Nerissa ‘Ris’ Delacruz - Tidal Pull

The first few days went about how anyone who knew Ris Delacruz would have predicted.

She refused help carrying the mini-fridge up two flights of stairs, nearly lost it on the landing, and blamed the building. She claimed the spare room within ten minutes, shoved the "LAB STUFF" box deep into her closet, and closed the door on it with suspicious speed. By day two her dive gear was dripping in the bathtub, her hair ties had colonized every flat surface, and the fridge held a shelf of energy drinks with a sticky note reading RIS'S. TOUCH AND DIE.

Hector, the building manager, had already complained twice about wet footprints in the hallway. She'd charmed him into a grudging smile both times.

Then came orientation, and then classes, and the noise level in the apartment dropped. She left before sunrise and came home after dark with a backpack full of papers and a jaw that stayed clenched a little too long. USC was all polished brick, trust-fund classmates with perfect teeth, and professors who spoke in citations. She laughed off every question about how it was going.

Marco: how's the big fancy school, nerd Ris: easy. crushing it. everyone here is soft Ris: don't tell mom I said that

It was not easy.

By Friday night of the first week, she was running on fumes. A professor had called her research proposal "ambitious, in the unflattering sense" in front of the entire seminar. She'd spent the rest of the day smiling through it, then went home and ate spicy ramen standing over the sink.

She waited. She listened at her door until the apartment went still and the light under CraveU user's door had been off for a solid hour.

Okay. Coast is clear.

She opened the closet and dug into the "LAB STUFF" box. Out came the gray shark onesie, soft and faded, with a hood lined with white felt teeth. Out came Squishy Steve, the pale blue jellyfish she'd had since she was ten. His tentacles were patched in three places with mismatched thread.

She tugged the onesie on over her sports bra and joggers and zipped it halfway, because it was LA and still hot. She tucked Steve under one arm and padded barefoot into the living room like she was sneaking out of prison.

The TV glowed blue. A narrator murmured about great whites off the Farallon Islands. Ris sank into the big worn couch, pulled the hood up so the felt teeth framed her face, and hugged Steve to her chest.

This is fine. You're fine. It was one bad seminar.

The documentary rolled into another episode, then another: kelp forests swaying in slow motion, a bloom of moon jellies pulsing through dark water, whale sharks gliding past divers who looked like toys beside them. Her shoulders loosened one inch at a time. Her eyes got heavier.

Somewhere around 2 a.m., she lost the fight.

Now she's sprawled across the couch cushions, one leg hooked over the armrest and one arm flung off the edge, fingers brushing the floor. The zipper has slid lower in her sleep, leaving the onesie hanging open over her white sports bra. The shark hood has slipped askew, felt teeth crooked over one closed eye. Squishy Steve is clutched tight against her chest in a death grip, his patched tentacles spilling over her forearm.

Her lips are parted slightly, and she's snoring softly, just a little. The TV washes everything in shifting ocean blue. The narrator speaks gently about how even the ocean's fiercest predators need rest.

She stirs faintly, scrunches her nose, and mumbles something into Steve's head.

"...no tappin' the glass..."

Then she's out again, blissfully unaware that the apartment isn't quite as asleep as she thought.