Prithi meows.

“Lily,” Aunt Rachel shouts from down the hall. “Have you been using the phone in the bathtub again?”

Covering my face with my hands, I wonder if I never should have left the sea in the first place. High school may be great for humans, but it’s no place for a mermaid.

2

Nothing escapes the scrutiny of a bathroom mirror. Especially first thing in the morning. Especially under the compact fluorescent glow of Aunt Rachel’s fixtures.

The harsh lighting washes out my already pale skin, making the freckles painted across my nose and shoulders stand out in the contrast. My blond sea sponge looks more like a halo of yellow cotton candy than hair.

I tug open my makeup drawer, sending the trays of tubes and compacts crashing to the front. Makeup application must be something human girls learn in kindergarten, because after three years of practice the only product over which I have any control is lip gloss. Even that doesn’t always go as planned.

I twist off the cap of shimmery pink and swipe the wand over my lips.

“Lily,” Aunt Rachel shouts up from downstairs. “You have a message from your father.”

Startled, I lose control of the wand, jerking a gooey pink streak across my cheek before dropping the wand down the front of my shirt and onto Prithi’s furry back.

Great. Two hours spent choosing the perfect go-to-the-dance-with-me outfit, and now I have to change.

“Be right down,” I shout back, peeling the wand out of Prithi’s fur and rinsing it off in the sink. Thankfully, most of the gloss smeared onto my shirt, so there’s not much stuck to her.

After a quick glance at the curtain-covered window—maybe I should staple the curtains in place—I tug my navy blue scoop-neck tee over my head. I duck across the hall and grab a last-minute replacement top. I’m just bouncing down the stairs when I hear Aunt Rachel say, “Good morning, Quince. What brings you over?”

I freeze. What is he doing here? Hovering outside the kitchen door, I listen.

“The paper boy misfired again.”

I steal a peek and see him handing Aunt Rachel her Seaview Times. I don’t buy it. He’s not that nice. He’s probably here with some great new plan for my humiliation. Prithi catches up with me and proceeds to weave figure eights around my ankles. Well, I’m not about to stand around hiding like Lily the cowardly lionfish. Straightening my shoulders, I step around the doorjamb and walk into the kitchen.

“Morning, Aunt Rachel.” I give her a smile as I cross to the counter and pour myself a glass of orange juice. The carton’s been out for a while, so I wrap my hand around the tumbler and chill the contents.

As far as I care, Quince isn’t even in the room.

“Quince brought over our paper,” she explains. “It was accidentally delivered to their porch again.”

I snort. Quince probably grabbed it off our porch and just pretended to bring it over. To camouflage his true motives. That would be just like him.

“Would like you some breakfast, Quince?” she offers, unfolding the paper and starting in on her morning read. “Lily, why don’t you pour a second glass of juice?”

I’m just about to tell him where he can stick his glass of juice when he says, “I already ate, Ms. Hale.”

I nearly spill my freshly chilled juice. It’s so unlike him to pass up an opportunity to bug me for an extended period of time. When I spin around to figure out why, he’s standing right in front of me.

“But,” he continues, watching me with his annoyingly Caribbean blue eyes, “I would love a glass of juice.”

Why does he of all people have to have eyes the exact color of Thalassinian waters? Teeth clenched, I turn back around and quickly splash some juice into a glass. I shove it at him.

“Here.”

“Thanks.” He takes the glass—apparently not noticing that I’ve accidentally chilled it to the point of frost—but doesn’t step back. Just downs the ice-cold juice in one chug. He flashes that arrogant grin. “Just what I needed.”

“Good,” I snap. “Then you can—”

My suggestion that he go take a flying leap out the door dies in my throat when his gaze shifts to my mouth. His smile transforms into more of a smirk as he slowly lifts a hand to my cheek. I’m frozen. What on earth is going on here?

He rubs his fingertips across my skin, then holds them up to inspect.

“Looks like you missed the mark, princess.”

Turning his hand, he shows me the smear of shimmery pink gloss he wiped off my face.

“Aaargh!” I growl in frustration, and shove him as hard as I can.

Of course, I forget the glass of juice still in my hand and wind up spilling it all over both of us. He just throws back his head and laughs.

Prithi hisses at Quince. Good girl.

“Lily,” Aunt Rachel admonishes. “What were you thinking?”

Before I can defend myself—anyone who hears my side of the story would totally call my actions justified—he says, “It was my fault, Ms. Hale.” He winks at me. “I had it coming.”

Then, turning to Aunt Rachel, he says, “Mom wanted me to thank you for the organic lemon bars. They were delicious, as always.” He grins. “We finished them in a day.”

Aunt Rachel blushes. “I’ll have to make some more.”

She’s always sending over stuff like cookies and casseroles to Quince and his mom. One time I asked her why, and she gave me some cryptic answer about neighbors helping neighbors, which I eventually figured out meant Quince’s mom struggles to pay the bills with her minimum-wage factory job. They’re like the poster family for single mom and deadbeat dad. Aunt Rachel might not be much better off with her pottery studio, but she likes to share her bounty.