The Vicious Deep Part 9

The team cheers. Ryan leans close to me and whispers, "Yeah, I'd like him to try to explain that one to my mom."

Coach blows his whistle. Everyone lines up for basic diving drills. Since Kurt and I were last in and last to get ready, we're at the back of the line. "So if the calamari tattoo works, then why the worries?"

Kurt frowns at me. "It's an ancient and sacred cephalopod, not calamari. I'm simply advising you in case you get an urge."

The only urge I have right now is to punch him in his gut, if my hand wouldn't break on his stomach. I catch Layla looking over at us before taking a dive. She breaks clean through the water, her hair wrapped into a tight bun.

"She's got a fantastic stroke," Kurt says, his eyes following her across the length of the pool.

"The line's moving." I push him along.

"Good form, Santos," Coach yells.

Maddy goes, then Thalia, then Ryan and the others.

I let Kurt go first, mostly because I'm curious to see him swim, but also because my stomach is in knots. This is the first time in a week that I'll be getting back in the water. The faster the practice ends, the sooner I'll have to get to the boardwalk. Then I'll be on some s.h.i.+p on the way to some island inhabited by others like me. Or unlike me, if I'm the only truly half-human merman.

At the edge of the pool, Kurt shuts his eyes briefly, as though he's saying a prayer. He stretches his arms in the air, giving him the effect of being seven feet tall, and then he bends his knees slightly and dives cleanly into the pool. He's so fast that he gets about halfway without having to surface, not that he really needs to. There's an audible moment of awe as everyone turns to watch him. Even Coach's whistle is dangling from his lips.

I suck my teeth the moment Kurt pulls himself up at the opposite end of the pool. I can do that. I do do that. I take a moment to breathe in the water-laden air, the smell of chlorine, the cigar scent of Coach lingering around, the burnt sweetness of curiosity that breaks through all those smells. I envision myself in the water, thinking how much I've missed it, like half of me has been hiding for days. I push away the face of the silver mermaid lurking in the back of my thoughts. I think of the sea. I think of me in the sea.

Hey, this pool works too.

I dive, harder than I really need to, so I push myself more than halfway across the pool. I let my gills open, my eyes taking in the blueness of the tiles, the lights bouncing off the surface of the water. I let myself spin in one place, then surface to stroke. The gills recede and I turn my face to breathe. I've already reached the end of the pool.

"Twenty seconds!" I've never heard Coach scream like that. "You cousin here did nineteen, but he can't compete with us next week. Holy mackerel! You swim like that, boy, and we'll be Triborough champs for the first time since I took over the team!"

I don't try to hide my smile, and I welcome the pats on the back from everyone. Except Maddy and Layla, who pretend this isn't happening. I walk past them and splash them with the water dripping from my hands.

"You're such a tool, Tristan," Layla says.

"Hey, look, you're alliterating, Ms. Pippen ought to give you an A."

Coach blows his whistle again. "All right, enough of that. I have an idea. Say this is an experiment. Hart's cousin-what's your name again there, bud?-Kurt, that's nice-Say Kurt here is the controlled experiment, and you all on my team are the uncontrolled experiment. You all have to best him. Matter of fact, Kurt's sister came in at 20.5 seconds also, so she'll be the second round. Who wants to go first?"

No one raises their hands.

No one except for Layla, who shoots her hand into the air. Always with something to prove.

Kurt's usually somber face breaks into an amused laugh.

"What's so funny?" Layla puts her hands on her hips and stares right at him. If I know one thing, it's that I don't want to be on the other side of that gaze when she's angry. It's like laser beams trying to fry your face.

"Nothing, I-"

But she doesn't let him finish. She turns from him and gets into position. This isn't the best plan Coach could've come up with. It's one thing when we're racing each other. This is like putting us in the ring with Oscar De La Hoya and calling him a controlled experiment.

Layla stretches her body, rivulets of water still rolling off her tan shoulders. She's the same girl who followed me out to the beach to swim the Mississippi. A wild spirit, her dad calls her. Here she is, trying to best a merman at swimming without even knowing it. It's kind of hot.

The whistle blows, and they tuck their heads and push off. If he were any kind of a gentleman, Kurt would let her win. Something tells me that he's not the kind of guy who just lets things fly. He swims as he did before, all sinew and muscle, like he's blending into the water.

Layla is about a foot behind him, which, considering he's unearthly, is pretty d.a.m.n good. The only time I've ever seen her swim this hard is when we were on lifeguard duty at the YMCA pool and a little girl fell in the deep end. Talk about motivation. Maybe Coach really knows what he's talking about, mostly.

They reach one end, and Layla flips backward. She pushes herself with everything she has and is neck and neck with him, stroke for stroke, as they race back to our end of the pool. Even the girls on the bleachers stand up to get a better look. Kurt finishes first, pulling himself out of the pool in one swift motion. Layla comes up not three seconds behind, gasping for air. She rubs the water out of her eyes and pulls off her swimming cap. Her hair is coming loose from its bun and floating around her like a lily pad.

"I'm going to feel that in the morning," she says.

