Chapter 1: The Coelacanth

I'll admit it; I don't miss the sun.

Not the warmth of its touch, not the way it toasts the sand beneath my toes. I don't even really miss the sky, whether it's cloudy or a bright, clear blue. It's been over a decade since I made sandcastles mixed with sunscreen or had boom-box summer jams blasting on the shore while I danced in the shallows, my sunglasses slipping off my face. That all came from a life that, at this point, was nothing much but a dream. And anyway, I was a pretty lame little dork back then. I would run from other kids and try to talk to fish, instead.

I get why people liked the sun, though. One of the most important gods in every mythological pantheon is the god of the sun. That or the god of the sky, so vast and all-knowing. Ancient people worshipped them, giving offerings in exchange for blessings. Even now, in a way, modern religions still pray to the sun and the sky.

And yet here I am, treating the midnight beach like a temple.

The sun just never appealed to me. Granted, it's hard for a thing to appeal to you when you don't see all that much of it. But I saw the beach and the sea even less than the sun, so-

All I really miss is the water.

Dark, unrelenting, gentle, familiar: theoretically contradictory words that roll around in my head like waves. Even on my loneliest days, the cresting tides of the ocean were the only things that felt real. I didn't know if it was nostalgia or in my blood, but just hearing the sea tumble over itself steadied the rocking ship that was my brain. Maybe that made me an anxious head-case, but at least I had some coping skills, right?

Sometimes I wondered if I only knew how to think in waves.

Whenever I was alone, stuck inside my own head, each idea would start as a simple ripple. They would spread like a soft breeze across the water, just a thought, a theory. Before I knew it, though, I'd have thought about it long enough that it grew as large as a monsoon. And, if I was unlucky, it'd crash against the walls of my skull hard enough to make my fingers tap on my legs like they were trying to send a message in Morse code, begging for help in the tidal storm.

If only anyone I knew understood Morse code. Or even wanted to hear the message.

But I'm not really important, just a lowly mortal creature. No one needs to listen to me. I mean, what, I'd pass along my recipe for slightly improving instant ramen? (The secret is boiled eggs, by the way).

People listen to government officials, celebrities, gods. And it's not like anyone listens to them just because they care. Worship has never been all reverence. There's always been a healthy dose of fear, too.

Maybe I worship the sea just like the Greeks once feared Aphrodite's wrath. And since my head is practically waterlogged, I have a lot more to fear than the average person.

Not like I was average. Mom would never let me forget that.

I just know that the real water, the ocean, feels good. It's like I can pour enough of the sea's slow tumbling rhythm into my own restless, stormy brain and it can dilute my anxiety. I can think and breathe and feel a little bit human. Instead of hurricanes, all I hear is gulls on the rocks and the scuttle of hermit crabs, not dots and dashes typing a desperate SOS.

Feeling the salt drying on my lips, sucking in one last drag of calming, sea air, I finally open my eyes to the starry night. Across Puget Sound, I can see the near-invisible outline of mountains in the distance. Right in front of me, at the bottom of the seaside tableau, there is English tea-colored sand littered with driftwood as far as the eye can see. A few feet away, there's a taped off turtle nest nearly ready to bubble over with life; not quite yet, though.

But in the in-between, the part that really captivates me, all I can see is stars. The celestial lights twinkle on the water's surface and make up for every planetarium I'd never been to.

Beautiful was an adjective that tended to elude me, but tonight, looking at the midnight blue horizon line with water as far as the eye could see?

I don't need the self-absorbed sun to enjoy my beautiful ocean. This is enough.

Well, it mostly is. It's enough of enough. Enough that I could be satisfied. It had to be. It isn't like I could ever see it in the light of day, anyway.

I'll take beauty when I can get it.

The only problem is that even though I was up to my ankles in water, and I could feel the waves kiss my skin, I still miss it. It's like this longing ache that never seems to go away, because no matter how many nights I sneak off to the ocean, I'm still tapping my thighs over and over. My coping skills aren't even enough to shut my insides up.

And this is why I don't get to see the ocean in daylight.

Just then, I feel something brush by my leg and nearly yelp. The hell- Covering my mouth, I look down to see some darting fish in the shallow tide pool around my feet. I don't know how I missed them until now; I normally was pretty good at this whole "fish finding" thing. But there they are, a handful of sculpin, wide awake and exploring their little home. They seem quite entranced by the fleshy trees growing out of it. They're like lamprey to a shark fin.

I'm not surprised, though. I seem to have that effect on sea creatures. I could've been a hit on school field trips, attracting fishy friends to me like young Aquaman. Maybe for about five seconds, I could've been a cool kid. Before I was inevitably banned from going to school, period.

My eyes watching the fish and my thoughts on what-ifs, I don't notice the next tide coming in until it crashes against my legs and shakes the tide pool.

I shiver, but the fish at my feet don't bat an eye (not that they really blink much, in the first place). They just go back to swimming, these spotted adaptability champions. That's kinda the whole magic of tide pools and the animals that live there, but it never really stopped surprising me.

