Sink (Preview)

Chapter One: SUMMER

Isabella: 

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I'm swollen full of salt and sand, water gushing through my veins, silky ribbons of the sea; the airy delirium of the ocean lingers beneath my skin.

I imagine I am a mermaid with golden blonde hair, not red. I don't think I would be that kind of mermaid. I close my eyes and see forest green scales that shimmer like glitter on an ornament. I almost feel them piercing through my skin, so fiercely escaping their bondage, my oceanic heart emerging from my tomb of humanity. Of course, when my gaze focuses, I see I still have red hair and lame legs.

Restless, I dive under the eager wave, my breath knocked deep into the wall of my chest. I hold it and feel it disappear like a tidal pool evaporating up into the ultramarine sky. Slimy clusters of seaweed wrap around my ankles, tugging just the slightest, edging me down.

My friends aren't here, but that's okay.

The seaweed reluctantly unravels itself from around my feet and I propel myself forward, up and against the strong current urging me down, deeper, into the formidable abyss of the slated Atlantic. I have ached and ached for the comforting animosity of my home coast. I had to be selfish for a second.

The mist peppers my fingers as I raise them above the surface. I lay on my back and let the waves carry me, allow them to burden my weight. I unleash all the automatic observations that have been drilled into my skull with the intensity of a jackhammer. I reminisce on them for a moment, before letting them go.

Back in Miami I had to be constantly watching. Sampling. Taking notes. Observations. What does the hue of the water indicate about the salinity? What does the salinity indicate about the health of the ecosystem? What are three distinctive signs of a good pH? At what depth does the pressure begin to interfere with our measurement parameters? What do you notice about the tentacles of this jellyfish? What about the bell? Why is this one unique? Check the radar. Check the cameras. Look out for the tagged sharks.

It's difficult to let go of the methodical, extreme structure of my elite program. The intense flair of academic competition that kept my clipboard close to my chest and my anxious thumb constantly clicking my pen, wondering when it would break or suddenly become one of those bright red DESTRUCT buttons I accidentally press.

Eyes glued to the furthest I could see down, which wasn't terribly far, I watched with gnawing anticipation and concentrated on the reflection of the furious sun glaring off the sea.
There was a girl in my program that would always keep quiet about her observations. She valued silence in her own matter of competition. She ended up graduating with the highest GPA and scored the highest on her last test. She bested all the gloating, prideful girls that made a point to announce whenever they'd complete a lab first or finish their experiments with simply immaculate results!

I think her name was Mara. She always took her time with the labs. She was older than me and seemed to detest the arrogance of the other girls. I don't know that I'd call us friends, but she at least had the respect and compassion to talk to me without questioning what business I had being in the program to begin with. We should have been academic rivals however, eventually, I just accepted that we both had a deep passion for marine biology and wanted to excel in our respective tracks. I came to tell her the truth I had been hiding from the rest of the class–I was going to work at BioInc when I finished the one year-program. My tongue caught in my throat as I anxiously waited for that look of angry disgust, of ruthless jealousy to overtake Mara's soft, cat-like features.

Instead, she nodded with that curt fascination most Floridians have when Robert Bateman's company gets brought up in any meaningful way. Respect. Curiosity. A little vigor, but nothing alarming. A week after that conversation, Mara graduated from the program early and was gone on her way to acclimate to her new position in some astute research organization I feel as though I'd heard Larrison mention to me before.

Larrison.

I haven't seen Larrison in roughly a year since I left for the program in Miami to replace my traditional senior year of high school. Rocker and Caitlyn were still graduating from Palmetto High. That's two out of four, so I wasn't about to be so selfish as to ask him to come all the way to Miami and miss their graduation for mine–one of which was far less ceremonial than it was proficient. My parents came. I got my Marine Biology Certification–which coming from the Institute, meant about as much as a Bachelors degree and I got my Associates alongside it.

But here I am now, wading between worlds, in the calming liminal space between the past year of my life and the anticipated return home. I'm ready to be back, but there is a tumbleweed rattling around in my chest when I consider how my friends might have changed or worse, how I am different. Am I different? I missed Caitlyn and Rocker's senior year. Of course, I didn't miss it entirely. I video-called, texted, did all the things. But I wasn't here. And Larrison?

I can't even begin to digest the cacophony of mixed emotions battling one another for dominance when it comes to him. We made it through our break. Summer is in the horizon. This is it, this is our time to soak in the last beautiful rays of ripe adolescence before our youth is smoldered with work and responsibility, at least mine. Caitlyn has a little longer with college and I'm not sure Rocker is ever going to grow up. Larrison's been working at BioInc since he was sixteen and got his bachelors in Marine Biology at seventeen, Masters at eighteen, with a minor in Psychology. I guess I should feel lucky that I got a childhood at all.

There's something so blisteringly fleeting about this time of day. The brief moments of bleeding saturation in the sky, milky tangerine blurring into a rosey cotton candy, sometimes the sky will melt into pomegranate, eventually it'll flood with ink. That's when the stars come out, the ocean becomes black and I feel as though I'm lapsing up and down, drifting somewhere off in space. The sun is still out, though. Still being squeezed for all its juicy shades, being drained and grapled, pushed and pulled.

I bet they're all waiting for me at Oysters. Caitlyn's going to kill me for having her wait this long with the boys.

What the hell, Izzy? I can't believe you ditched me to go on one of your little spontaneous swims. You make me wait a whole year to see you and you can't even get here on time?

It's the loving sarcasm in her imagined accusation that gets the smile out of me. I look back out at the endless expanse of ocean. The vastness of it is terrifying and wonderful.

I wade for a couple more seconds, in the depth right where my toes lift up from the ocean floor, where the collection of sandy grey water is too thick and saturated with vegetation to see anything below my waist. This is the perfect condition of the water to entice my nostalgic fantasies. I close my eyes one more time. Tiny fish dart back and forth, gliding across my torso, their thin quick fins gracing against my skin. They tickle a little bit and I laugh, able to bypass the embarrassment I'd get out of my friends if they saw me out here, playing mermaids with myself.

The ocean is here for me. It connects all four of us, really. The Palmetto coast is our bridge to company. Rocker's in it for the surf. Larrison, for the science. Caitlyn, for the poetry. Me? I'm here because this is where I belong. This is where I feel, I guess ironically, most human. Most raw and real and as though my purpose is as crystal clear as the Hawaiian tides. I don't always know who I am on land. But here? The ocean knows. It whispers secrets to me, consoles my fear, nourishes my hope, my dreams.

Okay, I'm obsessed.

Goosebumps consume my skin as I walk onto shore, back out into the unknown, the mass of movement. There is nobody on the beach but me. The pampas grass sways back and forth with the melodic whistle of the wind, brushing against the air like a paintbrush streaking a canvas. The wet sand full of tiny shards of shells wedges in between my toes as I continue my walk up to the boardwalk. I keep smiling because when I get to Oysters, I won't even have to explain myself. They'll all see my salty, wet hair, and they'll know where I've been. Better yet, it might even be enough to convince them to go out with me after dinner. 

Nothing compares to a night swim. 

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THANK YOU FOR READING THE FIRST CHAPTER OF SINK! If you are interested in reading more, please go follow my on TikTok at amandalaurenthewriter! If this gets 100 veiws...I will upload chapter two! If you are interested in Beta reading this book in full...email me at daltonamandawrites at gmail.com <3 

-- Amanda Lauren :)