Shining Sea Read online

  Watching the lens turn, I sing softly to the slow rhythm of the flashing light. Thunder rumbles as if in response, and raindrops begin to run down the glass walls . . .

  Suddenly a jagged arc of lightning splinters across the sky—

  The lantern room flares white, and I spring to my feet—

  As the sharp edges of the prisms turn to glimmering gossamer membrane.

  Heart hammering, I rub my eyes with the fingers of both hands. Cover them.

  That was a dream, a nightmare, the boy with his bending, contorting body, the silver-scaled limb—it wasn’t real. Isn’t real.

  And when I look again—

  The sharp edges of the prisms are just that. But still I hurry down the ladder, down the stairs, and back to bed.

  Covers drawn up to my chin, it seems like hours before the calm comes, before I feel myself subsiding into sleep, and as I do, the words I’d heard at dinner echo in my ears, accompanied now by dark tendrils of music . . .

  The sound circles me . . .

  Like black birds in flight . . .

  SYMPTOMS

  It’s early. The room is bathed in silvered morning light.

  The painted cement floor of the bedroom is icy cold beneath my feet—

  Because the bathroom window is wide open.

  Blanket wrapped around me, I stare. I didn’t leave it open, didn’t open it at all, I know I didn’t.

  The white. The window. The person in my room.

  My pulse picks up. But I can’t panic about this now—I need to get to school. And I don’t have a ride. Damn. There’s a slim chance Dad’s still down at the house. That’ll mean we’ll have to talk, but still. I glance at the clock. No, he’s definitely gone.

  Gone. A sharp pain nearly doubles me over—

  Bo. I have to see him. Have to hear his voice. I sink down on the desk chair . . .

  What’s wrong with me?

  A few minutes later, the strange cramp subsides. But my pulse remains erratic. This is crazy—is this what Bo’s brother warned him about?

  In the shower my tears mingle with the warm spray, and I berate myself. There’s nothing between Bo and me—nothing to cry over. And the pain . . . is a coincidence. It has to be.

  God—how am I going to get to school? I’d told Dad not to worry, that I’d ask Mary or Logan to drive me to school this week—Logan. Hopefully he’s okay. I’ll find out in homeroom, but for now, Rock Hook must have a cab company.

  I put on a pair of jeans. Unfold the shell-pink sweater. My throat tightens unexpectedly. Mom likes to buy me things, as if that makes up for being MIA. It doesn’t. I wish she were here.

  Yeah? And what would you tell her?

  There’s this guy—I don’t know. I think he was in my room last night. I want him anyway.

  I slip the sweater on over a camisole. A rumble of thunder rolls across the water.

  Down in the cottage I start to second-guess myself, thinking maybe I should stay home, take a sick day. I feel anxious, like there’s something I need, badly, but have forgotten what that something is. I look myself over in the mirror by the front door, but other than being super pale, there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong. I’m dressed. I’m—fine. I head for the phone—

  Then stop short, halfway down the hall.

  Bo is standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. He cocks his head to one side.

  “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” Drops of rain splatter the windows.

  “I thought—” I walk into the kitchen. “You told me goodbye.”

  “Figured you must have car troubles, or you wouldn’t be driving your father’s truck.”

  “Yes, but—” I shiver, and can’t help thinking, Stalker guy. “Did you even knock?”

  “Of course I knocked.” He shrugs. “Guess I knocked pretty hard. The door just . . . opened.” We stand staring at each other. Shifting colors fill his eyes, then they darken like the sky outside the windows as he brings his hands to the tops of my shoulders—

  My heart rate shoots up—I have a strong urge to push him away from me, know I should, but at the same time, I want to back him up against the counter, press myself against him—

  Suddenly he drops his hands.

  Push. Pull. Both of us seem to have at least two personalities. One of mine is irresistibly attracted to Bo, the other terrified. And he acts like two people as well; he said goodbye, now he’s here. He wants me—I’m sure of it—but he doesn’t. And what he wants me for . . . is questionable. He wants my breath.

  I offer him cereal instead. Then eggs. “Fruit?” I finally ask.

  “No, thank you,” he replies. “I’ve already eaten.”

