I didn’t intend for her to find out that I lied, but of course, you can’t always get what you want. Not that it’s my fault that a twelve-foot enchanted sea serpent decided it liked my friend’s house better than salt water. Though I can’t blame him—that stuff’s terrible for your skin.

It’s just, one moment, my new—and only friend—is mere inches from my face, repeating for the hundreth time to ”Not. Burn. The. House. Down. Please.” Like just because it happened once before (also not my fault) doesn’t mean it’s going to happen again. Give a girl a chance, am I right?

And then next thing I know, I’m yanked from a dream about dancing ice cubes with little mustaches to glass shattering and what sounds like every single last antique vase resting on the mantel exploding on the floor.

Well, that doesn’t sound good.

I stretch my arms out, blinking slowly as I try to figure out why four chandeliers are crammed on the low-hanging ceiling. In fact...I raise my left leg, stretching my toes as far as they will go. When they brush the crystal tassel of one, the light fixture sways ever so slightly.

Crash!

I scramble up, adrenaline coursing through my body like electricity. Something slams into the top of my head, and I swear I see stars. Stupid chandeliers.

A chorus of clatters and what sounds like a bookshelf being dragged through the house follows. My first thought is to grab my phone and film whatever’s going on, just so I can prove that it is by no means, my fault.

Rubbing the growing bump on my head, I scan the room for my phone. The chipped and dented wooden floor is bare of everything but a layer of relatively undisturbed dust and the beige cushions piled up around me on the couch hide the juice stains but not my phone.

Wait a second—the house is quiet again.

A part of me hopes whatever has been causing the noises has left but with the way my life works, there’s absolutely no way. The only truly good thing to happen in my life was getting to use the sky blue crayon in kindergarten before all those other brats tried to eat it or stick it in their ears or whatever normal kids do.

Frowning, I lift an eyebrow, straining to catch even the softest of exhales. But the only sound is the staticky noise you hear when you wake up in the middle of the night when everything is so quiet and still it feels like the whole world has frozen.

Think, Harlow. What would a rational person do in this situation? the logical part of my brain prompts.

Cute. But how should I know?

Swallowing, I clear my throat. “Um, I’m going to call the police.”

Silence.

“I have the phone in my hand, and I’m dialing the number as I speak!” I try to slide off the couch, but its velevety fabric pulls at my shirt so I ended up landing in a heap of limbs with a thump.

There, hiding under the couch with half-eaten spicy Cheetos and a crumpled paper cup, is my phone. I grab it and type my passcode with shaky hands.

“Uh, for real! See? 9-1-1.”

The three beeps as I tap the numbers deafen me.

“It’s dialing right now!”

With shaking fingers, I push the speakerphone icon, just so whoever is down there can hear I’m not bluffing.

“I’m sorry, we are currently unable to complete your call at this moment. Please hang up and try again.”

Oh crap. I scramble to end the call, but my hands are trembling so badly I end up knocking it onto the floor. My brain stalls, unable to come up with any other plans besides retrieving the device and trying again. After all, there is nowhere to hide in the small room unless by some miracle I manage to squeeze under the sagging couch; and in my adrenaline-fueled stupidity, I had revealed my location.

On hands and knees, I crawl the four feet or so to my phone. I am fully prepared to scuttle back to the corner farthest away from the stairs but as I lift my eyes, every muscle in my body freezes as my heart skips a beat.

I can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t think. A dull ringing fills my left ear, then my right as numbness spreads from around my eyes across my entire face. Red clouds my vision, a metallic taste flooding my mouth.

The fifteen wooden stairs with a few patches of faded burgundy carpet pinned in place by rusty nails stretch into a hundred. The pile of shimmering silvery-white scales at the bottom is both a few inches and several miles away, the odor of salt, fish, and rotting vegetation slamming into me.

Jaw dropping, the remainder of my air rushes out in a short puff. There is no way this is real.

The screech of metal on metal, like nails on a chalkboard, sends shivers down my spine as the scales shift, changing from white to a pale blue in the dull and flickering stairway light. Slowly, it lifts its head from where it was hidden below the bottom stair.

The phone drops from my hand, bouncing down the stairs one.

By.

One.

It smacks the creature right between his eyes, falling onto the knot of coils--the coils that don’t match its smooth skinned face, sharp nose, and glowing eyes.

With its very human mouth, this...this monster begged, “Please don’t call the police. I can explain!”

I can only gape, all my thoughts tumbling into each other and sticking in my throat, choking me.

“I promise, I have a great explanation!”

No, no, no, no, no.

There's absolutely no way this serpent has a human head. And his voice--deep and raspy, with the s’s drawn out far too long, snake-like.

The monster blinks, twisting his neck until his head hangs at a horrifying angle. Bile rises in the back of my throat and my world spins, threatening to send me spiraling down the stairs.

He blinks once, twice, and then a third time. “Are you okay?”

“Ah! Ah!” I fall back onto my bottom, shoving myself across the floor as fast as I can. Even after I'm pressed up against the wall, I keep trying to get farther and farther away.

“Um, I can’t see you and I don’t think I can make it up the stairs just yet. Can you please come back?”

“Help! Somebody, help!” I scream, even though I know there's no one who can hear me.

“No, no, no! Please don’t do that!” With each word, the monstrosity’s voice shifts up a notch until it sounds almost human.

My vision wavers, the room warping and blurring as my eyes are pulled shut. I can’t even remember how to breathe right...

#####

“I’m really sorry. I promise I wasn’t trying to scare you.”

When did Risa’s voice get so weird? Why does she sound all raspy like an old lady or a...a boy with bronchitis?

I rub my eyes with the back of my hand, my mind wandering to the important things of life like whether Risa convinced her mom to buy more flaming hot Cheetos and Mountain Dew. (Though probably not, since her mom’s on this natural-foods-no-sugar-added-thorough-nerve-and-bloodstream cleanse or something.)

“Wha--you didin...”

Wrinkling my nose at the strange fish odor, I let my head roll to the side. The wood is moist and dusty, like a convenience store bathroom. It even has the accompanying smell of age and body odor.

“Ughhhhh, Risa! Why’s it smell so gross?” I try to open my eyes, but they're so dry that they won’t stay open for more than a split second.

“I don’t smell! Take it back!”

