Free Diary of a Radical Mermaid by Deborah Smith Page B

me. So I submerged all those wild ideas about the water, and let them surface only in my books.
    I remembered giant bluefin tuna, slipping up almost to the shallows like huge pets when my father whistled; seabirds gliding overhead not in raucous greed but to cluck lightly, sweetly at friends; the iridescent sheen where the surf licks the outreaches of wet sand. The world, my father said, is a beautiful woman. The ocean is her necklace. There, on that edge between water and earth, I could see it shine.
    My father. My father was descended from Paul Revere and a mermaid. A mermaid. That meant I was descended from Paul Revere and a mermaid. Holy Nonsense, Batman.  If I believed a word Juna Lee Poinfax said. I didn’t.
    “Agggh,” I said aloud. But I looked out the window and gasped.
    I saw the island. Out there in the moonlight, a golden island shielded the bay of this Georgia hideaway. Sainte’s Point. Juna Lee had prattled on about it endlessly during the drive from Memphis. Home of the Bonavendier Mer clan since the 1700s. A beacon for Mers in this part of the world ever since. Not that I took any of her delusions seriously.
    Despite myself, I trembled. Sainte’s Point was majestic. Magical. Ethereal. Lights winked among the moon-tinged outline of the forest. The island was like some great ship anchored to the heart of the ocean floor, beckoning me with the glitter of its lanterns.
    Your metaphors are as overwrought as your books, Juna Lee snarked.
    I swung around, stared at the door, and raised my cane like a sword.
    No, she hadn’t slipped into the room. I was still alone. She’d spoken to me inside my mind.
    I reeled. Just my imagination. Just like that strange moment in Memphis, when the mysterious Lilith had “spoken” to me psychically. I was overwrought, yes. The dime-novel heroine needed a Zanax, that was all.
    Juna Lee rapped on the door. “You’re a Mer. Tranquilizers don’t work for you. Drink a cola. Eat some fish and a bowl of high-fat chowder. Now, that’s comfort food.”
    She was reading my mind. Just like in Memphis. “You should work as a lounge act in Las Vegas. Do card tricks and tell fortunes.”
    “And you should drink a couple of stiff colas out of the miniature fridge in your room. It’s in the armoire in the corner. A couple of colas will loosen up those sissy nerves of yours.”
    “I’m allergic to cola drinks. I get dizzy and disoriented.”
    “No, you get drunk. Admit it: you like the way they make you feel. They make you tipsy. You know that sounds impossible — it’s another one of your secrets, like being a duck magnet. But you’re not nuts, you’re a Mer. You can swig booze all day without getting a buzz, but anything carbonated throws off your blood gases and makes you giddy.”
    “That’s ridiculous pseudo-science. It’s not physiologi-cally—”
    “Admit it. You love to climb into bed at night with Geezer Kitty, a stack of books, and a fizzy cola. You guzzle the stuff, get looped and fall asleep in a stupor, with romance novels and self-help books scattered all over you.”
    “Stop doing this . . . this cable-TV mind-reading act!”
    “Chill out. Look, I’m going to a wedding on the island tonight. Charley’s downstairs, so don’t get any loopy ideas about escaping. Gulp some cola, get drunk, and read the books I put on the nightstand for you. There’s a history of Mers that Lilith wrote, and a book about Sainte’s Point. You read those books. Read them! You like books! It should be easy! Read! There’ll be a quiz when I get back!”
    “You’re going to the island and just leave me here?”
    “To a wedding on the island. If you’d be a nice little Floater, you could go, too.”
    “I rarely enjoy weddings I attend as a hostage.”
    “All righty, then. Be stupid. Stay here. Practice your psychic e-mail. If you need something, just think about it. Charley will hear you.”
    “Pardon me, but that’s insane.”
    “Have it your way, idiot.”
    I heard