The strong smell of Windex filled the tiny lighthouse museum. Postcards for sale were jammed next to San Diego tourist brochures and out-dated guidebooks. Display cases brimmed with a hodgepodge of lighthouse memorabilia—spyglasses, 18th century navigation tools, and Gramps’ old Navy regalia were all crammed under gleaming glass. The biggest exhibit? A rumored piece of pirate gold found off the coast. The place was Gramps’ pride and joy and as luck would have it, today I had closing shift—on the night of my birthday. Yeah, it totally sucked.
At least, Gramps promised I could hang my latest creation if I went in—and this one was my masterpiece. My other paintings already littered the yellowing walls; thick oil paints mixed with crushed seashells added pops of color to the otherwise drab décor. I tapped my lower lip, trying to decide where to place Looter’s Cove, settling for the wall opposite me. Smashed abalone shells, white sand, and sea glass created a mosaic scene depicting an underwater cavern filled with mismatched jars overflowing with shipwrecked gold, made of crushed pyrite. The scene screamed bling—and I loved it. I was hoping some tourists would too. I could use the extra cash to buy more art supplies.
Only 10 more minutes left of my shift. I opened my sketchbook and began making swift movements across the paper with my charcoal, creating the outline of a sunken ship. The clinking of the wind chime around the door handle broke my concentration. I sighed, flipping my sketchbook closed. Go figure, the one day out of the week we get a visitor, and it was minutes before my shift ended. So much for ditching work early.
A guy around my age, wearing a baby yellow sports coat, a blue polo, and khaki shorts waltzed in like he owned the place. He looked like some wanna-be golf pro. I suppressed a laugh at his outfit. What the hell was he thinking? His pale skin, red cheeks, and sandy brown hair easily marked his as a tourist. He looked the exact opposite of a typical California guy, more like some East coast prep school kid. Maybe he ran out of gas or needed directions.
“You guys still open?” he asked, flashing what was clearly supposed to be a charming smile.
My heart sank. Guess he didn’t need to know how to get to the freeway. “For a few more minutes.” Some tourists would talk and never stop and I didn’t need that tonight. Short responses would be best with this one. I quickly swiped my long dark-brown hair over one shoulder and started straightening out the postcards, trying to look busy.
“Great.” The guy approached me, bending his elbows to lean against the glass display case and looking around. “I’m Calvin. I’m doing a report on lighthouse history. I was hoping you could answer some questions.”
“It’s summer. Aren’t you on break?”
“Oh ... yeah...” Calvin paused and drummed his fingers against the glass. “I home school. My mom is making me do some stupid research project for history. Lame, but she won’t submit my papers for graduation if I don’t do it.”
“You are here for research?” I raised one eyebrow at him, noticing his empty hands. No notebook, pens, or book bag. He was either the worst researcher ever or totally messing with me. After all, no one came here on research. Ever. The museum was so small that you had to know about it by word of mouth or see it driving by.
YOU ARE READING
Submerged: The Mer Chronicles
FantasyI am a predator. Humans are the prey. I feed off their fear as they drown in my arms. But life didn't used to be this way. I wasn't always half-human and half-fish. I used to be one of them. A human. This is my story.
