Forgive My Fins (4 page)

I don’t know what’s worse: that Brody said no, or that Quince told me he would. Why does he always have to be right?

Because it’s lunchtime, the halls are empty and I make it to the girls’ bathroom without being seen. In a back stall I succumb to several long minutes of crying. I feel like someone pulled out my still-beating heart, stomped on it a few times with dirty motorcycle boots, and then shoved it back into my chest. All the fears that kept me quiet for three long years were just publicly unveiled. Brody will never love me. The whole reason I stayed on land just evaporated like sea foam on sand.

Eventually my tears dry out. My eyes are red and puffy. At least they’re not glittering gold like they would be underwater. Still, no amount of cold water splashes gets them back to normal. They’re a flashing neon sign shouting, “She just cried her eyes out in the bathroom!” I almost start to cry all over again when I realize that everyone is going to wonder what’s wrong. Everyone who hasn’t already heard the tale of my humiliation, that is.

Then a thought occurs. Shannen wears contacts. I bet she has some eyedrops in her locker.

Dabbing the water off my face, I head out in the direction of her locker.

And walk smack into Quince Fletcher.

“Believe me now?” he asks.

He’s leaning casually against the wall just outside the girls’ bathroom. From the arrogant look on his face, I can guess he’s been waiting for me so he can gloat.

“Get lost.”

I try to walk around him, but he sidesteps and blocks my path.

“Move!”

“I asked you a question.”

“And I choose not to answer.” I step to my left, and he mirrors me. Back to the right. He follows.

Why won’t he leave me alone? What did I ever do to deserve his obnoxious attentions?

Guess my tears aren’t dried up after all. They’re right back at the ready and threatening to spill out if Quince doesn’t let me go.

“Admit it,” he insists. “I was right.”

“No.” I sniff. “You were wrong.”
Sniff.
“I’m just crying”—
sniff—
“’cause I’m so happy.” My tears take that lie as their cue and start streaming down my cheeks.

“Come on, princess,” he says. “You don’t need to cry over that loser.”

This only makes me cry harder. We both know who the loser is in this scenario.

With a muttered curse, Quince wraps his arms around me and squeezes. It feels remarkably like a hug.

“Don’t cry,” he whispers in my ear. “Please.”

I don’t know if it’s his soft words or the fact that my face is now hidden by his broad chest, but I just let go. Three years of longing and loving from a distance have built to the breaking point, and I let it out all over his West Coast Choppers T-shirt.

“
Shhh
,” he soothes. “He’s not worth it.”

Sob, sob, sob.

I can’t stop. I’ve totally lost control of my emotions. All I can think is, Brody hates me and I’m stuck seeking comfort from my worst enemy. My life has definitely sunk to the deepest dregs.

Faintly, muffled by Quince’s chest and the sound of my tears, I hear a bell. It only vaguely registers as the end of lunch.

Quince curses, and the next thing I know I’m moving against my will, back into the bathroom and into a small, enclosed space.

Through swollen, tear-blurred eyes I see that we are in a bathroom stall. The sound of giggling echoes on the sterile white tile a split second before Quince sits on the toilet and pulls me onto his lap.

“Lift your feet!” he whispers urgently. I obediently brace the soles of my flip-flops against the stall door.

Two pairs of high heels walk past, clacking loudly on the tile floor.

“Did you see her run out of the cafeteria?” one girl asks, her voice gleeful.

“I bet he put her in her frizzy-haired place.”

My stomach rolls.

Maybe they’re talking about some other frizzy-haired girl who got humiliated at lunch today. Seaview High is a big school. Surely someone else—

“As if a freak like her could ever tempt Brody Bennett.”

Nope. Me.

Those rotten tears—momentarily startled away—spill down my cheeks.

“She needs to learn to keep her paws off another girl’s guy,” the first voice says.

I gasp. “It’s Court—”

Quince’s hand clamps over my mouth. His other arm is wrapped around my waist, and he uses both to tug me back tight against his chest. “
Shhh
,” he whispers super quietly in my ear.

I nod, wondering how I got myself into this position and hoping my agreement will make Quince release me. It doesn’t.

“She has the fashion sense of a palm tree,” the other girl says.

