By Hana Robson

I tried my best to be the girl I was by the sea while I was stranded on land, but I couldn’t ignore the feeling swirling in my stomach. I secretly believed, in my heart of hearts, that I was a mermaid.


Swimsuit lycra smells like my childhood.

When my family made the six-hour drive to our ramshackle beach house off the coast, I came alive. I spent every waking minute from March to September in my swimsuit. I would dive deep underwater — so low that my ears would pop — just to see if I could touch the bottom of the deep end. I loved the floaty feeling of being completely submerged underwater, of being alone in my own small blue world. The salt water curled my hair, and I didn’t mind the sand between my toes if it meant a day spent at the beach, diving into the turquoise waves over and over and over again.

Leaving always broke my heart. Seeing my dad’s truck loaded up with boogie boards and sand pails meant that I would go back to school, and the dead brown grass that covered the playground. While the other girls played kickball, I sat alone and studied the movements in the clouds. I preferred it; there was less chance I would overhear whispered remarks about how quiet or strange I was. My classmates had left me once bitten and twice shy, so I shrank away, keeping my voice low in hopes of being unnoticeable. As summer turned to fall, the sun set later and the colors of the world faded away. My real life felt so far from this miserable world of cold and concrete. I ached to be back on the shore, feeling the sun warm my back and the waves tickle my toes.

When I was twelve, I decided I couldn’t continue living in two separate worlds. I begged my mother to move our family to Malibu so I could become an Olympic surfer. She refused. I retaliated by covering my walls in pictures of the ocean. I wore seashell necklaces to school and dyed streaks of teal in my hair, even though it meant whispers of laughter followed me in the dimly-lit cafeteria. I painted my toenails electric blue and listened to Island in the Sun until my CD player broke. I tried my best to be the girl I was by the sea while I was stranded on land, but I couldn’t ignore the feeling swirling in my stomach.

I secretly believed, in my heart of hearts, that I was a mermaid.

Rationally, I understood that was impossible. I was old enough to know that Santa Claus wasn’t real, that the tooth fairy was actually my parents, and that I shouldn’t run around telling people on the playground I thought I was half-fish unless I wanted an extended session with the school counselor. But some desperate part of me still practiced swimming with my ankles pressed tightly together and combed through YouTube for video evidence of mermaids’ existence. 

I met Zoe, a transfer student from California, in the seventh grade. She had long curls haloing her head that she never bothered to tie up for gym class, and she wore countless necklaces and bangles that clinked softly like sea treasures. She never noticed the other girls that would circle her like a shiver of sharks, razor-sharp remarks on the tips of their tongues. While I felt myself drowning in the presence of the others, she simply floated away, unaware of their presence. Zoe had more important things to worry about, like what phase the moon was in that evening.

Zoe noticed the teal streaks in my hair, and her eyes sparkled when she said, “I like your blue hair. I think it makes you look like a mermaid.”

I noticed then that one of her necklaces was a sand dollar. I smiled back.

From then on, we were inseparable. We swam together at the rec center pool on Sundays and took turns pretending to drown in front of the teenage lifeguards to capture their attention. She shared custody of her nail polish collection with me in exchange for my CDs.

Zoe accompanied my family on our annual beach trip the summer after seventh grade, piling into the backseat of my dad’s pickup. As soon as we made it to the house, we shed our flip flops and ran all the way down to the beach. We didn't stop until the waves hit our shoulders, salt air whipping in our hair. Finally, I was home.

Later that evening, in our homemade blanket fort, Zoe and I played a game of truth or dare. I asked if she had ever kissed a boy. She asked if a kiss on the cheek counted for anything. I said it probably didn’t.

“Do you ever worry that we’re falling behind with that sort of thing?” I whispered anxiously. Back then, my worst fear was always that I wasn’t growing up quickly enough — I had nightmares of my principal refusing to hand me my diploma because she found out I still watched cartoons and slept with stuffed animals.

Zoe paused for a moment as the question swirled in the air between us. “No, I don't really think about it,” she said, adjusting the pillows behind her sleeping bag.

“What do you mean you don’t think about it?” I asked, bewildered.

“I mean, I just don’t care all that much. I care more about hanging out with you than I do with boys. Maybe one day that will change, but I don’t see a problem with it. Anyway, why care about what anyone else is doing?” I felt my cheeks start to go bright red.

“Besides, you're a lot more fun than boys are. They all smell like Axe.”

I hit her over the head with a pillow in response, and she followed my lead. We didn’t stop swinging until feathers flew into our hair, and our chests ached with laughter.

Emboldened by her recent confession, I chose dare next.

She grabbed my hand and jumped up. “Let's go swimming!”

“Outside? In the ocean?” I asked, confused by her sudden urgency. She pulled me out of our room and onto the porch.

I knew it was risky to go out on the beach after dark, but I followed her anyway. We stood on the shore, watching the stars twinkle against the waves, when she grabbed my hand.

“Come with me,” she said.

I hesitated. I was afraid of the dark blue water at night. I couldn’t see what lay beneath the murky waves. I felt her hand grasp mine and squeeze. She knew I was scared, and I could tell she wanted me to be adventurous for once, to fight the urge to hide. We slowly waded into the water together. 

“We could swim all the way to San Diego,” she said before diving into the saltwater. I dove with her, feeling the cool blue wash away the sand on my skin. For a moment, I contemplated swimming into the depths of the ocean and never looking back. I felt the push and pull of the waves dragging me under, felt the pressure build in my lungs as I swam. I wanted to escape into the ocean forever, to swim until I was far away from my anxieties. It was only when I broke the spell and surfaced for air that I realized Zoe was waiting for me on the shore, a smile on her face and a towel in her hand. There was no need for me to be anxious.

A year later, Zoe’s family moved back to California. Her dad got a job for some new-age tech company in the Valley. We promised to write each other, but with time, the letters dwindled into texts, which dwindled into nothing. She left me her sand dollar necklace, and for years I wore it every day.

Even though she was gone, I still saw her reflection in every seashell, in all the phases of the moon, and in the curl of every wave as it broke the shore. When I felt doubt in my thoughts, I imagined Zoe’s voice asking, “why care about what anyone else is doing?” I found that the more I pretended I didn’t care what anyone thought of me, the more I could stifle the whispers and the sideways glances.

Eventually, I didn’t even feel like I was drowning anymore, or that I needed to escape into the ocean. I could just float. ■