finish my glass of water and go back to bed. My room spins around me
like after riding roller coasters all day and then trying to lie down.
I pull my covers tightly around me. I’m so tired, but I’m afraid to
close my eyes.
The minute I do, I’m back in that water.
The first thing they tell you is not to panic.
Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.
I wasn’t panicking when my gut told me to ignore how the clouds
turned from white to black, how the waves got higher with each crash,
the fleeing screams around me. I didn’t panic, and I dove into the
middle of the water to save her.
But every time I surface, she isn’t there, and I keep getting
farther from land. I’m pulled under with so much pressure I can barely
move my arms and legs. The one gulp before I’m truly under escapes in
tiny bubbles. The suction of the undulating waves tosses me like a bit
of driftwood. I can’t tell which way is up or down, but as the water
stills, I swim to where it lightens. The moon makes a streak of weak
light through the water, like my personal lighthouse beam leading me
home.
Something ice-cold touches my spine. When I turn around, nothing
is there. There’s a trail of foam in its place, and I pray to every
god that has ever or will ever exist that it’s not a shark.
In the lighter water, blood clouds around me. I don’t think
anything bit me, but my throat and ribs burn like nothing I’ve ever
felt before, like the skin there is burned to a crisp. My feet ache
the way they do when I run barefoot on hot sand for too long. The
still water churns faster and faster and faster, and I don’t know what
to worry about first-the cuts on my neck, the burning in my muscles,
or the whirlpool that’s starting with me at its center.
When I try to kick, I keep sinking. The whirlpool pulls me farther
and farther away from the surface. I can’t see the bottom, just
pitch-black and more pitch-black. The pressure around me feels as
though my bones will turn to foam. I scream because that’s what my
mind tells me to do. A muffled sound and some bubbles is all I get,
even though I know if I were on land, all of New York would be able to
hear me.
Then, as fast as the whirlpool started, it stops spinning. The
current changes to a gentle bob, and I swear-I swear on every trophy
I’ve ever won-that the water is taking me somewhere.
I float over a cluster of giant black rocks that seem to be the
beginning of an even bigger precipice. Bits of light start blooming.
They’re pinpricks around the rock at first, then blooms of seaweed
that glow like the buzzing neon sign of a bodega. Starfish with beads
of glowing lights. Fish in colors that live in between other colors. A
long red fish with the longest golden fins spins around my head. It
presses its face against my cheek.
Somewhere in the distance there’s a deep wail-an angry guttural
sound that echoes on the rocks until it becomes the tail end of a
sigh. The fish scatter, and everything stops glowing.
I’m alone again.
I fight the numbness in my legs and use all my strength to push
myself up. I’ve spent every day of my life swimming, but doing laps
around a pool is different from pushing yourself up to the surface
when you’re in the middle of the ocean. The pressure down here is like
a vise grip around my limbs, but I swim, harder than I ever thought I
could, until the water looks lighter and I can see my hand in front of
my face again.
A white shape comes into focus in the distance. The echo is back.
This time it’s a song-cry, a lullaby that feels like it’s slithering
into my heart and finding pieces to break. I let it calm me, pull me
back down. I stop fighting to get to the surface and think about my
mom and her shining red hair, her sad turquoise eyes when they find
me. She always told me I was born to swim, but I don’t think this is
what she meant. I think of my dad fixing computers alone in his
office. I think of Layla, despite myself, and wish I’d chosen her
every time.
The song-cry is closer still. My leg muscles get that familiar
twinge when I’m in the water too long, like muscle bending the wrong
way. My eyes are getting blurry. I keep stroking, but there isn’t any
strength behind it. I’m sinking, and there’s a shark coming at me. Its
nose points upward, like it’s always smelling. The unmistakable rows
of jagged teeth, the red gums that always look bloody.
This guy has chains, like he just busted out of shark prison and
he’s happy to see me. He speeds up, fin flicking whippet fast. I push
myself backward, as if that’s going to do any good. I hit something
cold, a wall. Something grabs me. The singing is right at my ear. I
try to pull myself out of the grip. They’re hands. Cold, slender hands
with nails like crushed glass.
It still sings, whatever it is. No words, just a sad wail, the low
notes of a violin being plucked with a tire iron. It’s the only thing
I want to listen to. I want to wrap myself in those notes and sleep
forever. A hand moves from my chest to my neck. I’ve stopped
struggling. I want to close my eyes. The shark charges at me like a
silver bullet.
I shut my eyes and wait for the bite that never comes.
The nails cut into my chest as the arms let go. The shark flips
around, magnificent, and slaps the creature with his great white fin.
It pushes back a few yards, but it doesn’t stop. It wails, screeches
into the expanse of sea, stretching out so I can finally see her true
form. I can see her . From head to fins. A mass of silvery-white hair
spreads out around her face, so pale she’s almost see-through. Her
eyes radiate in the water, white as lightning with needle pinpricks in
the center.
Her cheekbones are sharp and slope down to full blue lips that
smirk at me. She’s long and slender, so skinny her bones look like
they’re trying to poke out of her skin. Her breasts are covered with
slick silver scales that fade out at the slopes of her waist and bloom
out to form her tail. There’s an impression of legs, like they’re
under there right up to the kneecaps and disappear down to long
silvery fins.
She swims in circles, a figure eight, her silver silhouette like a
flash of light dancing in the water. Like she’s dancing for me. She
stops inches away from me with that smirk still on her lips, telling
me she knows everything I don’t. She grabs my wrists softly, like
she’s going to pull me to her and kiss me. And I want her to. I’ve
never wanted anything this badly before.
The silver mermaid smiles, and when she smiles there is nothing
more terrifying than the rows of her razor-sharp teeth.
She’s holding my wrists when I wake up.
“You almost took my head off.” Layla is staring at me with her
giant hazel eyes. When we were little, I used to call her Bambi
because her eyes were too big for her face and she was so skinny,
almost frail-looking. It’s just looks, though. Layla can swim almost
as fast as I can. Almost.
Her hair is loose around her shoulders, thick and brown like fresh
earth. She’s wearing a purple dress that ties around her neck and
reaches all the way down to cover her toes. I am suddenly aware of my
morning erection.
“What are you doing here?”
“What kind of a ‘good afternoon’ is that?”
I look at the clock on my nightstand. It’s 2:43 p.m. “How long
have you been sitting there, creeper?” I take an extra pillow and use
it as a buffer between my erection and the world.