Emerge (2 page)

“Feel free to check me out all you want,” he says, “but you’re going to be late for yoga.”

The wall clock tells me he’s right. The last thing I need is more trouble from Coach Crane.

“Don’t worry about Coach Crane,” he says, as if reading my mind. His tone changes from cocky to kind. “She just doesn’t like anyone questioning her
authority
.” He infuses the word with sarcasm and rolls his eyes. Like it’s our own private joke.

“Thanks. For stepping in back there, I mean. You didn’t have to do that.” I have no clue what I would have done if he hadn’t.

He gives me one more genuine smile. I tug on my shorts again.

“The shorts look good on you,” he says.

I’m not so sure. No matter how many humans I see walking around in micro-minis or bathing suits, bare legs still strike me as daring. “They’re not too short?” I ask.

“That’s why they look good on you.” With that, he flips his towel over his shoulder and walks off toward the pool.

Was he teasing me? Flirting with me? Both? It doesn’t matter. I never should have talked myself into thanking him. I have to keep my distance. He doesn’t have a tail. End of discussion.

That’s why I’ve made sure we’re not friends. Not anymore.

And I have to keep reminding myself of that for the rest of the day. Three hours later, I’m chatting with Kelsey by my locker—and I’m
not
thinking about Clay. I’m not thinking about how brave he was to stand up for me or how he smiled that little half-smile at me from across the gym or how flattered he looked when he caught me staring. Nope. I’m not thinking about Clay at all. But can I help it if he happens to be smack-dab in my line of sight?

The fact that he’s talking to another girl at the other end of the hall shouldn’t bother me. Clay can talk to other girls. He should talk to other girls. But why does he have to talk to a girl who looks like that? Who
is
that?

“Who is that?” I ask Kelsey, nodding toward the girl. Whoever she is, she’s gorgeous. High cheekbones, sapphire eyes, and sleek black hair. Not to mention a lithe body that boasts more merchandise in the chest department than I’ll ever have.

“Don’t know. Never seen her before,” Kelsey says. “I guess you’re not the new kid anymore. Good deal, right?”

New Girl giggles at something Clay just said. The feminine sound tinkles down the hallway, and Clay laughs in response. She rests a perfectly manicured hand on his arm.

I hate her.

I bet she can walk in heels,
I think to myself as I try to balance with four-inch spikes strapped to the bottoms of my feet. I’ve got to stop comparing myself to her. Any issue of
Seventeen
would tell me what I’m doing is unhealthy, but it’s been three weeks since she started at Malibu Hills Prep and I hate her more than ever. Every time I see her, she’s clinging to Clay like a slimy, black mussel clinging to the pier. Not that he seems to mind …

I take a few wobbly, unnatural steps and clutch a nearby shoe rack for support. “Maybe I should stick with flats.”

“No way!” Kelsey whines as she struts forward in a pair of impossibly high blue stilettos. She grabs my hand and pulls me in front of the full-length mirror. “Legs look so much better in heels.”

She’s right. The shoes lift my calves, making my legs look longer, making me look taller. I’ve been dying for a pair of heels for as long as I can remember.

“I don’t get why this is so hard for you, Lia.”

Of course Kelsey doesn’t get it. But let me ask you this: Would you let a toddler wear heels? Of course not! They’ve only been walking around for three years. How could they be expected to balance? Well, I’m in the same boat. I only got my legs three years ago, and it took me a good six months to learn to control them—and another year and a half before I could hold them in place all day without breaks. That’s why my parents waited until last year to decide I was finally ready to start a human school. So while all my human friends probably got platforms by age thirteen and have been wearing heels for years, I’ve always settled for a comfy ballet flat. Judging by the way I’m stumbling around the store, maybe I had the right idea.

“Try balancing more of your weight on your toes,” Kelsey instructs.

A low voice interrupts her. “You know, I almost bought that same pair last week, but I couldn’t walk in them either.”

With slow, tiny steps, I turn away from a display of sling backs to face Clay. “What are you doing here?” I toss a few stray strands of my long hair over my shoulder and try to look cool as I scramble for something non-embarrassing to say. “This doesn’t seem like your type of place.”

Like many of the upscale boutiques in Malibu, this one has that studied elegance carefully contrived to help shoppers justify spending way too much. Kelsey dragged me in here when she saw the blue stilettos in the window. I have to admit, their stuff is gorgeous, but they only have a few pairs of shoes for men, and all of them are super trendy. They don’t look anything like Clay’s well-worn Doc Martens. A lot of the guys at school look like they’re trying to mimic Abercrombie ads and falling painfully short. Not Clay. He tends to do his own thing.

“Baby, I found a pair.” The sing-song voice from across the store makes my stomach plummet. It’s her. Mel Havelock. I don’t know if it’s short for Melissa or Melanie or something equally generic, and I don’t care. She stands by the designer athletic shoes, holding up a pair and humming some inane tune as she beckons Clay over.

“I’m not exactly here of my own free will,” he confides with a conspiratorial smile. He starts to head over to her, as if drawn like a magnet. Then, as he passes a rack of discount boots, he turns and looks at the heels still gleaming on my feet. “Gold suits you,” he says, before walking the rest of the way.

“See you Monday!” I call out lamely. Mel gives me a curious look before wrapping her arms around Clay’s neck and kissing him right there in the middle of the store, her hands tangling in his hair.

I want to leave. Now.

