“We’l walk with you.”
Doe drops her briefcase on the table, as if to say, Fine. I’l wait.
“I’l see you in trig,” I tel Quince, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his mouth.
He lays his hand, the one he nearly lost to my frustrated squeeze, reassuringly against my waist. He whispers, “Play nice.”
I growl at him. Me? It’s Doe we should be worried about.
She’s the cutthroat one. I’m always nice.
Wel , maybe not always. I reconsider. Thinking back to how I treated Quince before I learned he had feelings for me and before I figured out that I had feelings for him, too, I admit I’m almost always nice.
“Let’s go,” I say, snatching my tray off the table. “I don’t want to be late. Again.”
Chapter 4
y Thursday morning I’m so stressed out that I Baccidentaly boil my orange juice, have to run back upstairs and put on flip-flips that actual y match, and realize five minutes before leaving for school that I’ve completely blanked on my American Government homework—which is, of course, my first class, so I won’t have homeroom time to do the work sheet.
“Aaargh!” I slam my now-frozen juice on the counter. “I can’t take much more of this.”
Aunt Rachel doesn’t pretend to misunderstand my meaning.
“I know it’s difficult adjusting to a new member of the household,” she says calmly. Placatingly. “But it’s just a matter of time.”
I spin to face her. “I don’t have time,” I complain. “The SATs are in a week, and I haven’t been able to study at al .
Graduation is a month away. My grades are pitiful. If I don’t do amazing on this test, then it’s good-bye col ege, good-bye career, good-bye future.”
Good-bye becoming a marine biologist and any hope of helping my kingdom from land. Al my sacrifice wil be a waste.
“You’re overreacting.”
“I’m not,” I insist. “You know what the counselor said when I told him I’d decided to go to col ege. Wel , after he finished laughing.”
Aunt Rachel puts her newspaper aside. “I know, dear.” She wraps a reassuring arm around my shoulders. “But I also know that putting al this pressure on yourself isn’t going to help the matter.”
I slump. Because she’s right. Humans deal with stress poorly enough, but mermaids—a species with little stress in their natural habitat—don’t process it wel at al . Combine that with the added agitation of being out of the water for long periods of time and the fact that I’m sharing a bathroom with my drawer- and mirror-hogging baby cousin and, wel , it’s amazing I’m able to function at al .
“Everything wil be fine,” Aunt Rachel insists. “You’l do the best you can on the SATs, and who knows, you might do great. Besides, you have the interview with the director of the program at Seaview Community. You wil be amazed by what a face-to-face meeting can accomplish.” My mood brightens, and I’m about to ask if she real y thinks so when she adds, “No matter what happens, we’l figure things out.” Her voice drops to a more serious tone.
“That’s what life is. Facing chal enge after chal enge and figuring out a way to get through.”
I take a deep breath. I know what her change of tone means.
Between us we’ve already faced a lot of chal enges, like she’s faced figuring out how to go on after losing a sister—
my mom—and I’ve faced having to grow up without a mother. And then there was the chal enge of finding myself magical y bonded to a boy I thought I hated but who real y turned out to be my perfect mermate. That one turned out rather wel , by the way, so maybe not al chal enges are al bad.
Right on cue and reading my mind as always, Quince swings open the kitchen door and walks in. “Morning, Aunt Rachel,” he says, giving her a respectful nod. Then he turns to me. “Lily.”
Yes, that particular chal enge turned out pretty much perfect.
I launch myself at him. Arms around his neck, cheek against his shoulder. I’d probably be planting one on his lips if Aunt Rachel weren’t standing right there. He slides his arms around my waist and rests his chin on my head. I send my worries downstream for a while, sinking into the comfort of his embrace.
“Good morning, Quince,” Aunt Rachel replies. “Did you eat?”
I feel him shake his head. “Missed the alarm the first few times.”
“I’l fix you some peanut-butter toast.”
“I wouldn’t put you out,” he says, slipping into the southern-gentleman mode he seems to save for my relatives, “but my stomach would be most appreciative.”
“I’ve missed you,” I say, leaning back but not releasing him. “We’ve barely seen each other since Doe showed up.” I know he’s feeling it, too. There’s a hint of longing in his eyes, and somehow I know it’s about me. Moments like this make me daydream, make me wonder whether there’s a teeny-tiny filament of the bond stil connecting us. I ignore this thought, which invariably leads to a vain hope that Quince can one day return to Thalassinia. That’s something I can’t think about right now.
He grins. “Let’s change that this afternoon. I can take off from work and we could…”
He trails off when I give him a sad look.
“I can’t,” I explain. Why do the important things always seem to be in conflict? “I have an SAT prep class after school. It lasts until six.”