Girls Day Out Page 3

  We approach the belly of a fishing vessel, which means we’re getting closer to shore. Rayna stops and turns to face me. “We could still salvage the day with that boat over there.”

  “What do you mean?” I’m wary that our definition of “salvage” is vastly different. Along with our views on life in general.

  “I’ll show you.” Coming from Rayna, those words scare me. “But first, you might want to help your friends over there.”

  A large school of sizeable amberjack under the boat circles, obviously flirting with the idea of going after the big chunk of meat dangling from a not-so-invisible fishing line. “Swim away,” I call to them. “Danger! Swim away.” They scatter in all directions, and a few of them come to inspect me and Rayna. One of the trio bumps into my shoulder.

  “I’m not food,” I tell it. “Go away.”

  But it’s Rayna who swims away first, toward the vessel. She skims the ocean floor on the way, dredging her hand through the sand, stirring up all kinds of muck.

  “What are you doing?” I say when I catch up to her.

  “Help me find a stick or something.” Then her eyes rest on a sunken bed of seaweed a few feet away from us. “That will do, actually.” She digs up an armful of it and swims over to the vessel. Meticulously, she wraps the seaweed around and around the fishing line, covering the hook completely. “You’ve got to be careful not to tug on the line,” she explains. “They’ll pull it up early and then there’ll be no fun.”

  I nod because what else am I supposed do?

  When she’s used all the seaweed, she inspects the end of the line where the hook used to be visible. Softly, she presses into the seaweed blob and finds the point of it. “The seaweed is to help you grip,” she says. “You don’t want the hook slipping around in your hands. There’s a second point here on the inside of it that you’ve got to watch out for.” With her thumb, she delicately rubs where she thinks the second point is. “If you pull too hard, you’ll hook yourself. I’ve done it before. I thought Toraf would pass out.”

  And I’ve got nothing.

  Wrapping one hand around the hook like a handle, she gives it a sharp tug. The line gives, allowing her several feet of slack. Almost instantly though, a tug responds in kind, and the line starts pulling her closer to the boat. She giggles. “Watch,” she says, delighted.

  Then she starts swimming in the opposite direction, pulling the hook behind her as if to drag the vessel along with her. She actually makes some headway before a tug-of-war ensues. “Can you imagine what they’re thinking?” she snickers. “Whoa.”

  Suddenly, she’s jerked back and pulled toward the boat. “Let go!” I scream.

  “Why? You want a turn?”

  The word “exasperation” was invented for just this situation. “Rayna, stop messing around. What if they catch you?”

  Even in the distance, I see her roll her eyes. “What do you and Galen do for fun? No, don’t tell me. I’ll fall asleep.” Still holding the line, she puts a halt to the fisherman’s progress and starts swimming under the boat. “Let’s see what they think about this.”

  After a few minutes of this, the fishermen obviously make their way to the other side of the vessel where Rayna is swimming madly toward Europe. I can’t help but grin at the sight of her. She looks so young and innocent thrashing around in the water, wrenching the hook this way and that. I wonder if this is a game often played by Syrena; I doubt it. They have strict rules about interacting with humans.

  Rules that Rayna might as well use as toilet paper.

  I swim closer to the boat and listen. There’s a huge commotion going on up top. Manly shouts and frantic conversation. The belly of the vessel rocks with the intensity of the upheaval Rayna has caused onboard. I suspect this might be the most action they’ve gotten all day. “You’re freaking them out,” I tell her.

  She laughs. “Wait until they see this.” Then she takes poor Lily and impales her on the hook, giving the line a final, violent jerk. Without delay, Lily is pulled in. I try to envision their faces as they pull up a doll belonging to a little girl named Caroline. It’s probably the most morbid thing they’ve ever seen.

  All at once, the boat becomes calm in the water. And Rayna and I burst out laughing.

  * * *

  We settle onto the couch and nestle the popcorn bowl between us. Rayna still has tears in her eyes from the last chick flick we watched. The word “contradiction” comes to mind.

  To our right, the sliding glass door opens and Toraf pops his head in. “Rayna, are we still fighting?” When he gets a close look at her, he opens the door all the way and is sitting beside her on the armrest within a matter of seconds. Cradling her face in his hands, he wipes the tears from her eyes. “Princess, what’s wrong? Please don’t cry.”

  Oh, gag me.

  She throws herself into his arms. “We’re not fighting anymore, Toraf. Take me home.”

  Toraf gives me a scalding look. “What’d you do to her?”

  “That tone is not going to work out for you, minnow,” Galen says from the back door. He closes it behind him. He’s wearing only swimming trunks and his hair is wet; he must have taken a swim after detention. Crossing his muscular arms, he winks at me.

  And my stomach does this ridiculous fluttering thing.

  I tear my eyes away from Galen’s shirtless torso and turn my attention back to Toraf and his loaded question. “You mean what did Rayna do to me?”

  “That sounds more accurate,” Galen says. I try not to get too excited when he walks behind the couch and plants a kiss on my neck.

  Rayna jerks her head around and gives me a proceed-with-caution glare. She’s at my mercy right now. Oh, the things I could tell Toraf. I could blow her secret world out of the water all in one breath. And in that same breath, I could get myself in trouble with Galen.

