“I was going to guess the South Pacific!” the man says, leaning in over the cash register. His bleached teeth nearly blind me.
“Here’s your corn dog,” Ryan says, directing the creep’s attention to him. Ryan’s really good-looking (is it okay to say that about my cousin?): he’s got Mother’s button nose, Uncle Declan’s cocky smile, freckle-dusted cheeks, and curly bronze hair. Some humans have all the luck. “Have a nice day.”
“Thanks.” He grins at Ryan and takes a bite, but the corn dog is fresh from the fryer and burns his tongue. He winces as he walks away.
Ryan sighs. “That was rough.”
I don’t know why the Corn Dog Cart attracts so many creeps.
(I guess I know why.)
“Usually you get rid of them on your own. Where’s your head at today?”
“Just thinking.”
“Worried about migration?”
“Not really.” I can’t tell Ryan the real reason: for the last two days, the pull has been stronger than ever. He doesn’t know what happened last year.
“What’re you doing this year?”
“Father wants to collect trash along the coast and then join up with the rest of the pod in the Aleutians.” Trash collection is the worst. I don’t know why humans throw so much plastic into the ocean.
“Hey.” Ryan tips up his hat and stuffs his hair back under it. “Hey, Dylan.”
“What?”
“That guy is looking at you.”
“Another one already?”
“This one’s our age.” Ryan nods down the boardwalk to a guy in a tie-dye tank top. “He’s coming this way, dude!”
The fryer dings, and I grab the Kevlar gloves, but Ryan takes them from me. “I’ll do it. You take his order.”
“Ry...” I sigh and adjust the elastic on my bun where it pokes out of my hat.
When I turn to greet our customer, my mouth goes dry.
It’s The Boy.
The moment our eyes meet, everything goes fuzzy. My knees go weak. Only my grip on the cash register keeps me upright.
The Boy looks at me, one dark eyebrow raised behind his glasses. “Um...” I can’t tell if he recognizes me or not. When he saw me last year—the night I’ve never told anyoneabout—I was half-drunk and half-drowned, with three broken ribs and a tail instead of legs.
“Don’t mind my cousin,” Ryan says, elbowing me. “He always loses his voice around good-looking guys. What can I get you?”
My face turns red as a snapper. I open my mouth to try to speak, but nothing comes out.
“Uh, yeah.” The Boy studies me, and I stare back at him: brown eyes I want to drown in, full bow lips I want to taste again. He’s so much more beautiful in the daylight. “Two corn dogs.”
“Sure thing.”
The Boy keeps looking at me. I finally make my voice work, but all that comes out is a squeak. “I—”
He tilts his head to the side. “You look familiar somehow.”
The memory is always singing in my mind:
