SEAMONSTER: An Aquarathi Novella (The Aquarathi) (3 page)

“Dude, I was fourteen.” Sawyer laughs. “No, I surfed and skateboarded. She used to take photo
s for the yearbook in middle school. We got to hang out and became pretty good friends, and then we started dating sophomore year. She only let me kiss her like three months ago. She has priorities.”

“Priorities?” I
arch an eyebrow.

“She wants to
graduate as valedictorian, get into Stanford, have her own studio one day, get married, and have some rug rats. In that order, specifically.”

“And you?”

Sawyer shrugs, tossing a couple discarded soda bottles into his bag. “I want her to be happy, and I want her to achieve whatever she sets her mind to. Hopefully, that guy she marries will be me.”

“You sound like you’re thirty,” I say dryly.

“Old soul, dude, old soul,” Sawyer says with a grin. “Come on, looks like everyone’s heading back. Can’t believe it’s been like three hours already. We only covered a couple miles of beach.” He makes a disgusted face and hefts his garbage sack. “I just don’t see what’s so hard about putting bottles in the bins where they belong. Drink a soda. Toss it in the recycling. Not that hard.”

“I di
dn’t realize you cared so much,” I say with a sideways glance. Truth is, I’ve never exchanged more than a few words with Sawyer before, especially ones that weren’t centered on surfing.

Sawyer stare
s at me as if I’m an imbecile. “This”—he says, gesturing to a bottle at the top of his bag—“is one of the most serious threats to the ocean. Do you know over a hundred thousand sea creatures get killed by plastic, and those are the ones we
know
about. Because of plastic pollution, there are already dead areas in the ocean where nothing can live. Seriously, can you imagine?” His face is flushed, and outside of surfing and his girlfriend, I’ve never seen him so passionate about anything. “I’ve been helping out here every summer since I was about nine. It’s our planet, dude. If we don’t take care of it, what do you think’s going to happen?” He stares disgustedly at the bottle. “Takes a thousand years for these things to degrade. We won’t even be here to see what we leave behind, even though it’s our mess. You gotta respect the ocean, you know?”

“
I hear you,” I agree. “But at least the Marine Center’s trying to do something about it now. That’s a start, right?”

“We’re already behind the eight ball,” Sawyer says.
“But you’re right. Better late than never.”

We head back up to the Marine Center.
I look for Anya on the way back, but the spot where she’d been sitting is now deserted. Maybe I’d imagined her being there earlier. Still, I peruse the row of houses, wondering if she’d disappeared into any of them. I think of the drawing in her notebook and shiver. I’d been careless. Too careless. I should have just minded my own business and turned the other way, letting her do whatever she’d gone to Dead Man’s Cliff to do. If Echlios finds out that I’ve revealed myself to a human, I’ll be dead meat. Worse, maybe.

At the beachside entrance to the Marine Center, m
y bag is nearly full, and so are the bags of the other three. We separate the rubbish into recyclable and trash, and go to the locker rooms to get cleaned up. Filing into the foyer, I shoot Sawyer a thoughtful glance. He’d surprised me. We need more people like him—those who care enough to try to make a difference. Otherwise, our new Aquarathi home—just like the dying planet we’d fled from—will be at risk.

“
Rissa! You and Speio coming with?” Sawyer yells from the entrance to the parking lot. “Black’s. Thirty minutes.”

“
We’ll meet you there,” she says. “Need to swing back to get our boards. Did you check the surf?”

“Decent swell.”

She glances at me, quirking an eyebrow. I’m surprised that she’s actually looking to me for permission. “We should check in with Echlios first,” I say.

“Text me when you get there,” she says to Sawyer. “If we can come, we’ll meet you. If n
ot, see you tomorrow and carve one up for me.”

“You got it!”

We meet Soren outside and climb into the Jeep. On the drive home, Nerissa doesn’t say much. My mother exchanges a concerned glance with me, but I shrug my shoulders. I throw it down to the fact that she’s just being Nerissa—uncommunicative and aloof, as usual. But she’s gnawing her bottom lip between her teeth and staring out of the window with a worried expression.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her once we get home and
out of Soren’s earshot.

