Shining Sea (23 page)

CUTTING EDGE

The wind blows against the night sky squares of the windows, shivering the glass before dying suddenly.

Sitting up in bed I stare into the darkness. A great gust of wind; is that what woke me? Something’s woken me—a clattering noise.

Or—had I dreamed it? What about Bo? Had I dreamed our stilted conversations? Dreamed the kisses that had been somehow more than kisses, but also less?

We’d sat on the bed and he’d told me,
“You shouldn’t be alone.”

I’d told him,
“Stay, then.”

Now I whisper into the blackness, “Bo?”

“Hmm?” He’s across the room, as dreamlike in the darkness as the wind I still can’t be sure wracked the tower a moment ago. As I turn on the bedside lamp, he surreptitiously slides something into the side pocket of his surf trunks.

“What’s that?” I blink in the amber light.

For a moment he’s a statue, hand hovering over hip. The pocket there looks about wide enough to hold a pen, two pens maybe, side by side, although it’s twice as long as any pen. I’ve never noticed the narrow pocket before, or if I have, I probably just assumed the stitching along the side panels was for reinforcement, decoration.

“That,” Bo says, coming to life and laying the jeans he must have just taken off over the back of the armchair, “is a knife.”

“A knife? Why are you carrying a knife?”

“I always carry a knife.”

Getting up I join him by the east-facing window. “And this escaped my attention, how?”

“I don’t know.” He brings his hands to my waist, reaching his thumbs down until they press against my hip bones. “Possibly your attention’s been on something other than my attire.”

Sensation radiates out from my naval. Still, I manage to say, “I wouldn’t classify a knife as attire, more like an accessory. Can I see it?”

Bo drops his hands from my hips and slides the long, narrow knife out of his pocket.

Before we left Summers Cove, Jordan had been kind enough to inform me that Sirens don’t always take the breath of their prey through the mouth. The conversation was so hideous I can’t even remember how it started. But I remember how it ended.

“Usually it’s a simple slice, right between the ribs, but sometimes, we go straight in through the windpipe.”
He’d slapped his thigh for emphasis, the smack
of his hand making me jump. I have a fuzzy memory that while he’d been talking, I’d promised myself to stop seeing Bo, to forget about the Sirens. But just the thought of not seeing Bo made me cringe with pain. Cord had seen me flinch. A short while later, he’d offered me a cup of tea, which I accepted gratefully. He’d hummed as he prepared it, as he handed it to me. The pain receded.

“I’ve never used this knife,” Bo says, gesturing toward it. “But—”

“Why? Because people—girls like me—are just so willing to—”

“Don’t be an idiot. You need to understand—”

“I don’t want to understand! I want—”
I want you to go.
And I do, for so many reasons. But it feels like the blade I hold in my hand is twisting in my gut. My words stick in my throat, whirl in my mind. Now a salient tone rings in my head—
what am I forgetting?

“Careful.” Bo takes the knife from me, lays it down on the desk. “It’s sharp.” He draws me to him, runs a hand back through my hair. The knife gleams in the dim light.

It’s not as if I haven’t imagined him taking someone’s breath. But the knife adds a new dimension. I hadn’t really believed it before—that he’d killed anyone. But the knife makes it real somehow. And now I wonder:
How can I possibly be with you?

But again, I hear the arresting tone, almost painful, but so beautiful, and it—moves me, and I find that, no, I don’t really believe it now either. Don’t believe that Bo’s killed anyone. That he ever would—of course he wouldn’t. Of course he
couldn’t
. Plus he’s just told me—he’s never used the knife.

Still, I struggle to speak. “Please,” I mumble against his chest. “Get rid of it.”

He continues stroking my hair for a moment, then pulls back from me slightly. “Ari, you need protection from Nick, and in order for me to give you that protection—” He breaks off abruptly. “I’m not used to this—to having to explain myself.”

He eyes me thoughtfully. “Although, it’s what you humans do, isn’t it? Compromise. Bend. Try not to—break. You share everything, when you’re . . . in love.” He brings his thumbs to the hollow at the base of my throat, his fingertips to the sides of my neck. “I’m sorry,” he says, running his fingers over the sensitive skin. “About the knife.”