  I need to know what that means, but I don’t want to know what that means. More push-pull. Self-consciously, I nibble an apple, realizing: I’m not hungry. And also, I feel better.

  “That’s all you’re having?”

  “Oh, I eat plenty, trust me.” The amount of sushi Logan and I consumed last night was criminal. Not knowing exactly why, I blush.

  “I’ve decided I do. Obviously.”

  “You do . . . trust me?”

  He nods. I wish I could say the same about him. Should I even take a ride from him? But even as I ask myself the question, I know I will, because—

  Midthought I notice the note sitting on the counter.

  Arion,

  Until we have a chance to talk about the truck, and I mean face-to-face, you’re grounded.

  Love, Your Dad

  P.S. See you got the package from your mom. Anything good? Chocolate?

  “Oh,” I say. “Huh.” I look back to Bo. Our eyes lock. Slowly, I pick up the piece of paper and hold it gingerly between my thumb and index finger. Biting my lip, I let it drop to the floor, where it slips beneath the kitchen table. “I think . . . I didn’t see that note.”

  “Good, because being grounded”—his lips twist—“would interfere with our plans.”

  “Our—plans?” A thundercrack makes me jump. The lightning strike had been nearby.

  “Grab your backpack, schoolgirl, wouldn’t want to be late.”

  I look at his light hair, his ocean eyes.

  I would like to be late.

  Questions crowd my mind.

  But Bo has questions of his own. On the drive to school he asks about my classes, specifically, which is my favorite. I tell him it’s a tie, between Music Theory and Oceanography.

  The windshield wipers play a swishing backbeat for his voice. He asks about my friends.

  All I can think is—I want to touch you. I say, “Thought you didn’t like small talk.”

  He says, “This isn’t small. Not anymore.”

  When we arrive at school, he turns to me and places the palm of one hand along the side of my face. Warmth spreads through me. I know I should go, but—I can’t move. Or maybe I just don’t want to. Slowly, he runs his thumb over my lips. Without even thinking, I open my mouth—

  He jerks his hand back, looking down at his fingers as though they belong to someone else. Then he looks at me, one side of his mouth lifting. “I’ll pick you up after school.”

  Slightly dazed, I open the door. Surrounded by straggling students taking the steps two at a time, Alyssa stands under the dripping overhang. One hand on a cocked hip, she’s watching us.

  Bo’s smile is part smirk as his gaze flickers to Alyssa. He says, “High school.” But leaves it at that.

  Still feeling lightheaded, I dart into the rain.

  Alyssa tells me to slow down as the late bell rings and I push through the double doors.

  I don’t, so she matches me, stride for stride now, as I head down the hall to homeroom. “He likes long goodbyes, huh? I expect details, and I mean gory details, at lunch.”

  “Sure, but only the gory ones.” She slows, and I run on ahead of her.

  Outside the rain persists, but inside me a little fire burns. Totally preoccupied, I almost forget to find out why Mary didn’t come to the “stud
y session” on Saturday. Not that I stayed.

  “So what happened?” I ask her at lunch.

  “Nothing, really. Kevin was complaining, saying I don’t spend enough time with him, that I study too much.”

  “You study too much? Isn’t he the one planning on spending the next decade in school so he can become a doctor?”

  “Basically.”

  “And this weekend . . . he wanted to see you. On a Saturday.” I start to laugh. “Leave it to Alyssa to turn that into a bad thing.”

  “You’re kidding? She was trying to turn that into gossip?”

  “Uh-huh.” I drum my fingers on the table restlessly.

  “Your cheeks are, like, hot pink, Arion. Are you feeling okay?”

  “I feel great.” I feel like I’ve had ten cups of coffee actually; sitting still isn’t an option.

  “Hmm. You look like you’re burning up.” She reaches over and touches my forehead. “Ssss,” she hisses, drawing her hand back. “Seriously, what’s with you?”

  “Well . . .” My eyes scan the cafeteria. Logan wasn’t in homeroom—I haven’t seen him all morning.

  “He’s not here today,” she says.

  “Logan?” She nods, and looks like she has something more to add, but I lean in, and, in a voice that sounds feverish even to me, say, “Bo’s picking me up after school.”

