Of Poseidon 02: Of Triton

they’re going with, blah blah blah.
    This time last year, I’d be standing next to that poster doing the same thing. Chloe and I had decided in the sixth grade that when we got to be seniors, we would go stag (or “stagette,” as Chloe called it), even if we both had boyfriends. We declared at the age of eleven that prom was for us, not for anyone else, and it would be the best night of our entire existence. Period.
    Now that she’s gone, I wonder what I should do. Should I uphold that agreement, and go stagette and deprive myself of the sight of Galen in a suit, squirming under the pressure to dance with some kind of grace in front of humans? Or would I even get the chance to go with Galen, given all the things going on right now?
    That’s when I decide that prom is stupid. It’s just a dumb dance that might have meant something to the old me, but the new me doesn’t really give a flying frick.
    And that’s when Mark Baker, whom I now refer to as Galen’s BFF because of their testosterone-enhanced run-in last year, walks up to me. “You got your dress picked out for prom? Let me guess. It’s violet, to match your eyes.”
    I raise a brow at him. Since Galen has been gone, Mark has been awfully attentive. Not that Mark isn’t nice, and not that if it were a year ago, I’d be a babbling idiot if he took the time out of being godlike to ask what I planned on wearing for prom. But like everything else, Mark is so one year ago.
    And I don’t know if I like that.
    I shrug. “I’m probably not going.”
    Mark is not good at hiding surprise. “You mean Galen won’t allow you to—”
    “Knock it off. I know you think Galen is controlling or whatever, but you’re wrong. And anyways, I can hold my own. If I wanted to go to prom, you can bet your sweet Aspercreme I’d be going.”
    Mark holds up his hands in surrender. “Simmer down, skillet. I was just asking a polite question. Did you want to talk about starving children or government conspiracy instead?”
    I laugh. I’d forgotten how easygoing Mark is. “Sorry. I’m just in a bad mood I guess.”
    “You think?”
    I punch his arm, then feel guilty about how flirty it looks. “Well, nobody’s perfect.”
    The bell rings and he starts walking backward, away from me. “But some people who shall remain nameless are pretty close to it.” He winks, then faces the other direction.
    Mark is so likeable and good and boy-next-doorish. For a second I fantasize about not being a Half-Breed whose mother is a long-lost mer-monarch and whose boyfriend has a fin or hairy legs, whichever the situation calls for, and whose whole life isn’t toppling like a stack of dishes in an earthquake.
    I allow myself to think that I am just me, and that Mark is taking me to prom, and that I am going to buy a violet prom dress now because he suggested it, and we will be pronounced prom king and queen and we will dance some of the night and kiss for the rest of it. A small part of me wants it. Not Mark, not exactly. A tiny fraction of me just wants to be normal .
    But the bigger part of me remembers what my dad taught me about the undertow when he was trying to coax me into the water to teach me how to swim. “If you ever get caught in the undertow,” he’d said, “just let it take you. Just let it pull you right out. Whatever you do, don’t fight it and waste your energy and oxygen. That’s how people die. The people who don’t die wait it out. The undertow lets go eventually, right when you think you can’t hold your breath any longer. You just have to be patient.”
    Because right now I’m caught in an undertow. And I’ve got to hold my breath, be patient, until it gives me my life back.
    So I stop thinking about everything in the entire universe and I go to class.

14

    THE BOUNDARY has never been so full—at least not as far as Galen can remember. This thin strip of neutral territory runs around the entire earth and is the only place where a tribunal may be held. It reminds Galen of an upright, human version of the equator because it’s exactly that—and invisible boundary separating half the world. Syrena from both houses of Royals, and those who crossed over to Jagen’s “house”—the house of “Loyals” as they call themselves—cram into the Arena.
    The shape of the Arena reminds Galen of the giant bowl Rachel uses for her breakfast cereal. Surrounded by a ring of hot ridges—the humans call them volcanoes—the Arena is a natural valley, flat