Did she? Could she?
The sea seemed to calm, easing the worry in her heart.
Merrick’s consistent gaze had the same effect.
She didn’t want him to stop. “Okay.” She shook his pinky with hers. His cute half smile sent those angelfish in her stomach soaring.
“So here’s the thing.” He released her finger and leaned back on his elbows. “I’m sort of in this predicament where I need information, but I can’t go poking around too much. Otherwise people would figure out who I am, and I need to remain unseen. For personal reasons.” He let out a breath as if he’d had everything bottled inside. “That’s where you come in. You’re not from around here. Your face isn’t in the papers or online.”
He had that right.
“You can ask questions and no one will give you a second glance.”
She lifted a brow.
“You know what I mean. Anyway, will you do it? Be my undercover journalist? You like to write.” He pointed to her pages. “It works out.”
“Who are we looking for exactly?” She flipped her story over so the blank side faced her. She held her pen at the ready.
“My mom.”
She scribbled a note. His mom in exchange for her sister’s prince? Seemed fair. “When do we start?”
Warmth spread through her. Stop it. He’s human. A human could never care for a mermaid. The crown princess made that abundantly clear.
“How about now?” He hopped up from the sand. He offered her his hand in the same way he had the night of Red Tide.
This time she didn’t back away. She took it and he helped her up.
With the sea at their backs and triumph lighting Merrick’s eyes, the Disease wrapped Coral’s heart with an emotion so deep and comforting, she couldn’t have suppressed it if she tried.
And she didn’t.
She let that feeling envelop her as spring melted into the horizon and summer led her up the shore.
Summer
“She laughed and danced with the thought of death in her heart.”
—Hans Christian Andersen, “The Little Mermaid”
Interstitial – Prince Letter
Twenty-Nine
Brooke
After
“Did you see my cake?” Hope barges into my room, beaming. “It’s three tiers high and Mary promised to use strawberry cream cheese filling.” She uses her arms to show me the cake’s size. Then she crosses to my window.
I close my journal, using my pen as a placeholder, and rise from my desk. I try to smile, though it doesn’t reach my eyes.
Hope checks the driveway for the umpteenth time since the sun rose. She’s talked about her twelfth birthday since I returned in the spring. She remains the youngest of our girl pack but brings the most light by far.
“Maybe we should see if Mary needs help,” I offer, attempting to close the curtains.
“I want to see when she drives up.” Hope shoves the fabric back toward me. The curtain rings clink together across the metal rod. “She promised to come when we talked on the phone last week.”
I frown. Empty promises remain an all-too-familiar concept. While Hope’s dad visits at least once a month and video chats with her every Sunday, her mom remains unseen.
I hate the woman for it.
“Are you looking forward to starting school again in the fall?” I long to take her mind off the window and the empty driveway beyond.
Hope shrugs but keeps her eyes plastered to the glass. She’s not herself, though today of all days ought to be about her. Instead, she dwells on the woman who hardly talks to her only daughter.
“I told Jake I don’t want to go home.” Hope cracks the window, allowing a summer breeze to pass through the screen. “I want to stay here.”
I wrap an arm around her, knowing at this point my affection is welcome. I hate how attached I’ve become. She’s leaving—we both are—by summer’s end. Still, we need each other now. Hope is nearly six years younger and has become the best friend I’ve ever had.
“Aren’t you excited to see your friends when you go home?” I tickle her rib cage.
She jumps. Squeals. Snatches a pillow off the bed and tosses it at me. “They’re not my friends.”
This is the one thing she never mentions. The thing she keeps locked away so no one can see. “You’ll make new ones.” When did I become the optimist of our odd pair?
She tugs her sleeves down over her arms, hiding her scars.
I wince, feeling everything she feels and sometimes wishing I could go back to feeling nothing at all.
Taking her hand, I draw her sleeve to her elbow. She resists at first, but I lock my eyes on hers. “You are not nothing,” I say. “And neither am I.”
Her eyes glisten, but then she turns back into her usual self and grins, all teeth. “What sage words, O Wise One.”
“Indeed.” I wink. “Come on. The time will go faster if we help Mary in the kitchen.”
Hope hesitates but at last concedes, letting her sleeve fall and leaving the window behind.
Hope’s dad brought a karaoke machine for her birthday. While we’re not supposed to have our own electronics here, Jake agreed to let Hope use it for the night. Once it’s plugged in and the controls light up, Hope connects her mic and waves for me to join her.
I freeze. How long has it been since I sang? My throat closes up with one glance at that dreaded machine.
“Please, Brooke. This can be your birthday present to me.” She connects a second mic and holds it toward me, waiting.
I open my mouth to tell her I’ve gotten her a little something. Wrapped it and everything. But then she does the face that makes her look younger than she is and I groan. The other girls clap while the staff and volunteers line the walls of the gathering room.
Great. We have an audience. This ought to be loads of fun.
I rise from the couch that’s been pushed against the bookcase. Chairs from the kitchen have been brought in too. Blue and yellow streamers swoop overhead, and matching balloons move across the carpet like colorful, floating rainbow fish.
The colors stand out more than they have all year.
“What shall we sing?” Hope glances out the bay window and into the evening blue.
Bitterness coats my mouth. Her mom’s not coming. Her dad’s here, though—a quiet man who’s hardly said two words to her aside from “Happy birthday.” But he’s here. He showed up.
“Um, you pick.” I grab the mic. Grasp tight despite my sweating palms.
Hope clicks through the choices on Jake’s smartphone, connected via Bluetooth, and lands on a winner.
I roll my eyes. “This again?”
“What can I say? It’s a new classic.”
Hope begins the first verse of the theme from her favorite movie musical. I think I’ve heard her listen to this soundtrack a thousand times on the community CD player in the rec room. She never tires of it.
She sings of scars and shame and words that cut. Then the chorus ends and the song falls to me. I swallow and search for my voice. I’ve never liked singing. My voice was somewhat of an asset to my family. It defined me. Would they have loved me without the commodity they hoped to exploit?
I’ll never know.