Fathomless by Jackson Pearce Page B

It’s so dry. I watch drops of ocean water splash it, blossom into thick wet spots.
    “Why?” I don’t understand—the shoes made sense, sort of, but a dress?
    “Because… you’re naked? Last time, you wanted a towel?”
    I hesitate, look out over the water. For a moment, I get lost, wondering what my sisters are doing beneath the waves….
    “I wanted it?” I ask, turning back to her.
    She nods. “You don’t have to. I just thought, if someone were to see you, they might think…”
    “Of course,” I say. “Right.” I take the dress from her hands and struggle to slide it over my head. It feels strange on my skin, uncomfortable, like it’ll hold me back from moving all the ways I want to. I’m certain I don’t look like Celia in it, that I just look like an ocean girl in a dress, every bit as awkward as it would look on a dolphin or a fish.
    I suppose it’s something, though. Celia rises and walks away, back toward the church. I follow, stumbling a little against the searing pain in my feet, longing for the moment we sit down. If the people on the pier think anything is strange about me, they don’t show it—their eyes skim over Celia and me, instead staring out at the ocean, to where the stars are starting to shine. It looks odd from here. When you’re in the middle of the ocean, the stars are everywhere when you look up. But here, I see them stop, the dark line where the water begins and the sky ends. I stare at the horizon for a moment when we finally sit by the church.
    “I saw Jude today,” Celia says awkwardly, drumming on her knees. “The boy from the water, the one you saved?”
    “Oh.” Jude. He has a name. Naturally he has a name, but for some reason I always just thought of his eyes, not the name, the mind, the life behind them. “He’s alive?” I can’t pretend it isn’t a relief to hear.
    “Yes. He… he remembers you, I think,” she says, looking away.
    “What does he remember?”
    “Your hair. And… did you sing to him?”
    I pause. “No. Another one of us did, though.” Celia still looks confused, but I’m not sure I could phrase an explanation in a way she could understand. She couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like to be one of us.
    “Well… he’s nice. He’s really nice,” Celia says, words a little stilted. I look at her, at the expression on her face—it’s different, tried.
    “Does he love you?” I ask.
    Celia’s eyebrows shoot up. She stumbles over the beginnings of several sentences before landing on one. “No, of course not. We just met. And he… it’s just that he thinks I saved him, which he shouldn’t, because it was you….” Her face turns red with something like guilt.
    “But he might love you?” I ask, ignoring the rest of what she’s said.
    Celia seems surprised. “I… no. My sisters say he does, but that’s just because they don’t know what love is. They think it’s a game….” She drifts off, sounding embarrassed. We’re silent for a few minutes, listening to the ocean. She moves a lot, I notice, brushing her hair back, flitting her eyesacross the water, like the tiny fish that stay near the shore. “Are you… right now, what’s your name?” Celia asks, like she’s confused.
    “Lo,” I whisper. Lo, the ocean girl, the girl who can’t be loved. I open my eyes, tilt my head toward her. “I want to remember Naida.”
    “That’s why I came,” she answers. She inhales, looks at her hand, eyes softening like she’s praying. Then she slowly, carefully places her fingers over my forearm.
    I can feel Celia in my mind, almost. I try to understand what she’s looking for. She suddenly grips my arm tighter; I flinch as her fingers dig into my skin.
    Something in me moves, changes. It’s like a wall in my head is crumbling. I inhale, realize I’ve been holding my breath. Tiny bits of memories swarm me—trees, light, silverware, rocking chairs, little things—I can’t hold on to them long enough, I need help. I