am just tossing it over my fins when I hear a roar of laughter coming from the receiver. Scowling, I snatch it off the floor.
“Priceless,” he howls, still laughing. “You never fail to amuse, princess.”
Aaarrgh! I slam the handset repeatedly on the floor, in what I hope are eardrum-damaging whacks.
“Why?!?” My flipper-fast heartbeat ebbs toward normal as I stare, first at the phone—which has suffered a few nicks from my display of rage—then at the tightly drawn curtains covering the bathroom window. Holding the phone back up to my ear and ignoring the laughter still echoing through the earpiece, I ask, “Why do you enjoy torturing me so much?”
“Because,” Quince manages between laughs, “you make it so easy.”
Grabbing a handful of now-soaking towel, I throw it against the wall next to the door and watch it slowly slide down into the hamper. Aunt Rachel’s cat, Prithi, meows in complaint from her position outside the door.
“You,” I say as I pull myself back up onto the edge of the tub, “are a vile”—turning, I sink gingerly into the water—“repulsive”—even lukewarm, it feels heavenly—“slimy-headed vent worm.”
I catch the phone against my ear before spreading my hands beneath the water to bring the temperature back up to a Zen-inducing near-steaming.
He chuckles once more before answering, “That’s a new one.”
“I’ve got dozens more where that came from,” I assure him as I sink back against the wall of the tub and close my eyes. “Care to hear some?”
The salty water envelops me, calming my electrified nerves. Slightly.
“Someday,” he says, “I might take you up on that offer.”
“Fraidy-fish,” I mutter, closing my eyes and imagining I’m back home, the warm currents of the Gulf Stream swirling around me as I float beneath my favorite spot of ocean—the shallow bank just east of Thalassinia where a forest of sea fans and staghorn coral gives me the camouflage I need so I can lie for hours, watching the colorful fishing boats pass above.
That spot is my bliss. I’ve never taken anyone there, not even Daddy. I’m saving it for someone special. I’m saving it for Brody.
When I feel homesick, I picture us there.
“Admit it, princess,” Quince says in what I can only imagine he thinks of as a teasing voice, “you’d be bored without me.”
“Without you,” I reply, wishing there were more than fourteen feet and two panes of glass separating me from neighbor boy, “I’d have a date to the Spring Fling.”
Sudden silence. The base of my neck prickles.
“A date?” he demands.
My eyes flash open.
I hadn’t meant for that to slip out. The reheated water relaxed me too much. I can’t let my guard down for a second when I’m talking to Quince.
“You’re not still panting after that Benson boob, are you?”
“Bennett,” I snap before I can catch myself. Then, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do—”
“In fact,” I say decisively, “I don’t know why I’m still talking to you.”
“You’re talking to me,” he says before I can click back over to Shannen, “because I can help you snag your crush.”
“Ha!” I say, brilliantly. Then I follow it up with some hysterical laughter. As if the bane of my existence would ever help me. As if he could. “Nice try, Quince.”