  “Ooh, looks like I arrived just in time to hear the dirt,” Alyssa coos.

  Damn. That girl’s everywhere. “Bobby and Pete are on the patio,” I tell her. “They said they’re cutting this afternoon. Have anything to do with you?” Alyssa turns toward the row of windows that looks out on the flagstone patio where students cluster under umbrellas.

  “I’ll be right back.” She sets down her tray.

  “Nice move,” Mary says. “So what’s going on with you and Bo?”

  “Mm, I’m not really sure . . .”

  “But, ‘Mm’? Did you just say, ‘Mm,’ as in, Mm, yummy?”

  Damp air creeps up my neck as Alyssa reappears, holding the door open. “I’m going to cut with those guys. Anyone care to join us in a life of crime?”

  “Mm,” Mary says. “Let me think. Mm . . . no, thanks.” She bursts out laughing.

  “It’s going up to seventy degrees today, Mary, come. You can tell Bo to meet us, Arion.”

  “Seventy and rainy,” Mary says, looking pointedly at the windows.

  Alyssa continues as if Mary hadn’t spoken. “Or blow him off. Seriously, I know Bo. He’s not worth it.” Right. She knows him the way everyone does, which is to say, not at all. “I’m telling you,” she insists. “He’s a cold fish.”

  At this, I’m unable to control my laughter.

  “Fine. Laugh. But you’re not going to get anywhere with him. Mary, I’ll bring a Kevin or two for you. Come on.”

  Mary grins but shakes her head. Alyssa tosses her hair and then lets the door drop closed behind her.

  It’s probably a good thing that she isn’t going to be around later; she’d only be pissed to see that she’s wrong. I am getting somewhere with Bo.

  I just don’t know exactly where.

  TIDAL

  Across the parking lot, Bo opens the passenger door of the red Wrangler. He says hello and his voice—is like a touch. The nausea I’ve been feeling all afternoon vanishes, and I climb into my seat, albeit a bit unsteadily.

  Bo’s backing up when I spot Logan. He must have come in after lunch. “Hold on, I need to talk to Logan for a sec.”

  Bo spins the wheel—then accelerates. “Sorry? You need to what?” We shoot past Logan, who’s standing next to his truck, hand frozen on the door handle, his gray gaze unwavering as it meets mine.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” I say, voice shaking slightly. “I need to talk to Logan. I think—”

  “Do you think,” Bo muses, “that Delaine has a good memory, or a poor one?”

  “I have no idea—why are you asking about Logan’s memory?” My own memory seems fuzzy all of a sudden, filled with . . . white noise. What was I just thinking about?

  “Because the faster he forgets his feelings for you, the better.”

  “What feelings? Just because you guys have some weird history . . . What happened between the two of you?”

  “It’s complicated. Delaine thinks— But hey, we don’t need to talk about him, do we? How are you feeling, Arion?”

  “I feel fine. And no, we don’t have to talk about Logan—you’re the one that brought him up.”

  “You’re the one who was checking him out.”

  “Um, no—” The road forks and we head west. “Wait—are we going to Seal Cove?” Bo nods. My face heats with embarrassment at the memory of my splashdown and the almost kiss. I begin to protest. Then I think of the way someone had held me down, under the water, and how I don’t really know for certain that it hadn’t been Bo. “Actually—”

  But then our eyes meet, and there’s nothing for it. I have to go with him.

  “Fine. As long as I don’t have to take another rules-and-regs test.”

  “No rules, no regulations.” His lips twitch. Then his jaw tenses. “Yesterday, at Cliff House, did the things I told you frighten you?”

  The things you told me, like the fact that you can take my life? “Not really,” I say quickly.

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “Because I’m a bad liar?” He laughs. I say, “But I was a bit . . . overwhelmed.”

  “Yes, well, so was I.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel.

  “You told me you couldn’t be alone with me.”

  “Right. I did say that. And yet, here we are.”

  Moments later the drizzle stops and the sun comes out. When we arrive at Seal Cove, Bo comes around and opens my door. We make our way down to the waterline.

  “I’m sure you know plenty of guys who’d like to be alone with you,” he says.