“Oh, come on,” Courtney—aka Brody’s newly ex—replies, and I think she’s about to defend me. “A palm tree at least wears coordinating colors.”

Through a teary blur, I glance down at my clothes. I don’t see anything wrong with my pale yellow T-shirt and turquoise ruffled skirt. And my bright pink flip-flops match the hearts on my tee. Granted, this was my Plan C for the day, but I didn’t think it was that bad.

“Pink and yellow?” Courtney continues. “What does she think she is? A walking candy shop?”

The other girl—probably Courtney’s constant sidekick, Tiffany—laughs. “At least she makes an effort. That’s more than you can say about her friend.”

My ears perk up, and I have instantly forgotten my humiliation. No one talks about Shannen around me without getting an earful of back-in-your-face.

“The one whose entire wardrobe consists of jeans and polo shirts?” Courtney’s voice is filled with acid. “Someone should tell her they sell my castoffs at Goodwill.”

That does it.

I lurch forward, grabbing for the latch and dropping my feet to the floor. Quince has lightning-fast reflexes, though. Before my fingertips connect with metal, he closes over my arms and tightens them back against me. His legs shoot out, wrapping around my ankles and slipping back into place so that anyone looking into the stall will see only his jeans and boots.

“Don’t,” he whispers almost silently against my ear. “She’s not worth it.”

I consider this for a second, deciding that he’s probably right—no matter how badly I hate admitting that. Courtney’s probably still mad that Brody dumped her right before the dance. I can let her horrid comments slide. Then, as I relax a little and absorb the sudden silence, something disturbing happens. I start to notice things. Weird, unsettling things.

Like how warm Quince’s chest feels against my back.

And how his breath tickles my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

And how his arm is resting just below my chest.

The total silence must be playing tricks on my mind, because for a second—half a second, really—I almost think his touch feels goo—

His arm tightens, quick and sharp, around my belly.

“
Uungh
,” I grunt.

Why on earth did he—

“
Ew
,” Courtney whines.

Oh, great. Now I’m more than humiliated…. I’m constipated.

Thankfully, before things can get worse—I can’t imagine how, but I’m sure they could—the tardy bell rings and they finally make their way, heels clacking across the floor, to the door.

As they leave, I hear Tiffany say, “Did you see the boots in that stall?”

“Yes,” Courtney scoffs, and raises her voice. “Must be that butch girl from the football team. Doesn’t she have a mother?”

God, Courtney is such a sea witch.

Their voices trail off, and Quince and I are left in the quiet of an empty bathroom. Still, he doesn’t release me.

Maybe he’s mad at what she said about his boots.

Though for the life of me I can’t figure out why, I feel compelled to make him feel better. “Your boots aren’t
that
bad. You know she thought you were Em—”

Before I can finish, he bursts out laughing, nearly shaking me off his lap and onto the disgusting bathroom floor.

“Wha—” I squeal as I slide off to the left.

His arms tighten around me, securing me in place. After a few more seconds of holding on for dear life while Quince indulges in some seriously rumbling laughter against my back, he finally releases me and helps me stand.

“Sorry, princess,” he says, still sitting on the toilet. “That was just too damn funny.”

Twisting around in the tight space, I glare at him. “Well, I’m glad you found humor in your humiliation. I don’t happen to enjoy being ridiculed and—”

“Aw, come on,” he teases, an annoyingly bright grin shining on his tan face. He’s got one of those strong faces that completely transform with a smile. Dark and foreboding one second, fun and playful the next. “Couldn’t you see through her?”

I must look confused, which I am, because he explains, “She’s jealous.”

“Right,” I say, thinking back to the cafeteria. “I’m plucking Brody right out from under her perfectly sculpted nose.”

Squeezing up against one wall, I try to open the stall door. I need to escape, to get out into the open, away from him. Only the stall is so small and Quince takes up so much space that I can’t open it while he’s sitting on the toilet.

“Stand up.”

He complies but stays in front of the door. Hovering over me, he says, “Hard as it is to believe, I won’t say ‘I told you so’ about the dance.”

As if.

“In fact,” he says, leaning over me to brace his forearm on the wall above my head, “I’m going to help you out.”

