No Magic, No Core, No Luck

Like a game of tag with the Atlantic itself. Up, down, up, down. My parents must’ve been watching from the shore, probably taking bets on how long I’d last. I can just picture it: “Five bucks says she makes it another minute.”

...

I have no clue how long that went on before my parents finally fished me out. Could’ve been hours. Could’ve been minutes. Time’s weird when you’re a baby in the ocean.

Maybe it was minutes, maybe hours. When they finally reeled me in, I was half-frozen and mad as hell. Apparently, that was a good sign. Go figure.

They checked my mom’s belly for a while—just in case—poking around like maybe there was another baby hiding in there. Nope. Only me.

Dad poked her side, Mom poked back, and after a round of, “Are you sure there’s not another one in there?” they both shrugged. Guess I was it. Lucky them.

Not exactly thrilled, but they took me home anyway. I mean, what else were they gonna do?

Better than nothing!

Mom wrapped me in an old beach towel, Dad muttered something about getting a refund, and we headed back to the house. The seagulls started squawking again, like the world was back to normal. The world kept spinning.

Even though I wasn’t a sea creature, everyone fussed over me. After all, I was a rarity! People acted like I was some kind of collector’s item.

It’s not every day the sea folk get a plain old human in the family. I was like the neighborhood oddity—the kind of story you tell over clam chowder at a New England potluck. “Remember the year the sea clan had a human kid?”

Whenever guests came over, my parents would have me show off. “Come on, walk for Aunt Beth!”

I took a few steps, and they’d clap: “Look at her! She can walk! That’s one clever kid!”

I’d plop down and cry, and they’d say, “Honestly, when she cries, it almost sounds like a mermaid’s wail.”

As I grew up and got prettier, they’d sigh, “What a shame—she’s actually just a human.” I’d catch them looking at me, like I was a glass bottle washed up on shore.

When I got mad and wanted to hit someone, they’d look fascinated: “She really gets what we’re saying!” Like I was a dog doing tricks.

I’m a person, not an idiot.

Sometimes I wanted to scream, “I’m right here, you know!” But it was like being the family dog that suddenly learned to talk. Neat trick. Not a real person.

So I started shutting myself away and seeing no one. Didn’t take three days before I was starving. My stubborn streak only goes so far.

I holed up in my room, curtains drawn, pretending I could just disappear. The hunger gnawed at me, but I was too stubborn to give in. On the third day, the smell of frying bacon almost broke me. My stomach was howling.

Too lazy to move, I figured, might as well just fade away! If I disappeared, would anyone notice? Probably just the dog.

I was sprawled on my bed, stomach growling, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slow circles. The world felt heavy. I wondered if anyone would notice if I just vanished. Probably not. Maybe the cat.