Breathe and Count Back from Ten, page 18
Party tonight at coworker’s? You and Alex?
I tuck my phone in my pocket and hear it buzz several times. I don’t have to check to know she’s in.
Geoff lives with roommates in a newer apartment complex near the local community college, where he’s a sophomore. It’s made up of towering, identical white buildings that have terra-cotta tile accents to give it a Spanish villa vibe. He’s on the fourth floor, and the stairs are those slatted ones I used to be afraid of falling through when I was little. We take the elevator instead, and I step into his place feeling emotionally unsteady, gripping Alex’s hand tight for reassurance. It’s one thing for them to be nice and welcoming to me at the Cove, but it feels like this is when I’ll know if it’s genuine, if I’m really one of them.
Leslie starts chatting people up immediately—extrovert extraordinaire that she is—and soon it’s like she’s introducing me to them instead of the other way around. Val’s in the kitchen in jeans and an off-the-shoulder peasant top, sipping on something in a red Solo cup that smells artificially fruity. She offers us all a beer, and we go into the living room, where Hallie’s taking over the speakers so she can show us a new playlist on her phone. Through the sliding glass door off the living room, I spot Lila leaning over the balcony. She’s in a backless sundress, and I can see the ridges of her spine, one stacked perfectly straight above the other, as her elbows rest against the railing. A thin stream of smoke rises out of the vape in her hand. It doesn’t make sense—lung health is crucial to being a mermaid—but then I remember what Geoff said, that they all have lives they live outside of this. I always thought being a mermaid would be transformative, that it’d change me in some obvious way that even strangers along the street would sense. But so far, not even my parents have caught on. Which is a good thing. I try to ease into this part of the role, the part where I’m just me, at a party with my boyfriend and best friend.
“You came!” Geoff emerges from the hallway holding a set of candles. “I wasn’t sure you’d come. I was worried you were already tired of us.”
The truth is, I am. Not of them. But my muscles are sore, and my back feels like it needs to be cracked in nine places, and my hip is not in pain so much as whiny, like it just needs to remind me that it exists, pay attention, be aware, and I’m more mentally exhausted from trying to remember if this is normal for me or if it’s new, and if it is, is it because of the mermaiding or the necrosis?
“I’m okay. Just trying to get my bearings,” I tell him. We sit on the floor around the couch. Alex wraps his legs around me and I use them as an armrest, letting my back sink into his chest, while Leslie sits cross-legged next to us.
Val is already tipsy, which is probably why she blurts out, “Be honest. Do my toes look like octopus testicles?”
Leslie almost chokes on her beer.
Hallie yells, “I said tentacles!” Then she squeezes Val’s big toe gently and smiles.
Val pouts. “That’s even worse.”
Pretty soon we’re all comparing ourselves to sea animals, and Leslie’s tossing out random ones like narwhals and seahorses and urchins, and we all come to the conclusion that Lila and Tanya would be seahorses because, being the oldest, they’re like our den mothers, and they put up with all our shit the way a male seahorse carries a female’s babies so that she can keep working on creating more. Val is a narwhal, a unicorn of the sea, while Hallie is definitely the urchin, which she takes a strange kind of pride in because everyone’s afraid of its spikes. They’re trying to decide which creature I would be when Tanya arrives from a beer and alcohol run. She’s carrying paper bags full of drinks and snacks like chips and cookies, all the while holding the door open with one foot. Leslie gets up to help take the groceries off her hands.
“Which vodka did you get?” she asks.
“Does it matter? You’re not having more than two,” Tanya says.
“Buzzkill,” Leslie says.
“Minor,” Tanya mumbles. This whole time, she hasn’t moved away from the open door, and now she turns her attention back to the group, and says, “Anyways. Guess who I brought?”
I hear the unmistakable metal click and bounce of crutches before I see her.
“Ohmygod, Jessica!” Hallie jumps off the couch and practically tramples her. Everyone gets up and makes space for her as she carefully ambles in.
“How’s it going, twinkle toes?” Geoff says.
