Emerge (19 page)

“What flavor do you want?” the pimpled teen behind the old-fashioned, gilded register asks Clay. The place is done up like a 1950s ice cream shoppe with two p’s and an e. Of course, to cater to all the beach-ready dieters near here, it only serves frozen yogurt.

Clay turns to me. “What flavor do I want?”

I glance around at the other patrons, then back at Clay. “That’s up to you. What flavor do you want?” I ask.

He scrunches up his face in thought. “I … ” He’s searching his mind for the answer, but it’s taking great effort. “I want … ”

“Spit it out, buddy,” says a guy in line behind us. “Some of us want to get back to the surf.”

I shoot him a death glare and he backs off, but several other people in line have begun to stare.

“Cold Apple Pie, two scoops!” Clay shouts. His face crumples in exhaustion.

Pimpled guy stands open-mouthed until I say, “You heard the man,” then place my own order for Salted Caramel Swirl. By now, we’ve caught the attention of the whole place, so I forgo toppings and pay for our over-priced dessert before guiding Clay outside.

What was I thinking? I stole your free will, but here, have some fro-yo? Stupid.

By the time I lead Clay onto a more secluded residential street, his gaze has sharpened a little and he eats his yogurt without me telling him to. I wonder …

“What’s your favorite food?”

His face scrunches up again, but not for as long as before. “Sushi,” he answers.

“Really?” I expected his favorite food to be burgers or pizza or something else stereotypical for a human boy.

“Yes.”

I hadn’t meant that as a question, but it’s a good sign he answered quickly.

“What’s your middle name?”

I pepper him with questions as we pass by the bougainvillea-covered gates of one home after another. Each question takes him less time and effort than the last. Thinking about himself and his own desires seems to lessen the sireny’s grip, little by little.

By the time I’ve found out Clay’s favorite color (bright blue, like his car), his favorite song (The Verve’s “Bittersweet Symphony”), the type of dog he’d like to have (a Shiba Inu), and how old he was when he lost his first tooth (five and a half), our frozen yogurt is long finished and I’m running out of innocuous questions, but Clay’s voice has more life than it’s had since the boat trip.

For each answer Clay gives, I give my own. I don’t know how aware he is or what he’ll remember, but it feels more like a conversation this way. While we walk, he slips his hand into mine, warm and solid. I have to fight to keep my breathing even and focus on talking. As I rack my brain for more harmless facts to inquire about, other questions arise unbidden in my mind. What are you looking for in a girl? Do you have real feelings for Melusine? And of course, the one that’s been burning inside me for over a year: How do you feel … about me?

But I can’t let myself ask any of them. Clay would tell me anything right now—even things he wouldn’t want me to know. I’ve already violated him enough, so I bite my lip to keep from asking the questions I yearn to have answered.

“Now you ask me a question. Anything you want to know.” Maybe giving him some piece of myself will ease the guilt squeezing my chest.

“Why does my neck hurt?” Clay asks.

“Your neck hurts?” I ask, concerned.

“Yes.”

The window! I let him stare out that window for at least twenty minutes. The guilt grips my chest even tighter.

A low stone wall runs along the gate of a nearby mansion. I sit Clay down and reach a tentative hand forward. With a deep, steadying breath, I inch my fingers closer until they graze the warm skin on the back of his neck.

I want to run my fingers over the skin, explore his rich mahogany hairline. But that’s not what this is about. My carelessness has brought him pain, and it’s up to me to soothe it. I’ve never given a message before. Certainly never to a boy.
Please let me do it right.

His neck feels so different from my own. Corded muscles run along his spine and down into his shoulders. They shift as I press against them with my thumbs and the pads of my fingers. Tension coils there in knots. Closing my eyes, I focus on the way it moves under his skin. I press harder, deeper—willing the pain away. My thumbs make small circles until his tension yields. The knots disappear, and Clay sighs in relief, turning his head from side to side.

