Vicious Deep (11 page)

This time I'm not in the middle of the sea waiting for the glint of silver that's going to attack me in the dark.

This time I'm not the one who's drowning.

I stand on a shore of white rock I don't have a name for. It isn't shiny like marble, but it still glistens, like sand that's been compacted together with tons of tiny crystal bits. There's a giant lake in the center, the edges blurry as dreams go. Just me on the white ground watching the water.

This time the same white arms aren't reaching for the surface as on the day of the storm. This time it's Layla. Her head breaks the surface, gasping for air before something pulls her back down. I feel everything at once—the sun on my back, fear in my veins, the pit of my stomach falling, because the ground feels like quicksand and I can't move. She opens her mouth to scream, but she gets sucked beneath the surface.

I take a moment and breathe in deeply, closing my eyes against the dark gray sky. I don't know what I was expecting. Maybe for the school to look different, because now I'm different. Like all of a sudden everyone else is going to change just to match me, a big, freaking under-the-sea world right in front of me. And I wonder how many other people are changing just like me, well minus the fins part, but keeping it to themselves.

My body aches from lack of sleep. There was no way I could fall asleep again after that dream about Layla. Drowning. And I didn't do anything to stop it.

Maybe it's because there are only a handful of days till the end of school. Maybe it's the weather. Whatever it is, the groups of students waiting for the first bell to ring are pretty thin. A group of girls walks past me. I don't know what they're doing with those bikini straps playing peekaboo from under their T-shirts, but I don't really mind. They walk a little slower past me and Kurt and smile their lip-glossed smiles. They smell like whatever perfume they doused themselves with this morning, and underneath that somewhere they smell like the freshness that comes with having zero to worry about.

“Is there a cut day that no one told me about?” Ryan climbs the steps in twos to get to us.

“I don't think so,” I say, even though he's not paying any attention to me, because he walks past me and stands directly in front of Thalia. She's wearing a powder-pink ballerina tulle skirt and a white T-shirt with sequins on it. She has on these purple stockings on that got caught on something somewhere between leaving the house and standing here, because there's a tiny run on the knee. It doesn't look bad on her, though. I think she could wear a paper bag and still be able to pull it off. Her slightly green hair shines, even in the overcast light. She sure as hell spends enough time brushing it.

Ryan looks like he's standing in front of a goddess. I wouldn't be surprised if he fell to his knees right now and asked her to marry him. The two of them smile like lunatics. Part of me wants to warn him. Part of me is glad that he gets to feel this way, even if just for a little while. The rest of me is just jealous.

The bell rings, and when I breathe deeply, I know it's Layla. I don't need a sixth sense to describe the way she smells today, like sunshine on this terribly cloudy day. I hesitate in turning around, but when I do, I only catch the tip of her swaying ponytail.

•••

I keep in mind what Kurt said about Ms. Pippen. Today she wears an electric-blue dress that fits every single curve. It comes down to the knee, and it has sleeves and all, but man, I can't stop looking at her. There is no way that Kurt is right about her being like a psychic. I think I start to get an erection when she says, “Tristan, you're supposed to start us off today, if my memory serves me right.”

And I wave good-bye to Mr. Happy.

She makes the motion of opening a book. So I flip open the
Greatest
Poems
by
the
Greatest
Poets
anthology to any page and sigh. “The Young Man's Song.”

“Yeats,” she says, giddy. There's surprise in her eyes, and she leans forward, legs crossed, showing off her smooth calves. Her heels are yellow like sunflowers.

I whispered, “I am too young,”

And then, “I am old enough”;

Wherefore I threw a penny—

Thankfully, a voice crackles through the speaker. The feedback pierces my eardrums like needles. A shy voice clears its throat. “Sorry about that—microphone—I mean—Will the members of the swim team—varsity, that is—please report to the pool? Oh, at Coach Bellini's behest. I mean, request. Bye now.”

