The smell of Sloppy Joes is so strong that I feel dizzy just walking past the cafeteria. The students aren’t supposed to know that the lunch budget ran out three weeks ago. The school’s gotten by with leftovers, and a large shipment of “alternate food product” that was purchased with an emergency loan from the PTA. (I was warned by my mom, who’s an English teacher and a member of the PTA board.)
It’s not like I needed the extra incentive to avoid the cafeteria. I always brown bag it and eat on the patio with my two best friends, Becca and Melanie. We started eating lunch together in the fourth grade, the year Becca’s family moved here from Cuba.
We’ve been inseparable ever since, which is why they grant me all of three seconds to sit down before they launch into me.
“I can’t believe you got a car and didn’t tell us,” Becca says between sips of her Diet Dr Pepper.
I plead for forgiveness. “I didn’t know. My parents surprised me. I thought we were going to get it next weekend.”
It’s pointless to defend myself. They’re not even listening.
“It’s the mermaid thing,” Melanie says with authority. “We’re getting replaced by the C Cups.”
This is officially Day Five of the Jane Abuse Tour.
Bee and Mel—my two oldest, dearest friends on the planet—have been giving me nonstop hell every day since I got the mermaid job. Like it’s going to change me.
“I bet she told Crystal,” Becca adds with a pointed look. “Mermaids share everything. It’s part of their code.”
Melanie nods in agreement as she chomps on a carrot stick. “Are you kidding? She probably already gave Crystal a ride.”
“Right,” I answer, finally getting a word in. “She really wants to ride in my nine-year-old Volkswagen instead of the pimped out Beemer she got for her birthday.”
This logic finally slows the assault.
Becca’s the first to concede. “Okay. We went too far with that one.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Melanie agrees. “I still can’t believe her parents gave her such a sweet car. Life is just not fair.”
“Just not fair” is often used to describe the charmed life of Crystal Gentry. The Queen Bee of Ruby Beach High, she’s a third-year varsity cheerleader, a second-generation .mermaid, and a first-degree bitch.
We also share a history.
There was a time when the three of us were the four of us. Crystal was the fourth. We hung together all through elementary and middle school. We were really tight. Then, when we got to high school, Crystal was gone. She joined the elites and she never looked back.
Becca flashes a sly smile. “Do you think the rumor’s true? Do you think that in addition to the car, her parents also got her a boob job?”
This is the hottest gossip at school. I don’t think it’s true, but I don’t disagree when anyone says it. I don’t know if that makes me a bad person or anything. I just don’t like her.
Crystal and I have been enemies ever since she ditched the group. The problem is that now we’ll also be coworkers. When I got the mermaid job, the two of us kind of agreed to a truce for the summer. Bec and Mel still haven’t forgiven me for that.
“Just promise that you won’t dump us for her,” Melanie says, joking, but maybe a little bit serious. “Fake or real, those things attract a lot of boys, and you might be tempted to hang around for the overflow.”
“I promise—again,” I say strong enough so she knows I mean it. “And that’s why I want you two to be the first ones to ride in my new car. I’ll drive us all to the park for the ritual.”
They share a disapproving look.
“Sorry, can’t make it,” Becca says.
“Yeah,” Mel adds. “Sorry.”
“What do you mean?” I say, not believing this. “Today’s the last day of school! It’s our tradition!”
“Yeah,” Becca says. “But Crystal wants to be friends again and she offered to give us a ride in the Beemer.”
Melanie shrugs. “Although we’re stuck with our original boobs.”
With that, we all laugh, which feels good. Things have been tense lately, and I guess I understand. The three of us have mocked the mermaids for as long as I can remember. And I do feel a little bad about it. Because maybe all that mocking was really jealousy. Now that I’m one, I’m really excited. Maybe they’re jealous of me. But no one could ever replace Bec and Mel. They must know that.
“Quincy!” The name echoes across the patio attracting far more attention than I’d like. I turn and see Coach Latham, my swim coach and the only person on earth who calls me by my last name. I smile and wave, hoping he will quiet down.
“My office!” he barks before disappearing back into the physical education building.
Becca laughs. “You’ve got to give him credit. He does not waste a lot of time with extra words.”
“I’ve studied it,” Melanie comments. “His trick is that he doesn’t use verbs. Can you imagine how he proposed to his wife? ‘Marriage! You and me!’”
I quickly gather my stuff and turn to them. “After school. In the parking lot.”
“She’s the same way. No verbs. Must be a swim thing.”
I roll my eyes and rush over to the office. Coach Latham does not like to wait. I bet he wants to go over my summer workout schedule. He’s always worried that we’ll party too much and get out of shape. Personally, that’s what I’m shooting for.
“Quincy, it’s a good thing you swim faster than you run,” he says as I hurry into the room.
“I had to get my books,” I explain. Then he looks up and I realize he’s only joking.
“Sit down, we need to talk.”
Suddenly, this sounds serious.
Despite his gruff, verb-free exterior, Coach Latham is a total teddy bear. He coaches both the boys’ and girls’ swim teams and even drives the bus to meets. (He started doing this when he learned the bus driver was making more money than he was for coaching.) He’s also been trying to help me land a scholarship.
He hands me an envelope. It’s a recruiting letter from the University of Southern California. My heart skips a beat. USC is my first choice, and not just because it’s in L.A., which would be awesome. Great school. Great swim team. Great everything.
“The coach was very interested when I told him about your times at state this year,” he says.
I can’t help but smile. For some unexpected reason I dominated at the state swim meet. I swam PRs—personal records—in my two main events. And, in a huge upset, I won the 200-yard IM (individual medley), touching the wall just ahead of a girl named Tina Sue Hinton, who got a full-ride scholarship to Stanford. I got my picture in the paper and everything. It was the closest to cool I’d ever been.
“But, he wants to make sure it wasn’t a fluke,” Coach Latham continues.
“Which means,” he says with a smile, “if you keep swimming like you did at state, I think they’ll offer at least a partial athletic scholarship. With your grades, tack on an academic one and you’ll be set.”
I try to catch my breath. This is huge. We aren’t exactly wealthy, and with Kendra still in college, money’s tight at home. Landing a scholarship would be incredible.
“It also means,” he says, bringing me back to earth, “that you’re going to have to train your butt off this summer. Nothing’s set, and there’s a whole year left to screw things up.”
He hands me a workout schedule. It’s brutal. Two jobs and training my butt off—this should leave plenty of time for an active social life.
“Absolutely,” I tell him, finally catching my breath.
I can hardly contain myself. First, the car. Then the mermaid show. Now this. It’s as if seventeen years of nothing going right is all turning around in one week.
“Thanks,” I say as I get up to go.
“Down,” he says, signaling me to sit.
The global conspiracy to keep me uncool and unattached rears its ugly head. He pulls out another envelope. This one is from the state athletic association.
“I’ve been reading over the new eligibility guidelines,” he said. “And you’re not going to be able to swim at Magic Waters this summer.”
At first, I think he’s joking, and I start to laugh.
“You’re going to have to find a different job,” he continues.
I’m still laughing, but I realize that he’s not laughing with me. He’s serious. “Why?” I ask.
He explains that a new rule was passed because some high school basketball star got paid tons of money to be in a movie. According to the rule, if I get paid to swim in a show, it would make me a professional swimmer. And professionals are ineligible to swim for their high school or college teams.
I just sit there for a moment and let it sink in.
Good-bye, mermaid show.
Good-bye, boys.