“Shut up,” she replies as she brings him into a hug. She’s in a wide-legged yellow jumpsuit that hides most of her cast, but her toes peek out from under the hem, and as she moves, I see the cast is peach-colored.
Val introduces us, starting with Alex and Leslie, and when she gets to me, she says, “Verónica’s the one who replaced you. Verónica, Jessica’s the mermaid you replaced after she broke her leg zip-lining over Magic Kingdom. She used to moonlight as Tinker Bell. You should’ve seen Barb the day she found out. You think she’s a hard-ass now—”
“It’s good to meet you,” Jessica says, giving me a warm smile. She stretches her leg over the couch as she takes a seat. “And yeah. Barb called me pissed the next day. She said it was a betrayal I’d been working at Disney. Didn’t even ask how I was doing.”
“How are you doing?” Hallie says.
“Good. Four and a half more weeks till I’m out of this thing. The doctor said it’s healing nicely.”
I picture her bone slowly shifting back into place, mending itself. That’s the thing about bones: they can repair themselves, and if hers does the way it’s supposed to, it’ll be like nothing ever happened in a matter of weeks. I wonder if she’ll try to come back to Mermaid Cove when she fully heals. If not just parts of me but the whole of me is replaceable. As if he already knows what I’m thinking, Alex wraps his arms around me, and they feel like a sweater being bundled close. I sip the rest of his beer since he’s driving, and soon everyone’s chatting again, and Leslie’s about to show me a new hat she’s thinking of getting on her phone when mine goes off. It’s Dani.
Where are you? I’m bored.
I tell her, and she responds, I thought you were supposed to be at Leslie’s.
That’s what our parents think, which is probably what they told Dani when she got home today. She wasn’t around when I got ready and left.
I send her a wink and say, I am.
You could’ve told me.
Sorry.
I can see she’s writing something in response, but she’s taking forever, and in the meantime Leslie—beautiful, tireless accomplice that she is—has steered the conversation back to me.
“Okay, but wait. We were talking sea animals. Which one would Ronnie be?” She’s smiling a little too wide and her voice is giddy, which is how I can tell she’s drunk. Leslie’s a happy drunk.
Everyone grows quiet, and of course, it’s awkward, because no one really knows me well enough to answer honestly. I’m about to change the subject when Lila says, “A starfish.”
Tanya gasps. “Oh my God, yes,” she agrees like she knows exactly why Lila said this.
“Because of that thing you do, right after you jump into the water?”
“What thing?” Alex asks with an edge in his voice, a hint of defensiveness.
“It’s so cute. You do all these backflips into a body twist and then you spread out your arms and legs and shake them,” Tanya says. Geoff and all the other girls start nodding, like they’ve seen it too.
“It’s just to warm up. The water’s freezing,” I say. I picture all the molecules in my body slowing down to a near stop, and I move as much as I can to bring back the heat of motion.
“It’s like a little starfish dance,” Lila says.
By the end of the night, the nickname’s stuck with everyone except Geoff, who joins us out on the balcony wearing a beautiful fuzzy white poncho. “I prefer the term sea star, is the thing. Because they’re not technically fish.”
“Sea star’s fine with me,” Leslie blurts out.
“Even better,” I add. “But what do you mean, they’re not fish?”
“They’re invertebrates. They don’t have a spine or bones, even. But their bodies are basically exoskeletons made out of calcium carbonate,” he says.
“So, starlike not just in shape,” Alex says. I put my hand into his and squeeze, remembering the night of our first kiss under the lit-up sky.
“Exactly,” Geoff says.
“How do you know so much about this stuff, anyways?” Leslie asks.
He shrugs. “It comes with the job description. When we’re not performing, we’re tour guides for Mermaid Cove. So I know a bunch of random water and sea facts.”
“That’s weird. Barb hasn’t mentioned anything to me about showing guests around,” I say.
“Probably ’cause you’re a temp,” Geoff says. Even though we all know it’s true, it comes off harsh, and I must do a poor job of hiding my hurt feelings, because right away he starts backtracking. “I mean, temporarily a temp, right? For now. You never know. Nothing’s for certain.”