I catch Ms. Pippen watching me from the perch of her desk. For just a moment, I think something passes in her eyes. What if Kurt is right? Of course he's right, isn't he? Then I realize it's just light coming from the window, beaming down on her—a stray bit of sun that breaks through the cover of clouds and halos her.

“Curious,” she says. “Very well, off goes the swim team—” and we do. I motion for Kurt and Thalia to follow me, but Ryan's already got hold of Thalia's hand. On the way down to the pool we meet up with the guys, who hoot and holler over being set free from their classes.

I keep my eyes on the back of Layla's head. She doesn't even turn around to look at me. There is nothing like the silent treatment from the only girl you want to talk to.

Kurt grabs me by the elbow just outside the entrance to the pool. Bertie slides between us, and his sneakers squeak and echo against the cold tiles.

“Remember…” The stern violet eyes watch me steadily. “You will want to shift the moment you're in the water. Don't do it.”

“Kurt?”

“Yes?”

“
Obviously.
”

We're the last ones to sit on the bleachers, since I couldn't find a proper practice Speedo for Kurt.

“Thanks for joining us, Hart. Hart's cousin.”

Thalia pulls at the strap of her bathing suit and makes a face. “It itches my shoulders. Layla gave it to me.”

My heart feels like a Hacky Sack in use when she says Layla's name.

“Now, listen here,” Coach says. He hooks his thumb on the loop of his jeans and stands like the Vietnam navy vet he is. “I don't want no funny business out there. This isn't synchronized swimming. It's a goddamn race. We still got ourselves an important meet, and while schoolwork is important, you can make it up tomorrow. The meet cannot be postponed.”

The team cheers. Ryan leans close to me and whispers, “Yeah, I'd like him to try to explain that one to my mom.”

Coach blows his whistle. Everyone lines up for basic diving drills. Since Kurt and I were last in and last to get ready, we're at the back of the line. “So if the calamari tattoo works, then why the worries?”

Kurt frowns at me. “It's an ancient and sacred cephalopod,
not
calamari. I'm simply advising you in case you get an urge.”

The only urge I have right now is to punch him in his gut, if my hand wouldn't break on his stomach. I catch Layla looking over at us before taking a dive. She breaks clean through the water, her hair wrapped into a tight bun.

“She's got a fantastic stroke,” Kurt says, his eyes following her across the length of the pool.

“The line's moving.” I push him along.

“Good form, Santos,” Coach yells.

Maddy goes, then Thalia, then Ryan and the others.

I let Kurt go first, mostly because I'm curious to see him swim, but also because my stomach is in knots. This is the first time in a week that I'll be getting back in the water. The faster the practice ends, the sooner I'll have to get to the boardwalk. Then I'll be on some ship on the way to some island inhabited by others like me. Or unlike me, if I'm the only truly half-human merman.

At the edge of the pool, Kurt shuts his eyes briefly, as though he's saying a prayer. He stretches his arms in the air, giving him the effect of being seven feet tall, and then he bends his knees slightly and dives cleanly into the pool. He's so fast that he gets about halfway without having to surface, not that he really needs to. There's an audible moment of awe as everyone turns to watch him. Even Coach's whistle is dangling from his lips.

I suck my teeth the moment Kurt pulls himself up at the opposite end of the pool. I can do that. I
do
do that. I take a moment to breathe in the water-laden air, the smell of chlorine, the cigar scent of Coach lingering around, the burnt sweetness of curiosity that breaks through all those smells. I envision myself in the water, thinking how much I've missed it, like half of me has been hiding for days. I push away the face of the silver mermaid lurking in the back of my thoughts. I think of the sea. I think of me in the sea.

Hey, this pool works too.

I dive, harder than I really need to, so I push myself more than halfway across the pool. I let my gills open, my eyes taking in the blueness of the tiles, the lights bouncing off the surface of the water. I let myself spin in one place, then surface to stroke. The gills recede and I turn my face to breathe. I've already reached the end of the pool.

“Twenty seconds!” I've never heard Coach scream like that. “You cousin here did nineteen, but he can't compete with us next week. Holy mackerel! You swim like that, boy, and we'll be Triborough champs for the first time since I took over the team!”