At the moment, helping me out would have to include getting out of this bathroom stall. Quince is more than filling my personal space and I’m feeling uncharacteristically claustrophobic. The graffiti-covered walls are closing in. Sweat droplets form on my forehead.

“Let me out,” I demand, ignoring his offer of help. “It stinks in here.”

I give him a look that implies he is the source of the odor, even though he smells like leather and mint toothpaste. He doesn’t get offended like a normal guy would. No, he flashes me that arrogant smile and leans closer. Just when I think he’s going to press his entire body into mine, he scoots sideways, next to the toilet, and out of the way of the door.

Yanking the door open, I burst into the bathroom and take a deep breath of non-Quinced air.

“As I was saying,” he continues when he follows me out of the stall, “I’m going to help you catch your big fish at the dance.”

“But,” I argue as the oxygen returns to my brain, “he doesn’t want—”

“He doesn’t know what he doesn’t want.”

Leaning back against the edge of the sink, I cross my arms over my chest and nod to show I’m listening. Though mostly I’m thinking about how relieved I am to be out of that stall and several feet away from Quince.

“To get Ben”—he clears his throat—“nett’s attention, you need to do something special. Surprising.” He smiles. “Shocking.”

“And what,” I ask, skeptical, “do you suggest?”

He slips his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, stretching his T-shirt tight across his chest. From a purely objective standpoint, I admit it’s a nicely formed chest. Probably sculpted from all those hours trying to keep his motorcycle running and his part-time job at the lumberyard. And he does have yummy dark blond hair and those great blue eyes that remind me of home. If he weren’t such an obnoxious jerk, Quince might actually be an attractive guy.

“I’ll tell you,” he says, “in the parking lot after school.”

Then, without any explanation, he spins on his biker boots and walks out of the bathroom. What the heck does that mean? I’m still frowning and trying to figure out what just happened—I was
not
admiring his chest!—when he sticks his head back in.

“Want to know why I thought Courtney’s little tirade was so funny?”

I shrug, expecting him to say I’ll find that out after school, too. If I meet him, that is. I don’t expect him to answer.

But Quince is nothing if not unexpected.

“She bought me these boots.”

He flashes me a quick smile, and then he’s gone.

And I have the rest of the day to decide if I can risk accepting his offer of help. In three hours and—I lift my wrist to check the time.

Damselfish!
I’m nearly fifteen minutes late to art. Shannen’s probably worried about me. I take off down the hall, wondering if I’m actually going to meet Quince in the parking lot. Mrs. Ferraro probably hasn’t even noticed I’m not there.

4

“H
e did
what
?” Shannen shouts as she cuts out a picture of Brad Pitt to paste into her collage.

“Quiet,” I snap. I don’t need the entire art class knowing what happened in the bathroom. It’s bad enough they already know what happened in the cafeteria.

Shannen lowers her voice to as close to a whisper as she can manage. “He trapped you in the
stall
?”

“Yes.” Rescued is more like it, though I’m not about to admit that out loud.

I find a picture of a dolphin in
National Geographic
and quickly tear out the page. We are each making a “biographical collage” using magazines and catalogs. So far, I’ve got an underwater background, a pair of clown fish, and a Swarovski tiara from Neiman Marcus. Thankfully, Mrs. Ferraro is all about abstract expression. She won’t question the weirdness in my collage, as long as I have a convincing reason.

“You know…,” Shannen murmurs, staring intently at her picture, “Quince kind of looks like Brad. Dark blond hair, square jaw line, piercing blue eyes. I wouldn’t mind being stuck in a stall with him for an hour or two.”

I refuse to even respond to that. Quince Fletcher is as far from Brad Pitt as a sea cucumber is from becoming king of Thalassinia.

“He always wears those tight biker tees, and his jeans are worn smooth in just the right spots—”

“Enough!” I stab some glue to the back of the dolphin picture and slap it down onto my collage. “We are not talking about
him
. All right?”

“All right,” Shannen says slowly, tucking a lock of dark brown hair behind her ear. “Why did you glue that dolphin upside down?”

Okay, so I’m a little distracted. “He’s doing the back-stroke.”