Okay, definitely isn’t Risa. And why was I even sleeping on the floor? Had I fallen off the couch?

Something poked my nose. A finger, maybe?

“Stop that!” My non-existent abs struggle to pull me up into a sitting position. My brain reminds me that a snake four times my size--and four times as hideous, a feat previously thought impossible--is downstairs.

“Get away!” I shriek, slapping at the hands touching my hair.

“Hey, stop! That hurts!” The boy scrambles back, blue eyes wide in terror.

Leaping up, I scan the room, running through my options. The tangle of limbs in front of me blocks the door and the window on my right is two stories up with latches that take twenty minutes and an incredible amount of manpower to open. I have neither.

“Please don’t hurt me,” the boy whimpers, hiding part of his face with a slender arm.

“That’s all I’m asking here,” I snap. Eyes narrowing, I lift my chin and press my lips together to make the most intimidating face I can.

I step forward. He doesn’t move.

Another step. Still no movement.

Bolder, I charge forward, grabbing him by the shoulders like I did with Jessi that one time she called my sister a name I can’t repeat here.

“Stand up,” I growl, which made my throat hurt. I fight the urge to cough.

He stands, and I jerk him to the side so I can slam him against the wall. This earns me a few rapid blinks and a grunt.

Up close, he reeks so terribly, so overwhelmingly like fish and rotting sludge that my stomach tries to jump out of my body. But his eyes--so blue, a deep shade I’d never seen before, like a galaxy reflected in an ocean of sapphires. Almost hypnotic. His hair is unnaturally white, touseled and a little wavy like he spends his days on the beach.

“Who are you? Why are you here? What are you trying to do?”

With each hissed question, I lean in closer. Our noses are almost touching when he responds.

“I... I’m hungry.”

I push him harder against the wall. “What’s up with the snake then?”

He blinks, wriggles his shoulders.

“Answer me!” I yell. He's thinner, with a good three inches on me, but I hadn’t expected him to be strong from his boyish build.

He pats the pockets of the hot pink shorts he's wearing--Risa’s favorite--and pulls something out. His fist is against my kidney and for a sickening second, I think he's going to punch me across the room.

His long fingers uncurl. Nestled in his palm, oval and smooth and white, rests a scale.

“You really don’t recognize my face?”

Oh, crap. This...this boy is that serpent. I’m going to die. I’m so going to die.

I scream.

“AAAAHHHH--” My mouth is open so wide I have to shut my eyes. I've never screamed this loud before; it makes my own ears bleed.

A fabric-covered hand clamps over my mouth, slipping as I struggle. My eyes shoot open and the boy’s already impossibly large eyes widen and I start to worry they might pop out.

“Please, please! Please stop! I’m not trying to hurt you!” He scans my face, though for what, I don’t know. Maybe some kind of insanity that would make me feel totally cool with a shape-shifting creep who broke into my friend’s house, attacked me, and is now wearing hot pink shorts and a too-short hoodie that screams TOURIST. (Okay, it actually says I ♥ San Fransico. But we all know only tourists buy those.) Oh, and he has one of the sleeves stretched over his hand, which is still smothering me.

“I just came in because I-I thought it was a vacation house and no one was home. I just wanted something to eat, I swear!”

I should hit him or kick him or bite him or something. But my brain refuses to focus on anything but the way the boy’s chest rises and falls faster than my hammering heart and how much whiter than his hair his face has become; how his fingers tremble and sweat covers his forehead.

Scared.

Peeling his fingers from my face, I stare at him for a good moment. He doesn’t try to remove his wrist from my grasp, just blinks a few times as his mouth creeps open.

“Alright. If you expect me to believe any of what you just said, we start with the basics.” I give him the best impression of my mom I can--all Artic blast, save the sass and have some class, four-feet-nine-inches of her. (Her words, not mine.)

He just nods, once, and I let go of him.

“Name.”

He swallows. “Ransom.”

“Next easy question...what in BLUE HAY are you?!”

Ransom jumps, at least four inches off the ground before falling back against the wall. Clutching at his heart, he gasps. “Ah! I...I’m a human.”

I recoil a good two feet just to be safe.

“Yeah, and I’m a...I’m a...” Think, Harlow! Nope, nothing good to finish that with. Wrinkling my nose, I furrow my brows more. “Never mind what I am or am not, this isn’t about me! You’re not human, so stop lying!”

“I swear I’m one hundred percent human,” he rasps.

I arch an eyebrow. How stupid do I look? Okay, so maybe that's a dumb question, considering half of my hair is matted against the right side of my face from where it’s been smashed by the musty couch cushion. The other half of my chocolate curls float in a fuzzy cloud and poke at my mouth as though it can’t decide whether it wants to run away or gag me. As long as there isn’t Dorito dust still clinging to my shirt.

Crap. Of course there is. Maybe if I bothered to get a napkin once in a while, these things wouldn’t happen to me.

“At least, I was.”

Sweet mother of Martha Stuart, I forgot we were even talking! Focus, focus, focus.

“What do you mean, you were? Did you just wake up one day a snake?”

“It’s a sea serpent, not a snake. Snakes don’t--”

“I don’t need a biology lesson.” I cross my arms. “If you are as human as you claim, then how do you explain what I saw?”

Ransom lifts his palm, tilting his head as he turns iridescent scale over. When he speaks, it's so soft I have to lean in to hear, something I'm not too big on doing until he gets a shower. Even clothes soaked in Axe bodyspray would be better than this.

“I...I’m not sure. It’s been a while.”

For once, no words fight to tumble out of my mouth as he looks up. A mixture of fear and loneliness and confusion darkens his eyes to Persian blue, the shade I’d use to capture the depth of the ocean’s secrets. If only my paintbrush listened to my hands and did what I wanted, instead of blurring everything into a flat recreation, trapped by the fibers of the paper.

Mrs. Sanders thinks my art is good, but I don’t know if it’s just one of those teacher things, to encourage your students even when they’re doing something all wrong in hopes they’ll eventually get it right. She says art should not be confined by the borders of the page or computer screen it’s birthed on, but that it should flow through our fingers and minds so it can color our lives. (But she also says Pizza Hut is better than Domino’s, so take that as you will.)

Right. I’m getting off track.

“Fourteen years...maybe more. I don’t think I actually said anything to anybody last time, just kind of wandered around.” Ransom isn’t even looking at me anymore. Well, his gaze remains locked on mine, but it burns right through me.

