nothing from Brooklyn.

I stop to catch my breath and wriggle out the cramp in my fingers.

I wonder if Kurt resents me for being such a pain in the ass and

having to play baby-sitter not just to Thalia but to me too. And for

real this time, I’m going to make an effort to be nicer to him.

“Surely you can keep up,” he says when he notices I’ve slowed down

behind him.

Maybe I’ll start being nicer to him tomorrow.

•••

The sun beats hard on the ground, which has thin cracks running

all through it. From up here I can see the way the thin river snakes

through the forest of misty-leaved trees, the pillars that mark the

entrance, the shore where the tide has already erased our footprints

from the shore, the horizon, the wall, the point where the clouds turn

dark-and behind that, Coney Island.

“Quite a sight for someone who’s never seen it before,” Kurt says,

pulling me up first, then Layla. She teeters with the newness of this

height and grabs onto Kurt’s shoulders, digging into his skin with her

yellow nails. Her eyes focus on the pitfall, the way the dark green of

the forest melts into the waterfall so it looks like a cloud of mist.

I can hear her gasp, and I don’t know if it’s because she’s scared of

falling, or because she’s looking into Kurt’s eyes and is surprised by

their color. She looked at me that way once.

“Hot damn!” Marty holds the cardboard box over his head in a

triumphant pose. “I’m the ultimate king of the world.”

Thalia pokes him in the stomach, and he tenses up completely.

“No tickling unless we want me to plummet to certain doom.”

And it is a most certain doom. Below us is a sight I have no name

for-grotto, oasis, mermaid paradise? It’s like someone took an

ice-cream scoop and hollowed out the back side of a mountain and left

this. A lake the size of two Olympic-sized pools is nestled in the

ground. It’s light blue at the top, and the bottom fades into black.

Smooth boulders line the sandy lake that sparkles in the direct

sunlight. When the shiny things move, I realize it’s not the rocks

that are glittering but the mermaids curled and napping in the sun.

I knock some loose rocks with my foot. They fall over the ledge,

bouncing off the side of the cliff rock wall until they hit the

ground. Heads snap up, one by one, like piano keys picking themselves

up after a finger slides all along the keyboard. There’s a section at

the other end of the lake where the leaves are the size of car doors

and hung with sheer draping like the sails on Arion’s ship.

The mermaids below sigh and gasp. There aren’t any OMGs or WTFs or

Can-you-believe-its? These sounds are the highest notes on a violin, a

melody that is so pleasant I never want it to stop. And for the first

time, I wonder if this is what I sound like when I talk, even if it’s

just a fraction of this?

Kurt leads the way down. Along the side of the cliff is a narrow

ledge that zigzags all the way down so we have to press our backs to

the wall and walk sideways. The entire court is watching our descent,

and suddenly I wonder if I’ll ever stop feeling like a sideshow

attraction.

I’ve grown up with pictures of mermaids in my mother’s books, and

I’ve been to the Mermaid Parade every year since I can remember. Lots

of fishnets and seashell bras. Nothing like the girls clustered down

there like handfuls of Skittles. They perch on flat rocks with their

fins dipped in the water. Seal girls stand on the shore in their

nakedness, hair flowing over their breasts. They wave at us and blow

kisses. They push their hair away from their faces and gather it over

one shoulder. They wink and let loose with their beautiful voices

again. They shine like stars floating on the sea, tails licking at the

water from their perches.

I wonder if anyone else’s tongue feels as dry as mine.

When we hit the ground, Marty holds on to his box for dear life.

“Remind me to bring a snorkel for the tunnels next time around.”

We walk along the water. Groups of mermaids gather under the

fan-like leaves of tall trees. I try not to stare, but this kind of

weird is different than seeing a guy in drag on the subway: these are

mermaids. Some have slender pixie faces with long ears that point out

through their hair. Their fins fan wide and outward, elegant and in a

burst of scales that vary from subtle yellows to pinks. There is a

girl so small and purple that when she smiles her black teeth are

jolting. There is a woman with long blond curls holding a baby mermaid

in her arms. It wriggles-well, like a fish-and points at us.

I nudge at Layla and point out the baby. “That’s how I was born.”

And she stares at the family too, wonder and confusion blurring her

hazel eyes. She takes my hand because maybe she feels how freaked out

I am, and maybe she is too, but at least we’re together. At least I

can share this with her. She points at the guards. “How come the

gladiators are on feet too?”

“Something about a squid tattoo,” I joke. “I promise I’ll tell you

later.” She squeezes my hand in reply.

The soldiers wear metal shields that cover their chest and a

chain-link skirt sort of thing that covers their junk, which I guess

makes for an easy shift. They wear gold cuffs on each wrist. Walking

past them is like casually walking past a line of armed marines. Don’t

mind us, we were personally invited by the king; pretty please keep

those sharp and deadly swords in their scabbards.

Past the guards are tent-like sections housing what must be the

court merfolk Kurt mentioned once, the ones who are allowed to have

feet. These princesses aren’t like the mergirls baking on the rocks.

These sit up tall. Their scales form around their breasts. Their long

hair is gathered and looped through all sorts of shells, dripping with

pearls and golden baubles.

One is the most breathtaking of them all, a girl with white-blond

hair twisted around an open conch shell. She holds my stare with her

gray eyes. She sits at the foot of a guy who reminds me of a naked

grizzly, all shoulders and chest and full beard. He crosses his arms

over his chest and gives me his cheek. Well, that’s not a good way to

make friends, is it?

Past the row of decadent tents is a line of the others who were on

Arion’s ship with us. They stand on either side of the throne. They’re

holding gifts. I feel for the backpack my mom filled up for me.

And there is a deep Ahem , like the sea itself is clearing its

throat.

I turn slowly, my eyes flitting from the gray-eyed princess to the

rows of guards who kneel, to the merfolk in the water whose heads are

bowed. Kurt and Thalia are kneeling. Marty takes a cue and does the

same. So does Layla.

I don’t know if it’s the shock of his face or just because I’m

stupid. But I just stand there. There he sits, like a statue that

belongs in the middle of Central Park. He is taller than me, taller

than anyone I’ve ever seen in my life. With legs like tree trunks and

with his ankles covered in scales and tiny barnacles. They glisten

with water and light. The hairs on his legs are golden against skin

that is tanned like well-beaten leather, a lifeguard’s tan like mine.

He wears the same warrior metal as the others, but his armor looks

worn from decades of sea air. The scattered scales along his arms and

legs are the color of the sky just before twilight, a blue that is

hard and endless.