  Unintentionally picturing Logan’s ghost eyes, I don’t answer, crouching to pick up a pink pebble still wet from the water.

  As we begin to walk, I reply, “No, I don’t think so. Hey, let me ask you a question.”

  “As long as my answers don’t have to be any more truthful than yours.” I laugh, my question forgotten, as he hands me a white clamshell edged with purple. I place the pebble in the shell, where it sits like a pearl. Beside us, Wabanaki Bay glitters in the late September sun.

  We reach the rocks at the end of the beach. Bo’s light hair blows across his ocean eyes.

  “We’re not so different, you know,” he says quietly. The water whispers, Shh . . .

  “Right.” If we weren’t so different, I’d kiss you now. I take a seat on the sand instead.

  “Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto.” He pronounces the words easily.

  “The inscription on the plaque at the library,” I say in response. “Means?”

  “Means, ‘I consider nothing that is human alien to me.’ Above all, Arion, I’m a man.”

  My hands, which, seemingly of their own accord have been squeezing and releasing small hills of sand, are suddenly between his, and it’s as if the two of us, touching, complete some kind of circuit. A current runs through me, plunging beneath my skin, to my blood. His gaze sharpens, and he draws me onto his lap. My knees press into the sand on either side of his hips, and unable to stop myself, I slide my arms up around his neck, lifting my lips—

  With a swift movement he brings one hand behind my head, tucks my face beneath his chin. Then he wraps his arms around me, and when he stands up, he takes me with him.

  Swaying on my feet, I breathe in the salt and pine scent of him, wanting in part to run, knowing, somehow, that I can’t. Sound pours over me like water: The whispered sound that comes from a seashell when you hold it to your ear—sent through a Marshall stack. A hundred songs, a thousand; the music vibrates inside me. Like a wave, it draws me under, tosses me over— Until I understand. The irresistible pull of him is the tug of the tides, the power of the sea.


  And music. I can feel what music sounds like.

  Then slowly, the music begins to fade—but his pull remains. He keeps one arm around my waist, as if to steady me. With his free hand, he yanks his shirt over his head and tosses it on the sand. The muscles of his arms and chest look smooth and strong; I don’t even try to stop myself—I slide my hands up over his chest, reaching for his face, turning it down toward me—

  “No!” Releasing me, he backs away, moving so suddenly he inadvertently steps into the water. He doesn’t seem to notice. “It’s not that simple.”

  My legs feel as if they can barely hold me. “But—” I take a step toward him.

  “There’s more.” The waves slap around his knees. “You saw the paintings that belong to my father—my family commissioned those paintings, and hundreds like them, a very long time ago. Red herrings.

  “Part man, part monster, who wouldn’t blame the creatures in those paintings for lost ships, lost lives? It was never part of the plan to have mermaids morph into pretty playthings for children—Hans Christian Andersen was a dreamer. Our kind, we’re the stuff of nightmares.”

  Slowly, immense white-feathered wings begin to spread from behind his back. Haunting melodies mingle with the sound of the waves as the wings emerge, stretching alongside his body, extending several feet above his head. The edges of the feathers pulse with subtle movement, like the silent swaying of sea anemones, and once again, it seems that music rolls off of him. When I gasp at Bo’s beauty, the muscles along his jawline tighten and he scowls.

  But he doesn’t frighten me now. He draws me. The ocean is the same. I’m no longer afraid of it, only enchanted. The water’s temperature doesn’t even register as I take a step into the sea, a step toward Bo. An angel. Mom’s right. They exist.

  “No. Not an angel.”

  But I have no idea how Bo can be objecting to what I’ve just said—I didn’t say it out loud. I also have no idea how I heard him, because he didn’t speak—and yet he did. But his lips didn’t move.

  And they don’t move now, as he says, “Although perhaps angels were our origin. The confusion was common enough. ‘The Angel of Death.’ People used to scream those words, people who saw my ancestors . . . But nobody wants to believe angels are killers. So men made up their monsters. Sea monsters, they called us. Sea serpents, even. People aren’t particular when they’re half mad with fear. Mermen. Mermaids. So much easier to blame a beautiful woman; who can stop a beautiful girl?