23
BY THE TIME we pull up at the South Hill
Mall, my hair is a gargantuan mess, and my stomach has twisted in
about ninety-nine painful knots. Ken drove a Jeep today—it probably
matches my theoretical Jeep—and he took the soft top off.
Ken really should go back to California, where cars like this make
sense. It’s almost October, not nearly warm enough for this kind of
vehicle, and I think there are now some orange leaves on the
floorboard from some of the trees we passed.
The only thing that makes me feel better is that
Ken’s hair has blown out of the helmet look he had, so at least the
windblown look works for one of us. Maybe it will be slightly less
embarrassing to be seen with him now. If he would just throw on a
normal-looking T-shirt and stop smiling so often, he’d seem kind of
normal.
Ann, sadly, looks quite a bit worse for the wear.
Her hair is positively insane. Maybe I should get her some hair
products or something.
I take the rubber band off my wrist as we walk
toward the food court entrance, smoothing out the flyaways and
winding the band around my hair. While my hands are occupied, Ken
takes the chance to wrap his arms around my waist and yank me up
against his rock-hard body. Seriously, it’s like being shoved into
a wall.
I force a tiny smile in his direction and then
weasel out of his arms.
“Where do you want to go?” I ask, of no one in
particular.
When Ann doesn’t pipe up, I turn to my left, and
then to my right, and then over my shoulder. What the?
I stop and spin around. The mall isn’t very busy,
as it’s a Monday night. I don’t see her.
I backtrack a few dozen feet, and then I spot her:
She’s standing in front of Deb, her nose pushed to the glass so
that it’s totally smashed.
“So pretty!” she exclaims when she sees me.
She jabs a finger into the glass. “I love that.”
She’s pointing to a pale-pink scoop-necked top.
Someone has put a wide white belt around the waist and paired it
with jeans and heels.
In other words, it’s something a cheerleader would
wear.
“Pink would clash with your hair,” I say.
“But they have it in blue too!” She scoots over to
the next mannequin and taps on the glass.
I sigh and study the display. Deb is one of the
least expensive stores in this place. The top is probably ten
dollars.
“If I buy it for you, you have to watch the pony
all day again tomorrow. No complaints.”
Her head bobs up and down and she claps.
“Deal!”
I can’t help it. I smile just a little as she
bounds into the store.
At least . . . until she starts trying to rip the
shirt off the mannequin.
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I’m drowning my
sorrows in a Cinnabon, a practically bottomless Diet Coke next to
me. I’ve picked a nondescript round table in the corner of the
brightly lit food court. I can hear the squeals and laughter of the
shoppers around me, and my vantage point is perfect for people
watching. A mound of sticky napkins sits next to me, and the treat
is half eaten.
Ken said he needed more Muscle Milk. Ew. So Ann
went with him to go pick up a jug of it. I’d been skeptical that he
could pay for anything, but turns out Ken comes equipped with his
own credit cards. Go figure.
I’m staring at the birthday wish list, trying to
think outside the box on the things I would have wished for. It’s
half full now, thanks to the wishes I’ve already received. But I’m
no closer to filling in the remaining blanks than I was a few days
ago.
“Kayla?”
I hear the one voice that can make my heart spasm
in my chest.
Ben.
“We have got to stop meeting like this,” he
says, smiling at me.
“Hey,” I say, smiling back at him, though I know my
smile is more tense than pleased. My eyes dart around. No sign of
Ken or Ann.
“Mind if I sit?”
Ben is holding a big red tray with a plate of
Chinese food piled high in the middle. He’s wearing faded blue
jeans and a loose-fitting, faded-black Kawasaki T-shirt. It makes
his body look lean, muscular.
He’s staring at me and I realize I haven’t answered
him.
“Oh, um, sure, go ahead.” I pick up the wish list
and jam it into my pocket.
Maybe I should shovel the Cinnabon into my mouth as
quickly as possible and leave before my troupe of deranged dolls
shows up. I hadn’t planned on letting them out of my sight, but
keeping up with Ann and staying out of Ken’s arms was too hard. I
wanted a break. And some sugar.
“Come alone?” he asks.
I shrug. “Not really.” He just looks at me, waiting
for me to fill him in, but I don’t. “How about you?”
He nods as he finishes chewing the first mouthful
of his dinner. “Just me. Nicole says I don’t own anything
fancy enough to wear to the Philharmonic.”
Huh? “Philharmonic?”
He nods. “Yeah, we’re going with some other couples
in like two weeks. I think she’s convinced I’m going to be horribly
underdressed. So I’m trying to find something to wear that won’t
be, like, physically painful. Do you think jeans are ever
okay at a concert? Like if I buy new ones or something?”
I seem to be just staring into the distance, and I
have to blink several times to bring him back into focus. “Oh. Um,
no. Nicole probably plans on wearing a dress.”
His face falls. “Figures. I got the button-down she
wanted, but I was hoping to ditch the slacks.”