  “What do you mean?” Toraf’s bluster is almost dissipated. Deep down, he knows Rayna is the starter of things.

  “I’m just kidding,” I say, shoving a handful of popcorn in my mouth. “We just watched a sad movie, is all.” And just like that, my opportunity to bust Rayna passes. But I’m okay with that.

  Because, truth be told, someday I’d like another girls day out.

  TURN THE PAGE TO READ CHAPTER ONE OF…

  OF NEPTUNE

  By Anna Banks

  1

  I DIG my bare feet into the sand, getting just close enough to the water for the mid-morning waves to tickle my toes. Each lazy wave licks my feet, then retreats as if beckoning me into the Atlantic Ocean, whispering of adventure. Of mischief.

  Of peace-and-freaking quiet.

  Which is all I want after this past summer. What with Jagen’s attempt to take over the kingdoms, our near discovery by humans, me leading a wall of fish to an underwater tribunal—we barely had room to breathe. And then our breath was all but stolen away from us when Rachel drowned.

  We deserve a break from it all, Galen and I. But it doesn’t look like we’re getting one.

  Behind me, the wind hauls with it the occasional shout erupting from my house. The bellows of Galen and his older brother Grom taint the air with a rancor that repels me further from the house and deeper into the water. I roll up my pajama pants and, letting the saltwater have its way with my calves, try to ignore the words I can make out between the squawks of seagulls overhead.

  Words like “loyalty” and “privacy” and “law.” I cringe when I hear the word “grief.” That word comes from Grom, and after it, no words come from Galen. It’s a kind of silence I’ve come to recognize from him. One filled with anguish, torment, guilt, and the overwhelming need to say or do something to hide it.

  But there is no hiding that Rachel’s death mauled the deepest parts of him. She was more than just his reminder of assistant. She was his closest human friend. Maybe the others don’t see the depths of it. If they did, they wouldn’t throw it in his face or use it against him. But I do see it. I know what it’s like to have so much heartach
e you come to despise the air that keeps you alive.

  Galen doesn’t cry. He doesn’t talk about her. There seems to be a part of Galen that belonged to Rachel, and she took that part with her. What’s left of him is trying hard to function without the missing piece, but it can’t quite coordinate. Like a car running on empty.

  I want to help him, to tell him I know how he feels. But comforting someone is different being comforted. In a way, it’s harder. I went through this after Dad died of cancer. After my best friend Chloe was attacked by a shark. But I still don’t know what to do or say to make it better for Galen. Because only many, many sunrises can soften the pain. And it hasn’t been long enough for that yet.

  I feel bad that I left my mom in the kitchen to deal with this mess by herself. Poseidon princess that she is, this is a difficult problem to navigate alone. But I can’t go back in yet. Not until I think of a fantastic excuse of why I thought it was okay to abandon a very serious and very-important-to-Galen conversation. I should be there with them in the kitchen, standing beside him, arms crossed, giving Grom the stank eye to reiterate that I am not his Royal subject and that I’m on Galen’s side no matter what that might involve.

  But it’s hard to face Grom like that when I’m kinda sorta in agreement with him. Especially since the Triton king is one of the most intimidating people I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. He would home in on my reluctance. He would see through me if I put up pretenses about the trip.

  This stupid trip.

  Last year at prom—well, our own version of prom, which involved dancing underwater in Armani—we promised each other we would take a trip to the mountains. To get away from it all, or whatever. And at first, this whole summer jaunt inland with Galen seemed like a good idea to me. Actually, it seemed like unfiltered heaven. He’s adamant that he wants to be alone with me. To make up for all the time we lost mutually denying our feelings for each other. Then the time we spent fending off Jagen’s advance on both the kingdoms. And what could be better than that? Spending private time with Galen is about a ten on my Ecstasy-O-Meter. Of course I want to steal back all of the lost time—I’d steal the time before we actually met if I could somehow bribe the universe to grant wishes.

  But the bigger reason—the real reason—I think Galen wants to get away is Rachel. I know he wants a change in scenery. He wants to get away from the house they shared together. Especially from the now maddeningly quiet kitchen where she used to click around in stilettos while preparing him delectable seafood dishes. The house used to smell of cooking food and swirling Italian perfume and possibly gunpowder if you came on the right day.

  And don’t I know how that feels? Waking up every day in my bedroom full of all things Chloe was like getting a daily, fast-acting injection of painful memories. Staring at my dad’s empty place setting at the table felt like watching vultures of the past circling around his empty chair. But Galen hasn’t allowed himself to start the grieving process. And this trip seems to be an attempt to keep it at bay even longer. Which can’t be healthy. And since it’s not healthy, I feel more like an enabler than a supporter.

  Either way, I should go back now. I should go back and be there for Galen and tell Grom no matter his reasons Galen needs this trip. Then express my own concerns with Galen privately. I should be there for him now and support him in front of the others, just as he would me—just as he’s done for me.