Then he kisses my neck, and I shiver with pleasure. But my eyes are on the windows. The wind seeps in at their sills, and I imagine it carries Signals, Calls, and Transmissions. Things I’ll never truly understand. Unless . . . Bo said it was possible—for me to become a Siren. The thought makes my stomach roil momentarily, but then Bo begins to unbutton my shirt, his kisses trailing lower . . .

Gently he presses me back toward the bed, murmuring in my ear now—

“No.” I flatten the palm of one hand against his chest. “I don’t want—”

“Yes,”
he whisper sings.
“You do.”
The glow from the bedside lamp turns the fringe of his lashes to platinum, his eyes to transparent blue-green seas. His Song is insistent. I begin to respond to it. To him. “Tell me now,” he says, as we near the bed, “what you want.”

“I want—you,” I whisper haltingly.

“Are you sure?” He speaks slowly now, and my thoughts slow too.

“I’m . . . sure.” And I am, even as I find myself standing on the edge of a sensual precipice as dangerous as any cliff. When he pushes me—I spiral down, into a black abyss of beauty, listening to the sound of his voice. His voice . . . is starting to change me . . .

HOMEROOM

Fingers of flesh-toned dawn creep along the horizon, creating a line of light between a sky and sea that are the same blue black. Climbing groggily out of bed, I cross the room and gaze out at the flat Atlantic, watching as the day slowly becomes the color of smoke.

A thin body of translucent fog drifts over the water, a stretching sky-size ghost. I feel similarly haunted. I’m just not sure by what.

When the sun peers out briefly from behind the gray screen of the sky, it wakes the waves, their whitecaps silvery in the pewter light. But I still feel half-asleep . . .

What’s wrong with me?

Dad is almost always gone in the morning before I make it down to the cottage—so I’m surprised to find him in the kitchen. The memory of Bo saying he’d be back to take me to school is a blurry one, but I can’t stop thinking of him. My obsession has reached its peak.

I am waiting.

The phrase surfaces in the sea of my thoughts, a diver showing his masked face as he comes up for air. But before I can imagine why I’m thinking about the words in Lilah’s little black book, I’m back to thinking about Bo.

Which is why I barely notice that Dad is just staring out the window, coffee cup clutched in one hand.

“Your mom phoned. She and Lilah are coming to visit. They’ll be here next Monday.”

“I was just thinking of Lilah!”
Was I?
“Did you just say she’s coming here
Monday
?”

He repeats himself, and this time, his words slice through the haze in my head.

“That is so great! But—why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m telling you. They’re coming a week from today.”

“Okaaay . . . what’s wrong?”

He stands. “Nothing’s wrong. Gotta get to work, that’s all. I’m late.” He drains his cup and puts it in the sink. “Need a ride?” He kisses the top of my head and starts out of the room.

“Actually, I do.” Because I need to figure out what’s going on with him.

But—I don’t have Bo’s number, something that strikes me as hilarious as soon as I realize it. I’ll leave him a note, on the front door. Explain later. I can’t believe Mom’s coming. Is it possible she misses Dad? Misses me?

“Dad,” I shout as I search the cupboards for a breakfast bar. “We have to take them to the new sushi place! It’s the only restaurant in town hip enough for Mom. Oh, wait—they might be closed. Maybe there’s some place decent on the mainland? How long are they staying?”

“Not sure,” he hollers back. “Hurry up, sweetie.” The front door shuts.

Mom’s letter didn’t say anything about a visit. She mostly wrote about a new piece she’s working on. The letter read like a page from a diary, like I thought it would. Like all her letters, it made me feel closer to her. And also farther away. That’s a thing Mom does: she shares something about herself, giving you an intimate view of her interior life. Which seems generous, until you realize it’s
only
a view. You can’t get inside. You can’t share that life with her. Can’t make art with her, or join the conversation, because it’s not a conversation, it’s a monologue. It’s really not so different, being away from Mom. We’re not any farther apart than we were before.

In any case, she’s coming, and I can’t wait to see her.
Why isn’t Dad more excited?

I don’t find out.

For the entire ride to school, all he talks about is boats. I can’t get a word in, let alone a question.

Trying to beat the bell, I vault up the front steps and down the hall. Wet raincoats hang over the backs of chairs, and homeroom smells musky and dank. The temperature outside has dropped, so the heat is on for the first time this year, making the air thick and stuffy. The teal turtleneck is too warm, and I stand to take it off. Logan stares at me from the back of the room.