I’m still touching him, my hand resting right where his neck meets his shoulder. I withdraw it and take a step back.

Lost in thought, I go too long without saying or doing anything. With nothing to distract him, Clay stands up and turns to face me. Suddenly, he’s the one touching me. He’s running his palms up my bare arms. My skin tingles under his touch, and I gasp. He strokes the back of his hand across my cheek where I can’t help but lean into it. He’s so close.

“Clay … ”

He’s going to kiss me. It’s as certain as the tides.

This is what I’ve wanted. Every time we huddled over our display board or practiced a self-defense move, I’ve wanted to know what it would be like to feel him, to taste him. I’ve been waiting for what feels like forever for my first kiss. If I’m honest with myself, I’ve been waiting for Clay.

Now the wait is over. We’ve strolled into the lush, green hills overlooking the ocean, and the sun is shining down on us to create a perfect, romantic moment.

Only, it’s not perfect.

As he leans in, his eyes remain open and filled with hunger. It’s the same blind hunger I’ve seen a million times when he makes out in the hall with Melusine. My heart sinks. That hunger isn’t for me. He can’t even see me right now.

His breath skates across my lips before I turn my head away.

“Clay … stop,” It hurts me to say the words, but the fact that he instantly obeys me proves I’m right. It’s the spell making Clay want to kiss me. It’s not real at all.

Then his tone, his whole demeanor, suddenly changes.

“Lia?”

His voice is groggy, like he’s finding his way back from a dream—or a nightmare. The spell must be wearing off. The universe sure does have a cruel sense of timing.

“Clay? How are you feeling?”

“Were we … did I just try to … what time is it?”

“About 6:00.”

“I should get home. Do you need me to walk you first?”

“No, but I’ll walk you to your house. It’s on my way.” It isn’t strictly on the way, but I doubt Clay’s in any condition to notice, and I don’t want to leave him alone just yet.

We walk the rest of the way in silence.

“I-know-what-you’re-looking-at,” Kelsey sing-songs.

She’s not wrong; I’ve been watching him all day. I’ve also been watching for signs of
her
.

“Did he kiss you? How perfect was it? Was it like hot new outfit perfect or like chocolate soufflé perfect?”

I pick at the poached salmon I brought for lunch. I have no appetite. “We didn’t kiss.”

“Oh.” Her face falls but then immediately perks back up. “That’s no reason to look like a melted Popsicle. The important thing is that he broke up with Mel—and he talked to you about it! That’s big. It’s huge! You should be doing a happy dance!”

I muster up a big smile for Kelsey’s sake, but it’s soon replaced by a yawn. I stayed up most of the night. I didn’t have any
konklilis
on sireny at home, but I needed information more than ever. So, once everyone was asleep, I crept up to my room and made a list of everything I’ve learned about sireny so far. I had to make sense of what happened out on that boat … how I did what I did, and what in the Seven Seas I’m supposed to do now.

I nearly fell off my spinny desk chair when I remembered the tale of the Tudor-era bard. The one who was under such a strong spell the siren bragged about her power over him. How could I have not seen it before? He was a bard—a musician! She used
his own
song
to siren him. Maybe that’s how she achieved such a strong hold. Did his own words strengthen the bond? I used Clay’s song … maybe that’s why I overpowered Melusine. She knows far more about sireny and magic than I do, so it’s the only reason that makes sense.

Now, in the light of day, all I can think about is where Melusine is. She didn’t come to school today, and I’m a wreck trying to figure out what that means. Is she bowing out in defeat or spending the entire day casting a spell so ancient and heinous I’ve never heard of it? Maybe, while I’m trapped here going to A.P. Bio and pre-calculus, she’s using these same hours to concoct some evil plan to get Clay back. And why does she want him anyway? The question plagues me again. Is he just a boy toy to her, or does she want him for something worse? Not having any clue what that something worse could be makes waves of fear rise up in me and swell higher than ever.

