When We Believed in Mermaids(64)

I tried to let it go, but the question brought back the acid in my stomach, the taste of his hands over my mouth, the way he hurt me. But I lied. “You were.”

“Okay,” Dylan said mildly, and pointed up at a trio of falling stars.

I watched it. “I told you; now you have to tell me.”

“It was a belt buckle.”

Impossible to stop the sudden intake of my breath. “Dude.”

He scratched my head in a way I liked. “Long time ago, Grasshopper.”

But now I felt bad that he told me the truth and I didn’t tell him. I tried to think of a way to say it that didn’t sound disgusting, and I couldn’t find one. A man did stuff to me. This guy made me take off my clothes. This guy said he’d kill Cinder if I didn’t do what he said.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?”

I twitched my shoulders, moving away from him, sitting up so I could look out to the ocean. On the far horizon, light caught and made the edge glow. “I guess.”

“You guess?” He sat up too, his arms hanging loosely over his legs. “I swear you can tell me. Anything.”

Chewing on my lip, I looked over at him. His loose hair was getting tangled now, little loops sticking up here and there. “You have to swear, like completely and totally swear, that you won’t tell and you won’t make me tell.”

He touched his chest, hand over his heart. “I promise.”

But even then, I couldn’t figure out how to say it. A wind kicked up and made me shiver, but I couldn’t say it.

As I was struggling to find the words, Dylan said, “Was it one of the guests?”

I nodded, weaving my fingers together, a panicky feeling in my chest.

“Did he . . . touch you?”

Again, I nodded, but my lungs felt strange, and I suddenly felt like I couldn’t breathe. I tried to suck in air, but I couldn’t, and I turned to Dylan with wild eyes, my breath stuck in my chest like my throat was broken in half.

“Hey, hey.” He moved closer, took a drag off the joint, and gestured me closer. “Breathe in as I breathe out.”

I leaned in as he blew out the smoke, and the acrid sting of it hit the back of my throat.

“Good,” he said, blowing the rest away from my face. “Hold it as long as you can.”

Immediately, my breath started moving again. It was like the booze I sipped out of glasses when nobody was looking or they were going back to the dishwasher or someone thought it was cute that I should have a sip of a martini.

I let go of the smoke.

“Better?”

“Yeah. Again.”

He hesitated, but I gave him my steely look, and he took a toke, a really big one, and smiled at me as he did it. I got ready for him to blow it to me, and maybe because I was already getting high, the exchange lasted a thousand years. I looked at his pursed mouth and noticed it was pink and plump, and there were sprouts of new beard coming in on his chin. The smoke left his mouth, and I sucked it in, and sucked it in, and sucked it in, deeper and deeper and deeper, and then I fell sideways holding my breath as well as I could. And only when it was completely impossible to hold it another second did I breathe out in a big gasp.

“Thatta girl,” he said, his voice low and approving.

I rolled over onto my back, my hands on my rib cage, the sparkling bright stars looking twenty times larger. Dylan fell down beside me, and we just lay there, side by side, looking at the sky and letting the wind move over us, for a long, long time.

“Dude, you got me high.”

“You were having a panic attack,” he said mildly. “So that makes it medicine.”

I giggle.

“I’m not kidding.” But he laughed too, then slowed. “Now you have something to tell on me about, so you can trust me.”

I turned my head, and his eyes were right there, pale and bright as moonlight, never eyes like a real person. “You have mermaid eyes.”

“I wish I was a merman. That would be pretty cool.” He turned his head back to the sky, and I used my finger to draw the outline of his profile in the air.

“Might get lonely, though.”

“Might.” He waited a long time before he said, “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

I touched each of three scars on his upper arm—all three burns. “Did somebody burn you with a cigarette?”

“Cigar,” he said. “What if you don’t have to say it and I just guess?”

“Why do you wanna know so bad? It was awful, but it’s over. I’m good.”

“You’re not, though.” He brushed my hair off my forehead. “You’re sad all the time, and doing things that aren’t really appropriate for your age.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I know. But if I tell you that it would feel good to talk to somebody, you need to believe me.”

“Talk to somebody? Like a counselor?” I looked up, horrified.

“You can just tell me.”

But I couldn’t. I knew he would tell. No one but me could keep a secret this big.



In the big pantry at Sapphire House, the memory rips through me. I suddenly miss Dylan so much it feels like a fresh wound. Sinking to the cold linoleum, I wrap my arms around my knees and let the tears fall.