Juliet Immortal

who spoke Spanish, but the ability left me when I was summoned back to the mist. Still, I can guess he’s called me “blondie.” A nickname. I think that will please Ariel. She’s never had a nickname before—at least, not one she liked.
    “Ariel. What about you?”
    “Ben.” He smiles. “Ariel, like the mermaid.”
    “Or the fairy in
The Tempest.
”
    He winces. “Stick with mermaid. I hate Shakespeare.”
    “Me too.” I surprise myself with a laugh. “I mean,
hate
may be the wrong word, but I don’t like the tragedies. Especially the love stories.”
    “I can barely understand what the people are saying.” Ben shrugs. “But some of Shakespeare’s sonnets are cool. We had to read them last year in Remedial Junior English for Dumb Kids.”
    “You don’t seem dumb.”
    “Thanks,” he says. “It was the word
remedial
, right? Made me sound smart?”
    “It was more that you knew
The Tempest
was by Shakespeare,” I say, “but remedial
is
a fancy word.”
    He laughs softly. “I like that.”
    “Like what?”
    “The way you say
fancy.
”
    “Thanks.” I know I should feel uncomfortable with the hint of affection in his voice, but I don’t. There’s just something … natural about being with Ben.
    “So which turn is it? I’ve never been this way in the dark.” He slows as we pass the church at the edge of town and a playground dotted with plastic turrets.
    The Castle Playground. Ariel played there when she was a kid, but her mother made her wait until sunset to walk from their house to the maze of slides and swings. She said she was worried about the sun hurting Ariel’s raw skin, but she just wanted to avoid the busiest time at the park. Melanie didn’t like it when the other kids stared and asked questions. It made her lips press into a thin line, made her jerk Ariel away from the others, tug her down the street, back to the house with the closed shades.
    “It’s the second street on the left,” I say, finding it harder to swallow. I’m not looking forward to meeting Ariel’s mother, not if the memories I have are reliable.
    I comfort myself with the assurance that memories are always colored by perception. What Ariel remembers about her life will have been informed by her feelings and fears as much as by facts. There’s a chance Melanie Dragland isn’t as bad as I’m expecting.
    “You okay?” Ben asks, slowing even more, as if he can sense my reluctance.
    “I was just thinking about my mom. She’s going to lose it when I walk in with blood everywhere.”
    “No worries. This is my sister-in-law’s car. There are baby wipes and diapers in the backseat.” He winks at me. “Baby wipes are magic. They clean everything—poop, puke, dirt, spilled juice, blood. We’ll pull over and you can clean up before you go in.”
    Relief soothes the edges of my anxiety as he pulls to the side of the road a few blocks down from Ariel’s house. “Thanks. Again.”
    “No problem.” He cuts the ignition and reaches over the seat, grabbing a plastic bin. The air blooms with the smell of baby lotion as he tugs damp cloths from the dispenser and drops them into my hand. “I’m out past my new school-night curfew anyway.” The way he hits the word
curfew
makes it clear he considers the idea ridiculous. “I might as well make the most of it and really piss my brother off.”
    “So you live with your brother?” I swipe at the side of my head, staining the pure white cloth pink and then red.
    “Yeah. I used to live with my cousins in Lompoc. It seemed stupid to switch schools only a few months from graduation, but … it wasn’t working out.”
    “Why not?”
    He shrugs. “My cousins are older. They party a lot, and they’re getting into things I’m not into.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like gangs.” He rolls his eyes. “They wanted me to get initiated; I wanted to live. It was a conflict of interest. Plus, mybrother found out, and with him being a cop, there was no way staying there was going to fly. Even for a few more months.”
    “What about your parents? Are they …”
    “My dad went back to Mexico when I was little. He used to send letters sometimes, but …” He turns to glance through the windshield, watching a cat scurry across the street. When he speaks again his voice is softer. “And my mom died about a year ago.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “You’re sorry a lot,” he says, smiling as the cat disappears.
    I reach for another wipe. “Not