This all lends to my new theory—hitting my head triggered my Syrena instincts. All the changes in my life seem to center around that. More than hitting my head. Whatever happened to me at Galen’s house—seeing spots, getting dizzy—seemed to seal the deal. That night symbolizes the firsts and lasts of a lot of things.

The first time I held my breath longer than an Olympic swimmer. The last time I took a hot shower. The first time I could see in pitch-black water. The last time I trusted Galen. The first time I sensed another Syrena. The last time I hated Rayna. The first and the last time I put my head through hurricane-proof glass. The list of correlations to that night is as long as the Jersey coast.

And so is the list of reasons I shouldn’t be looking forward to seeing him at school. But I can’t help it. He’s already texted me three times this morning: Can I pick u up for school? and Do u want 2 have breakfast? and R u getting my texts? My thumbs want to answer “yes” to all of the above, but my dignity demands that I don’t answer at all. He called me his student. He stood there alone with me on the beach and told me he thinks of me as a pupil. That our relationship is platonic. And everyone knows what platonic means—rejected.

Well, I might be his student, but I’m about to school him on a few things. The first lesson of the day is Silent Treatment 101.

So when I see him in the hall, I give him a polite nod and brush right by him. The zap from the slight contact never quite fades, which means he’s following me. I make it to my locker before his hand is on my arm. “Emma.” The way he whispers my name sends goose bumps all the way to my baby toes. But I’m still in control.

I nod to him, dial the combination to my locker, then open it in his face. He moves back before contact. Stepping around me, he leans his hand against the locker door and turns me around to face him. “That’s not very nice.”

I raise my best you-started-this brow.

He sighs. “I guess that means you didn’t miss me.”

There are so many things I could pop off right now. Things like, “But at least I had Toraf to keep me company” or “You were gone”? Or “Don’t feel bad, I didn’t miss my calculus teacher either.” But the goal is to say nothing. So I turn around.

I transfer books and papers between my locker and backpack. As I stab a pencil into my updo, his breath pushes against my earlobe when he chuckles. “So your phone’s not broken; you just didn’t respond to my texts.”

Since rolling my eyes doesn’t make a sound, it’s still within the boundaries of Silent Treatment 101. So I do this while I shut my locker. As I push past him, he grabs my arm. And I figure if stomping on his toe doesn’t make a sound …

“My grandmother’s dying,” he blurts.

Commence with the catching-Emma-off-guard crap. How can I continue Silent Treatment 101 after that? He never mentioned his grandmother before, but then again, I never mentioned mine either. “I’m sorry, Galen.” I put my hand on his, give it a gentle squeeze.

He laughs. Complete jackass. “Conveniently, she lives in a condo in Destin and her dying request is to meet you. Rachel called your mom. We’re flying out Saturday afternoon, coming back Sunday night. I already called Dr. Milligan.”

“Un-freaking-believable.”

*   *   *

I stare at the Gulf of Mexico from our hotel-room window. Today’s storm made the white beach look like sugared oatmeal, the rain dimpling the sand and making it clumpy. The freakish turbulence from that same storm also made Galen sick on the plane.

I glance to the hideous love seat, where he’s sleeping off the nausea. Judging by his rhythmic snores, the tiny couch isn’t as uncomfortable as it looks. That, or projectile puking takes so much energy, you don’t care where you collapse afterward.

The sun is setting, but we still have a while before we meet up with Dr. Milligan at the Gulfarium. He wants us to come after closing to make sure we have plenty of privacy for the tests. That’s another five hours.

With time to kill, I change into my bathing suit and head to the beach, careful not to wake Galen. He needs his rest, and besides, I need some time to think. Plus, the rain scattered the remnants of tourists, so there won’t be any witnesses in case I grow a fin at an inopportune time.

Peeling off my shirt, I wade in. I don’t know how close I am to where Chloe died. I didn’t recognize the hotels around us, but the place Rachel booked for us is more luxurious than the affordable-enough room Chloe’s parents reserved. It doesn’t matter. Chloe isn’t here.

And neither am I, not really. At least, I’m not the same Emma she brought down here. The one who followed her around the halls at school like a white shadow. The one who stayed a few feet behind her while she flitted around like a bee, pollinating each of her social groups. A wispy, forgettable phantom.

I wonder if Chloe’s bigger-than-life personality would have room for the upgraded Emma. An Emma who lied to her mother to jump a plane with a strange boy-fish. An Emma who’s already waist-deep in the water without an ounce of terror splintering her nerves. An Emma who’s more prone to pick a fight than stop one. Maybe upgraded isn’t the right word for the new me. Maybe it’s more in the neighborhood of different. Possibly even indifferent.

The humidity is almost thick enough to drown in. Any second I expect rain to mingle with the tears as they slide down my cheeks. So much for indifferent.

I dive in.