But Kelsey’s trying on some baby pink t-straps. “They should at least get a dressing room if they’re going to do that,” she says. She knows it bothers me to see the two of them like they are now, with their heads close together, smiling and laughing.

“No, it’s fine. I’m … happy for them.”

“Liar.”

“So, which pair are you getting?” I ask, hoping to hurry things along. I should be home already, helping prepare for the gala.

Kelsey accepts the change of topic. “I’m thinking both.” She shoots me an impish grin that brings to mind a small child who takes two cookies before dinner when she’s only allowed one.

“How about you?” she asks. “Don’t tell me you’re going to part with those. You look so beautiful in them … as long as you stay upright.”

I shouldn’t buy them. It’s probably a waste considering I can only make it a few steps. Still, the deep golden color is the exact same shade as my tail when the sun shines on it. Wearing these would be like getting to show off the part of myself I always have to keep hidden.

“I’ll take them.”

Her smile broadens.

On the way home, I try to focus on Kelsey’s excitement over the self-defense class we’re about to start in P.E. now that yoga and swimming are over. “I’m going to be like,
pow
,
pow
! Take that!
Pow
!” She throws practice punches against the steering wheel. But all I can think about is how Mel has managed to completely enthrall Clay over the past three weeks. I know I have no claim on him, but it was much easier ignoring my feelings when I didn’t have to watch him so fixated on someone else. I’ve barely spoken two words to her. But every time she touches him or whispers something flirty into his ear, I want to kick her in that toned butt of hers.

I sigh and stare out the window as we get closer to my house. At least I’ll have the gala tonight to keep me occupied. Nobody parties quite like the Mer.

Kelsey and I pull up to the front gate of my house,
and I thank her for the ride.

“No prob, Bob,” Kelsey says. “Want me to drive you to the door?”

I tell her it’s fine and jump out of the car. I don’t want her to see the catering trucks in the driveway and realize there’s a party she hasn’t been invited to. Waving goodbye, I type in the entrance code and wait for the large iron gate to open just enough so I can slip through. I make my way down the winding, gravel driveway, swinging the bag that contains my shiny new shoes. When I turn the final bend, two catering trucks do indeed wait there. They’re parked on either side of the circular stone fountain centered in front of the door.

Okay, so my house is kind of massive. With its clean white lines and imposing entrance, most people find it impressive. To me, it’s home. I’m so lucky to live in a place this beautiful. At least centuries’ worth of sunken pirate treasure hasn’t gone to waste; my parents and the other board members have used it to ensure our entire Community can flourish here in Malibu.

As soon as I walk in, my eyes are drawn to my favorite feature of our house. Across the entrance hall and the step-down living room beyond it, floor to ceiling windows look out onto a breathtaking view of the Pacific Ocean. As soon as I lay eyes on the sparkling sea, the waves whisper to me. Call to me.

“Aurelia, there you are!”

Emeraldine, my oldest sister, stands at the top of the stairs, her hands on her slim hips. “I thought you’d be home an hour ago. If you want me to do your hair, you’ll have to hurry. The caterers are already here to drop off the food, and I promised Dad I’d help him bring it all downstairs and finish setting up after they leave.” Emeraldine’s voice is measured and even as usual, but a few tendrils of stress uncoil beneath it.

“Hi to you, too,” I say as I make my way up the stairs. “Where’s Mom?”

“At the Foundation. She should be home in half an hour at the latest.”

I have to hurry. My mom made it clear she’s counting on my sisters and me to make a good impression tonight. She and my dad have enough to worry about and I don’t want to disappoint them. My father is the public face of the Foundation for the Preservation and Protection of Marine Life; he’s the one in charge of securing government support, presenting scientific research to universities, and working with marine animals at zoos across the country. My mother, on the other hand, is responsible for the Foundation’s less conspicuous workings—basically keeping the entire Community of land-dwelling Mer afloat. Tonight, every member of that community will be here, in our house, so I have to be perfect.

Once we’re settled in my bathroom, Em brushes my hair. In the mirror, I examine the intricacies of her hairstyle. Half of her rich, chestnut-colored hair is pulled up into three tiers of buns in progressively diminishing sizes that top her head like a wedding cake. The rest hangs in flowing, perfectly shaped curls down her back, and the whole coif is studded with pearls.

“How was your day at school?” Em asks, her voice adopting a familiar mothering quality.

“Good. How was yours?” I shoot back, trying to sound like an equal instead of a child she has to take care of when our parents are busy. Em commutes from our house to Pepperdine University, about ten minutes away. She’s studying business, which couldn’t sound more yawn-worthy to me, but she’s into it. “Classes are fine,” she replies as she picks up a small section of hair above my temple and begins a series of the tiniest braids, which she intersperses among my natural waves. She sounds distracted, and we lapse into silence. Worry lines crease Em’s forehead, and her hands fumble the braiding, causing her to drop a handful of bobby pins.

They shatter the silence as they scatter across the floor, and I bend to help her. “Okay, what’s up with you?” I ask, handing the pins back.

She’s quiet as she pins the braids so they frame my face. Just when I think she’s not going to answer, she admits, “Leo and I had a fight.”

“You two never fight.”

“Well, we did today.” Unshed tears lace her words, and I want to say the perfect thing to comfort her. How many times has she held me, consoled me while I cried? She deserves it back, but I’m drawing a blank, so I decide to be the best listener I can be. “What happened?”