"Ho-ho!" Coach looks at his timer. "Not bad, Santos. Twenty-two seconds."

Kurt and I reach out our hands to pull Layla out of the pool. She stares at them, then swims across the lanes and pulls herself out.

"I'm not putting too much stress on you, am I?" Coach asks Kurt in what he thinks is a conspiratorial, hushed voice but that we can all still hear.

"None at all, sir."

"That's a good boy." Coach slaps Kurt on the shoulder and is surprised that his hand hurts after doing so.

"Who's next?"

And like pulling big rotten teeth, one by one the team goes up against Kurt. Some of them, like Jerry, get about halfway across the pool before giving up completely, and others, like Ryan, try their hardest but come in well behind. And then there's Angelo, who's waiting to race against Thalia, because he thinks it'll be easier.

"Hart, you haven't gone yet."

I stand at the mark beside Kurt. "You tired yet?"

"I believe I've only warmed up my arms," he says, flexing his bicep in the air.

"I didn't take you for an exhibitionist," I go.

"It's not exhibition. It's allowing the general public a great privilege."

"I'll go easy on you, I promise."

"Please don't. It's customary for the guard to compete against princes and princesses."

"Shhh."

Kurt breaks into a rare smile. His eyes focus on the end of the pool where Layla stands by herself, wrapped in a red and black towel. She likes to walk around the pool between drills to keep herself warm.

Coach's whistle snaps me awake, and I'm already a second behind Kurt. I don't hold back, because I know he isn't either, not for the lowly humans and not for me. We are equals, mermano-a-mermano, racing across the pool.

Then it happens.

The tingle starts at my spine, like my calamari tattoo is running out of juice. It's a craving and burning all in one, spreading along my legs, my forearms. I reach the far end of the pool where Layla stands and grab the edge, shaking the cramp out of my leg. The feeling subsides as I push against the s.h.i.+ft that wants to burst out of me. I look up at Layla, whose eyes are wide on me. I look down at what she's staring at and see the cl.u.s.ters of blue scales that have popped up along my wrist. I press against them and brush them away. They dissolve into sand. I turn around and dive back in, even though I know Kurt has already beaten me. I just have to get away from her. Pretend like she didn't see anything, even though I want her to see. I want her to know, even though it'll be dangerous.

"What the h.e.l.l happened there, Hart?" Coach is on me the moment I surface.

"Cramp, Coach."

"Hmm. Don't scare me, boy. We only just got you back."

Kurt holds out his arm to pull me out of the water. I'm dripping, and I feel heavy, like my tail is showing.

It isn't.

Layla isn't standing at the opposite end of the pool anymore. She's nowhere around. I avoid Kurt's stare, because I don't know if he sensed what was happening. I don't know if anyone saw. Then again, if they did, they'd be a little more shocked than now. Shocked like Layla's eyes. Something in me broke, and as Coach blows his whistle to resume the races, I'm almost positive that I wanted her to see.

Are you joining us?" Kurt hovers around the entrance that descends to the locker rooms.

"I'm going to hang for a bit. I'll meet you guys outside."

"You're sure?" I don't know what it is about Kurt. His seemingly all-knowing violet eyes, his I'm-103-and-I've-seen-the-world att.i.tude. Or just that he can see right through me.

"I need to swim."

"Take your time. Your parents aren't gathering us for another forty-five minutes." He turns and follows the echo of the rest of the team down the stairs.

Coach locked the entrance to the pool, so the only way in or out is through the locker rooms. I grab a towel from the bin, leave it at the edge of the pool with my Speedo, and jump in feetfirst. I let myself float, close my eyes, and feel the s.h.i.+ft. I don't hold my breath as I feel the quick burn at either side of my throat where my gills open, and my legs stiffen and cramp where my fins grow. I trace the splatter of blue scales along my forearms. I swim just an inch above the white tiles, flip and twist, then lie right in the center with my arms behind my back. So this is what it's like to sleep underwater. The surface of the water dances with the light, back and forth and back and forth, making its own patterns. I wish I could stay here all day.

Then there's a splash at the end of the pool. I push myself up, willing my legs to s.h.i.+ft back. The split is the hardest, a burning that only lasts a moment but feels like forever. My thighs cramp up on the first couple of kicks. I swallow a mouthful of chlorine when my head breaches the surface, my neck stinging where my gills have closed like shutters.

"What the h.e.l.l was that?" Layla surfaces when I do. She's in her bra and panties.

And I'm naked.

I grab on to the metal steps on the end of the pool. "A little privacy, do you mind?"

"Oh, who cares. It's not like everyone else hasn't seen it."

"Shut up, Layla. You don't even know what you're talking about." Why is she here? I thought they were all gone. My brain is a distorted jumble of curses and poor excuses. I grab for my towel and pull myself out of the water. Bad move, bad move. I try to rub off where my scales are still dissolving into sand.

"What the h.e.l.l is that?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." If I've gotten one thing right from my experiences with the opposite s.e.x, it's that I know how to be a jerk.

"In the water. You were-?" She can't say it. She knows how crazy she'll sound. "I thought I saw-"

"-me naked? Congratulations. Your wildest dream come true."