“That girl from today,” she says. “Who is she?”

My stomach winds into immediate knots. “No one.”

“I followed your glimmer,” she says
gently. “I saw what she was drawing. Did she see you in your true form?”

“No.” I’m not exactly lying, but I’m not exactly telling the truth
, either. I keep my face composed even though I can feel my body overheating at the white lie. “I don’t know why she drew what she did.”

She shoots me a
thoughtful look. “Speio, I don’t care what you do, but whatever you have going on with that girl, get it together before Echlios finds out. You know the laws, even if we’re not in Waterfell.” She eyes me and for the first time in a while, I see a little of the old Nerissa in her … the best friend who used to look out for me and vice versa. “Make sure she doesn’t become a problem.”

I find Anya in the same spot
as yesterday. I watch her for a few minutes, figuring out the best way to approach her without being a creeper. Tiny lines bracket the corners of her lips. She doesn’t seem as distressed as the first day I’d seen her, but she doesn’t seem that happy, either. It’s as if the weight of the world is resting on her shoulders. I can’t begin to imagine what could be so emotionally taxing for a teenager. All the sixteen-year-olds I’ve met are entitled without a care in the world. They have money, cars, and beachfront property, and most days the only thing they have to worry about is which restaurant to choose. Then again, none of those people have a death wish, braving a hundred-foot plunge wearing nothing but a nightgown.

I take a breath and edge closer, noticing that she’s doodling in t
he same notebook. I’m instantly relieved that it’s not a picture of me. “Hey,” I say. She doesn’t look up from her drawing, so I clear my throat and say the greeting a little louder along with her name. The pencil stalls and Anya’s eyes lift slowly. Recognition flares in them as she sees my face, and she slams the notebook shut, a half-guilty flush coloring her cheeks.

“You,” she says hoarsely.

I smile even though all I want to do is pepper her with questions to see if she’s a threat and something I need to regret. “Mind if I sit?”

“Free country.”

“How are you feeling?” I ask after a minute or two of awkward silence.

Anya tucks a strand of
chocolate-brown hair behind one ear and squints at me. The soft blush from before turns fiery with embarrassment. She stares at the sand and cracks the knuckles of her fingers one by one in some kind of nervous tic. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?” Her voice trembles slightly.

As much as I want to be considerate,
I don’t want to play games and I need to know where her head is. If that means being brusque, then that’s what I have to do. I ignore the faint twinge of empathy in my belly. “So why’d you jump? If you’re fine, I mean.”

Anya’s eyes snap to mine, a bedlam of emotion running through them. I wait them out—shock, anger, resentment, fear,
shame, and finally acceptance—before she nods quietly to herself as if coming to some conclusion in her head. Her fingers skim over the face of her notebook like it’s a lifeline. And then she stares right at me as if trying to see down into my soul. My cells leap in response to her intense scrutiny, but I force myself to remain unresponsive. She nods again.

“I guess I do owe you an explanation.”
She swallows hard. “I jumped because I … needed to feel alive.”

That throws me. “You
are
alive.”

“On the outside,” she says
after a while, her voice a whisper nearly lost to the wind. “Not so much on the inside. Do you know what I mean?”

“
No.” I regret the short word as soon as it leaves my mouth as I can see Anya begin to shut down and close off. It’s something I’ve seen Nerissa do when she feels cornered or belittled. “Please,” I say quickly with an apologetic smile. “What I mean is that I don’t understand, and I’d like you to explain.”

She eyes me, squinting again like she’s weighing whether
or not to trust me. Then again, I did save her life. Obviously, she comes to the same resolution because she does another of those little birdlike nods. “Sometimes, I don’t feel anything. I feel numb like my insides are slowly freezing to death. I wanted to wake up. Dead Man’s Cliff seemed like a good idea at the time. I saw some people doing it the day before, and I guess I wanted to jump, too.”

“So you didn’t want to …” I trail off, clearing my throat uncomfortably. “
Hurt yourself?”

