“‘My daughter,’ ‘your daughter’? You make it sound as if she’s two different people,” Dad said. Below the floor I could see the water swishing around as he swirled his tail angrily. It splashed up onto the kitchen floor. Something swished and swirled inside me too, stirred up by his words. Was it true? Was I really two different people?
“Yes, well, maybe she is,” Mom snapped, picking up a dish towel and bending down to wipe the floor. They were right. I wasn’t like either of them. I was made up of two halves that didn’t match. The swirling inside me doubled.
Then Mom glanced up at me and her face softened. “I mean, of course she’s not. She’s not two different people at all. It’s not Emily’s fault.” Mom smiled at me, reaching up to hold my hands. I snatched them away, turning my face at the same time so I couldn’t see the hurt look in her eyes. That’s one thing I absolutely can’t stand. Her words didn’t do much to soothe me, either.
And, anyway, it wasn’t fair. She wasn’t being fair. I’d never enjoyed school this much in my life! OK — so maybe it would be nice to write stories sometimes, but so what if I wasn’t learning social studies and science or fractions and French? Who said there was any point to those either? Was I ever really going to need to know how much John earns in a week if he gets 4 percent commission and 3 percent interest? Surely learning about my surroundings was more important. Knowing which fish were the most dangerous and which were almost friendly. Learning how to look and act like other mermaids, like a real mermaid. Even if I did feel a little silly perching on a rock combing my hair sometimes, at least I was learning how to fit in. Didn’t Mom care about those things? Didn’t she want me to be happy?
I went on eating my breakfast.
Mom drew a breath. “It’s just that it’s two different worlds,” she said in a quiet voice. “And I sometimes wonder if they’re just too different. I mean, look at my life here. What do I do all day? Sunbathe, comb my hair, maybe go to synchro swim a couple of times a week. This isn’t a life for me, Jake. I want more than this.”
She’d been saying things like this quite a bit lately. Only last week she’d complained that there was too much ocean and not enough land, and that it made her feel a bit stranded and lonely. I hadn’t paid much attention at the time. Perhaps I really should have.
No one spoke for ages. Mom and Dad stared at each other. I’d just taken a spoonful of cereal and didn’t want to chew in case it crunched really loudly, so I sat there with my mouth full of cornflakes and milk, waiting for one of them to say something.
“We’ll talk about this later. I need to go out,” Dad said eventually, and I swallowed my mouthful. It was too soggy to chew by then, anyway.
Liz Kessler is the author of the books in the best-selling Emily Windsnap series as well as the Philippa Fisher books. She lives in Cornwall, England.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
About the Author
Liz Kessler, Emily Windsnap and the Monster From the Deep
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