There’s that phrase again. It’s just like what Mami and Dani said about my surgery; there’s no point in worrying about it yet. “I guess we’ll just see how things look at the end of the summer. Who knows, maybe I’ll get in Barb’s good graces.”
“If you figure out the trick, let me know, please,” Geoff says.
“Why?” Leslie downs the last contents of a red Solo cup. “Does Barb not like you or something?”
Geoff shrugs. “All I know is, our entire following is practically begging her to finally give me a tail, and she won’t even acknowledge it. That fan art someone posted of me a few weeks ago? They tagged Mermaid Cove in it, and by the next day, Mermaid Cove had untagged themselves.”
“You think it was Barb?” Leslie leans in close like he’s telling a ghost story.
“Without a doubt. She loves to pretend she doesn’t know the first thing about social media, but you know she’s fully in control of the Mermaid Cove brand.”
“That’s messed up. What does she have against you being a merman?” I ask.
“I prefer merperson. And I don’t know.” He rolls his eyes, like he’s already tired of the conversation. “Barb says they don’t have a tail that would fit me, and they’re so expensive that they’re waiting till they have more budget to get me one, and blah blah bullshit. I think she’s just stuck in her antiquated, gendered ways.”
“For whatever it’s worth, I think you’d make a great merperson.” I don’t get what the big deal is about a tail not fitting him, because Geoff’s size and body shape aren’t that dissimilar from mine.
“Oh, I know.” He grins and pulls out his phone. “Don’t tell Barb, okay?” He starts scrolling through picture after picture of a dark-haired person with the most detailed makeup I’ve ever seen. It makes their face look like it’s covered in iridescent scales and shells.
“Wait, is that . . .”
“Unrecognizable, right?” Geoff says. I notice all the pictures have thousands of likes. At the top, the bio reads simply: Phin. He/They.
“Phin. I love that,” I say, “Which pronouns do you prefer I use?”
Geoff sighs and lowers his voice. “He’s fine. I mean, I keep this profile separate from my work one because it gives me more freedom this way. No having to worry about the whole Mermaid Cove brand thing.”
“Got it,” I say, though I wish the Cove’s “brand” didn’t make him have to hide parts of himself.
I gasp when I get to one of him on a rock next to a blue-green spring. His back is facing the camera, and his hair is completely down, not in a ponytail or bun like he usually wears it in practice. He sits on one side of his hip and is wearing a long red and purple tail. It’s nothing short of elaborate, with delicate, see-through fins dotting his knees and a fluke about the size of a boogie board.
“Wow. That’s gorgeous.”
Leslie looks over my shoulder. “I thought you said you didn’t have a tail.”
“Not a real one. This one’s made out of swimsuit fabric.”
“It looks pretty real to me,” Alex says as he glances at the image.
“You know what I mean,” Geoff says, looking at me as if only I would understand. “The ones I have are fun and all, but it’s not like I’m performing in one. In front of a live audience.”
I admire the craftsmanship, the way the fluke has multiple layers, colors, and textures. I can tell from the stiffness of the fabric that he’s wearing a monofin underneath the tail. It’s like a giant flipper, but for both feet, and it’s designed to propel us through the water. “Do you go swimming in it?”
He nods and slides the phone into his back pocket.
“Where?” I ask.
“That picture was at Wekiwa Springs. But usually I just use the university pool. They have this extra-deep one for the divers.”
“And no one . . . says anything?” I can’t imagine donning a tail at Palmview Lakes just for the fun of it. People would stare and think I’m too old to play make-believe. My skin crawls from embarrassment just thinking about it.
“Not to my face. And anyways, who cares? Anyone who says they’ve never wanted to be a mermaid is flat-out lying.” He lets out a wistful sigh. “You’ll see, Sea Star. When you’re in the water and the auditorium is full of people in awe of you . . . there’s nothing like it. Mermaids make people’s dreams come true.”
