Pretty in Pearls: A Forgive My Fins Novella (HarperTeen Impulse) (10 page)

It might take some convincing to make Riatus believe that, but I’m sick of dancing around the issue. Time to lay it all on the line. I close the distance. “I like you, Riatus. A lot.”

His brow furrows in pain.

“Do you see this?” I sink down to meet his gaze as I gesture to the pearl hanging around my neck. When I’m sure he sees it, I say, “I told you it was a gift. Do you know who gave it to me?”

I fully expect him to say no because . . . well, why would he remember? It was
my
guppihood crush. To him I was just a little mergirl.

So I’m beyond stunned when he nods and says, “I did.”

“You—?” I scowl. “You
remember
?”

His laugh is fierce and unexpected. “Of course I remember.”

I smack him on the shoulder.

When his hand wraps around my wrist, holding my palm against his chest, I want to melt. There is something boyish about the small smile spreading across his lips.

“You were the sweetest girl,” he says.

“Past tense?” I ask.

He looks up at me. “You still are. You were nice to Coral, even when she was annoying. And I—” His cheeks turn a little pink. “I knew you liked me.”

The horrifyingly humiliated part of me wants to gasp, but the sincerity in his tone tells me I don’t need to be embarrassed. Okay, I’m still a
little
horrified—who wouldn’t be?

Looking me straight in the eye, he says, “I’m not good enough for you.”

“You’re right,” I say, and I can tell he’s stunned by my answer. “The way you’ve been acting, you
aren’t
. But I’m willing to forgive and forget everything that happened since you came back,
if
you will answer one question.”

“Okay,” he agrees warily.

“Do you”—I sink down to meet his gaze—“like me?”

“What?”

“It’s simple,” I insist. “Do you like me or not?”

“Peri, I—”

“Yes or no, Riatus.”

He winces like it will hurt to say the words.

“Yes. Or no.” I repeat when he looks like he wants to argue again. “Yes or no. Yes or no. Yes or—”

“Yes!” he blurts. “Okay, yes.”

“What was that?” I can’t hide my smile.

“Yes,” he admits, sounding relieved. His smile grows bigger until his dimples show. “I like you.”

Finally!

“Was that so hard to say?”

He gives me an are-you-kidding look.

“You want to know a secret?”

“Sure.”

“That’s the only thing that matters,” I say.

“What is?” He looks confused and I like it—it’s about time those tables turned.

“I like you. You like me.” I link my arm through his and swim back for the house. “In the beginning, that’s all that matters.”

His dark brows slash down, like he’s not sure if he can believe me.

“It’s a place to start,” I explain as I push open the door, sending Lily and Coral scurrying out of the way. “Who knows where we go from here, but for tonight just liking each other is enough. Now”—I lead him toward the kitchen—“I have one more very important question to ask you.”

“What’s that?”

I release him and float over to the cabinet. “Do you like plumaria pudding?”

“Yeah,” he says, jerking back in surprise. “It’s my favorite.”

I smile as I pull out another tub. Lily and Coral swim in to join us and soon we all have fresh bowls of pudding and life is good. Riatus and I can’t stop smiling at each other. It’s like admitting that we like each other opened some kind of floodgate.

Nothing in life is certain, but I know that with the whole truth out in the open we have a chance. We like each other, and that’s enough for a perfect beginning.

Excerpt from
Forgive My Fins

Read on for more fin-flicking undersea fun with Princess Waterlily

Plus find information about all of Tera’s series at www.teralynnchilds.com

    
1

W
ater calms me. It’s like chocolate or hot tea or dulce de leche ice cream. After a rotten day, I lock the bathroom door, fill Aunt Rachel’s old-timey tub with steaming water and bath salts, and then sink into a world where my problems all melt away.

Some days it’s not enough.

“Did you ask him?”

Securing the phone against my shoulder, I scoop up a handful of bubble bath and blow the fluff out over my belly. I can choose to ignore the question, right? Especially since neither of us is going to like the answer.

“Lily . . . ,” Shannen prods.

When the bubbles hit the water and dissolve into a frothy film, I sigh.

The whole point of this bath was to make me forget my disastrous day—including the subject of Shannen’s question—but that seems impossible. Even though I’m feeling slightly more mellow than when I slid in twenty minutes ago, nothing can completely wash away that memory.

Too bad bath salts can’t change the past.

“No,” I admit with a frustrated growl. “I didn’t ask him.”

“I thought we agreed,” she says, sounding exasperated. “You were going to ask him in trig when Kingsley had you trade papers.”

“We did agree,” I concede, “but—”

“But what, Lily?” she interrupts. “You’re running out of time.”

