But then they all take a peek out the window, and we remember that

something is changing and we don’t know what it is.

I’ve started sweating. The rash at the side of my neck is getting

worse. I want to crawl into my bed, but I know if I stand up I’ll fall

right back down.

My mom looks at me like she’s snapping out of a nightmare. “I

think Tristan needs to get some sleep.”

“Do you need help cleaning up?” Layla offers.

“No, Layla, honey.” Dad’s voice is tight, the voice he uses when

he’s on the phone with his boss and trying to convince him he’s

working on a project but really hasn’t started it.

“I don’t feel so good,” I groan. It’s rude, but I wave at them and

dash for the closest bathroom, which is my parents’. I shut the door

and run cold water in the sink. I splash cold water on my face and all

around my neck to calm the itching, which is spreading to my ribs. My

mind flickers to a vision in my dream. The silver mermaid. The rows of

teeth that don’t fit with the rest of her beauty. I know it was just a

dream, because I’m still here. I’m still here.

The faucet in the bathtub suddenly turns on by itself. The pipes

squeak with the strong water pressure. I pull the sheer white curtain

open and turn the water off.

I take off my T-shirt and soak it in the sink, then wrap it around

my neck like a towel.

The knob jingles, but I’ve locked it. “I’m fine!”

“Tristan, let us in.”

“I’m fine, Mom!”

“Everyone is gone, honey. Just let me in.”

“Son.” Now it’s Dad. He pushes against the door with all his

weight. “Don’t make me break down the door.”

“Something’s happening.” I want to say it, but I can’t. I can hear

the water in the bathtub making its way through the pipe. It smells

like salt, even though it shouldn’t. The tub faucet comes back on, and

it’s like a fire hydrant during the summer. I’m turning the knob, but

the water doesn’t stop coming.

In the sink, a tiny rainbow fish squeezes its way out of the

faucet. I close the drain so that it doesn’t get pulled back into the

pipes. It jumps in the water until there’s enough that it can swim in

circles.

My stomach contracts. I can feel my insides shifting, moving

apart, something inside of me breaking. My skin is on fire. My feet

give out under me. I hold on to the edge of the sink on my knees, but

I’m too heavy.

Dad has his drill out, undoing the doorknob. Two screws are out.

He stops and jostles the knob, but he has to take them all out.

Pain. Pain like I’ve never felt, and that’s now all I can think

about. The water overflows from the sink, soaking the bath mat and

spreading over the entire bathroom floor.

My mother is shouting my name. She’s not asking me what’s wrong.

She’s just repeating my name. Tristan , like a mantra, a prayer, a

wish that I’ll stay with them, so I say it too. I am Tristan Hart. I

am Tristan Hart. I am Tristan Hart.

“Mom.” I can hear myself whimper. Dad pulls the door open,

dropping the doorknob and drill on the floor. The tiles crack where

they fall.

The pain is going away, the fire subsiding. I don’t want to try to

move.

They stare, but not at me.

At my legs.

I know what’s happened before I look down. My ripped shorts are in

my mother’s hands. I cannot read her face, but it isn’t surprise like

it should be. It’s worry. The scent of bad lemon pie lingers around

the both of them.

“What’s happening to me?” I don’t know if I’ve actually managed to

say it aloud. I sit up on my elbows and look down. Even though I know

what I’m going to see, I still shut my eyes for a little while. And

when I open them, it’s still there-

My great blue fishtail.

I have this memory of my first time in water.

It’s insane, actually. There’s no way I should be able to remember

something like that, and I’ve convinced myself that it’s a dream I

made up.

Still, I remember. I remember my mom’s face staring down at me in

her arms. I remember being mesmerized, the way little kids are by such

things, by the blue of her eyes. Her sitting me in the kiddie pool. I

must have been a week old. And I remember swimming.

Sometimes during a meet, the memory would flash in my head. Then

I’d push it away, because things like that just aren’t real. But now I

know they are, and some part of me has known it all along.

“Can you bring in the fan or something?” It might just be hotter

than body building class at the end of summer. I’m slippery. Wet.

Sweating.

When I try to sit up, my tail comes up and knocks my mom off her

feet. She lands on her butt and grabs hold of my fins. I have fins.

“Let’s put him in the tub.” Dad’s voice is calm. I know he’s

always Mr. Calm-and-Collected-and-Ready-to-Analyze, but all I want is

a little bit of panic. I want him to scream, to run away from me,

because I’m a freak. I’m beyond a freak. I’m unnatural. I want to bang

my head against the tiles. I want to find a shrink who’ll medicate me

until I’m no longer a hazard to myself and others.

Mom grabs a towel and wraps it around my tail.

I. Have. A. Freaking. Tail.

Dad pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and hooks his

arms under mine. They count to three and heave me into the tub with a

splash. I’m suddenly nauseated, because I think of the times we’ve

been fishing and we unhook the fish and throw them back in the water.

The water overflows with my weight. The tub is one of those grand

claw-footed kind. It’s big enough for two people, which by the way,

since it’s my parents’ bathroom, is gross.

I let myself sink up to my shoulders and dangle my arms over the

edge. My fins hang out over the brim, curling and uncurling. I wonder

where my feet go? I wonder where my dick does! Holy crap. I’m about to

start flailing around when my mother kneels at the side of the tub and

dips her hand in. “Is the water okay?”

“Is the water okay? How about if I’m okay?”

“Don’t you talk to your mother that way.” Dad never uses that tone

with me, because other than having shown up home at the ass-crack of

dawn a couple of times, I don’t do anything to give them heart attacks

like my friends do to their parents.

Mom leaves the bathroom, and I’m afraid I’ve hurt her feelings.

The water helps the dryness that’s making my skin feel like I’ve been

lying out in the sun all day. I submerge myself completely. I hold my

breath, but it doesn’t matter, because I’m still breathing. The shock

of it makes me miss a beat of air when I sit upright.

Dad notices my surprise and finds Mom’s mirror that magnifies

pores three times. He hands it to me. I used to sit in this tub for

hours playing with that thing. On my pores, I mean.

I hold it up to my neck. It’s a hard angle, but there they are.

The slits are shut now, lined by clusters of translucent metallic-blue

scales. I throw the mirror to the side. It hits the wall and shatters.

“Bad luck, Finn,” he says, trying to joke.

“Everything about that statement is unfunny.”

My fins uncurl and knock the tray of bubble soaps into the tub.

Under the water pressure, the bubbles fill the bath in seconds. I can

smell the minuscule specks of metal in the water from the pipes it’s

traveling through. I can smell the chemicals in the soap more than the

rose scent it’s trying to mimic. I can smell Dad’s amazement mingling

with something like regret, like fireworks after they’ve all exploded.

“Say something,” he tells me.