“Delaine’s going to start growling any minute,” Mary whispers as she slides into her seat.

“What?”
Delaine. Nick.
The image of an ocean-eyed Siren whirls through my mind.

“Hello? I was kidding.” Mary looks uneasy. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, I just—forgot. I was going to get in touch with Logan. To try to patch things up.”

The second bell rings.

“Well, it looks like our fearless leader is late.” Mary eyes me expectantly.

The desk next to Logan’s is empty. As I approach, he looks up at me, then yanks out the chair. I hesitate, startled as always by his pale eyes. Today the light gray makes me think of sharkskin. Finally, I ruffle his shaggy hair—which is getting long—and take a seat. “Real hazard you’ve got going on there.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks in a monotone.

“Your hair? Soon it’ll be tangling in those foot-long lashes of yours.” Fluttering my eyelashes, I bring two locks of hair up around my eyes to demonstrate the dangers.

Logan slouches back in his seat and looks at me appraisingly. I’d worn a short-sleeved shirt under my sweater, and now, following his gaze down to my arms, I realize that although the classroom is almost hot, my skin is covered with goosebumps.

“You’d better put your sweater back on, unless, did you come over here to ask me to keep you warm? Oh, wait—you have Summers for that now. So what do you want from me? You want to make up? Be
friends
?”

He leans across his desk, and I remember the night we sat close together out on the cool deck of the lighthouse. How we’d danced at Hive.

The bruise on his cheek has faded, but there’s a half-healed cut on the smooth ridge just under his right eyebrow that wasn’t there before. I don’t think—just reach up and touch it.

“Don’t.”

I draw my hand back. “I—I heard you got in a fight. At the Elbow.”

“So?”

“Logan—” My lips are dry, and I press them together now, resisting the urge to lick them. He glances at my mouth. I try to relax. A long moment passes, and just as I’m about to speak—not that I have any idea what I’m going to say—he reaches out and touches me with one gentle finger—just beneath my chin. Then places his lips, whisper light, on mine.

Every line I’ve drawn in the sand between us washes away.

After what seems like forever—but is probably a matter of seconds—Logan leans back in his chair. His eyes gleam with something like triumph. His broad shoulders are relaxed as he tips his chair back now, basking in some invisible sun.

I become aware of the voices of other students, buzzing like bees. Legs shaking, I stand.

The line of shadow along his jaw becomes more pronounced as he suddenly pales. “Is that what you came over to say? Nothing?”

My mind reels. Slowly, I shake my head.

“Have you asked Summers? About any of it? You remember what I told you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I say softly, trying to get over the surprise of my body betraying me.
Touch me,
it seems to murmur as I look down at Logan. My fingertips pulse. But am I really surprised? Logan has been like a sunny day for me, nearly
every
day since I started going to school here. But what’s a sunny day, or a month of sunny days, compared to the sun itself?

“Yes,” I say more firmly. “I’ll never forget what you said.” I take a deep breath. “But I still don’t believe it. There are things about Bo, about his family, that you don’t understand.”

“No—
you
don’t understand.”

“Logan.”
Your brother is alive!
I want to shout, but, of course, I can’t. I can be his friend, though, like he’s been mine. “Logan, I miss you.”

He holds my gaze. “I’m surprised you let yourself admit that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say angrily. “Look, I’m sorry we—disagreed, that we still disagree. But friends disagree, Logan, and you’re my
friend
.” But I can’t keep from bringing my fingertips to my lips, and tears of confusion burn at the back of my eyes.

He looks away from me then, but most of the other people in the room are looking
at
me, at us. We’ve drawn everyone’s attention. Mary stands up and beckons—just as our homeroom teacher walks in drenched and disheveled. The bell signals the end of homeroom, and students leap to their feet, practically trampling the dripping man.

Logan gets up without looking at me, and leaves. Slowly, I make my way over to Mary.

“We
so
need some girrrl time,” she says, putting her arms around me. “We’ll talk at lunch.” She walks with me to the girls’ room, where I wipe my tears and blow my nose. Then we head to English and open our books to
A Comedy of Errors
. More Shakespeare. The rhythm of the poetry is soothing, but unfortunately, I don’t see anything funny about the story.