1
“We need you to be a mermaid next Saturday,” my dad says, all matter-of-fact, like this is no big deal, as if he’s simply asking me to make my bed, which I’m not going to do, either.
We are at breakfast and I’m halfway through with my Cheerios. It started out as a good morning because we had all the right fruit in the fridge. I like it when my real-life bowl matches the bowl on the cereal box: Cheerios, milk, a few strawberries, and a handful of blueberries. I replicate it as best as I can, even counting the number of berries in the bowl. There are too many actual Cheerios to calculate, but my guesstimate looks pretty close today.
Of course, my bowl will never match the picture exactly. That’s impossible, because the food on the box probably isn’t real. The Cheerios pictured could be floating in yogurt, or condensed milk, or possibly something that’s not even edible. The fruit might be plastic. If the liquid is actually milk, it could be sprayed with something toxic to give it a shine. Or maybe all of the food in the bowl is edible but more delicious-looking on the box due to the magic of Photoshop. I know this is true, but I still like to make an effort. As long as I get close enough, I’m happy.
Except now I can’t finish. My appetite is ruined and I feel twisty and sick to my stomach.
“There’s no way. You promised,” I tell him.
My dad puts down his coffee. “Pixie, please. I told you I’d try not to make you work unless it’s absolutely necessary and that’s exactly where we are right now.”
I think about this for a few moments, desperate to find a way out. Meanwhile, my throat feels tight and it’s hard to talk. “Next Saturday is almost two weeks away. Mom might be back by then.”
My dad sighs. “Possibly, but it’s not looking good, Pix. I wanted to be fair and give you enough time to get ready. Things are more complicated than we—”
“Why can’t you do it?” Even as I ask the question, I realize how ridiculous it is. My dad would never pass for a mermaid. Not even if he shaved his whole entire body. He’s over six feet tall and has big biceps, especially for an old guy. He’d be laughed out of the swimming pool.
He doesn’t even dignify my question with an answer. I don’t blame him, but I’m still not going to give in.
We lock eyes. My dad is stubborn but so am I.
“I’m going to call Mom,” I say, scraping back my chair and standing up.
“Do not bother your mother with this. She’s dealing with too much.”
From the harsh and prickly tone of his voice, I know he’s serious, so I sit back down. That’s when I notice my Cheerios are getting soggy. Not that it matters, since I’ve lost my appetite anyway.
“Pixie, listen to me. I wish there was another way, but we’re really in a bind. I can’t cancel at the last minute and there’s no time to train anyone new. Plus, I know you can do this.”
I shake my head. “It’s not about that. I don’t need a pep talk. I’m busy next Saturday.”
“With what?” he asks.
I cross my arms over my chest and huff. “Sophie invited Lola and me over for a Ping-Pong tournament.” This is not technically true, but it could be. Sophie wants to play Ping-Pong pretty much every weekend.
Dad gives me a small smile. “Well, that’s perfect. The party is only two hours long—from ten to twelve. You can meet them afterward. I’ll even drive you to her house. That leaves you plenty of time for Ping-Pong. And we can pick up a pizza for everyone on the way there—my treat.”
I want to scream. I want to kick something. I want to run my fingers through my hair and then pull until my scalp tingles, except I don’t do any of that. Instead, I yell, “Fine, I’ll be the stupid mermaid, but I’m not going to wear the wig and I am not doing the accent.”
Our mermaid is named Luella and she sounds British. She’s punk rock by design, with pink-and-blue-streaked hair and a rhinestone-studded tail. We’ve got to make sure our costume looks nothing like Ariel from The Little Mermaid so Disney doesn’t sue.
“Pixie.” My dad calls for me but it’s too late. I’ve already stormed out of the kitchen.
Here’s a secret: I said I’d be the mermaid, but I don’t mean it. There is no way I will ever be the mermaid, but I don’t have time to argue at the moment. It’s a school day and I can’t be late, so I head to my bedroom and get dressed.
I pick out my favorite faded jeans and a dark green sweatshirt with gray stripes on the arms. My sneakers are navy blue and scuffed because that’s how I like them. I brush my hair into a low, loose ponytail and stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is brown and my eyes are light green. I have freckles across the bridge of my nose that look like they’ve faded in the sun. I am average height and average weight. I look a little tomboyish, like the kind of twelve-year-old who could throw a decent spiral and corner-kick a soccer ball straight past a goalie’s outstretched arms. Except it’s all an illusion. I’m way too clumsy for sports. Also, I can’t stand the pressure.
Grabbing my old maroon backpack, I sling it over one shoulder and head downstairs.
I check myself out in the mirror by the front door one last time, just to be safe. No food in my teeth or on my face. Nothing tucked where it shouldn’t be tucked. No hair out of place. No flashy jewelry. No jewelry, period. I am dressed to blend in with the crowd, not to stand out or be noticed. That’s the best way to survive at Beachwood Middle School, at least for girls like me.
I am the opposite of a mermaid, and that’s exactly the way I like it.
Copyright © 2017 by Leslie Margolis
