Mermaids And The Vampires Who Love Them

The oppressive weight of senior year, once a promise of triumph and freedom, now pressed down on me like a lead blanket. My underwater bedroom cave, usually a sanctuary of shimmering light filtering through the heart-shaped fissure, felt like a prison. The rhythmic sway of my hammock, where I’d been idly weaving seagrass for charity and indulging in daydreams of Finn Reefcraft’s infuriatingly perfect torso, suddenly felt like a cage.

Then, the unmistakable current of my mother’s approach. Her silhouette appeared at the entrance, framed by the strands of shells that served as my doorway, her presence as jarring and unwelcome as a pop quiz on a Monday morning.

“Waverly!” Her telepathic voice, sharp and immediate, cut through my thoughts.

My heart hammered a frantic drumbeat against my ribs, and my hair, betraying my inner turmoil, shot off a flurry of bright orange sparks. Of course. Just another day in the life of the only Fishwater fingerling cursed with super-fun genetic anomalies. Hiding beneath the hammock, a futile attempt to escape the inevitable, I groaned inwardly. This was going to be a long day.