  I’ll need to explain myself—why I left during the conversation in the first place—say something so that I don’t look like the jerk that I am. Tact hasn’t been my specialty lately. I’m thinking Galen’s sister Rayna is contagious, and she’s somehow infected me with the rudeness. But maybe tact isn’t what I need. Maybe I should try the truth. The truth would only embarrass Galen, I decide. And make him feel even more alone.

  Or maybe I’m just being a quivering chicken about the whole thing.

  I guess I have to take an honest-to-God stab at tact. Lovely.

  As soon as I turn to go back, I sense my grandfather in the water. The pulse of the Poseidon King Antonis coils around my legs like a tightening string. Fan-freaking-tastic. Just what we need. Another Royal opinion on the matter of our road trip.

  I wait for him to surface, trying to think of a great excuse as to why he shouldn’t go to the house. I’ve got nothing. Anything I say will come off as unwelcoming, when really, I’d like to see him more often. He’s high up on the list of people—well, people who have a fin—I’d like to spend time with. But now is not a good time for spending.

  It’s not long before my excuse to shoo him away presents itself in the form of Naked Grandfather. I cover my eyes, irritation bubbling up against my will. “Really? You really forget every single time you change into human form to put shorts on? You cannot go in the house like that.”

  Grandfather sighs. “My apologies, young Emma. But you must admit, all these human traditions are a bit overwhelming. Where might I find a short?”

  That clothes seem like a mountainous burden to him reminds me that our worlds are spectacularly different. And that I could learn a lot from him. Without unshielding my eyes, I point toward the water, in the exact opposite direction I know Galen has a pair hidden. When in doubt, stall. “Try over there. Under the slab of rock. And they’re called shorts, not ‘a short.’”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to bore someone else with your human expressions, young one. I couldn’t possibly care less.” I hear him disappear under the water, surfacing several seconds later. “The short is not here.”

  I shrug. “Guess you can’t go in then.” This is going better than I thought it would.

  I can practically feel him crossing his arms at me. Here we go.

  “You think I’m here to object to your going inland with Galen.”

  My mouth drops open. And I stutter excessively when I say, “Well. Um. Aren’t you?” Because so far, he’s done nothing but play hall monitor between me and Galen. A few months ago, he walked in on us while we were making out, and Galen nearly passed out because of it. Ever since then Galen has been terrified of disappointing the Poseidon king, so Grandfather’s negative opinion on this trip might actually be a game changer.

  Which is why he cannot go in the house.

  I hear Grandfather melt into the water, and he confirms it with, “You can turn around now.” Only his shoulders and chest are above the waves. He smiles. It’s the kind of adoring smile I’ve always imagined a grandfather gives his grandchildren when they bring him their most hideous Crayola creation. “I’m certainly not happy about you going inland, of course. I had wanted to spend a bit more time together, too. But I know from past experience that Poseidon princesses are not inclined to care about my opinion.”

  It’s kind of cool to be referred to as a princess, even though my mother is the princess of Poseidon territory. Still, I raise a get-to-the-point brow. Grandfather responds best to frank and direct.

  “I’m here to speak to you, Emma. Only you.”

  Mortified, I wonder if there exists a Syrena expression for “the birds and the bees talk.” Probably there is, and it’s probably some god-awful analogy having to do with plankton or worse.

  In the distance, we hear a shout of outrage. He cocks his head at me. “Why aren’t you in there helping your prince?”

  If I thought I felt guilty before.… But then I remember that this business is not for Grandfather’s nose. I’m actually doing Galen a favor by stalling now. “Because if I stay there any longer, I’ll grow a beard from all the testosterone hovering in the air.” Of course, my answer is over his head; he indicates this with a bored-silly eye roll. Syrena do not know—nor apparently care—what testosterone is.

  “If you don’t wish to tell me, that is fine,” he says. “I have trust in your judgment.” More shouting from behind me. Maybe my judgment sucks after all. I’m about to excuse myself, when he says, “It’s better this way, that they’re distracted. What I have to say is for your ears only, young Emma.” A seagull ov
erhead drops a bomb then, and it lands cleanly on Grandfather’s shoulder. He mutters some fishy expletive and swishes saltwater over the offending white glob, setting it off to sea. “Why don’t you come into the water, so we can close some of the distance between us? I’d rather someone didn’t overhear. Here, I’ll change back to Syrena form if that will make you more comfortable.”

  I wade into the Atlantic, not caring to roll up my pajamas this time. I pass a large crab who looks like he’s tempted to nip at me. I squat in the water, submerging my entire head, and come face-to-face with the crab. “If you pinch me,” I tell it, “I’ll pick you up and throw you on the beach for the gulls.” The Gift of Poseidon—the ability to talk to fish—does have its advantages. Bossing around marine life is just one of them.

  I’ve come to realize crabs in particular throw mini temper tantrums. I wonder if that’s where the term “crabby” came from in the first place. He scuttles away, as if I’ve ruined his whole day. When I resurface and reach Grandfather, I can no longer touch the ground. Gliding up to him, I say, “So? We’re as private as we can be.”

  Then he smiles at me like I am the reason he is floating instead of the waves or his powerful fin. “Before you leave on your adventure, young Emma, I need to tell you about a town called Neptune.”