Only because I'm alone, I pretend that talking to them isn't weird. I'm just being social, right? It doesn't matter that my conversation partners are... scaly.

"Hello there! Did I wake you guys up?" I ask. The fish just keep twirling.

I mean, of course, they do. They're fish. What do I expect? For one of their mouths to open, go full Sebastian and be the aquatic father I've never had? Not that I have any desire for a father, but-

Crouching down, I sweep a gentle finger over the scales of the largest sculpin, which seems to like keeping my big toe company. That, company, is something I could settle for. I spent enough time alone.

Absent-mindedly, I say, "I wish I could let waves roll over me like you do."

I wince at my own horribly cheesy line, but it isn't a lie. Sometimes fish life sounds appealing. Simplicity, constant companionship (if you pick the right species), and water everywhere?

Maybe that would've been easier than living life as a human.

The fish don't respond. They never do. Even if they were capable of speech, they don't have the stringed consciousness to do much with it. All they experience is fleeting feelings and compulsions and, while I understand those subtle waves, it's a pretty useless interaction.

As if on cue, the sculpin brushes against my finger, brimming with warmth and compassion. Well, as much warmth and compassion as a fish can muster. Just like my own brain waves, it ripples through my body and I feel a wave of guilt. Okay, maybe calling interactions with fish useless is cruel. It just isn't-

It isn't what I want. But it's the best I have.

I trace its swimming pattern with my index finger, watching every surface ripple that never touches the fish below. Sighing, I say, "Maybe I just wish I was you."

All of those unsettling feelings brewing in my head laid anchor on that shore. Pathetic, really, to think the touch of a well-meaning tidepool fish can turn me into mush. Just saying how I feel aloud and I could see my skin shimmer in the moonlight.

I wonder if I should just leave the arm there, submerge my entire body in the shallows, see where the ocean took me. I almost lost sight of my entire hand to the water before my breath hitches, my heartbeat skips, and I pull it out, my skin my own again.

No more shimmers.

Doesn't stop the way my fingers tremble, though, and I go back to tapping my thigh.

With my breath uneven and my body a bit shaky, I'm aware I probably should back away from the water and escort myself home. Instead, though, I stare back down at those little sculpins again. "I do want to be human, y'know? I'm just not very good at it," I say, like trying to explain myself to the fish, of all things. "You don't understand that feeling, do you? You're exactly what you should be."

At best, it blinks at me once or twice before going back to swimming around my ankles in hapless circles.

"Right. And I'm a crazy person talking to a fish. Not that I'm the first person to anthropomorphize animals to talk to, but somehow it feels... extra lame when I do it." Involuntarily, I snort with laughter. This was really what I was resorting to, huh? Standing, I look across the water and say to myself: "I should go, shouldn't I?"

I know one thing: there's no point waiting for the fish to answer. This is no Coelacanth, an ancient fish hiding historical secrets in every scale. It's just a poor sculpin trying to keep a messy person company, even though I don't deserve it.

The fish stop swimming in circles the second I step out of the pool of water. It was like, without my anxious energy seeping in, they could finally settle down, too. Good for them. Someone deserves a good night's rest tonight.

In a series of fluid motions, I slip on my leather sandals, pull back my wild, curly hair into a messy bun, and get on my bike.

When I start pedaling, heading south of the beach, I don't look back.

As I bike down the road, it's like I'm running from the scene of a heist. Wind drying off my toes and blowing away all the sand, the evidence of my beach adventure is slowly destroyed. By the time I get home, it will be like it never happened.

Yep, definitively time for my brain to shut up. It's better to just focus on biking. Tapping while steering isn't a... safe activity. Trust me, I know.

Unfortunately, the slow, dead, midnight streets of Clinton, Washington don't offer too much distracting scenery. Not because it's an ugly place to live, but because it's a sleepy town in between other tourist stops, a ferry dock to everyone but its 900 or so residents. This late at night, lights are low, if not non-existent, and it's easier to shut your eyes and enjoy the cawing gulls that imply a greater view than what's offered.

But that is exactly why my mother likes it here so much.

To Clinton's credit, the shore is littered with cute little shops and adorable homes. It's just that they aren't my destination. Heading inland on roads less traveled, I pedal until the taste of sea salt melts from my mouth. Then, I go another five more minutes before reaching a large, three-story home tucked under a canopy of trees. A large minivan is in the front driveway and an even taller picket-white fence encircles the entire yard (front and back).

I have never been bold enough to go out the front door (nor had the keys for it), so with my index finger tapping my thigh, I tuck my bike under our overgrown Hemlock tree and hold my breath while walking through the garden gate.

Removing my shoes when I reach the sliding glass door, I soften my feet, ensuring they don't make noise as I creep through the laundry room and into the first floor.