“I know that.” Boy, do I know that. The sand in my countdown timer is draining fast; graduation is just around the corner.

Leaning my head back over the tub’s graceful curved edge, I let my hair hang to the floor below. A long mess of blond that defies all attempts at control. I might as well have a sea sponge on my head, since no amount of conditioner or antifrizz serum can tame the effects of Floridian humidity.

“But Kingsley didn’t do the normal swap,” I explain. “He had us trade down the row instead of across the aisle.”

Shannen groans, and I can imagine the look of disgust on her face.

“I hate it when he goes to a professional development workshop,” she says. “He always comes back and tries something new that never, ever works.”

“I know,” I agree, latching on to this divergent train of thought in the vain hope that it will make her—and me—forget our original topic. I’m not above avoidance tactics. I’ll totally throw Kingsley under the bus to save myself from another lecture about seizing the day. “It was a total flop.” I sit up a little straighter, gaining confidence in my distraction. “The Danfield twins switched places, and most of the class ended up grading their own papers. Kingsley congratulated us on our high grades.”

Good grades are a rare thing for me. Shannen’s on the valedictorian track and she tries to help me out, but I’m clearly not learning anything by osmosis or association or whatever. Can I help it if all these subjects are like a foreign language to me? My brain just wasn’t wired for academic study. The only class I’m pretty sure of passing is art—and only because Mrs. Ferraro likes me. Everything else might as well be advanced nuclear physics.

Besides, lately our unified focus has been on the up-coming Spring Fling dance and not next week’s homework. With the dance only days away (as in three), it seems a lot more urgent than an English essay on
Animal Farm
.

Tonight, though, I’d rather talk about homework. Or beauty products. Or swarms of killer jellyfish. Anything other than the thing she’s asking about. I fumbled the plan . . . again. The last thing I need right now is Shannen telling me one more time that—

“You’re a coward, Lily Sanderson.”

—I’m a coward.

Son of a swordfish.

I give my tail fin a flick, sending the key lime bath salts sloshing up over my shoulders. This is the same admonition I’ve heard every week for the past three years. You’d think I’d get tired of hearing it, suck up my courage, and get it over with. But the trouble is . . . she’s right. I am a coward.

Especially where Brody Bennett is concerned.

We mermaids are a cowardly bunch. Keeping our existence a total secret makes cowardice pretty much a necessity. If we don’t flee fast enough at the first sign of a passing ship, we might end up on the cover of next week’s
Flash Paper
. We’re more of an escape-now-ask-questions-later kind of species.

But with Brody it’s like I take my flight response to a whole new level of spinelessness. I can make all the plans in the world, be fully ready to follow through, and then the instant he’s within sight, I totally clam up. I’m lucky if I’m able to breathe, let alone tell him how I feel. Hormones are cruel like that.

Still, the constant reminder of her cowardice can drive a girl to the edge. For a second—half a second, really—I consider blurting out the one thing I
know
will derail her lecture permanently.

But I’ve heard the stories.

I know what happens when a human finds out a mermaid is a mermaid. I love Shannen like a sister, but I can’t take that risk. I can’t put myself, my family, and my entire kingdom in jeopardy for the sake of avoiding an unpleasant conversation. No matter how badly I want to confess, my duty comes before our friendship.

Shannen would understand.

So, instead of blurting out my dirty little secret—actually, not so dirty at the moment, since my fins are currently gleaming green and gold in the salty water—I resort to the pathetic truth.

“I tried, Shan.” My head drops back against the porcelain tub with a well-deserved
thud
. “Really I did. This time I was super, super close. I took a deep breath, said his name, and . . .”

“And what?”

“Quince Fletcher threw a wad of paper at my forehead.”

It had taken every last ounce of my self-control—and the dismissal bell—to keep from leaping out of my seat, apologizing to Brody as I vaulted over him, and pummeling Quince into seaweed salad. Merfolk are a peaceful people, but that boy makes me wish I had free reign of Daddy’s trident for a good five minutes. I’ve fantasized some pretty creative ways to shut Quince up.

“That dog,” Shannen says. “You’d think it was his self-appointed mission to make your life miserable.”

“I know, right?” I rub the shower pouf absently over my scales. “Why does he even bother? I mean, it’s like his two hobbies are working on that disaster of a motorcycle and tormenting me.”

Thing is, I don’t even know why he is so devoted to tweaking me on a near-constant basis. It’s not like I’ve ever done anything to him, other than move into the house next door. At first we were almost friends . . . until he started treating me like the enemy.

Boys aren’t nearly so confusing in the ocean.

“He needs to”—a
beep-beep
interrupts Shannen’s response—“diversify.”

“Hold on.” I wiggle myself into a semisitting position. “There’s another call.”

