Dear Captain,

Hell Week is over, and the school aspect of the academy has become my most pressing issue. I’d never been that bad at school—ma’am used to send my sisters and me to tutors all the time before this formal schooling. So while I’m free of extra classes like writing, and reading, and basic math…

In History, we’ve begun discussing the Kiniye Attack. Our teacher believes that, with it being the most recent event in our lives, that we’d benefit the most from learning everything about it. But it only brings back bad memories for me. I believe it is too soon for my friends, too. We’ve all had a loss, some more significant than others. But our history teacher is so removed from it, it’s as if it’s a fairy tale.

After hearing of my podmate talk about rank classes during the hike, I’ve begun to wonder what I should pursue. I’ve already decided I don’t want to stay in Guard class. But where could I go? Medical? Religion? Textile?

What is something only I can do?

I am still searching for answers.

Rocca.

* * *

The green sea water was warm with sweat as thirty trainee mermaids practiced combat form. Our instructor would demonstrate something like a tail flip, and the rest of us would attempt it twenty times over without fumbling. Undersea combat was tricky with water involved, and I noticed that Chinchilla was getting especially frustrated not being able to punch or kick in ways that he knew how.

But I found all the flips and kicks strangely fun—I’d already spent all my time as a kid perfecting my dance techniques in the water. This was basically that, but with the intention of hitting someone. I accepted all the praise the instructor signed my way when he used me as an example.

I probably should’ve paid more attention to my envious peers.

Closer to the end of the session, the instructor slashed his fingers about. (Let’s do a spar!) He looked out at all of us in Spring Troop with a sweaty grin as if choosing a victim. My pod was spread all throughout the group. I lowered to the sand to hide, wanting no part in this exercise. (Pick a champion! Girl and boy!)

The group split in two directions and I found Ofelia, her groupies, and the girls from the other pods surrounding me in all directions. They grabbed me and pushed me to the center.

I dug my tail into the sand to stop them but it was too late, my lime green fin touched another—a thick, flat white one…

My eyes rose in horror. Chinchilla, backed by a whole bunch of boys waving their fists in a cheer. Our instructor shortly blew his shell horn for attention.

(Space,) he signed, waving his hands out. The people who’d pushed us together fell back so far behind coral reefs it was like they were expecting an explosion. Chinchilla threw up a thumbs-up, signaling he was ready. I pulled off my yellow rock necklace and planted it in the sand.

(Ready), I signed.

Hooooonk!

I flexed my gills, taking in a hot breath. Chinchilla rushed at me, hands flat like blades. I slithered up, dodging him. It was a bit amusing, seeing him charging through and so sluggishly on the offensive. It was clear the big mountain boy wasn’t use to this. He was still using above-water tactics.

Compared to the last time I sparred him, at orientation, I wasn’t as terrified.

I dodged him with ease, spinning and ducking at every throw of his fist. He pushed off the ground and rocketed at me, but I spun to the side and grabbed the long cloth tying his mask together. I yanked hard, jerking his head back—

He pushed the mask free from his face and grabbed by wrists. For a moment I was stunned by the clarity of his expression as he peeked back. Behind those heavy white streaks, he was frustrated.

He lifted and slammed me over onto his tail—my head whirled, and I twisted away from him and kicked off his chest.

I managed to get propelled far, but the momentary breath of air wasn’t enough to rid my blurry vision. He barreled for me, and fear chilled through my chest that much faster when all I could focus on were his sharp, crisscrossing white stripes.

He threw out a fist—I slid beneath him, but then his other arm caught my neck. He flopped over, dragging me with him. Next thing I knew I was being slammed into the sand.

We bounced comically but his chokehold never ceased, and I felt so constricted I could puke. Hot tears stung my eyes as I patted his arms for mercy. But his grip only tightened. I coughed, bubbles twirling out—

Honkkkk!

Chinchilla loosened his grip—for a moment he held me as my vision swam, and then he tossed me into the sand.

I turned, furious. He’d gone too far. I wiped my eyes, all too conscious of the hard jagged bits forming on the skin around it. My classmates loomed at the coral reefs, their expressions mixed with surprise and fear. But when I looked to Chinchilla, there was no significant remorse. Only annoyance.

(WHAT is your PROBLEM!?) I signed, grinding my fingers against each other. He stared at my hands, then at me. I don’t believe any of this is registering with him.

The instructor swam to us and gave Chinchilla a reassuring pat on the shoulder. He took it as permission to leave.

(You,) the instructor pointed at me (Close.)

I rubbed my neck. The asphyxiation was too close for comfort. I could still feel the ghost of it pressing against my gills.

I signed back, my hand movements weak. (I…will NEVER…be close.)