“Uh, so how old are you?” I wish he would look away.

He sniffs, refocusing on my face. “I’m not sure of that either. It’s been four cycles since it happened, and each cycle is seven years.”

“Cycles? And what happened?”

“Every seven years, marked by the first full moon of the summer, I become human again, from moonrise until the following moonset. Or sunrise. Or whatever.” Running a hand through his hair, he rubs his face with the other and sighs. I didn’t even noticed he’d dropped the scale and now it lay, gleaming on the floor.

“Last year I ate too close to the full moon, so I was asleep digesting that bloody shark and missed it altogether. Woke up a week late. Second best day of my life, really.”

“Oh.” That last part had been sarcasm, right?

“As for what happened in the first place... I don’t really know that either.”

“Are you for real? Do you really expect me to believe you can’t remember what turned you into that?” I stab a finger at the scale.

“A...a scale?”

“No, you idiot! A snake that just wrecked my only friend’s house and destroyed priceless vases!”

“It’s not a sn--”

“Save it, Big Brain. How hard is it to cough up some cold, hard facts?”

Lowering his head under my glare, Ransom tugs at the teal hem of the tourist hoodie. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to make you mad. But you wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”

“Did you really just... Oh come on!” I grab my head, arms trembling as I fight the urge to rip out handfuls of my hair. Wait, why should I waste my precious locks? Why not his?

Get a grip! You can’t just rip out someone’s hair.

“So you think, after seeing a snake--sorry, sea serpent--with a human face that transformed into you, I won’t believe whatever you say caused it?”

Behind me, the floor vent rattles as the air conditioning kicks in. It curls around my ankles and whispers across my sticky arms.

“Really, I’m sorry.” His hair tumbles over his forehead as he stares at the warped floorboards, shoulders drooping. Almost like the sunflowers in that Van Gogh painting. “I don’t know how to talk to people anymore.”

A pang of sympathy pierces me. I’ve been too harsh, again. A sigh escapes my lips.

“It’s not that hard, you know. Just put one word after another. You’ve been doing pretty okay so far.” I drop to the floor, my weak knees giving a prayer of thanks as my skin crawls upon contact with the damp wood. “Here, sit down. Start talking, and I’ll listen. I promise minimal interruptions.”

For a moment, he just stands, lips pressed together and arms glued to his side. A seagull squawks somewhere further down the beach and another answer.

Ransom sits, pulling his knees to his chest. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Crossing my legs, I plant my elbows on my knees and lean forward. “So to cut down on any interruptions, I need you to start all the way back at the beginning, before you turned into this...this supernatural shape-shifter teen drama model boy.”

He stares at me, mouth open. “Uh... I what?”

Scraping at a glob of congealed yogurt on the floor, I sigh. “Just start telling me about when it all started.” When he doesn’t say anything, I try again. “Your last day as a human, maybe?”

“Oh.”

“You remember that, right?”

A small smile lifts the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. My chest hurts for some unexplainable reason. Maybe the start of a heart attack? I struggle to think of my mother’s answers to those medical history sheets the doctors have you fill out. Heart diseases don’t run in the family, do they?

“Yeah, I remember that.”

I tilt my head. “Okay. Tell me about that.”

Dropping his head onto his knees, his shoulders rise and fall with his uneven breathing. Strands of his white hair tumble over his arms, coarse from too much sun and saltwater and looking like it’d been dyed one too many times. I make a mental note to get him a good restorative shampoo and intensive repair conditioner.

The moments tick by but as promised, I kept my mouth shut. He would talk sooner or later, right?

Almost on cue, his head pops back up, eyes darting around the room. I almost tell him to chill, it's still just me, but I bite the words back.

“I’m not really good with words.”

All that time, just to say this? My silence has limits, you know. There’s a reason my teachers hate me. (Well, there’s more reasons besides not keeping my trap shut, but this isn’t about me.)

“Look, man, we already talked about that,” I groan. “Just tell me the best way you can.”

Ransom shakes his head, grains of sand dropping out of his hair. I add Vaccum the entire house before sand gets in ungodly places to my to-do list.

“No, I can’t.”

Growling in frustration, I slap my hand down on the floor, leaning in until our faces are inches apart. The disgusting odor of all things dead fish punches me in the face, but I refuse to recoil. “What do you mean? What’s so hard about talking? And either you start doing some of it, or you get out before I call the cops.”

Nevermind that my phone lays somewhere downstairs. I’ll find a way.

He doesn’t draw back or flatten himself against the wall like I thought maybe he would, just peers at me through long lashes. Why can’t I have eyelashes like that, instead of having to struggle through applying the proper amount of mascara evenly without blinking too much and messing up my eyeshadow?

“Can I show you?” he asks.

I’m missing something. “Um, show me what?”

Ransom leans back, resting his head against the wall and closing his eyes. When he exhales, his whole body seemed to sigh, curving like a young tree in the wind.

Greys—I would paint it with greys. Long, unblended strokes of marengo for the wood paneling and abalone for his hair with the faintest touch of smoke for the roots... definitely deep charcoal for his shadow.

“Give me your hand.”

Why is he whispering? A frown pulls down the corners of my mouth, my brain twisting and turning but unable to find a connection between my question and his request.

Without waiting for my response, he extends his arm, fingers reaching for mine but stopping just short. I stare at his outstretched hand, gaze rising until I meet his eyes.

Wow, I’m getting really nervous. Sickly green, the color of paisley suits from the 80s and vomit—that’s the color of nervousness. Stop it, Harlow, stop thinking about colors.

I can’t help it. I know it’s weird, the way my brain refuses to think in words or pictures or sound, only color, wandering and circling back on itself. Always coming back to colors.

“Please.”

Words have never meant much to me—tumbling out in jumbled messes I can’t unravel to express myself or used to build walls for motives to hide behind. You can’t trust them and they’re worthless on their own. It’s always been the eyes I judge a person by. You can lie until you go hoarse and can’t say another word, do all the right things with the perfect expression plastered on, and yet your eyes will betray you. Secrets lurk there, telling the truth in shadows and exposing unknown bits of your soul. Sometimes I stare in the mirror, trying to figure out what others see in mine.