Every light in my house is off and nothing but our large living room fish tank makes a peep. In the low glow, the open concept looks inviting enough. A kitchen island where I eat breakfast, a navy blue front door I pass every time I hop onto the couch for movie night, a dining room table tucked against a wall that's used more like a filing cabinet for notebooks and samples than eating. The fridge is littered with school papers, only marine biology. Thank god I'm almost out of school, because it's starting to get hard to see the steel face of the fridge.

The entire house is decorated in shades of tans and blues and greens and grays, like it's trying to mimic the bay without a drop of seawater. Sometimes, I wonder if our house was like living in a fish tank. A habitat of mimicry and little comforts that never feels quite-

I stop myself short of the stairs as I feel the first wooden step try to creak under my weight. Breathless, I look around for any sign that I'm busted; that my mother's blood-hound ears wake her up and that's it, I ruin it.

One time while making midnight popcorn, the woman woke up and sniffed me out just from the smell of warm butter.

But all I see is my favorite napping pillow askew on the couch and the abandoned dishes that Mom said she'd do tomorrow (which means I'll be doing them tomorrow). I can even picture myself in the morning, by the sink, humming poorly.

Nothing moves or creaks throughout the house, not for a whole minute.

Exhaling, I accept that things are still safe... for now.

It's twisted in its own way, that during the daytime, this house is my sanctuary, but then at night the old hardwood floors and every cluttered corner threaten to expose my dirty little secret.

Things are orderly here. Mom is a dedicated researcher and I am her perfectly odd, perfectly pleasant daughter. We order take-out almost every night and she stays in her office too late and I cover all the chores she forgets to do. And sometimes, she and I make great memories with blanket forts or zoological documentaries. That's the status quo.

Knowing Lynn Caspen, if I change that status quo, she would be downstairs faster than I could make up a believable excuse. Or look the part, for that matter.

Much to my benefit, the light under the far right door isn't on. Mom didn't wake up for any late-night research. One less dangerous variable.

My breath just needs to hold out through one more flight of stairs. It's better if I don't breathe, honestly, or I might hyperventilate. I can't do that, not on these stairs, not if I can be found, not looking like this. Not unless I want to be skewered calamari for a midnight snack.

It isn't until my door shuts behind me that I gulp the air like a fish out of water. Fitting.

No matter how many times I do this, coming home always feels the same, like my lungs might explode.

The first time, I had just watched a few too many episodes of Mythbusters and, insomnia-drunk, tried out lockpicking on our back door. That night I discovered what our front yard looked like at night, and that I was a terrible lockpick.

I only was out for a short half hour and did have to come up with an elaborate lie on why the back door lock was busted. By some miracle, I got away with it, though the tools I used did go missing. Every adventure after that, though?

Playing the long game was easy. I found out where she hid the keys and waited for nights where Mom passed out enough that I thought I had a shot. Over 6 years, I've been to the beach 100 times.

Every risk is worth it.

Tonight, my lucky centennial adventure, I've even started to wonder if some sort of mythical sea god has been helping me get away with it. Njord would definitely be the type. While not as whimsical as Loki, he definitely would be compelled by the plight of people drawn to the sea. Or maybe a trickster hero, like Crow, the Prometheus of Aboriginal legend. He'd guide my moth-y soul to its watery flame.

Thinking someone else agrees with my elaborate, forbidden beach outings make me feel saner about the whole situation.

While mythological theory helps settle the twitching in my fingers and I stop feeling like I'd suffocate, I also feel reality pressing its weight into my shoulders. Especially once I catch a glance of myself in the mirror.

When was the last time I saw myself?

Touching my gray eyes on the glass, I scan at my own, strange face. I wish I could go back to a time where I didn't need a mirror to see them.

But away from the sea, I have no space for nostalgia and grief and longing. I don't even have space for Astra.

It's time to put things back to status quo.

And as I stare in the mirror and feel the comfortable ache settle in, I watch my curls turn to straight locks; my gray eyes turn green. Even my skin, a hazelnut with rare dark freckles, disappears under a moonlight shade accessorized with thousands of brown stars. The muscle in my shoulders reallocates to my chest, the angles of my cheekbones get sharper, and my smile fades to an uneasy, acceptant deadpan.

I know it's not my body's fault, but now my clothes feel all wrong. They hang loose and awkward and I feel sick, wanting to strip them away. Worse, in the morning, I won't mind them on me. This thin, old sweatshirt from the Sydney opera house is actually one of my favorite things I own. It's just that seeing it on one version of me and then the other-

Shaking my head, I tell my brain to shut up. This is how things are. I focus in on my almond-shaped, garden-green eyes, my thin eyebrows, the crinkle in my left ear. They all make me look like Mom. That's a good thing. One look at me and anyone can tell that I'm hers. That's what family was like. Mom always said I looked better this way.

I force myself to smile, and my small, pink lips start to feel okay; feel like mine. It's like Mom's smiling at me.

There she is, the daughter I'm meant to be.

Now Kai, I lay my head down on my bed and pretend my thoughts aren't still filled with waves.