The Girl Who Pulls the Tides - ONC 2021

chapter 9

"I could've done the dishes, y'know."

Jack looks back at me from where he's perched at the stove, flipping french toast. "What?"

I glance at the sink. "You should've reminded me. I would've done them."

He shrugs, "I know. You've just seemed busy lately."

"I guess."

He looks at me like I'm one of the thousand-piece jigsaw puzzles he has spread out on the floor of his room. "What have you been busy with?"

I shrug. "School stuff."

It's not a lie.

"Can you put some cinnamon on mine?" I ask, trying to change the direction of the conversation.

"And extra syrup."

Of course, he remembers how I like my french toast. Because he's a good brother. He reminds me to sleep in my bed instead of my desk. He does the dishes even though it's my chore. He's probably never hidden anything from me, let alone secretly met up with a Nereid without telling me.

I try to give him a smile. It feels tight, like a sunburn. "Thanks."

The extra syrupy cinnamon french toast is delicious, as per usual, but it doesn't make my stomach stop somersaulting. It's been rolling over all morning with a restless mixture of excitement and guilt. Excitement because I'm seeing Evyana for the second time this afternoon. Guilt because I'm keeping it from Jack.

"Thanks for breakfast," I say, cleaning up our dishes.

"I can make us a good dinner tonight, too, since I'm getting off work early."

"What?" I turn around from where I'm washing the dishes to face him. "Why are you getting off early?"

"Forecast says there's going to be a storm later, so everyone's getting off the water before it gets too rough."

"Oh," I say, trying to sound nonchalant. "Then you might be home before I am."

This makes him arch a brow. "You shouldn't be out tonight."

I shrug, turning back to the dishes. "I'm just going to Mabel's."

That is a lie.

"Just get home before the storm starts," Jack says. "And try to keep away from the water. You know how the Nereids get during storms."

☀︎

When the last bell rings, I'm the first one out of my seat, swinging my school bag over my shoulder and tearing towards the door. Our high school is a small, three-story red-brick building only a few blocks away from the harbor. There's a playground behind the building from years ago when it was an elementary school. It looks slightly apocalyptic, sitting on a patch of withered gray woodchips, the monkey bars rusted and the swingset creaking with every gust of wind, its yellow paint peeling, overgrown with climbing clove bushes and jester vines. High school kids go there between classes to smoke seer's sage and exchange exam answers.

I've almost made it to the front door without interruption when Mabel pops up beside me. I smile when I see her (because she's just the type of person you always want to smile at), but I also feel my eyes dart towards my watch. Now that I know Evyana can meet with me on land, I thankfully don't have to use Mabel's rowboat again—I can just hike down the steep pathway that cuts through the Pemaquid cliff-face and ends at the sandy shores of the cove. But it's two forty-five now, and the hike down to the beach takes at least thirty minutes, so if I want to have an hour with Evyana and get home before the storm's supposed to reach Norholm, I have to leave right now.

"Hey Fi," she greets me, matching my gait as we move through the overcrowded hallways. "How'd the barnacle expedition go?"

"What?" I ask, completely confused before my brain catches up and I remember the lie I told Mabel in order to borrow her boat. "Oh. Right. The barnacles." Super convincing, Fionn. "They were good."

"How was the ocean?" She asks, lowering her voice. "Were you...like...okay with it?"

I remember the heart-stopping slap of cold as I fell into the water. The darkness. The weightlessness. The burning inside my chest. The thought of my parents. This was the last thing they ever felt.

But then I think of Evyana: her streamlined body cutting through the water, the wind whipping my hair, the sea spray hitting my face and landing on my tongue in crisp, briny bursts as she pushes us faster and faster towards the harbor.

All I can do is shrug and answer honestly: "I'm not sure."

She gives me an encouraging smile. "It was really brave of you to do it."

I chuckle dryly, "I didn't feel very brave."

"But you are." She says it confidently, punctuating it with a sharp nod of her head.

I smile sheepishly. "Thanks, M. And thanks for letting me borrow the boat. It really helped me find what I was looking for."

I bid goodbye to Mabel as we leave the school, promising to hang out soon and to help her proofread an essay, and set off towards the cliffs. Everything is gray today as the world awaits the impending storm: The dark blue-gray of Broad Street's freshly-paved asphalt, smelling of the sky and oncoming rain. The lighter gray of the layered cumulus clouds, bruised with patches of yellow where the sun blazes behind them, unable to shine through. The gauzy gray of the low-hanging fog resting just above the rooftops, millions of tiny ice crystals suspended in the air. Even the trees are gray today, the lack of sun stealing their color and turning mottled brown into muted gray.

Nothing's the shade of Evyana's eyes, though.

I turn onto Osburne Avenue and then Barnet Lane, threading through the streets until finally, I make it to the entrance of the Pemaquid Trail. It's a strenuous hike, all steep and sharp angles, using the ledges and overhangs to zig-zag a path down to the beach. One of Jack's high school friends attempted to climb down the trail on the night before graduation (after many hours of partying and drinking and taking other substances that significantly impaired his judgment). The guy—his name's Jona—fell twenty-five feet and shattered everything on his right side; his ankle, leg, hip, ribs, and collar bone. He needs to walk with a cane now.

He's another cautionary tale for the people of Norholm.

I try not to think about Jona as I make my way down the trail, taking my time through the sheerest parts, using the Three Points of Contact rule where my parents told me to do so when I was little. It's not easy, and by the time I get to the bottom, the roots of my hair are damp with sweat, and my ankles are shaking with strain. But it's certainly preferable to rowing.

After catching my breath, I walk down to the shoreline, taking my shoes off and sinking my toes into the damp sand. Puffs of warm wind blow over my face, carrying the ever-present smell of sea and salt along with something else—the tiniest hint of magic. I smile, knowing that Evyana's close by.

Turning around, I grab my school bag and pull out the picnic quilt I'd packed this morning. I spread it out over the soft sand by the water, just out of the waves' reach, and sit down with my journal in one hand and a pen in the other, waiting for Evyana to appear.