Spotlight on Emerge, Plus Giveaway!

Excerpt from Emerge

Chapter One

I can’t swim. No matter how sparkly and tempting that water is. No matter how it glistens in the sunlight, ripples in the California breeze, or reflects the swaying palm trees. One quick dip and my legs will go poof.

Besides, I’m late for P.E. Again.

I run past the swimming pool and heave open the glass doors to the auditorium. I can’t keep relying on the twins to get me to school on time. I’ve got to learn to drive, but I need better control of my legs first. What dope thought giving a car foot controls was a good idea?

All my classmates turn to stare, already in gym clothes. We finished volleyball last week—thank the tides!—so today we’re starting a new unit. About half the class wears P.E. shorts and t­shirts and stands near the entrance to the yoga studio. The other half mill around in bathing suits. So lucky.

I scan the room for the coach. If she’s not here yet, I can pop into the locker room and be in yoga before she knows I’m tardy. I rush toward the changing rooms, salvation in sight, when out marches a woman whose long blond hair is at odds with her bulging muscles. Coach Crane. She was a professional wrestler on one of those gladiator shows in the eighties, and her biceps are bigger than my head. She stops in front of me, her massive frame towering over mine.

“So nice of you to show up.” A drop of her spittle lands on my cheek, and I scrunch my nose, unable to wipe it off without her noticing.

“I’m super sorry. My sisters—”

“Hurry up and change,” she says, stalking past me. Phew! Maybe this day won’t be a total shipwreck after all. Then she adds, “Put on your bathing suit. You’ll be in swim class today.”

I spin around.
“What? I’m signed up for y­yoga, not swimming,” I say. Stay calm.
“Yoga’s full up. You have a swimsuit, don’t you? It’s on your list of required materials.” I have a swimsuit in my locker, but it’s for show. No matter what happens, I can’t get

into that pool. Sure, I can maintain my legs all day on land, but as soon as I hit the water, my natural instincts will take over. My tail will emerge, scales and all, and I’ll expose my whole family. I’ll put the entire Community of land­dwelling Mer refugees at risk. My breath comes in quick, shallow pants.

“My mom filed a note in the office,” I say, clinging to the story my parents concocted for such an emergency. “I’m taking private swimming lessons with this coach my parents hired and I’m not supposed to have any outside instruction.”

Rather than help me, this story makes Coach Crane’s nostrils flare. “I haven’t seen any note, so today you’re swimming. Now go change. I’m not going to tell you again.”

“No.” Did I just say that? Hands cup over mouths as the room erupts in whispers. No one gets why I’m making a fuss. I wish Caspian were here. What I wouldn’t give for one other Mer who’d understand. “I’m not swimming.”

I’ve never disobeyed a teacher before. But as much as Coach Crane scares me, that water scares me more. If I swim in the pool, the next place I’ll be swimming is a government laboratory tank, being poked and prodded and then chopped into sushi­sized pieces. “Please. My parents’ll kill me. And I just got over the flu,” I lie, floundering for a good excuse.

“Listen up … ” the coach sticks one meaty finger in my face. Panic seizes me, and my legs tremble. My control over them is slipping. At this rate, I won’t even need to get in the water to reveal myself. If I lose my focus, I’ll be flat on my fins.

“Coach Crane?” One of the guys steps forward from the group of yoga students. Clay. His dark hair shines under the fluorescent lights as he shoots me a reassuring smile. “She can take my spot in yoga. I have swim trunks.”

“Clay, that’s not necessary. She needs to—”
“I’d rather go swimming.” He cuts the coach off, determination in his hazel eyes.
Twenty pairs of restless feet tap against the rubber floor. I’m holding everyone up. Then

a sweet, chirpy voice pipes up from the throng by the doors. “At this rate, none of us will get to do anything. Can’t Lia and Clay just switch already?” It’s Kelsey, my closest human friend. She twists one of her corkscrew curls around her finger and stares blatantly at the clock.

Coach Crane looks from the clock ticking away on the wall to me to Clay and back to me. “Fine. Ericson,” she motions to Clay, “go get into your trunks. And you,” she pins me with a fierce glare, “go change into your gym uniform. You’d better be in that studio doing downward dog in less than five minutes.”

