Page 5

I toss my pack down and strip off my clothes. No one will see me here. No one will see the thin line of brown hair trailing down my stomach I absently rub with my thumb when I’m thinking, the leg hair I refuse to shave, my too-long toes or the questionable tattoo of a Fresca can on my ass.

The leather of my training vocal filter is soft against my cheeks. It’s been years since I’ve swam without it. When I was younger, I used to flee to the remote, spring-fed cenotes while the colony was eating dinner, desperate to swim and sing without anything holding me back. It was the closest I ever felt to myself back then.

Tightening the straps, I adjust the filter over my mouth. I still don’t understand how they work, something about diamond shards arranged in some geometric pattern that strips the power from a siren’s song. The only thing I care about is it keeps me alive.

Even out here, even though I know I’m alone, I wear it. The mildly annoying discomfort of the filter is worth it, when the potential risk is death.

My transformation begins the moment my toes touch the water.

Gills split the skin on either side of my neck. Webbing stretches between my fingers, and my back arches as the dorsal fin sprouts from my spine, starting at the back of my neck and ending at my tailbone. My legs fuse, pale green scales replacing my skin, and something right clicks into place as my tail pushes me toward the bottom of the pool.

My eyes have changed too, a thin protective membrane enabling me to see clearly under the surface, and I can feel the drag of the water against my elongated ears.

I begin to dance.

I spiral through the water, my rotations growing tighter and tighter until my body is arched into an almost-perfect circle. I float upside down, and use my hands to propel my lower body up and out of the water. My tail moves in sharp, precise movements.

It isn’t my mother’s voice I hear in my head as I dance. It isn’t the voice of any of the sirens—teammates, sisters, or cousins—who surrounded me at the colony.

It’s the voice of the stocky, gruff-voiced human coach who used to tell us: “Dance like you are the water. Dance like the water loves you.” To me, he would say: “Stop fighting the water, Alejandra. You are made of water, too.”

In my head, now he calls me Aleks.

Chapter 2

Alive, Breathing, and Whole

Javier

“I don’t understand.”

“I am sorry,” I repeat, even though it is not enough to make up for suddenly breaking up with my boyfriend of two years. “Jordie, I know it does not make sense—”

His blond brows knit together. I know his face, know it as well as my own, and I can tell he is well into the transition from shock and confusion to anger. I deserve it.

“Da–” Jordie cuts himself off, stopping himself from using the common moniker between us. “Javier,” he tries again. His nose wrinkles, like my given name does not feel right on his tongue. “Is it me? I thought things were working, but maybe I’m—”

“It is not you, sweetheart,” I rush to reassure him, even though my words sound hollow. It has nothing to do with him, and knowing I am ending a perfectly good relationship makes the whole thing more painful. He has given me the gift of his submission, and in turn, I found purpose in caring for him. Life with him has been good. Great, even.

“Then why?” His fair, pink skin flushes, his messy blond ringlets escaping from under the sky-blue stocking cap I gifted him last Christmas, and gods, he is lovely. His blue eyes glisten with tears. “This morning you made me pancakes in bed. You put me in my favorite sweater and made sure I had an alarm set for my noon meeting. Everything was good, Javier! So help me understand what the hell happened!”

I open my mouth, and then close it. How could I possibly explain to Jordie that an artistic swimming industry newsletter had, in an instant, turned my life upside down?

First one article, which led to another. I read and read and read until my eyes ached from staring at the screen.

The headlines themselves had not shocked me—the Daughters of Parthenope are not known for their tolerance or their open-minded view of other beings, especially those who culturally embrace a more broad and unrestricted understanding of gender. But the face underneath those headlines—that devastating face—glaring up at me from my screen made me pause. There was something distantly familiar about the pale eyes and downturned mouth. Something about it brought up a haunting memory, one I have been running from for years.

Impossible, I told myself as I frantically scrolled through the articles. IASA appeal…artistic swimming…Clash of Creatures…first trans siren…rejected by his colony…overturned his ban on account of discrimination…and then, there it was: Aleks Parthenope, estranged child of Alina Parthenope, siren representative to the International Artistic Swimming Association.

“Aleks.” I sat my ass in the sand as I whispered their name, the sound quickly swallowed up by the wind. “Aleks,” I repeated, and the name tasted perfect on my tongue, like spring water against hot skin.

Everything has been a blur since then.

What explanation could I give Jordie? Should I lead with: Well, you see, eight years ago I overheard a sixteen-year-old siren sing and that should have caused their death, only now it appears this siren might be alive, and if it is true, then it means—no. No. I cannot even think it yet, much less say the words out loud.

I grew up with the siren legends. I know what they say about the deadly song, that there is one, singular exception to their fated death, something that has not happened in centuries. I know, I know, and still…

“I do not know how to explain it,” I begin. “There was an athlete I coached years ago, back when I lived in Yucatec’a. I thought she—they died in…an accident. It was my fault, and I…I ran away.”