I whirl around to face her. “It was going to be perfect. I was going to tell Brody how much I love him, and he was going to realize how perfect we are for each other, and we were going to begin our life together.” I swallow over the lump in my throat. “Perfect.”
“My sweet, innocent girl,” Aunt Rachel whispers, gently wiping a tear off my cheek. She shakes her head like she’s disappointed in me—which is completely unfair since I’m not the one who caused this mess. I’m totally the victim in this situation.
“Perfect,” I repeat with a snap, startling the sad look off her face. “Until he messed it up. He showed up instead of Brody. He kissed me and made my fins curl. He”—I shout loud enough to be heard through the door—“ruined my entire life.”
Then, before Aunt Rachel can say whatever is behind the shocked look in her eyes, I yank my arm free and run for my room.
That’s it, I’m done with this human thing. I’m going back to the sea. Where I belong. Human life is too complicated, and humans—one human in particular—are not to be trusted. (Except for Aunt Rachel, of course. And Shannen. And Brody. And maybe my art teacher.) I don’t know what made me ever think I could handle this world.
Dropping to my knees, I peer behind the grass bed skirt in search of a bag to pack my things. No bag. Then I jump up, hitting my head on my nightstand, sending my palmtree lamp crashing to the floor, and startling Prithi from her nap on my stuffed animal–covered bed. Whatever. I don’t need a bag. I don’t have anything to take.
Sure, my room is full of random stuff I’ve collected over the past three years, but I won’t need any of it in Thalassinia. Water is rough on land-produced objects. Besides, all I want to do is forget the human world ever existed.
Well, everything but Brody—
“Lily.”
What is he doing here?
Aunt Rachel. She must have let him in to—
The doorknob starts to turn, but I dive for it and twist the lock just in time.
“Lily,” he repeats. His voice sounds disappointingly broken-nose-free. “Please, just let me explain what happened.”
“No.” I grab a stuffed dolphin from my bed, sending Prithi leaping to the ground, and fling it at my door. It barely makes a soft thud before tumbling to the floor, but I feel better. “Go away.”
Meow.
“I really planned to help you snag Ben”—he clears his throat—“nett.” His voice drops to a mumble. “Figured if you spent more than ten minutes with him, you’d realize he’s a total pr—”
“I’m not listening to you,” I shout. And fling a stuffed Shamu against the door. And a stuffed lobster. And a stuffed sea horse.
Prithi, thinking it’s a game, bounds after my artillery. She takes possession of the sea horse and retreats under my bed.
“What I mean is, I gave him the note. He was supposed to be there.” He clears his throat again. “Then I”—ah-hem—“saw him dancing with”—ah-hem—“Kiran Siman”—ah-hem—“and I thought I should”—ah-hem—“check on you. Damn, my throat is dry.”
He breaks into a fit of throat clearing that soon turns into coughing.
Great. Dry throat. I squeeze my eyes shut but can’t make it go away. The change is happening already.
“Anyway,” he says when he’s through coughing for the moment, “you looked so…expectant standing there in the dark.” His voice sounds sad, but maybe that’s just the change, too. “Like you were waiting for the best moment of your life.”
Cough, cough, cough.
I look at the sad pile of stuffed sea creatures clustered around my door. He’s right, of course. I was waiting for the most perfect moment of my life.
Then he ruined it.
I fling another round of stuffed sea life at the door. “I wasn’t”—starfish—“waiting”—great white shark—“for you.”
My bed is now empty of stuffed animals. I’m about to grab a pillow when I hear a plunk against the door from the outside. It sounds like a forehead smacking against the wood.
“I know,” he groans. He coughs a few times before adding, “I couldn’t help it.”
There is such a sound of despair in his voice that when he starts coughing again, I find myself pressing a hand to the door, as if that will heal him. Only I know it won’t, because he’s not sick. He’s changing. And I can’t just run away from this. Or from him.
Even Prithi ventures out and meows softly at the door.
“Water,” I say quietly.
There is a long, silent pause before he asks, “What?”
“Water,” I repeat. “You need a drink of water.”
“It’s just a cough,” he insists. “Lily, I want you to understand why I—”
“Go ask Aunt Rachel for a glass of water.”
“I’m right here, dear,” Aunt Rachel offers.
Great, a witness to my humiliation.
“Listen to me, please,” he asks, his voice raspy like sandpaper.
If he doesn’t drink some water soon—a lot of water—he’ll lose it altogether. Not that I’m interested in listening to him, but some little part of me does want to know why he, the guy who lives for my torment, kissed me.
“Aunt Rachel,” I say, ignoring his plea, “get Quince a glass of water.”