Aunt Rachel got tired of my bathwater frying the circuits of the upstairs phone about three phones ago. The latest replacement doesn’t even have Caller ID, and she swears that this is the last one. Ruin this one and there’s no more phone in the tub. So I’m very careful not to lose my grip as I hold out the receiver and press the button.

“Hello?”

“You should check the curtains before you take a bath, princess,” a deep, mocking voice says.

“Wha—” I half scream, half yelp as I bolt up in the tub.

The nearest towel is folded neatly on the toilet . . . on the far side of the room. With a powerful kick I flop myself over the side, onto the cold tile floor, and dive for the towel. I am just tossing it over my fins when I hear a roar of laughter coming from the receiver. Scowling, I snatch it off the floor.

“Priceless,” he howls, still laughing. “You never fail to amuse, princess.”

Aaarrgh!
I slam the handset repeatedly on the floor, in what I hope are eardrum-damaging whacks.

“Why?!?” My flipper-fast heartbeat ebbs toward normal as I stare, first at the phone—which has suffered a few nicks from my display of rage—then at the tightly drawn curtains covering the bathroom window. Holding the phone back up to my ear and ignoring the laughter still echoing through the earpiece, I ask, “Why do you enjoy torturing me so much?”

“Because,” Quince manages between laughs, “you make it so easy.”

Grabbing a handful of now-soaking towel, I throw it against the wall next to the door and watch it slowly slide down into the hamper. Aunt Rachel’s cat, Prithi, meows in complaint from her position outside the door.

“You,” I say as I pull myself back up onto the edge of the tub, “are a vile”—turning, I sink gingerly into the water—“repulsive”—even lukewarm, it feels heavenly—“slimy-headed vent worm.”

I catch the phone against my ear before spreading my hands beneath the water to bring the temperature back up to a Zen-inducing near-steaming.

He chuckles once more before answering, “That’s a new one.”

“I’ve got dozens more where that came from,” I assure him as I sink back against the wall of the tub and close my eyes. “Care to hear some?”

The salty water envelops me, calming my electrified nerves. Slightly.

“Someday,” he says, “I might take you up on that offer.”

“Fraidy-fish,” I mutter, closing my eyes and imagining I’m back home, the warm currents of the Gulf Stream swirling around me as I float beneath my favorite spot of ocean—the shallow bank just east of Thalassinia where a forest of sea fans and staghorn coral gives me the camouflage I need so I can lie for hours, watching the colorful fishing boats pass above.

That spot is my bliss. I’ve never taken anyone there, not even Daddy. I’m saving it for someone special. I’m saving it for Brody.

When I feel homesick, I picture us there.

“Admit it, princess,” Quince says in what I can only imagine he thinks of as a teasing voice, “you’d be bored with-out me.”

“Without you,” I reply, wishing there were more than fourteen feet and two panes of glass separating me from neighbor boy, “I’d have a date to the Spring Fling.”

Sudden silence. The base of my neck prickles.

“A date?” he demands.

My eyes flash open.

I hadn’t meant for that to slip out. The reheated water relaxed me
too
much. I can’t let my guard down for a second when I’m talking to Quince.

“You’re not still panting after that Benson boob, are you?”

“Bennett,” I snap before I can catch myself. Then, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do—”

“In fact,” I say decisively, “I don’t know why I’m still talking to you.”

“You’re talking to me,” he says before I can click back over to Shannen, “because I can help you snag your crush.”

“Ha!” I say, brilliantly. Then I follow it up with some hysterical laughter. As if the bane of my existence would ever help me. As if he
could
. “Nice try, Quince.”

“Fine.” He
tsk
s, as if I’ve made a poor choice. “When you’re ready for help, you know where to find me.”

Yeah, in the house next door, peeping on me in the bathroom.

“I wish I didn’t,” I say. “Hey! How did you know I was in the bath, anyway?” Silence from the pervy end of the line. “Hello?”

Damselfish!
I wanted to be the one to hang up on him this time.

The phone beeps, letting me know that Shannen is still waiting on the line. I should have known she wouldn’t give up. We haven’t finished with the whole asking-Brody-to-the-dance thing. She never misses an opportunity to let me know how I’ve screwed up and how I can improve myself next time.

I’d wonder why I still speak to her if she weren’t my best human friend.

I click over.

“I’m back.”

“Who was it?”

“Nobody,” I answer, meaning it.

“Quince.” It’s not a question.

“Whatever,” I say, slapping my fin absently against the far wall of the tub. “Just get on with chastising me so I can go to bed.”

Shannen ignores my pouty comment. “What did he want?”

“What does he ever want? To bug the carp out of me.”