I swallow uncomfortably and nod. I can’t really
picture Ben dressed up. He’s more of a rugged, outdoorsy type. It
would be easier to picture that guy from Survivorman—the one
that drinks his own pee to survive—wearing a tux than Ben in
slacks. “That’s nice of you. To get dressed up for her, that
is.”
He takes a big bite of his food and chews for a
long moment. “You think?”
I nod, but I don’t say any more. I feel left out,
just picturing them going to Seattle for something special while
I’m sitting in my room, alone.
They’re going to some fancy orchestra concert with
a bunch of people.
And I’m not invited.
Because I’m not a couple.
I didn’t even know they were friends with other
couples.
I scrunch my eyebrows. “Wait, who are you—”
“Sugar!” Ken calls as he mounts the steps of the
food court and joins me and Ben at the table. “Sorry it took so
long.”
He leans down and kisses me on the temple, then on
the cheek. My skin crawls where his slobber is left behind. But I
don’t wipe it away. I just smile.
It must be fake, my smile. It must be beyond
fake because inside I’m cringing and panicking as Ken pulls up a
chair on one side of me and Ann grabs the other.
We have reached terror-level yellow.
Ben looks at me. Obviously, he is awaiting
introductions.
“Um, Ben. This is . . . Carson,” I say, waving my
hand in Ken’s direction, “and my friend Ann.”
I hope Ken doesn’t correct me, doesn’t tell Ben his
name is Ken.
Great. They rhyme. That’s how awesome this is. Gah,
how come every time Ken is around all I can think is awesome
this and awesome that?
Ann does her puppy dog smile and shoves her hand
out to shake with Ben, somehow smacking his plastic fork and
sending a chunk of General Tso’s chicken launching through the air.
Ben ducks just in time, and it lands behind him, on the white
tiles. I half expect an overplayed splat sound effect when
it hits, but it’s nearly silent.
He doesn’t look fazed, just reaches out and shakes
Ann’s hand. She grips it and shakes too enthusiastically, so Ben’s
whole arm is like a ripple of a wave.
Ken shakes his hand too, much more reserved and
under control. He doesn’t correct Ben when he says, “Nice to meet
you, Carson.”
Maybe his beach ball buds call him by his last name
too.
Then Ken turns to me. “They had a killer sale at
the vitamin store. Muscle Milk was two for one,” he says, holding
up the biggest shopping bag I’ve ever seen.
My eyes dart to Ben. His eyes are bright with
repressed laughter, and I watch as he discreetly glances at Ken’s
bulging muscles.
“Gotta keep these babies fed,” Ken says, setting
down the bags.
And then, dear God, he flexes a few times and
actually kisses his bicep.
Terror level: orange.
“What is that?” Ann asks, leaning toward me.
“Um, a Cinnabon?”
“I want some!” And then she yanks the whole plate
off my tray and plops it down in front of her. She reaches over and
takes the fork right out of my hand and jams it into the remaining
Cinnabon, lifting it up as one big bite and sort of folding it into
her mouth.
While she chews, her cheeks are swollen and puffy,
like a chipmunk with an entire mouthful of nuts.
Ken leans back and looks a little bored, crossing
his arms at his chest so that his pecs and biceps swell even
bigger. Ken seems to take notice of his bulging muscles and looks
down at his chest.
And then it gets even better. He uncrosses his arms
and looks at his pecs and then makes them dance. One, then
the other, pops up and down and up and down, while Ken looks
inordinately pleased.
I, on the other hand, am horrified.
Terror level: red. We have reached meltdown, abort
mission.
Ben stares straight at me, his lips quivering the
tiniest bit as he takes another bite of his Chinese food. His eyes
dart back over to Ann, whose mouth is crammed full of Cinnabon, and
then back to Ken, who is still admiring his own chest.
I want to kick him under the table. We stare
straight into each other’s eyes for a long moment.
And then it happens.
It’s a tiny muffled laugh at first. He tries to
hide it with his fist, turn it into a cough. But it doesn’t work.
The laughter builds and rumbles in his chest, and then it breaks
loose, and he bursts out laughing.
I glance from Ann’s bewildered expression to Ken’s
bored one, and then I can’t stop myself either. . . . The laughter
bubbles out of me until I’m consumed by it, until I’m doubled over,
laughing hysterically.
Ben looks up at me, his eyes taking me in as he
keeps laughing, like he can’t understand why I’m laughing
too.
But he doesn’t know the half of what has happened
so far this week. It’s like everything has overwhelmed me in one
big wave, and something has broken loose and all I can do is laugh
at myself.
It takes us several minutes to regain control of
ourselves. By the time we do, there are tears at the edges of my
eyes, and my sides are burning. Ben takes a long, slow drink of his
soda to calm himself.
Ken and Ann are just watching us, a little
bewildered and confused.
“So, Carson,” Ben asks. “Do you know where I can
find a good gym?”
