8

“Blech.” Michael knocked his hat sideways. “Girl stuff.”

“Girls like girl stuff, Michael,” his father said, straight-ening the hat. “Someday you’ll be glad about that.”

“Nuh-uh. Girl stuff is yucky.”

“Not if you’re a girl.” Angel reached in front of him for the perfect pair of purple shorts, a few shades darker than her amethyst tail, with delicate filigree like lace coral around the edges, then held them against the tops of her legs. “What to do you think of these?”

Michael shrugged his shoulders, but Logan turned the most interesting shade of red and walked away without a word. An odd garbled sound, but no word. Was that some Human language she wasn’t familiar with?

Michael just giggled. “Logan still doesn’t know you’re a mermaid, does he?”

She shook her head. “No. And you have to remember not to say anything.”

“I won’t. I promise. I always wanted my very own mermaid. I hope you get your tail back soon. I liked it.” She was going to have to remind him about that word, mermaid