“Maybe,” she says honestly.
Her voice grows fainter and I have to struggle to hear the words before they are taken away by the sea breeze. “Some days, I wonder what it would be like to just give in and leave it all behind. But I can never bring myself to do it. I’m a coward, I guess.”

“Hardly. It takes a lot of strength to live.”

Anya’s gaze flicks to me again. Her eyes are blue, I realize—an intense, clear shade of blue, like the sky on a cloudless summer morning. She looks me up and down, frowning. “You look a little different from yesterday. I could have sworn … never mind, it’ll sound stupid.”

My stomach
clenches, all thoughts of beautiful eyes forgotten. “No, go on. What do you mean, different?”

“
You’re going to think I’m delusional,” she says. “More delusional,” she adds under her breath.

“I won’t. Promise.”

“Yesterday, you were sort of … sparkling.”

I stifle a snort
and roll my eyes instead. “
Sparkling
?”

She bristles a little at the derision in my voice, and makes a flippant comment of her own. “Seriously. Y
ou went all Edward Cullen on me.”

“Edward Cullen?”

“Twilight?” she asks. “Shiny vampires? Didn’t you see the movie or read the books?”

I shake my head
, at a complete loss. Human pop culture holds very little interest to me, much less glittery vampires. This time I can’t hold back my snort. If she thinks I’m a vampire, a shimmering underwater sea dragon is probably way out of the realm of possibility. My humor disappears as I recall her drawing. Mermen and sea monsters are practically distant cousins.

She
stares at me with mock consternation as if I’ve missed out on a crucial life milestone. “Honestly, where have you been living?
Everyone
knows Edward Cullen.”

“I’m
obviously not in the know,” I joke, responding to the slight teasing note in her voice and the barest hint of a smile. “So go on,” I tell her. “You thought I was a shiny vampire?”

“Never mind, I think I must have hit the water pretty ha
rd,” she says, laughing at herself and the turn of the conversation. The sudden grin transforms her entire face. A dimple appears in her left cheek as her lips part, exposing a gap between her front teeth. It surprises me, and not because Anya isn’t someone you’d call drop-dead gorgeous. She’s more of the quiet, pretty type. With the exception of those startling eyes, her features are too fine for her to stand out. But when she smiles, her entire face lights up from the inside, making her eyes pop like aquamarines. My guess is that she doesn’t do it very often because the smile is gone as fast as it appears. “I must have passed out … or something.”

“You were unconscious for a few seconds,”
I interject helpfully. “Before we got to Sunny Jim’s.”

“Where I imagined that I got saved by a water sprite or some fantastic water creature.”

“Nope,” I say, despite the tug in my belly. “Just me.”

“Just you,” she agrees, her eyes burning into mine. Our gazes part, hers returning to the sand at her feet and mine falling to the notebook beneath her palms.

“Thank you, by the way,” she says after a few moments. “I didn’t get a chance to say it yesterday.”

“You’re welcome.”

We stare at the people walking by without talking, watching the wind swirl eddies in the sand at our feet. It’s odd, the silence. I haven’t felt this comfortable since being land bound, and certainly never with a human girl. Normally, I can’t wait to get away from them. Their very presence is irritating, making the waters in my body anxious and uneasy. But my waters are calm now, unruffled. If anything, they’re pressing on the inside of my skin, curiously pushing
toward
her.

I clear my throat
, surprised at the odd sensation. “So, you’re not from around here, are you?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’ve never seen you here … on this beach. And I’m here a lot,” I say. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound like a beach bum stalker. I work at the Marine Center and I live a couple miles down that way. So I’m local, I mean. That’s what I was trying to say,” I finish lamely.

Anya smiles and then bites her lip. “And you would have noticed me of all the people who live here in La Jolla
.”

“No. I mean, yes,” I
say, wondering what the hell is wrong with my tongue and my sudden inability to string two words together. “That’s not what I meant.” I take a breath. “It’s just that not a lot of locals jump from The Clam because the fines are insane. The jumpers are mostly tourists who do it for the t-shirt rights. And you … seem different, I guess.”

