Pretty in Pearls: A Forgive My Fins Novella (HarperTeen Impulse) (12 page)

The side of Quince’s mouth lifts in a little smirk. But—much to my shock—he doesn’t say a word of what I know is running through his mind. He just holds my stare, daring me to ask Brody right in front of him.

An audience is the last thing I need.

I can just imagine the humiliation that would bring. Especially if Brody says no. Which he probably will. I mean, he sees me as a pal. A news-team buddy and swim-team manager.
Maybe
he’s noticed I’m a girl—I’m not completely devoid in the topside department—but I’m sure he’s never thought of me like that. As a girl who might be interested in a boy. In him.

He’ll probably laugh in my face.

If he’s going to give me the big letdown, I’d rather do this audience-free.

Unwilling to concede the staredown to Quince, I answer Brody without looking away. “I’ll, uh, ask you later.”

“Sure,” he says. “See ya, Fletcher.”

“Yeah,” Quince says, smiling. “Later.” Then he winks at me.

That is the last straw.

As Brody slips out the door—heading for his first-period class, economics—I launch out of my chair and attack Quince with a howl of frustration.

“Aaargh!”
I try to pummel him with my fists, but he grabs me by the wrists and easily holds me back. “Why?” I shout. “Why do you enjoy ruining my life?”

I keep yelling at Quince, struggling against his solid grip. Working on motorcycles must build muscles, because he looks like he’s not even trying hard to keep me from beating the carp out of him.

I swear, I never used to be this violent. Mermaids are always a little more hot-blooded on land, but whenever I’m around
him
, I just want to break things. Starting with his nose—

“Chill, princess,” he says in that annoyingly soothing voice. “I just saved you from making a huge mistake.”

That gets my attention.

“Excuse me?”

“Asking Benson to the dance just then—”

“Bennett,” I correct automatically.

“—would have gotten you a big fat no.”

I hold my fury for about three seconds before I slump. Great. It’s bad enough to know deep down that your dream guy doesn’t want you, but to have an outsider say the same thing really sucks seaweed.

Okay, so maybe I’m not a knockout cheerleader like Courtney. My nose is a little on the longish side and my pale skin will never take a tan—sun exposure is pretty limited in the deep blue sea. My hair is, as previously lamented, a disaster. My curves aren’t totally lacking, but they’re not lingerie-catalog-worthy. I’ve got too many freckles, my eyes are too big, and I have the coordination of a giant octopus. Maybe Quince is right. I could never—

“Don’t do that,” he says, as if sensing my train of thought, his voice softer. “Don’t twist my words.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I wasn’t saying you have no chance with him.” He finally releases my wrists and steps back. “You’re too good for a loser like him.”

“Then what,” I bite out, ignoring his second comment, “were you saying?”

“Asking him to the dance is not the way to catch his attention.”

“Oh really,” I snap. “What do you know about it?”

“I know,” he says, lowering casually into one of the editing chairs like he belongs, “that he’s not looking for a date.”

“And just how would you know that?”

“Courtney.”

“Right.” I drop into my chair. “Why would she tell you anything?”

He stretches his long, jeans-hugged legs out in front of him and sets one biker boot on top of the other. “Some girls actually
enjoy
talking to me.”

“Only ones with jellyfish for brains,” I mutter.

“Anyway,” he continues, “when Bens—”

When I start to correct him, he holds up a hand and backtracks.

“When Bennett broke up with her, he said he wanted to be single for a while, taste the fruits of freedom and all that garbage. He’ll be going stag to the dance.”

I roll my eyes. As if I believe anything this sea slug says.

“Ask him, then,” he says.

“I will.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I stand, grabbing my backpack and slinging it over my shoulder. “I won’t.”

The tardy bell rings as I step out into the hall.
Damselfish!
One more tardy to American government and it’ll drop my already precarious grade. Yet another thing I can blame on Quince Fletcher.

    
3

G
o now!” Shannen shoves me out of the lunch line. “Before the goons behind us get to his table.”

Glancing over my shoulder, I see that she’s right. Brody’s posse—the swim team and cheerleading squad—are in line behind Shannen, behind the spot I just occupied. Out in the cafeteria, Brody is sitting alone at their table.

If I’m going to ask him, I’d better do it now. It’s my best chance.

With a deep breath, I hand my lunch to Shannen, push my way through the crowd around the registers, and make my way to Brody’s table. He doesn’t notice right away when I approach, so I clear my throat. He looks up and all the words in my mind wash away. He’s like high tide, clearing out my thoughts as easily as driftwood on the beach.

For a moment I’m back to the first time I saw him. It was the afternoon before my first day at Seaview High. The nerves and the fears and the homesickness had gotten to me. I was a mermaid, a
girl of the sea! What was I thinking, going to terraped high school? I’d never survive.

So I’d left Aunt Rachel a note and headed for the beach. Leaving my clothes under the pier, I’d slipped beneath the water, intent on swimming home.

Then there was a splash in front of me, and when the bubbles cleared, I saw a boy gliding beneath the waves. He was clearly human, but he swam like he belonged in the water. Like he
was
the water.

That was the moment I knew. If a terraped boy could feel that at home in the water, surely I could survive a few months on land. After all, I was half human. And I wanted to find out more about my mom’s world.

That was also the moment I fell in love with Brody. He’s the reason I’ve stayed in Seaview for all of high school, instead of the one year I’d originally planned. He’s my future mermate.

Of course, when I was little, I never imagined I’d be bringing a human boy home to meet Daddy, but I’m pretty confident Daddy will see that Brody’s meant to be in the water. And Brody will love Thalassinia.

It’s way past time I finally tell him how I feel.

Smiling, he says, “Hey, Lil.” He forks a bite of pasta into his mouth. “What’s up?”

“Um,” I say, my voice suddenly quivering like an electric eel on full volts. “About what I was going to ask you this morning.”

“Right.” He swallows his food and takes another bite. “Shoot.”

“Well, I just—”

“Hey, is this about that special report on price gouging in the school vending machines?” His brows drop to shadow his golden-brown eyes. “I verified my numbers with three independent snack food distributors.”

I love that he is so dedicated to his work and excited about this exposé, but is a nickel a candy bar really price gouging?

“Actually, it’s about Spring Fling,” I blurt. “Since you and Courtney broke up, I was wondering if you might want to . . .”

My question trails off when I see his eyes soften with something that looks dangerously like sympathy. No, no, no. Not a good sign.

He sets down his fork and stands up.

“Oh, Lil,” he says, sounding sincerely sad. “You know I love you, but—”

No phrase in the history of civilization that begins with “I love you, but . . .”
has ever ended well.

“Sure,” I say quickly, eager to get my humiliation over with. “No problem.” Tears prickle at the back of my eyes. “Forget I asked.”

I turn to rush away, but Brody grabs my arm.

“Listen,” he says, pulling me back to face him. “I need some time on my own right now. To find out what I really want for the first time in two years. It wouldn’t be fair to you—or any girl—if I said yes.”

Whatever. He’s just too nice to say he’d never in a million billion years go with someone like me.

“Of course,” I say, sniffing, hoping my tears don’t well up beyond the point of surface tension. “I totally understand.”

And I totally need to get out of here. Breaking into tears in the school cafeteria only leads to one thing: gossip. Most of the school already thinks I’m part freak. I don’t need to feed the swell.

“Hey,” he says, reaching for my chin and tilting my head up. “Save me a dance.”

I smile weakly.

“Promise,” he says, flashing me his most charming smile.

I nod. Then the table is suddenly surrounded by jocks and swishing poms. Taking advantage of the crowd, I slip away and head for the nearest restroom.

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.