On the way home from the party, I can’t stop thinking about Barb and how the Cove’s image hasn’t really evolved over the years. The mermaids may not all be white and blond anymore, but their origin stories and routines all seem to fit into two slim narratives: they’re all young maidens who came from similar waters and made themselves at home in the Cove. They fall in love with a handsome boy and live happily ever after.
I don’t know where Geoff or I fit into that story. I’m just a temp, a replacement. Who knows how long Barb will want me to stay, or how long my parents would let me, if they found out.
When I get home, I start writing my origin story in my notebook.
I’m Mermaid Verónica. I came from the land of Sea Stars, where particles of centuries-old stars fell from the sky into the ocean, calcifying into caves, into holey limestone that created the foundation of Florida and birthed a daughter in its image.
Trenza: tren·za
(n.) a length of hair woven together
(n. VR) a thing woven through repetitive motion; a twisted story
Chapter 28
LESLIE’S HUNGOVER, AND IT SHOWS. We’re sitting on the wicker bench on the lanai, me with my legs stretched over her lap so she can paint my toenails, and her hands won’t stop shaking as she tries to brush the enamel over my pinkie.
I wiggle my toes just to mess with her.
“You’re the worst. I don’t have to do this, you know. I don’t even like this color,” she says, dipping the brush back into the bottle. It’s a light shade of green that looks like the underbelly of a plant leaf when the sun shines through it.
“You’re the one who gave it to me, remember?” For my birthday back in May, she got me this kit of fifty-two shades that came in a box shaped like a calendar: one new color for every week. The bottles are tiny, about half the size of my thumb, and trying them out has become a regular thing we do together. But this morning, Dani used them to paint purple and yellow flowers on her toes, and then complained that the fumes were getting to her. So we ended up out on the porch, exiled from my own bedroom.
“Whatever, it won’t last. It never does on you,” Leslie says.
“It’s not my fault the water makes my manicure fade.” I clean off the edges of my right toe with my thumbnail. My fingers are still chipped with last week’s shade: Diablo Red. There’s a tiny splotch on one of them that’s shaped like a continent, or an island.
“So what color does Alex like?” she says.
I shush her by waving my hands in front of her face. Mami has the day off for once, so she’s in her room napping, which means she’s probably sitting in bed with her eyes closed, listening in on our conversation. Sometimes Leslie forgets to keep her voice down around Mami because she’s never had to keep any secrets from her mom. They actually talk about things openly, like when Leslie had her first serious boyfriend. Her mom brought her the biggest box of condoms I’d ever seen, practically the size of a shoebox, with a boatload of colors, sizes, and textures. Then she took her to the doctor so she could get on the pill and said she didn’t need to know when or if she was having sex—just that she wanted her to be safe when she did.
My parents. Would never.
Their only idea of safe sex is the kind you have after you’re married, because it keeps you safe from going to el infierno.
God, Catholics are so dramatic.
Which is why Leslie says the box is always open to me, and I should grab protection whenever I need it. I haven’t had to because I’m not ready, but I know by the way she raises her left eyebrow whenever either of us mentions Alex that she’s wondering if I might be soon. I wonder about it too. But the last thing I need is my parents finding out about him and immediately jumping to that conclusion.
Twenty minutes later, I have ten bright green toenails and a practically passed-out best friend who is in serious need of hydration. She heads home, and as if on cue, I catch Mami’s figure approaching from the other side of the glass door. She’s wearing a sleeveless top she knitted herself out of yarn that goes from yellow to orange to red, like the fiery surface of the sun.
“¿Todo bien?” she asks, taking the seat next to me.
“Everything’s fine. You?”
“I was just thinking it’s been a while since we really talked. Cuéntame. How was your first week at work? And don’t just say ‘fine’ like you did last night during dinner.”
“Fine. I’m mean, all right.” I try to parcel out the parts of truth I can tell her. “Work’s been uneventful, but good. It was kind of slow at first while I learned my way around. But everyone’s really nice.”
“Do you have a desk? An office?”