“T-shirt rights?”

“Bragging rights,” I say.

“How do yo
u know I didn’t do it for the brag rights since you seem to notice so many little details about people?”

I flush, sensing her sarcasm.
“I don’t know. Did you?”

“No.”
She sees my look and her lips curl in a half smile. “I’m only teasing about you noticing me. You know, I worked out that if you try just hard enough to be invisible, it’s something you can actually do. Like, I could sit here for hours and not talk to a single person. It’s like being part of something, and yet
not
part of it at the same time.”

I stare at her. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“And you’re right,” Anya continues. “I’m not from around here. I live in Los Angeles.” Her eyes cloud over as if an unendurable spasm of pain is wracking her body right at that moment. “I used to live there,” she murmurs. “My fiancé … was killed.”

“I’m sorry,” I say and then frown. She’s old enough to have a fiancé?

Anya carefully masks the flare of emotion, her face resuming a blank, serene expression—a feat that she makes look easy despite the earlier sharp crack in her composure. “Thanks, and it’s okay. Everyone dies eventually.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says in a weird, strangled sort of voice. “He was not a very good person.”

“Oh.”

The girl has so many layers, it’d be impossible to peel back all of them. She seems like someone who has been through a lot, who has seen a lot, despite her fairly short amount of years. Maybe that’s why I’m so intrigued by her. I study Anya again. She can’t be more than seventeen, but she has a deceptively ageless face. She’s one of those people who could be fourteen or twenty-five. Her nails are short and polished, and her skin unblemished. The diamond studs glinting in her ears and quality of her clothing tell their own story—she’s not suffering from any lack of funds.

“How old are you?” I blurt out.

“Almost eighteen.”

“
And you’re living here on your own?”

“You know, you have a lot of questions for someone I just met,” she says, shaking her head, a teasing glint in her eye.

“Hey, I saved your life
and
I sparkled,” I say, poking her in the arm. “That has to count for a couple years or something.”

She flinches away from my touch, but covers it up with a brittle laugh.
“You’re right, so maybe not just a complete stranger. Still, you never told me your name, so we should probably seal the deal.”

“
Speio Marin.”

“Sp—” she falters
.

“Spay-oh,” I say slowly
and spell out the letters.

“It’s a unique name,” Anya says
after repeating the two syllables. “I like it.”

“Thanks.”

I lean back on my elbows and hook one ankle over the other. I can feel Anya studying me out of the corner of her eye, as if wondering why I’m still here and settled in like I expect to stay. Truth is, I’m wondering the same thing. But this girl is a puzzle to me. I want to know what lies behind that terrifyingly precise mask of hers. I want to know why sadness seeps from her every pore even when her face tries to pretend otherwise. I want to know what—or who—she’s running from. I want to know why her fiancé is a bad man and why she left L.A. I want to know more about her.

And so I stay. I remain still even when she opens her notebook, her eyes shifting between the paper and me
, the pencil flying in her fingers. I don’t mind that she’s drawing me. In fact, I kind of like it.

“I’m not the best art subject,” I say, fidgeting.
“Sitting still when I’m supposed to sit still is the worst. My eye is probably going to start twitching any minute.”

“You’re fine
,” she says without looking up. Her bottom lip catches between her teeth, an expression of concentration furrowing her brow. “You have interesting lines.”

I grin
, wanting to make her smile again. “Whoa. Are you hitting on me? Isn’t that against artists’ rules or something?” I ask. Anya blushes, her eyes snapping to me, her pencil coming to a fast halt. Before she can shut the book closed, I stall her fingers. “At least let me see what I stayed so perfectly still for.”

She hesitates, but pushes the book towa
rd me. The drawing is arresting. Unlike the first one I’d seen of myself, which was more of a realistic portrait, this one is an anime-style image of a boy lounging in the sand and staring out at the ocean with a pensive look on his face. The boy’s lip is curled mid-smile as if he’s thinking about something fascinating. She’d drawn my human form perfectly, down to the messy, spiky hair and the bare, sand-crusted feet.