Forgive My Fins (22 page)

Not that Quince takes the hint.

“Lily, I—”

“I’m taking a bath,” I announce. “I’d like you to be gone when I get out.”

I don’t wait to see if he looks hurt or upset or annoyed or angry. I’m all of the above, so he might as well be, too. At least a cool key lime salt bath will ease away some of my
grrr
.

The water is almost ready, with pristine white bubbles piling up to the rim of the tub, when Aunt Rachel knocks on the door.

“Are you all right, dear?” she asks in that maternal voice she gets when she’s really worried about me.

I always wonder if it’s the same voice my mother would have used.

“I’m fine, Aunt Rachel.” I sit on the edge of the tub and lean down to drag my hand through the water, letting its calming energy soak into my skin. “It’s just…it’s been a hard week.”

The door creaks open, and Prithi hurries in before Aunt Rachel sticks her head through the opening. While Prithi drags her sandpaper tongue across my toes, Aunt Rachel steps inside and leans back against the doorjamb.

“Want to talk about it?” she asks.

“I don’t,” I say, but then can’t help adding, “I’m just so confused. I mean, I’ve loved Brody for…ever, almost as long as I’ve hated Quince. And I thought the blowfish hated me, too. But now it seems like maybe he doesn’t hate me, maybe he even”—I try not to gag on the words—“
loves
me. It could never work, I know that. But he won’t accept that. He convinced Daddy to give it another week, although Daddy was kind of wavering anyway because he wants me to figure out what I really want.” As if I don’t know. “And now I’m stuck bonded to Quince until
next
weekend, when I’ve only got five weeks until my birthday. Only five weeks left to make Brody fall enough in love with me to commit to the bond, or lose my claim to the throne permanently.”

There. I’ve said it all.
All.

I suck in a lungful of air and let it out, feeling my anxiety whooshing out with the heavy breath. Somehow, even though I haven’t done anything but spill my guts, I feel a million times better. Like I just gave half my burden to Aunt Rachel. I hope she doesn’t mind.

She smiles and hugs her arms around her waist, her rainbow-hued peasant skirt flowing out beneath her like a ruffled cake.

“Sounds like you know what you want to do.”

“I do,” I insist. “I want to get through this week, go through the separation, and bond with Brody as quickly as possible.” It sounds so simple. Three easy steps. “Then I’ll never have to talk to Quince again.”

“Is that what you really want?”

I don’t even hesitate. “Of course.”

But then the doubts come. The memories of the moments over the last few days where Quince was almost bearable. (Okay, more than bearable.) When he was kind and thoughtful and concerned and even nice. When he didn’t act like it was his mission to make me furious. When he seemed like he might be an actual friend.

Those moments, though, were too far apart. Too late.

“Well, then,” Aunt Rachel says, pushing away and speaking in a tone that means she might be humoring me, “I hope you get what you want.”

Me too, I think as she leaves me alone with my bath. Me too.

“Meow,”
Prithi says.

At least she agrees with me.

I quickly strip down and sink into my bathwater. I’m just finishing my transfiguration when the phone rings.

“I’ll get it!” I shout. “It’s probably Shannen.” I told her I’d be home Sunday night, so she’s probably calling to find out how my visit with my dad went. Of course, she thinks my dad lives in Fort Lauderdale.

“Hey, Shan,” I say, jabbing the phone into the cradle of my neck. “I was just going to—”

“It’s not Shannen.”

Omigod.

Omigodomigodomigod.

My heart bursts into a speed that even key lime salt water can’t calm.

“Brody?”

“Hey, Lil,” he says, his voice that honey-smooth texture that I haven’t heard since Friday. “Do you have a minute?”

I have a lifetime.

Okay, I don’t say that. I don’t even really
think
of saying that. But I feel it.

“Sure,” I say, trying to act cool—as if that’s even a remote possibility for me. “What’s up?”

Besides my heart rate.

“I had a question about our trig homework.” He laughs nervously—Brody? Nervous? “Actually,” he says, “that was my lame-ass excuse for calling. I just wanted to talk to you.”

It’s a major miracle—and because of the iron grip I have on the phone—that I don’t drop the receiver into the water. My first thought is,
Why?
Why, after all these years, is he suddenly calling me now? But then I shake off the doubts. Who am I to question my good fortune—especially after the week I’ve had? Especially when Quince is nowhere around to mess things up.