I nod. The coach storms off, and Kelsey winks at me before she goes out to the pool with the others. I draw in a shaky breath. Am I really off the fishhook? I look around for Clay to say thank you, but he’s already disappeared into the boys’ locker room. That’s better, anyway. I promised myself I’d stop talking to him unless it was one hundred percent necessary.

I change and step out of the girls’ side of the locker room, adjusting my shorts for the gazillionth time. Exposing my legs still makes me self­conscious. I should head straight to the yoga studio, but instead I find myself walking to the door of the boys’ locker room. It would be

rude not to thank Clay, wouldn’t it? Of course it would! I wasn’t raised by wolf eels. He stood up for me today when everyone else just whispered. So, I really don’t have a choice. I have to stay right here and thank him. Yep. But maybe that’ll give him the wrong idea. If he comes out in the next thirty seconds, I’ll—

The door swings open, and Clay appears. In his swim trunks … and nothing else.

It’s like my brain is full of flotsam. I can’t focus on anything except the expanse of smooth skin over defined muscles. But it’s a momentary weakness. I wrench my eyes away from his chest and up to his face.

He gives me a casual, self­satisfied smirk, but excitement sparks in his eyes. “What? No shirtless guys at your old school?”

I’ve been here almost a year, but everyone still treats me like the new kid. At least last year I transferred after swim season.

“Tons,” I answer. “Shirtless, nearly naked, all the time.” It isn’t a lie. Mermen never cover their torsos unless they’re venturing into the human world, and my old school—the one I attended before I hit puberty and got my legs—was all Mer. “I’m just checking to make sure Malibu Hills Prep is up to par.” Did that sound witty? I hope so, but I’m never sure. Something about seeing Clay shirtless is different. And not just because his lean body bears the type of taut muscles I’d want to sculpt if I were even remotely artistic. No! Bad thoughts. He’s human, I scold myself. Off­limits.

“Feel free to check me out all you want,” he says, “but you’re going to be late for yoga.”

The wall clock tells me he’s right. The last thing I need is more trouble from Coach Crane.

“Don’t worry about Coach Crane,” he says, as if reading my mind. His tone changes from

cocky to kind. “She just doesn’t like anyone questioning her authority.” He infuses the word with sarcasm and rolls his eyes. Like it’s our own private joke.

“Thanks. For stepping in back there, I mean. You didn’t have to do that.” I have no clue what I would have done if he hadn’t.

He gives me one more genuine smile. I tug on my shorts again.
“The shorts look good on you,” he says.
I’m not so sure. No matter how many humans I see walking around in micro­minis or

bathing suits, bare legs still strike me as daring. “They’re not too short?” I ask.
“That’s why they look good on you.” With that, he flips his towel over his shoulder and

walks off toward the pool.
Was he teasing me? Flirting with me? Both? It doesn’t matter. I never should have talked

myself into thanking him. I have to keep my distance. He doesn’t have a tail. End of discussion. That’s why I’ve made sure we’re not friends. Not anymore.
And I have to keep reminding myself of that for the rest of the day. Three hours later, I’m

chatting with Kelsey by my locker—and I’m not thinking about Clay. I’m not thinking about how brave he was to stand up for me or how he smiled that little half­smile at me from across the gym or how flattered he looked when he caught me staring. Nope. I’m not thinking about Clay at all. But can I help it if he happens to be smack­dab in my line of sight?

The fact that he’s talking to another girl at the other end of the hall shouldn’t bother me. Clay can talk to other girls. He should talk to other girls. But why does he have to talk to a girl who looks like that? Who is that?

“Who is that?” I ask Kelsey, nodding toward the girl. Whoever she is, she’s gorgeous. High cheekbones, sapphire eyes, and sleek black hair. Not to mention a lithe body that boasts

more merchandise in the chest department than I’ll ever have.
“Don’t know. Never seen her before,” Kelsey says. “I guess you’re not the new kid

anymore. Good deal, right?”
New Girl giggles at something Clay just said. The feminine sound tinkles down the

hallway, and Clay laughs in response. She rests a perfectly manicured hand on his arm. I hate her. 

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