As for Clay, I’ve spent the entire day both avoiding him and keeping him in my sights—which is no easy feat. I want to be near him so I can check that he’s okay, but I need to leave him alone to ensure the sireny has entirely worn off. My rational brain assures me that the spell wore off last night and that I’m being too cautious. But the memory of Clay’s empty eyes and dead voice … I can’t bear to talk to him again until he’s back to himself.

I’ve even ducked into the girls’ bathroom a couple times today when I’ve seen him coming down the hall, telling myself it’s because I want to give him the space he needs. I’m definitely not avoiding him because I’m terrified a part of him hates me for violating him. No, that’s not it at all.

In history class, my luck runs out. Mr. Reitzel gives us time to work on our projects and all of a sudden, Clay is making his way over to me. He sits without a word. After a pause that makes my stomach leap up and lodge in my throat, he says, “We need to talk about yesterday.”

His eyes are clear and he sounds fully back to himself, but his voice is more serious than I’ve ever heard it, and I’m afraid. Afraid that he remembers Melusine and me battling over him on the boat. Afraid that he’s figured out I’m not a normal girl, that he thinks I’m a freak. Afraid that he knows I’ve wronged him. I dig my fingernails into my palms, the pain of each small crescent moon keeping me from panicking.

“I need to apologize,” he says.

What? “Apologize?” I parrot.

“Yeah. Lia, I’m really sorry.”

He’s apologizing to me? It’s like the universe is tilting, off-kilter.

“The way I treated you yesterday, it wasn’t right.”

“Clay, you didn’t—”

“No,” he holds up a hand, “let me say this. I almost kissed you.”

“That’s … that’s okay.”
I almost let you.

“No. No, it’s not. Not right after I broke up with Mel. I can’t imagine how that made me look … or what you must think of me.”

“It was a strange day.” Talk about an understatement. “A lot happened.” Like me weaseling my way into your mind.

“I-I’m still not exactly sure what I was thinking. I plead temporary insanity.”

For breaking up with Melusine? For wanting to kiss me? For both? “For what?”

“For taking advantage of our friendship like that. I’d never want you to feel like some rebound.”

Does that mean he doesn’t want me now or he wouldn’t want me ever? “I totally understand.” Even though I don’t.

“I’m glad one of us does.” He smiles, but it isn’t his usual cocky smirk. It’s almost … sheepish. “My friends say I’ve been zoned out lately. They think it’s stress. I don’t know what it is, but I’m sorry I acted weird. Everything yesterday was kind of a blur. I guess because so much changed so fast.” Frustration fills his words when he says, “I was just so sick of Mel bossing me around. I couldn’t take it anymore. But, that’s no excuse for involving you.” He looks up at me and raises one eyebrow. “Forgive me?”

“Of course,” I say. If he knew what I’d done to him, he could never forgive me.

“You rock, Nautilus.”

I don’t. I don’t deserve his praise. I need to change the subject—and I need information. “So, have you talked to Mel today?”

“No, she didn’t come to school.”

I don’t know whether to be relieved he hasn’t spoken to her or disappointed he doesn’t know anything.

“But she texted me. She wants to talk later, so I’m heading to her place after school.”

“No!”

I can’t let him go over there. That’s what she’s planning! She didn’t come to school today because she’s waiting to get him alone—to get him away from me—so she can siren him back.

“Don’t worry. I’m just going to drop off a few of her things so she knows it’s really over.”

“Clay, please don’t go.” I grab his hand and look him directly in the eyes, hoping he’ll understand my urgency. “Trust me. She’ll hurt you.”

“She can’t hurt me if I don’t let her. I have to talk to her. I owe her that. But I won’t let her mess with my feelings,” he says, squeezing my hand before releasing it. A sinking feeling hits my stomach.

No, you won’t. Because I’m going to mess with them first.

I shouldn’t do what I’m about to do. It’s wrong. It’s so wrong. But what other choice do I have? I fight to push my thoughts down, to smother the little voice inside that’s screaming at me not to do this.