Calm down, Lily. Just because he wants to talk to you doesn’t mean he wants to
talk
to you. Act. Cool.

“Oh,” I say, curling my tail fin nonchalantly. “What about?”

He hesitates before saying, “About the dance last week. About you asking me and me…saying no.”

“Oh?” I’m not capable of more than that single syllable at this point.

“I just wanted you to know that”—
beep-beep
—“I regret it. Saying no, I mean.”

Beep-beep
.

“Um,” I manage. “Can you hold for a sec? I have another call.”

Beep-beep
.

“Sure.”

I click over, thankful for the time to gather my thoughts and knowing that Shannen will help me calm down and figure out what to say in this situation.

“Hey, Shan,” I say. “You’ll never guess—”

“It’s not Shannen.”

Son of a swordfish. Why is this happening to me? I mean, every time I’m about to get somewhere with Brody—
every time!
—he has to go and stick his big blond nose into it. Well, you know what I mean.

“What?” I snap. “I can’t talk to you right now. I have—”

“I just wanted to apologize,” he interrupts. “I’m sorry for how things are turning out.”

“Fine,” I say, eager to get him off the phone. “You’ve apologized. Good-bye.”

“Wait!” It’s the desperation in his voice that stops me from clicking back to Brody. He waits long enough to hear that I’m still there before saying, “I wish things hadn’t gone this way. I wish I’d done it right. From the beginning.”

I sigh and sink back against the tub. “I do too.” Then, because I’m not completely taken by his charming side, “But that’s not exactly an option at this point.”

“I know.”

“Listen, I have Brody on the other line.” Is that the sound of his teeth grinding? “We can talk tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.” He sounds resigned. Until he adds, “You know, Lily, I don’t think he’s good enough for you.”

“And you are?” I snap back.

“No,” he says. “I’m not.”

Then the line goes dead. Why don’t I ever get to have the last word? Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’ve got Brody—my
real
future—waiting on the other line. I don’t care what a motorcycle-riding, land-loving, leather-wearing biker boy has to say about the situation.

I click back over.

“Hey, Brody,” I say. “Sorry that took so long, I—”

The honking wail of a dead phone line cuts off my apology.

I slam the receiver back on the base, wondering, yet again, how Quince manages to ruin everything.

In trig on Monday, Mr. Kingsley pairs us up to work on tangents. In some great grand scheme of fate or luck or both, I get paired with Brody.

Quince gets stuck with Tiffany (aka Courtney-in-training).

Finally, an entire class period of uninterrupted—except by Kingsley’s occasional lectures and reprimands—one-on-one time for me and Brody.

“Sorry about the—”

“Sorry I had to—”

We laugh, together, since we’ve spoken at the same time.

He smiles and says, “You first.”

“I just wanted to say sorry I was gone so long on the phone last night.” I glance at the offending interrupter, who—although bent over the textbook with Tiffany and seemingly intent on his work—is somehow watching me without looking at me. He’s reading about tangents, but I just know that he’s focused on me. Thank you, bond. “I couldn’t get rid of the person on the other end.”

“That’s funny,” Brody says, leaning over our paired desks. His right arm brushes against mine. “I was going to apologize for having to hang up. I had to go help with the dishes or Dad was going to ground me for a month.”

I force a laugh, but all I can really think about is the way the soft, curly hairs of his forearm are tickling across my skin. It’s the most intimate touch we’ve ever shared, to be sure. A sensation of warmth floods me, from my heart outward. My cheeks heat up and I feel—

I look up and find Quince’s eyes burning a hole in me.

He would. He just
would
ruin this moment for me by doing nothing more than
look
at me.

Fine. I can play dirty, too.

“So, Brody,” I say, leaning closer, making certain Quince sees me rest my fingers on Brody’s wrist. “What else were you going to say last night?”

I have to suppress my glee when I see Quince’s muscles tighten, one by one, starting with his jaw and moving over his shoulders and down his arms. It makes me feel powerful to know that I can make him so…jealous.

Ha! All this time, I’ve been using Quince to make Brody jealous, and it turns out I’m making Quince jealous in the process. Bonus.

