Then why are my hands shaking like a sea fan in a hurricane?

Finally, dredging the depths for my last few drops of courage, I ask, “Do you want to go to the dance wi—”

“Well, well, well,” a deep voice calls from the doorway. “You two lovebirds should just hook up and get it over with. All this tension gives me hives.”

My cheeks erupt in flames.

“Good one, Fletcher,” Brody says, laughing. He elbows me in the ribs like Quince just told the funniest joke. “As if Lil would have any interest in a ladies’ man like me.”

Quince fills the doorway, arms crossed over his chest like some muscle-bound action hero. And, I think with a little pride, wearing a different shirt from the one I juiced earlier. He stares at me with those clear steady eyes, dark blond brows raised, silently daring me to say something.

I stare right back.

“Yeah,” I say, forcing half a laugh. “As if.”

While Quince and I continue our staredown—to Brody’s complete oblivion—the school bell rings.

“Gotta go.” Brody grabs his backpack and heads for the door. At the last second he turns and asks, “What were you going to ask me, Lil?”

The side of Quince’s mouth lifts in a little smirk. But—much to my shock—he doesn’t say a word of what I know is running through his mind. He just holds my stare, daring me to ask Brody right in front of him.

An audience is the last thing I need.

I can just imagine the humiliation that would bring. Especially if Brody says no. Which he probably will. I mean, he sees me as a pal. A news-team buddy and swim-team manager. Maybe he’s noticed I’m a girl—I’m not completely devoid in the topside department—but I’m sure he’s never thought of me like that. As a girl who might be interested in a boy. In him.

He’ll probably laugh in my face.

If he’s going to give me the big letdown, I’d rather do this audience-free.

Unwilling to concede the staredown to Quince, I answer Brody without looking away. “I’ll, uh, ask you later.”

“Sure,” he says. “See ya, Fletcher.”

“Yeah,” Quince says, smiling. “Later.” Then he winks at me.

That is the last straw.

As Brody slips out the door—heading for his first-period class, economics—I launch out of my chair and attack Quince with a howl of frustration.

“Aaargh!” I try to pummel him with my fists, but he grabs me by the wrists and easily holds me back. “Why?” I shout. “Why do you enjoy ruining my life?”

I keep yelling at Quince, struggling against his solid grip. Working on motorcycles must build muscles, because he looks like he’s not even trying hard to keep me from beating the carp out of him.

I swear, I never used to be this violent. Mermaids are always a little more hot-blooded on land, but whenever I’m around him, I just want to break things. Starting with his nose—

“Chill, princess,” he says in that annoyingly soothing voice. “I just saved you from making a huge mistake.”

That gets my attention.

“Excuse me?”

“Asking Benson to the dance just then—”

“Bennett,” I correct automatically.

“—would have gotten you a big fat no.”

I hold my fury for about three seconds before I slump. Great. It’s bad enough to know deep down that your dream guy doesn’t want you, but to have an outsider say the same thing really sucks seaweed.

Okay, so maybe I’m not a knockout cheerleader like Courtney. My nose is a little on the longish side and my pale skin will never take a tan—sun exposure is pretty limited in the deep blue sea. My hair is, as previously lamented, a disaster. My curves aren’t totally lacking, but they’re not lingerie-catalog-worthy. I’ve got too many freckles, my eyes are too big, and I have the coordination of a giant octopus. Maybe Quince is right. I could never—

“Don’t do that,” he says, as if sensing my train of thought, his voice softer. “Don’t twist my words.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I wasn’t saying you have no chance with him.” He finally releases my wrists and steps back. “You’re too good for a loser like him.”

“Then what,” I bite out, ignoring his second comment, “were you saying?”

“Asking him to the dance is not the way to catch his attention.”

“Oh really,” I snap. “What do you know about it?”

“I know,” he says, lowering casually into one of the editing chairs like he belongs, “that he’s not looking for a date.”

“And just how would you know that?”

“Courtney.”

“Right.” I drop into my chair. “Why would she tell you anything?”

He stretches his long, jeans-hugged legs out in front of him and sets one biker boot on top of the other. “Some girls actually enjoy talking to me.”

“Only ones with jellyfish for brains,” I mutter.

“Anyway,” he continues, “when Bens—”

When I start to correct him, he holds up a hand and backtracks.

“When Bennett broke up with her, he said he wanted to be single for a while, taste the fruits of freedom and all that garbage. He’ll be going stag to the dance.”

I roll my eyes. As if I believe anything this sea slug says.