So when I take his hand, it's not because of the way his voice wavers with desperation but because his eyes beg me to, oceans of blue flecked with fear the color of gold.

Fire races up my arm, pain ripping through my veins and stabbing at my eyes, my skull shrinking as the pressure builds in my head. This hurts worse than Winter Lee pulling my hair in sixth grade.

You have to be nice to Devin. We’re going to be his home until he finds the perfect family, okay? My mother’s voice makes my stomach roll with nausea and I try to push the memory away, only to have it replaced by another.

I’m not asking you to like what I do, but at least understand why I do it.

Harlow, you can’t run away forever.

Someone is running through my head, plucking memories at random and tossing them back. Almost like browsing a bookstore but never buying.

Suddenly, like a door slamming shut or wall falling into place, it stops. My vision clears though my eyes still burn, the skull-splitting headache reduces to a dull throb.

“Wrong way,” Ransom gasps, chest heaving every bit as much as mine.

I can only stare.

“I’m sorry.”

What is he talking about? What is going on? Why did it hurt so much? Is he trying to kill me? I should be scared. I need to run. Find my phone. Call for help. Risa, where are you?

Clammy fingers tightening around mine, he pulla me closer until our noses, once again, are almost touching. Sweat dampens his hair and slides down his jaw, the vein on the side of his face pulsing with exertion.

Falling, falling, falling...The floor warps, walls spinning around me and the ceiling threatening to crush me. My head is too small, too tight...not enough space for the new presence in my head...

Nausea rips my stomach apart, panic clamping around my lungs and squeezing until I taste blood. But the images.

It's the images—people and places I’ve never seen yet somehow feel so much a part of me it hurts to see them. They twist and contort, blurring together into a fever dream of deja vu.

Sun, warm on my face, so bright I can’t see. The humming sound of sand as the wind carries it into my tracks, erasing any evidence of my existence in this strange place. The taste of salt hangs heavy in the air and on my lips.

The humming grows, morphing into clashing voices and angry shouts. The sun shifts, flitting across the sky as the waves still. A phone rings and a girl screams, the colors permeating my eyelids shifting from gold to blue to green to black.

“Hey, Ransom, you going to answer that?” a boy yells.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” My shoulder rises in a shrug. “It’s probably just Lydia again.”

“Dude, she needs to get a life.” I don’t like his raspy crow voice.

I fumble for the phone beside me, sitting up and squinting against the glare of sun on waves. The sand and beach blankets and emerald waves blend into a mass of sun-bleached tan, and I shield my eyes.

The phone screen confirms my guess and for a moment, I am tempted to just let it ring like the last two times she called. But I can’t risk her getting mad, because then she might not let me use her car on the weekends.

I sigh and tap answer.

“Hey, Lydia, I’m really sorry—”

“You know what, Ransom? I don’t even want to hear it this time. I don’t care who’s sick or what came up or whatever your stupid excuse is going to be. You promised me that you’d help me today. And where are you?”

“If you’d just let me—”

″I know where you’re not, and that’s where you promised me you’d be.” She falls silent, but I know better than to say anything now. It’s better to let her get it all out. “The other times weren’t such a big deal, you know.”

My legs itch from sandflea bites and my scalp is uncomfortably hot. I squirm as sweat trickles down my back.

“I thought you’d at least come through when it really counted.” She’s never this quiet, even when she’s furious. There’s too many gaps between her sentences. “I guess I was wrong.”

Frowning, I glance at Jason, who’s shaking his head and smirking. I hate his stupid face so much right now.

“I can’t keep doing this, Ransom.”

“What are you talking about, Lydia? I was going to be there, just like I—”

“Well, you’re not here.”

I swallow, but the lump in my throat remains exactly where it is. Jason’s motioning for me to hurry up and get this over with so we can go grab a bite to eat before we catch a movie.

“I’m really sorry.” For once, the words don’t slip easily from my lips, but catch on whatever’s stuck in my throat. This time they hurt, and I wish I could just swallow them back up.

“You’re always saying sorry, like that somehow fixes any of this. I’ve been there for you so many times, Ransom. I tried. I really did.” The way she wavers at the end makes my chest ache. “Why couldn’t you just do the same for me?”

Why is this upsetting her so much? Why do her words make it hard to breathe? Maybe it’s the sun that makes my skin burn and my eyes water.

“Yeah, like you were there for me the one night I needed you most?” I don’t know where the venom that coats my words comes from, but there is plenty more threatening to come out.

I can hear her gasp, and I imagine her recoiling from the phone, face paling and lips trembling. My stomach sinks, and I know there’s no mending this bridge, that we can never pretend to be friends again.

We are parasites, feeding off one another in a delicate balance of give and take.

There is nothing more to take. And I have nothing left to give.

I hang up.

Jason’s laughing. “Man, you really told her!”

I want to punch him. I want to punch him so bad my hands hurt and I have to shove them into the pockets of my shorts.

“Cram it,” I snap, standing to my feet.

Shooting me a sideways glance, he kicks sand at me. It sticks to my wet shins and makes them itch. I’d glare at him, but that’d require me to look into the sun and my eyes already burn for some weird reason.

My phone buzzes in my sweaty hand and slowly, as if I’ve forgotten how to let go of things, I loosen each finger. My entire body skips a beat--maybe it’s Lydia.

The sun’s glare is too bright, so I turn around and shield the screen with my body.

I want my bracelet back.

My body constricts, folding in on itself and making it impossible to breathe. She doesn’t mean that--she can’t take it back. She said...

She said...

Closing my eyes, I force myself to breathe.

“C’mon man, we can’t take all day.”

I bite back my reply, opening my eyes and tapping a single letter.

k

It doesn’t matter what she said anymore, doesn’t matter what I said. It’s not like her words ever meant anything, anyway. I can still feel blood trickling down my temples, sticky pathways tracing across my jaw and down my neck. Ears ringing from the ghosts of shouting, my hand rises to my collarbone, trembling fingers tracing the jagged scar.

What help her words had been then.

Silently, I snatch my towel and energy drink while Jason shifts impatiently from foot to foot.

I lift my arm to shield my eyes from the sun and that’s when I notice--the bracelet is gone.

Oh no no no no.

“Jason, have you seen my bracelet?” Even though I try to keep my voice steady, it comes out harsher than I’d intended.