She grazes her hand across the surface, splas.h.i.+ng me. She swims to the steps and pulls herself out. She slides to the towel bin and grabs one to wrap around herself. It's too late, though. I've already seen what I needed to see. It's different from seeing her in a bathing suit all summer or during meets. This is more intimate, all lace and good-night dreams. Her hair is dark with water, curling at the tips.

"Don't tell me I didn't see what I think I just saw. You ignore me for days. And your two new mysterious cousins show up out of nowhere with matching tattoos."

I breathe in her panic, anger, sadness. "It's a family crest," I go, pulling on my Speedo under the towel.

"More like the freaky-eye cult."

I gasp. "You told me my eyes were beautiful!"

"We were six."

"So?"

"And you told me I was your best friend. Or did your near-death experience make you realize that I don't matter anymore?" She's reaching out to me. She holds my wrists in her arms.

I think about the whirlpool in my dreams. The silver mermaid, her sharp white teeth and eyes. Opening my eyes after the storm and seeing Layla's face, the hot white sun around her skin. The smile on her face when she realized it was me. The times we snuck into the aquarium after hours on a dare, and her face at the sight of glow-in-the-dark sea horses. If she got hurt, it would be because of me.

"I-I can't tell you. I can't tell you what's going on. Maybe one day. But not now."

"You can tell me anything." Her hold tightens.

"This is different-"

"But-why?"

When I don't answer, she looks down at our wet feet. She's giving up on me, and I'm going to let her. She's about to say something else, but we're interrupted by the loudest crack of thunder, a reminder that I have somewhere to be. "Good-bye, Layla."

I turn from her and go back into the dressing rooms, breathing in deeply so at least I can sense her near me-lavender and salt and crushed flowers, sticky between her fingertips. She loves me not.

The farther we walk along the boardwalk, the more lost in the mist we get, and the less I can make out the outline of the Wonder Wheel or anything beyond a few feet or even my mom's red hair. This doesn't feel like my Brooklyn, my Coney, my home. Something in the air, the smell of the belly of the sea churning, is a different kind of familiar. My gills itch with expectancy, a longing for something I only feel when I'm in the water.

Funny how a few days ago I was diving off the pier just for the h.e.l.l of it, and Layla was diving in after me just to show everyone she could. I wish I'd said something else to her, something that might make her still have a little hope in me. I'm losing her, and in the dark fog that hugs us, I fear I already have.

Thalia grabs hold of my hand, our feet crunching on the thin layer of sand on the creaky floorboards. She sighs, and her sigh sounds like a cloud deflating. I don't know what to say to her that wouldn't seem corny. She's wearing the red and black bracelet Ryan gave her after school, a skinny rubber thing with our team logo-the Guardian Knights. She lifts her hand periodically to look at it, as though she can read the time on it.

"Tristan." My name comes out in such a whisper that I can barely recognize it as my mother's voice. Soft thunder rumbles in the distance. "We're here." She holds on to Dad's hand and leans in to kiss his cheek. I can't see his face, but I know he's looking down.

"Ready or not," Dad says in the same way he always did when we played around the apartment, the park, or the white hallways of his office building.

My eyes focus for the first time on the small wooden s.h.i.+p bopping along the pier. Sheer and iridescent sails puff against the breeze. Two small creatures zoom back and forth, pulling on deep green ropes, pus.h.i.+ng crates, and rolling barrels. A line of people are making their way onto the deck one by one.

"Solitary merfolk," Kurt answers before I can even ask. "They're not bound to our court in any other way than being of the sea folk. Still, they make their offerings when we're here, just to have our protection."

Protection? Protection from what? I'm about to ask, but we've already stopped walking.

Dad pulls me into a hug, and we clap our hands against each other's backs. We've never really had to say good-bye for anything, just the one time at swim camp, and we knew exactly where I'd be going then and when I'd be coming back. Something inside me falters, but when I let go and look at the s.h.i.+p, look out at the darkening skies, I know there are more important things.

Mom holds my face in her hands, our eyes mirrors of each other. "Don't forget. At the offering you must only give the contents of the front pocket. The side pocket is for my father-"

"Relax, I got it," I a.s.sure her while trying to rea.s.sure myself. I sling both my arms into the straps of the backpack she stuffed with goodies for our trip.

She sighs, letting go of my face and taking Dad's outstretched hand. They walk back down the way we came and fold deeply into the mist.

I've already tripped on a barrel and stepped on a barnacled claw foot. It isn't exactly the perfect start to a voyage. We aren't moving yet. Kurt and Thalia lead me through cl.u.s.ters of creatures who stare at the Coney Island boardwalk as though they're afraid they'll never see it again. I force myself not to look at it, because part of me feels the same way.

The pa.s.sengers vary. There's a family of unbelievably hot girls with green faces and webbed hands. They wear little cut-off denim shorts and bikini tops, their oversized sungla.s.ses perched on top of their heads like plastic crowns, as if they're just going on a regular family vacay to the Bahamas or Cancun, not a floating island off the coast of New York City.