I try to kick Ben, but my foot only connects with
the leg of the table. He hears the loud bang my shoe makes as it
connects with metal, and his grin widens.
Ben’s not a gym sort of guy. His muscles are from
working for his dad’s landscaping business and from riding bikes,
nothing more. They’re thick and well defined, but he doesn’t have
the artificial bulk like Ken has.
“If you need some pointers, dude, I’d be happy to
help.”
“Oh yeah, that would be totally awesome, dude,” Ben
says, with a thick surfer accent. Then he actually flexes under his
shirt, pointing to his arms.
I want to be angry with him or at least annoyed,
but all I can think about is all the silly things I’ve said to Ken
while pretending I was Barbie, and I can’t help but think we have
the same sense of humor.
It doesn’t mean I want to sit around and see if
this goes somewhere, though.
“Um, I think we should get going,” I say. “Right .
. . sweetie?”
I can barely grind out the last word. I’m not sure
I should be claiming Ken as a boyfriend anymore. Maybe I should
stage a breakup with him. Maybe he’d stay away then.
Why didn’t I think of that sooner? If I break up
with him, problem is solved.
He looks up. “Sure, honeydew.”
Ben’s lips quiver again with barely contained
laughter.
“Come on, Ann,” I say, pulling out her chair. She
has Cinnabon and frosting all over her chin and has only managed to
actually swallow half of what she crammed in her mouth.
“Nice seeing you, Ben.”
“Yep. See ya in math,” he says. He doesn’t take his
eyes off me. They’re still bright, sparkling with amusement.
“Okay, then,” I say, backing away from the table. I
jam my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “Nice seeing you,” I
repeat, and then cringe.
I can’t get out of here fast enough.
Ken is so getting locked in the shed with
that stupid pony.
We’re only halfway out of the food court when I
finally realize that Nicole told me we couldn’t study directly
after school because she’d be with Ben.
But Ben was at the mall.
So Nicole was . . . where?
We walk back toward the entrance we came in at,
down by Sears. The mall has been undergoing renovations for a
while, with all new tiles and skylights and pretty rock facades
around the support beams. Now it looks like they’ve added a big
fountain.
Huh. Maybe I should try making a wish in the
fountain. I mean, it can’t hurt at this point.
I stop and dig into my pockets, staring at the
copper pennies and silver nickels that glimmer beneath the surface
of the water. I produce a handful of change and decide to use it
all in one swoop.
I lean against the edge of the rocks and close my
eyes.
I wish every wish—
My stomach drops into my knees as I feel Ann’s body
against mine, like she’s tripped right into me, and my eyes pop
open just in time to see the water rushing up toward my face.
I go under, the icy water completely covering me,
and I flounder around until I feel a strong arm grab my shoulder
and yank me upright. I cough, gasping for air, my hair flopping
over my face as the water runs in rivulets down my skin.
Ken is leaned over the edge, a hand gripping my
arm, his eyes wide with alarm. “Are you okay, honey?”
I sputter and spit out the water left in my mouth.
Just as I’m nodding, my legs start to tingle, a tiny bit at first,
until it multiplies and spreads. It’s like both legs fell asleep at
once. I wiggle my toes, trying to rid myself of the feeling, but it
doesn’t feel right. It’s like my toes are stuck together with
superglue.
I haul myself up onto the ledge of the fountain and
pull my sneaker off so that I can dump the water out, but then my
heart nearly stops and I try to shove it back on.
Oh. Mio. Dio.
I scramble out of the fountain as fast as I can,
but it’s difficult and my legs aren’t cooperating.
Because I’m not totally sure they’re legs
anymore.
My skin is bluish, kind of iridescent. And a little
scaly.
It looks like fish scales.
Ewww, what the heck was in that water?
The tingling turns to a weird needling, like when
your foot is really asleep. My eyes dart around. Is anyone
else seeing this?
My toes feel like they’re trying to stick together.
Like they’re webbed.
Like instead of feet, I have fins. Frantically, I
squeeze the water out of my socks and my legs and try to shake off
the water that’s still dripping down my back and limbs. The
tingling gets worse, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a
bad thing.
I blink several times and watch as my toes becomes
toes again and the sliminess on my skin dissipates.
And that’s when I realize what this is.
I think I’m turning into a mermaid.
This has gone way. Too. Far.
“Uh, I hurt my ankle, can you carry me to the car?”
I say. I can’t be here. Not if I go full-on fishy.
“Sure thing, doll!” Ken scoops me up as if I’m
lighter than air and we head to the car. I will him to move faster,
to get me out of here while I’m still normal.
Normalish.
We make it to the Jeep and now I’m pretty thankful
that the top is off so that the wind can blow around and dry out my
pants. I sneak a peek, and my skin still looks a little blue, but
it’s going back to normal.
Awesome. Apparently I can’t get wet anymore, at
least not as long as the wishes are still around.
I want to kill my seven-year-old self.
Because apparently, once upon a time, I wished to
be a mermaid.
And now I am one.