“No?” He squints against the sun. “I mean, I’m pretty sure you had it on when we were closer to the pier. Maybe you took it off there?”

That makes sense, as the bracelet isn’t something that should get wet. Woven from six leather strands, it boasts a sterling silver plate engraved with my name. An expensive apology is what it is.

And she wants it back.

I’ve felt many things--the warm kiss of the sun and the calmness of a midnight sky; metal through flesh and the agony of shattered bones; the disorienting high of falling and the scream of loneliness. But this... I don’t know what this is. The ground is falling away beneath me. Each beat of my heart sends glass ripping through my veins.

I stumble towards the pier. Jason’s shout to meet him at the car is a distant dream.

Swallowing, I try to rid my mouth of the bitter, dead taste of betrayal. It burns, all the way to my stomach, eating deeper. I grab my head, close my eyes, try to steady myself.

I don’t know how long it takes or how I manage to make my feet move in a straight line, but I’m at the pier. An army of grey has taken the sky, capturing the sun.

My legs no longer belong to me. They carry me in tight circles and zig-zag across the sand, doubling back until it is impossible to pick out a single footprint. It’s nowhere to be found.

Even though it will rain any minute now, people are still scattered across the stretch of white sand. They cast curious glances at me, but don’t offer any help. Not that I expected that.

“Hey, are you looking for something?”

I whirl around. At first, I think she’s a child, she’s so small. Just barely reaching below my chest with wispy hair the color of the sand, a friendly smile curls up the corners of her pink lips.

“Um, yeah.” Where did she come from?

“I think it’s going to rain.”

Absently, I nod and turn away to scan the expanse of sand again. It’s pointless.

“I can help you look if you’d like,” she offers. Her voice is soft and her words rise and fall with the waves.

I shake my head. “No, that’s okay.”

Jason is probably fuming right now. I should go, but I can’t bring myself to leave just yet.

“I’m waiting for somebody anyway.” She steps beside me and glances up. “What are you looking for?”

“A bracelet. Uh, braided leather, metal plate engraved with my name.”

“Oh.” Tilting her head, she blinked. “What’s your name?”

“Ransom.” It’s getting dark rapidly and the thought of slogging through the shifting sand back to the car makes my calves ache.

“I’ve never met someone with that name before.” Crouching, she starts sifting through the sand with her fingers, then waddles a step and sifts some more.

“Me neither.”

She laughs. I feel the panicked knot in my stomach loosening.

“So is this bracelet really important to you?”

I lift a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. My limbs are heavy with exhaustion and my brain has fizzled out, making it impossible to concentrate.

“I guess so.”

“You guess?” It’s not a mean question, just curious.

I just shrug again.

“A gift from someone, then?” Pausing, she meets my eyes. Hers are blue, like mine, but a deeper shade that changes with the last dying rays of the sun. Hypnotic, almost.

“Yeah.” I kick at the sand.

“Oh, I see.” Her eyes pierce through me as her delicate eyebrows pull together slightly. “A friend?”

I shake my head. “No.”

I thought the word would hurt when I said it, the way it hurts inside as it echoes in my skull. It should stick in my throat and choke me until I can’t breathe, but it doesn’t. It slips out easily.

The girl frowns, her eyes a navy that is almost purple. But there is no judgment in them when she asks, “So you never considered Lydia a friend, ever?”

I freeze, a jolt running through me. The girl doesn’t even blink, just stares at me. I want to run far, far away, from this beach and Jason and this girl and the bracelet and the waves and the memories. I want to run until nobody can find me and I’m in a place where nobody knows me or even notices me.

I hate this place. I hate mirrors and the face that stares back at me when I look at them; I hate the nightmares and I hate the scars that rip the canvas of my skin.

But most of all, in this moment, I hate Lydia.

“No.”

Harlow

Where am I?

Red—so much red. Rose fades to crimson and ruby, jagged spikes of scarlet and currant streaked with the deepest of grays and black forming and melting around me. This place is so vast I could fall forever and yet with every heartbeat, I feel as if the walls will crush me. There is nobody here but me but I feel eyes peeling away my skin, staring into my soul. Is my soul made of colors like these?

There are whispers, growing louder as they snake around me and brush my skin. The voice is familiar, but not in the comforting nostalgia kind of way that makes you long for forgotten summers, whispered secrets, and the closeness of people you never knew.

I’m sorry.

I never meant to hurt you.

You’ll never be good enough.

Why are you still here?

Is this how I die? Of all people, why is it you?

Please don’t go.

Please don’t go.

Please don’t go.

My head pounds, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t like the broken words or the way they drag across my skin. When I try to scream, nothing comes out and I fall. Down, down, down...

“Harlow? Harlow?”

The voice is an eternity away, echoing and echoing, ripped away by the whispers. Someone pulls my arm while fingers tentatively touch my face, roaming from my chin to my jaw.

“Are you okay?”

It’s making me nauseous; green bleeds through my eyelids and my stomach lurches. Wherever the fingers touch, my skin burns. The whispers are growing stronger now, but I try to block them out.

I couldn’t move now, even if I wanted to. These dreams terrify me the most—what if I never wake up and I’m trapped here, living out my last moments, powerless to cry for help as my breath is stolen away?

The hands are gone. They’re gone now.

“Uh, Harlow?”

The voice is so loud, my eyes shoot open. Falling backward, I try to untangle my legs from their crossed position and scramble away. As with most things in my life, my effort is admirable but it’s hopeless.

So many questions pile on top of me, but the one I actually manage to get out is, “How do you know my name?”

His eyes dart to the hideous couch sagging under the weight of so many pillows, then the chandelier, and finally back to my face. The shade is different—denim.

After staring for an amount of time to make me uncomfortable, he sighs. “You...don’t know what just happened?”

I narrow my eyes. How stupid did I look? Oh right—the Dorito dust has not magically vanished from my shirt and my hair still looks like...Well, I don’t know what it looks like, but it’s not good. I feel a strange sense of deja vu.

“Uh, I’m no Albert Einstein.” Or maybe I am. We do have the same hairstyle. “But I saw your memories.”

When he just blinks, I feel compelled to tack on a “Right?”

“Um.” Ransom swallows. “Before that, what do you think happened?”

“You saw mine?” When he lowers his chin in the smallest of nods, my heart skips a beat. “Oh no! What in Martin Luther’s sacred name did you see?”