I don't try to hide my smile, and I welcome the pats on the back from everyone. Except Maddy and Layla, who pretend this isn't happening. I walk past them and splash them with the water dripping from my hands.

“You're such a tool, Tristan,” Layla says.

“Hey, look, you're alliterating, Ms. Pippen ought to give you an A.”

Coach blows his whistle again. “All right, enough of that. I have an idea. Say this is an experiment. Hart's cousin—what's your name again there, bud?—Kurt, that's nice—Say Kurt here is the controlled experiment, and you all on my team are the uncontrolled experiment. You all have to best him. Matter of fact, Kurt's sister came in at 20.5 seconds also, so she'll be the second round. Who wants to go first?”

No one raises their hands.

No one except for Layla, who shoots her hand into the air. Always with something to prove.

Kurt's usually somber face breaks into an amused laugh.

“What's so funny?” Layla puts her hands on her hips and stares right at him. If I know one thing, it's that I don't want to be on the other side of that gaze when she's angry. It's like laser beams trying to fry your face.

“Nothing, I—”

But she doesn't let him finish. She turns from him and gets into position. This isn't the best plan Coach could've come up with. It's one thing when we're racing each other. This is like putting us in the ring with Oscar De La Hoya and calling
him
a controlled experiment.

Layla stretches her body, rivulets of water still rolling off her tan shoulders. She's the same girl who followed me out to the beach to swim the Mississippi. A wild spirit, her dad calls her. Here she is, trying to best a merman at swimming without even knowing it. It's kind of hot.

The whistle blows, and they tuck their heads and push off. If he were any kind of a gentleman, Kurt would let her win. Something tells me that he's not the kind of guy who just lets things fly. He swims as he did before, all sinew and muscle, like he's blending into the water.

Layla is about a foot behind him, which, considering he's unearthly, is pretty damn good. The only time I've ever seen her swim this hard is when we were on lifeguard duty at the YMCA pool and a little girl fell in the deep end. Talk about motivation. Maybe Coach really knows what he's talking about, mostly.

They reach one end, and Layla flips backward. She pushes herself with everything she has and is neck and neck with him, stroke for stroke, as they race back to our end of the pool. Even the girls on the bleachers stand up to get a better look. Kurt finishes first, pulling himself out of the pool in one swift motion. Layla comes up not three seconds behind, gasping for air. She rubs the water out of her eyes and pulls off her swimming cap. Her hair is coming loose from its bun and floating around her like a lily pad.

“I'm going to feel that in the morning,” she says.

“Ho-ho!” Coach looks at his timer. “Not bad, Santos. Twenty-two seconds.”

Kurt and I reach out our hands to pull Layla out of the pool. She stares at them, then swims across the lanes and pulls herself out.

“I'm not putting too much stress on you, am I?” Coach asks Kurt in what he thinks is a conspiratorial, hushed voice but that we can all still hear.

“None at all, sir.”

“That's a good boy.” Coach slaps Kurt on the shoulder and is surprised that his hand hurts after doing so.

“Who's next?”

And like pulling big rotten teeth, one by one the team goes up against Kurt. Some of them, like Jerry, get about halfway across the pool before giving up completely, and others, like Ryan, try their hardest but come in well behind. And then there's Angelo, who's waiting to race against Thalia, because he thinks it'll be easier.

“Hart, you haven't gone yet.”

I stand at the mark beside Kurt. “You tired yet?”

“I believe I've only warmed up my arms,” he says, flexing his bicep in the air.

“I didn't take you for an exhibitionist,” I go.

“It's not exhibition. It's allowing the general public a great privilege.”

“I'll go easy on you, I promise.”

“Please don't. It's customary for the guard to compete against princes and princesses.”

“Shhh.”

Kurt breaks into a rare smile. His eyes focus on the end of the pool where Layla stands by herself, wrapped in a red and black towel. She likes to walk around the pool between drills to keep herself warm.