Of Poseidon 02: Of Triton

she’s not talking about more time on land. She’s talking about all her time on land. Pretending to be human. Or is she? Is this all part of an elaborate scheme to tug on my heart strings and give in? She already tricked me into teaching her how to drive.
    What would Galen want me to do? Would he want me to encourage her to follow the law? Would he want me to encourage her to live on land? And that’s when I realize what she’s talking about. Scheme or not, I shouldn’t encourage her to do anything .
    Because I’m not her. All she’s trying to do is be her . At least, that’s what I think she’s trying to do. Now I feel bad for all the crap I give Toraf. You really can’t tell when she’s playing you and when she’s being serious. “You should do what will make you happy,” I tell her. “I think we should all do what will make us happy. And if living on land will make you happy, I say go for it.”
    I can practically see Galen cringe. But Rayna is right. It’s time someone asked what she wants. No one asked her if she wanted to stay here and babysit me. No one asked her about mating with Toraf—even though it turned out that she wanted to. What if she hadn’t? Would she still be forced? I hate to think so. But I can’t convince myself otherwise. Not with this burdensome law the Syrena have clung to for so long.
    Sure, there are good things about the law. Galen would argue that same law has kept them safe from humans all these centuries, and he would be right. But I can’t help thinking of my grandmother, my dad’s mom. She had this crystal figure of a clown holding a bouquet of balloons. I’d only ever seen it once, when she showed it to me while she was cleaning it. As she would turn it over and over in her hands, trying to get to every hidden crevice, it cast a rainbow prism on the ceiling, turning the whole room into a giant kaleidoscope. All the colors danced and played. It was absolutely mesmerizing to a six-year-old. After Grammy had made it shine, she wrapped it up in tissue, put it back in the box, then put the box in the attic. I’d asked why she didn’t show it off, put it on display in the house somewhere close to the window, so she could have a ballet of colors on her wall every day. “I want to keep it safe,” she’d told me. “I keep it in the box so it doesn’t get broken.”
    That day I learned the exact opposite lesson Grammy was trying to teach me—well, as much as a six-year-old could comprehend of the matter: Grammy’s nuts. Also, breathtaking crystal clowns were not made that way for no reason. They were meant to be seen.
    Now, years later, I can translate that lesson into: safe isn’t always better than sorry. Sometimes you need sorry to appreciate the safe. And sometimes safe is just plain boring. Rayna’s probably going through a combination of both right now. And who am I to say what’s right and what’s wrong?
    And what is the law to say how she should live?
    The law prohibits Half-Breeds. Am I really that bad? The law is like a one-size-fits-all T-shirt. And how often do those shirts really fit everyone?
    Rayna studies me, as if she can tell what’s going through my mind. No, it looks more like she planted what’s going through my mind. Suspicion creeps back in.
    “Yes, I can decide for myself,” she says. “I don’t need everyone else telling me how to think or feel about things. I’m a Royal, too. My opinion counts just as much as theirs.” She stares down into the water.
    This whole time she was making the argument for freedom to live on land. But now I’m not so sure that land had anything to do with it at all. Somehow it sounds like she’s saying, “I want to live on land,” but meaning something else. Something else, like, “I want to go see what’s going on down there.”
    She strips from her clothes, down to her still-wet bathing suit, and gets a running start for the water. “You’re just going to leave me here?” I shout after her.
    “I’m not leaving you here, Emma. You’re keeping yourself here.” She leaves me with those crazy words, and then she’s gone.
    I am paralyzed on the beach in my school clothes. I can’t help but feel that I’m in huge trouble. But why should I? She was babysitting me, not the other way around, right? It’s not like I can chase her down and follow her. Her fins have already gone a distance I can’t cover with my puny human legs. Besides, these are my favorite jeans; the salt water would be