Struggling to sit back up, I grab him by the shoulders. “I swear, if you ever tell a single soul what you saw,” I whisper, pulling him closer, “so help me, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

I tug him closer for added intimidation. Maybe my nose has gotten used to the deathly smell or my deepest secrets were more pressing, but I didn’t feel the immediate need to puke.

“It won’t be pretty, I promise.”

Swallowing, he lifts his elbow and tries to nudge my arm away. “You shouldn’t touch me.”

I snort and push him away. “I have a boyfriend.”

It’s a lie, of course. I’ve never had a boyfriend and the very thought of one causes yellow-tinged greens to swim around me and sweat to pool in my hands.

Ransom shakes his head adamantly. “No, I didn’t mean it like that.”

He’s back to stumbling over his words and orchid pink creeps across his face.

“Do you have a disease or like a fear of germs or something?” Does he think there’s Dorito dust on my fingers, too? Now that I think about it, maybe there is.

When he shakes his head again, even more sand flies from his hair. “W-when I touch someone, that’s how I, uh, see memories.” He searches my face. “And they can see mine.”

Oh. Well, that makes more sense than sea serpents with human faces.

“So you can’t control it?”

“No.”

“Not at all?”

“If I concentrate and pull enough,” he says, gaze dropping to the crusty yogurt patches between us. “I can control which of my memories people see. I can’t stop it from happening.”

Is he like a werewolf, but the limited special serpent edition or something?

“So has it always been like this?”

“No.” He shakes his head yet again. “No, not until the—I bumped into a girl my first cycle.”

Ransom rubs his eyes with the back of his hand and sighs. That’s when I see the letters etched into his skin, peeking out from the too-short hoodie sleeves. I reach to pull the fabric back so I can see better, but I stop myself just in time.

“What’s that, on your wrist?”

He freezes. For a second, I wonder if he’s turned to stone because even his chest doesn’t move.

“Ransom?”

He grunts in reply before pulling the sleeve up and sticking his arm out, palm up. They’re not scars; at least, not like any I’ve seen. No discoloration, just neat, even lines engraved across his wrist.

At first, I can’t make out what the letters spell because they’re upside down. But then I make out an R and the A and I know without looking what the others are.

Ransom.

“It’s part of the curse,” he says.

“Can’t say I saw that coming.”

Ransom frowns. “What? What did you think it was?”

“First of all, that was a joke; and second, up until right before you said that thing about a curse, I thought maybe you were a shapeshifter or something and you just didn’t know it until you hit like, some weird sort of supernatural puberty kind of thing? I don’t know, I read it in a comic book once I think.”

Eyes widening the more I speak, he searches my face. I think this is the most someone has ever looked at it, to be honest.

I decide I don’t like it. “What?”

“So...you didn’t see the curse part coming?”

“No, I did, after I ruled out the first option!”

His face contorts with confusion. “So you did see it coming?”

“Um, yes.” When he opens his mouth to say something more, I cut him off. “Don’t think about it too hard.”

Nodding, he glances at the floor and swallows before looking back up. “Do you want to know about the curse?”

So maybe he’s not as dense as I originally thought.

“Yeah.”

Ransom fiddles with the hoodie strings, mouth moving ever so slightly as he tries to find the right words. After an almost imperceptible shake of his head, he takes a deep breath.

“The next day I woke up, floating in the water. My vision was wrong. I was starving. And...” He lifts his arm, studying it as though he’s never seen it before and doesn’t know how it became attached to his body. “I didn’t have these.”

A strange feeling creeps through me, making my heart beat faster.

“I...Well, I panicked.” He drops his arm, turning it over so the markings are exposed. "At first, I thought it was a nightmare but when I never woke up and the days turned into weeks and months and years I finally realized things would always be like this."

He might as well be talking to himself and I am nothing but an outside observer. He doesn't look at me.

"After the first day of panic, I..." Even though he smiles, his shoulders drop a little more. "Maybe it's what I wanted after all."

I don't know what he means or why his words make my gut twist, but they do.

"I knew every day that passed, even though they all look the same when you're a couple thousand feet down. Some nights I dreamed about being human but I liked dreamless sleep better." He starts to trace the name slowly, with his thumb. "Maybe because she appeared in my dreams a lot, always asking the same questions about things I don't want to remember anymore."

I want—need—to say something, anything but I can't even remember how to speak.

Ransom lifts a shoulder in a kind of shrug and laughs, but it's not a pleasant sound. If I wasn't looking at him, I would think it's a sob. Maybe there's not that big of a difference between the two.

"The sea makes sense. Kill to survive. But people are not the same." He laughs again. "I wouldn't even be here right now, except I was so hungry and it's been a while since I've eaten something else besides fish."

He's lying—to me, to himself. It's written in his glistening eyes and intertwined with his clenched fists; I see it in the way he grinds his jaw and refuses to blink and send tears tracing down his face.

I haven't forgotten the pain that threatened to split my head in half or the fact that if I touch his skin, it will happen again and he may see parts of me that I try not to think about.

But still, I do the only thing I can, what I wish others would do for me. There's a lot of space between us and I'm leaning forward an uncomfortable amount. When I slip my arms under his to wrap around him, his body stiffens and I think I've made a mistake.

He rests his chin on my shoulder. As far as smell wise, it's not as bad as I thought, a combination of tuna and Risa's perfume. I hope my hair isn't poking him in the eye.

Cautiously, as though I might bite him if he moves too fast, he encircles me with his arms. He sighs, then inhales slowly.

I've made the right choice.

“Ri-Dog! Please tell me you got something with at least half a gram of sugar in it.”

“I tried, I really did,” Risa groans.

Wrinkling my nose, I shoot a glance into the master bedroom, trying to catch any sound of the shower running. “Oh no!”

“I convinced her to get zero sugar Mountain Dew.” She huffs angrily, muttering something I can’t quite catch and I’m not sure if I want to. “Did you call me just to ask about the haul?”

“No. I mean, yeah, but also, when are you guys gonna be back?” The floorboards creak underfoot as I step into the bedroom.

“Maybe half an hour? I honestly don’t know...” Risa’s mom chatters excitingly in the background. “Heaven help us all, Harlow. She’s found a new antique shop.”

“So two hours? Three? I’m going to starve to death!”