“I wanted to ask you a question,” Brody says.

“Ask me now.”

His beautiful golden-brown eyes look directly into mine, and he asks, “Are you and Fletcher really an item?”

“Are we—” My jaw clenches. I do
not
want to be talking about Quince right now. Not when Brody and I are
finally
having an extended moment. So, rather than create a bigger mess of things, I simply say, “No. We’re not.”

That charade is definitely over. I’m done with playing the pretend fake girlfriend.

Brody leans back—away from me—and smiles. “Good.” He folds his arms behind his head. “Because you shouldn’t waste your time on that loser.”

My eyes flick to said loser, who is resolutely pretending to focus on his work. Emphasis on the pretending part.

I’m not sure why, but Brody’s comment irritates me. Quince may be many things—blowfish, biker boy, rude, obnoxious, arrogant—but he’s not a loser. Just because he’s not a news anchor or a swim star doesn’t make him a worthless member of the student body.

Wait a second. Why am I sitting here defending Quince? (Even if it was only mentally.)

“We’d better get to work,” I say, pulling out my textbook and opening to our assigned page. “We’ve wasted half the class.”

As we begin wasting the other half hurrying to finish all the work problems, my mind can’t focus on math—as if it ever can—and keeps thinking about Brody. And not the usual crush-fantasy-come-true thoughts, either. No, I keep wondering why he’s suddenly showing an interest. Why now, of all times? Is it because seeing me with Quince made him realize he has feelings for me? Or is this not about me at all? When the bell finally rings, Brody hurries off, saying he’ll see me at the after-school news-team shoot.

I’m still zipping my backpack closed when I sense
his
presence at my side.

I pretend he’s not there.

“You and your
partner
get your work done?” he asks. The question is simple, but his tone isn’t.

“Yes,” I say, hitching my backpack up on my shoulder and pushing to my feet. Quince is standing right there, so I end up face-to-face—or, since he’s got a few inches on me, face-to-chest.

“Move,” I insist, accompanied by a shove.

“What?” he asks, his voice mockingly light. “Problem in paradise?”

“No,” I snap. “Everything is just perfect.”

I push harder, finally moving him out of the way. But before I can get to the door, he moves in front of me, blocking my exit.

Rather than waste my breath, I just scowl.

“You’re a fool, you know,” he says, sounding all superior and condescending. “You’re not his type.”

“Oh, yeah?” I try to sound amused, but he’s definitely hit on a sensitive spot. Like I haven’t worried about that exact thing for the last three years. “Then how come he called me last night? Why is he paying attention to me and flirting with me?”

Although part of me just wanted to throw that in Quince’s face, another (skeptical) part of me wants to see if he confirms my doubts about Brody’s sudden turnaround.

“Because,” Quince says, leaning forward until I step back, “he’s a little boy who doesn’t like other people playing with his toys.”

“His toys?” I gasp. I’ve never wanted to slap someone more in my life. “How dare you? I’m not his toy!”

Quince snorts. “You might as well have been. And now that I’m on the playing field, he has to up his participation in the game so he doesn’t lose you to me.”

“Lose me to—” I feel my fragile control dissolving and clench my fists to stem the tide of fury. I might need an extra-long bath tonight to ease away all this anger. “You think this is about
you
? I never knew you were so self-centered. You’re just jealous.”

He doesn’t deny my claim. He doesn’t say anything at all as he stares down at me with a kind of questioning look in his eyes. Then, when I almost can’t stand it anymore, he finally says, “He’ll never accept you. Not after you tell him the truth.”

“You’re wrong,” I insist, keeping my voice low so no one overhears. “He will. When he learns that I belong in the water just like he does.”

“God,” Quince roars, “you are so delusional! He’s a shallow, small-minded, popularity-obsessed jackass who will see you as a freak rather than a treasure.”

I feel every derogatory word as a slap in the face.

“You’re wrong,” I repeat through clenched teeth, as much for myself as for Quince. “He has depths you could never imagine. As soon as I tell him, we’ll—”

“Why haven’t you?”

I blink at his interruption. “What?”

“Why haven’t you told him already?” He steps back, finally giving me some breathing room, and slips his hands into his back pockets. “If you’ve loved him so goddamn much for the last three years, why haven’t you told him?”