chapter thirty-three

Two weeks later, I’m standing in front of a large white boat called the Lonely Rose.

My hair has grown longer over the summer, past my shoulders now. Last night, Lemon insisted I sleep with it in braids, so that when I woke up this morning, my locks were what she calls beachy waves, perfect for what’s going on this evening.

The Rose Maid Festival.

In addition to my waves, I’ve got on an old-fashioned blouse that Kiko and I found at a vintage clothing shop in town. It’s ice blue, with lace at the throat, tucked into a skirt that Kiko actually made. It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever owned—long and flowy, all these different blues and greens and grays swirling together so it almost looks like a mermaid’s tail.

But mostly, I simply look like a girl from a long time ago. A girl who really lived.

The day after Mama and I spent all night making Sea Rose Cottage look more like our home, Peach and I went with her over to Lemon’s house so she could talk to Claire. They took a long walk on the beach. I watched them head off, a tiny pang in my heart, but that pang was all mixed up with happiness, too.

Because I knew walking with Claire right then was what Mama wanted.

And I knew Mum would want whatever made Mama smile like that.

While they were gone, I distracted myself by crawling into the blanket fort with Lemon and Peach and brainstorming ideas for costumes.

I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

Who I wanted to be.

It was a small thing, dressing like Rosemary, but for me, it was my way of remembering her, thanking her. Saying that she—the girl, not the myth—mattered.

Lemon and Kiko and Jules and I spent the next two weeks planning and shopping, sewing and gathering props and materials. They’ve each created their own spin on a mermaid. Lemon’s costume is a green velvet skirt with a fishtail linking from the back to her wrist, paired with a green tank top that looks amazing with her fire-red hair. Kiko’s is a jumpsuit of sequins. A million sequins, all blues and greens, starting with a halter top that glides down into wide legs. Jules has on a fitted black T-shirt over a fitted black-and-white-and-purple-and-yellow-striped skirt that fans out at their ankles.

“Nonbinary merperson,” they said as they emerged from the bathroom at Lemon’s, where we were all getting dressed. We all cheered, said it was perfect, and then I blushed because it seems like all I do around Jules now is blush and grin.

When Jules saw me in my costume, they blushed and grinned too, and then Kiko told us to go make out—which we have definitely not done yet, but which I can’t seem to stop thinking about—and then we all helped Peach get into her costume.

A peach mermaid.

Literally. Kiko had made her a full-length dress with a peach pattern all over the white cloth, little peach sequins sparkling up the cotton, ending in little ruffles at her ankles like a mermaid tail.

Now we’re all here together at the pier downtown—me and Jules, Lemon and Kiko, Peach and Mama and Claire—golden spyglasses in our hands, ready to embark on a sighting party with about twenty other people.

“You ready, baby?” Mama asks.

She’s holding hands with Claire, but she lets go long enough to take my face in her hands, look right into my eyes so I know she sees me. We just went to our first counseling appointment last week, with a doctor named Britta, who thinks I might have a form of PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. But she also said we can treat it. The meeting was hard and I cried a lot. So did Mama. But it was good. It’s funny, how talking about sadness and hope and fear can feel like it’s tearing your heart out while healing it at the same time.

“I’m ready,” I tell Mama. She’s got on her own mermaid costume, a simple long-sleeved dress of ocean blue. Claire has on green, like Lemon, and I manage to smile at her as Mama takes her hand again. I don’t mind. Besides, I’ve got my own hands to hold.

Jules and Lemon and Kiko. Peach right with me like she’s always been, like she always will be. I slip my fingers between Jules’s and look up at the Lonely Rose, look out at the sea behind it.

I feel that tug in my chest—the sea, Rosemary. Or maybe it’s just my own heart, reaching out for all the things in the world it loves.

I step onto the boat, my friends, my family all around me, and sail over the deep blue sea.