“Well, I’ll let you know when we’re on the way and there should be a box of Twinkies in the back of my closet. Okay, bye!”

I glance at my phone. It’s one o’clock and I haven’t eaten in two hours, but there’s more important things to be done, like vacuuming up the sand, and time is limited.

But TWINKIES!

“Oh shut up,” I hiss. “You don’t need the empty calories.”

Of course I do.

“Now is not the time! I need to focus.”

You’ll focus better if you’ve eaten.

“Nice try, not buying it.” Good thing Ransom is in the shower and can’t hear me—he’d think I was crazy. Though really, who is he to judge?

Right. I need to vacuum. Maybe I should clean up whatever Ransom broke in the living room but I don't think I'm quite prepared for that right now. Trudging to the hall closet, I can’t help but mull over what Ransom said, about the girl in his dreams. Is it Lydia, the girl from the beach or someone else?

As hard as I try to remember the bits of Ransom’s life I saw, they slip through my fingers, blurred and staticky. Despite this, I’m pretty sure Ransom never said anything about Lydia to the girl on the beach, and yet she knew right away what he was looking for and who it was from. I frown and wrinkles form across my forehead. If I don’t stop all this thinking, they’ll be permanent and deep enough to run a credit card through.

“Ugh, vacuuming, Harlow!”

I retrieve the vacuum and lug it up the stairs, trying to avoid the ones that creak. Okay, so they all creak, but some of them sound like they’ll break at any second, so those are the ones I don’t risk stepping on.

I straighten the pillows as much as I can, though it’s a losing battle as they keep falling onto the floor due to the sheer numbers. Dropping onto my stomach, I fish the stale food out from under the couch and brush it into a pile to throw away later.

What is this strange feeling? Almost like happiness, but the color is different, a sky blue instead of sunshine yellow and it brings a laser focus I've never had, ever. Is this... productivity?

It’s kind of nice, so I vacuum the entire floor and even get the cobwebs hanging from the chandeliers. I've just picked up the couch food when I hear a muted creak from behind.

Perhaps it's just the house settling or an ancient demon who likes its victims soaked in an unhealthy amount of fear or...

"Uh, I'm done."

I jump, scattering the remains of Risa's gaming fuel across the room. "You were my third guess."

"I'm sorry?"

"Oh, nothing."

Turning around, I survey him up from top to bottom; right off, the over-sized T-shirt is a thousand times better than that hoodie which I now want to burn so I never have to see it again. I don't think neon green is his color though—it washes his skin out so bad I'm inclined to believe he's a ghost more than anything else. Risa's black cargo pants are roughly five inches too short, but all in all, it's an improvement.

"Do you uh, need help?" He glances from my face to the floor and back again.

"With what?"

"Picking up what you threw."

"Nah, I'm done for the day." All productivity has drained away, leaving me craving chicken nuggets and a long nap. "Risa and her mother are gonna be home in an hour or so, and we need to think of a story for why you're here...oh and also a way to fix whatever you broke downstairs?"

Can his eyes widen any more? And how does he get them so wide in the first place? Is that part of the curse? That reminds me of a dozen questions I wanted to ask but hadn't found what felt like the right time.

"I...knocked over a display case, I think?"

"Oh no. We're so doomed. She's going to kill me! We need to take to the hills!" I grab fistfuls of my hair while I pace in a circle. "Wait, there aren't any! Ransom, do you understand how bad this is?"

I almost grab his shoulders to shake him, but then I realize I've already done that a lot and I don't want to traumatize him any more than I already have.

"Ransom," I hiss. "Do you have any last words?"

“What? I—”

“Those are your last words? Okay, I’ll make sure they’re on your gravestone when—”

“Harlow?” He rubs the back of his neck, refusing to meet my eyes and I notice there’s something more on his arms. “I’m sorry, I’ll…I’ll think of something.”

“Uh, ’kay.” Squinting, I try to make sense of the red and white lines crisscrossing his skin; perhaps they spell a message like on his wrist. But the more I look, the less sense they make.

Ransom folds his arms behind his back, staring at his feet with such intent I’m scared he’ll burn holes through the floor and I’ll have more to cover up.

I take a deep breath. There’s my normal voice, and then there’s the one I use when approaching stray cats or the kids who hide in the tight nooks and crannies of my house.

“Can I see your arm?” I ask as calmly as possible, as if it’s no big deal if he says no. I blink once, twice, keeping my face neutral and hoping I’m your friend and not a threat is all but tattooed across my forehead.

When he shakes his head, a hole opens up in my gut, threatening to swallow me up in its jagged purple depths. I know what I saw, but pressing him more will only make him skittish, so I just say, “Okay.”

After a moment of silence, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Maybe it’s Risa.

My face contorts without my permission as I read the text from my mom.

I need you home for dinner.

I don’t want to say yes or even reply for that matter, but I know what the consequences for that will be.

Fine

Tossing my phone from hand to hand, I chew on my lip and try to think of things that pertain to escaping this death threat, not the one I know is coming if we survive this. My mom is a formidable woman. While it’s good, considering her line of work, at the end of the day there’s no patience left, just all that…well, formidableness.

Ransom’s stomach growls and I remember with a stab of guilt one of the first things he said to me, “I’m hungry.” I should have fed him before the shower but then I got sidetracked and here we are now, roughly an hour and a whole awkward hug later.

“I’m practically starving, so let’s get something to eat.” I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t agree to it if I didn’t make it sound like the loud noise emanating from his stomach had nothing to do with my decision to dig Twinkies out of the pile of dirty clothes stuffed in Risa’s closet.

I think Risa’s closet is a little side-project of aliens they tinker with when they have a day or two off. Despite being the size of a matchbox, literal mountain chains of clothing hide in there. It’s not safe; you never know when you might be buried under an avalanche of soda stained sweats. Though Risa’s quit soda for the most part, but I digress.

“You go down first. I’m gonna pick this stuff up.” I wipe my sweaty forehead. “There’s drinks and some leftovers in the fridge, so don’t feel like you need to wait for me.”

"I-I can help."

"No, that's okay."

He stands there for a second longer and I start to wonder how long I'm going to have to wave my hand at him for him to go.

"Okay," he says.

I act as though I'm turning my back to him but as soon as he steps onto the first stair, I whip around. Sure enough, where his arms had been are little spots of maroon on the bright fabric.

