Vicious Deep by Zoraida Cordova Page A

vision in my dream. The silver mermaid. The rows of teeth that don’t fit with the rest of her beauty. I know it was just a dream, because I’m still here. I’m still here.
    The faucet in the bathtub suddenly turns on by itself. The pipes squeak with the strong water pressure. I pull the sheer white curtain open and turn the water off.
    I take off my T-shirt and soak it in the sink, then wrap it around my neck like a towel.
    The knob jingles, but I’ve locked it. “I’m fine!”
    â€œTristan, let us in.”
    â€œI’m fine, Mom!”
    â€œEveryone is gone, honey. Just let me in.”
    â€œSon.” Now it’s Dad. He pushes against the door with all his weight. “Don’t make me break down the door.”
    â€œSomething’s happening.” I want to say it, but I can’t. I can hear the water in the bathtub making its way through the pipe. It smells like salt, even though it shouldn’t. The tub faucet comes back on, and it’s like a fire hydrant during the summer. I’m turning the knob, but the water doesn’t stop coming.
    In the sink, a tiny rainbow fish squeezes its way out of the faucet. I close the drain so that it doesn’t get pulled back into the pipes. It jumps in the water until there’s enough that it can swim in circles.
    My stomach contracts. I can feel my insides shifting, moving apart, something inside of me breaking. My skin is on fire. My feet give out under me. I hold on to the edge of the sink on my knees, but I’m too heavy.
    Dad has his drill out, undoing the doorknob. Two screws are out. He stops and jostles the knob, but he has to take them all out.
    Pain. Pain like I’ve never felt, and that’s now all I can think about. The water overflows from the sink, soaking the bath mat and spreading over the entire bathroom floor.
    My mother is shouting my name. She’s not asking me what’s wrong. She’s just repeating my name. Tristan , like a mantra, a prayer, a wish that I’ll stay with them, so I say it too. I am Tristan Hart. I am Tristan Hart. I am Tristan Hart.
    â€œMom.” I can hear myself whimper. Dad pulls the door open, dropping the doorknob and drill on the floor. The tiles crack where they fall.
    The pain is going away, the fire subsiding. I don’t want to try to move.
    They stare, but not at me.
    At my legs.
    I know what’s happened before I look down. My ripped shorts are in my mother’s hands. I cannot read her face, but it isn’t surprise like it should be. It’s worry. The scent of bad lemon pie lingers around the both of them.
    â€œWhat’s happening to me?” I don’t know if I’ve actually managed to say it aloud. I sit up on my elbows and look down. Even though I know what I’m going to see, I still shut my eyes for a little while. And when I open them, it’s still there—
    My great blue fishtail.

I have this memory of my first time in water.
    It’s insane, actually. There’s no way I should be able to remember something like that, and I’ve convinced myself that it’s a dream I made up.
    Still, I remember. I remember my mom’s face staring down at me in her arms. I remember being mesmerized, the way little kids are by such things, by the blue of her eyes. Her sitting me in the kiddie pool. I must have been a week old. And I remember swimming.
    Sometimes during a meet, the memory would flash in my head. Then I’d push it away, because things like that just aren’t real. But now I know they are, and some part of me has known it all along.
    â€œCan you bring in the fan or something?” It might just be hotter than body building class at the end of summer. I’m slippery. Wet. Sweating.
    When I try to sit up, my tail comes up and knocks my mom off her feet. She lands on her butt and grabs hold of my fins. I have fins.
    â€œLet’s put him in the tub.” Dad’s voice is calm. I know