Most of those scars are old, judging from their white color, while some are still healing. But there are also fresh cuts, bleeding cuts. He didn't just do that, did he? No way did he grab a knife from the kitchen because he was right behind me all the way to the bathroom.

That wasn't a razor, either. At least, not the kind you shave your legs with, and I know for a fact those are the only ones in this house. So they must have already been there, right? Maybe they're just another aspect of the curse, but if that's the case, why didn't he want me to see them?

It's none of your business, Harlow, I sternly remind myself.

But— the other part of me argues.

No buts!

I didn't bring butts into this.

This is so stupid, arguing with myself like this. I'm stalling for time, running in circles around the issue and hoping my brain will tire itself out.

Finally, I've cleaned the snack food up so I grab the vacuum and lug it back downstairs. With each step, my panic increases; I have no story, not even the inkling of an excuse for Risa's mom and while I don't want to be the target of her wrath, it's better than Ransom taking it all.

He's just so...

I don't even know what word I'm looking for, but when I look at him, I can't breathe quite right. It's not like the time I had a crush on Kevin Jay in the sixth grade and almost passed out when he walked by me, shrouded in a haze of Axe bodyspray—this hurts.

My mother and I are too alike.

"Oh," I say, shutting the hall closet door. "Oh."

Hurrying to the kitchen, I grab a water from the fridge and toss a freezer bag of leftover pizza at Ransom, who has yet to eat anything.

"You haven't lived until you've eaten cold pizza at three a.m.," I say when he catches it with surprising ease. "It's three o'clock in the afternoon, so it shouldn't be too different."

Even though he's too busy scarfing down the cheesy goodness to notice, I try not to look at his arms but the bloody lines do not escape me, half-scabbed over.

So at least a day or so old.

Wait, that doesn't make sense! He would have been a snake.

I bite back a frown because now he's looking at me with a look that tells me he's ready to bolt any second. So instead, I smile.

"We're going to get some Twinkies. And I think I have a plan for getting away with this," I say, motioning beyond the counter to the shattered display case and the pieces of what were once priceless vases.

Pausing mid-bite, disbelief flits across his face.

"It's going to be all good."

I'll make sure Mrs. Perez doesn't do anything drastic. I'll make sure he gets food and a haircut and somewhere warm to sleep. I'll make sure he's human when the sun rises tomorrow, though I don't know how yet. I'll figure it out.

All I know is that if I don't help him, no one will.

Well...this is not going how I expected. Surely there should not be this much on the floor, right? Why is it so uneven?

Please don't be mad, please don't be mad, I pray as I chop off another chunk of Ransom's hair. Even though Don't screw up, Harlow is my current mantra, my scissors—or maybe my fingers—are rebelling and now it's just getting shorter and shorter and there won't be much left to cut.

But hey, at least that conditioner worked. Pausing, I risk another peek at the mirror, but things haven't magically improved and I can only see one eye.

Unlike Risa, I only had to tell him to sit still once; save for the slight movement of his shoulders as he breathes, he hasn't budged a single inch. I don't think he's blinked more than twice, his wide eyes fixated on the wall above the mirror.

"Um...just gonna even things up in the front and then we're almost done!" I force out a high pitched laugh and try to make the sides match.

When his gaze falls to meet mine, I scramble to keep the scissors from falling. Granted, I'm creating a travesty, but surely my haircutting skills aren't bad enough to warrant that petrified look.

Right?

"It's probably better if you don't look," I admit, staring at the tuft of hair between my two fingers. My cheeks burn with embarrassment and it's all I can do to keep my hand steady as I point cut the hair just like I'd seen in a YouTube video.

It's so much easier when it's long and straight, like Risa's. If I mess up on one of my mother's many stray children, it's not such a big deal, but I can't have Mrs. Perez thinking poorly of Ransom.

I need her to feel sorry for him. Though not originally part of my plan, this new hairstyle could do just that.

Yeesh, just looking at it makes me want to die. My salon days are over before they even began.

I should focus, finish this up fast; but I run my fingers through his hair and chew my lip.

I should just watch a YouTube video.

Like that's enough to save us? Are you blind, Harlow?

Okay, it's not that bad! We can fix this! Like, a comb over or...or like...

"We shave it all off?"

When Ransom's head whips an impossible amount of degrees around to gape at me, I realize I've said it out loud.

"Uh, definitely not going to do that, so no worries, Snake Boy."

Oh.

Oh no.

I really just said that.

Snake Boy.

My insides hate me so much they try to crawl away. I wish the floor would open up and swallow me into its ancient, permanently damp depths. Of course, it doesn't want me either.

"Are you done?" I swear he's translucent, save for the ashy purple circles under his eyes.

Unable even to speak, I just nod. There are no colors to let me know what I'm feeling, no words fighting in my brain; just this calm realization that I, Harlow, have screwed up.

"Thanks."

It takes me a moment to register he's said something because I can't tear my eyes away from this monstrosity I've created. This is so far from what the pictures online looked like I can't believe I did this with them in mind.

I check the image on my phone screen one more time.

Do I apologize, or play it off as an artistic choice? Or should I brave Risa's closet for a hat of some sort?

I've just decided on the hat plan when I notice Ransom's doing this weird thing with his face. He must be as disgusted as I am.

What is that...

He's smiling?!

Time seems to freeze, my jaw dropping as his eyes crinkle up.

"I love it!" Slowly, as if he can't believe it, he raises his hands to touch it, careful to not disturb the strands tumbling in too many directions. "I...It looks so good."

The boyish wonder flooding his voice brings a smile to my lips and I vow I will not be the one to tell him.

"Oh." Grabbing the plastic bag from the counter behind me, I dangle it over his shoulder for a second before dropping it into his lap. "These are for you."

I remove the towel from around his shoulders, shaking the hair onto the garbage bags I've spread beneath the chair. He doesn't acknowledge any of it, staring dumbly at the mirror. But when I leave to grab the vacuum, I hear him open the bag.

I return shortly and while he doesn't say anything, his eyes speak volumes. The fear has been washed away, leaving them a shade of blue I couldn't name with a color encyclopedia.

We do not speak as we throw the trashbags away and vacuum the floor or when we carry the chair back to the kitchen and stand there awkwardly for at least three minutes.

The bandaids on his arms say enough.