Part 1-The Team

I rushed from the College of Science and Engineering’s conference room, my presentation board snug beneath my trembling arm, my briefcase in one shaking hand. Tears poured down my face. I tried to hold back the torrent of emotion until I escaped the many condescending eyes, some of which I previously considered friends and colleagues. Frustration gnawed on my stomach. Months of careful curation—wasted. Not one person in that room was willing to dive with me.

My ideas, though admittedly strange, were based on sound research and experimentation. All my data was clearly stated in understandable terms on my slideshow and complementary poster board presentations. From fear to disbelief, their range of skepticism and contempt had been monumental. Why? My years of research had produced solid evidence confirming the likely success of ocean floor colonization—something an ocean-loving, eleven-year-old me had dreamed of.

Now, at twenty-four years old, after obsessively collecting degrees, including graduating Valedictorian from Duke’s Marine Biology program, men and women I had built relationships with, worked with, admired, and even trusted, rejected me. More hard work wasted.

I pulled my sleeve over my hand as I groped for the doorknob to the stairwell. I tried to use the balled-up fabric to dab my eyes since tears blocked my vision. I knew I wouldn’t be disturbed. This rarely frequented stairwell was one of my favorite sanctuaries. In my melodrama, the door opened too quickly, and I tripped in my blind getaway; the contents of my briefcase spilled the length of one of the flights of stairs. My tears filled the depths.

If the U.S. military wanted to purchase my patents so badly, why didn’t anyone else believe that my inventions would work too?

A hand-drawn picture of a half-shark, half-squid drawn in bright reds and cobalt blues caught my eye. I had drawn this picture as a small child. My parents had framed it. The dim light caught on the wrought silver. It was the image of an imaginary creature—a lusca.

My ocean obsession grew exponentially as I aged. My parents had supported that, gifting me mermaid figurines and dolls, talking fish, shells, books, and classes. And once I grew a little wiser and my desires morphed into colonizing the ocean floor, they helped me build my very first submarine-style boat, taking me to the beach for hours and hours on end while I tinkered and experimented. They built me up, encouraged me, and then they died.

“Curse them all,” I spat, snatching up the picture and stuffing it back into the briefcase. I wanted my parents to be proud of me, but with them gone and the failure so heavy, my mind spiraled into a void of despair.

“Miss Sinclaire!” a voice echoed down the stairwell to tap me on the shoulder.

My hand scrambled for the handkerchief stored in my pocket. Dabbing at my eyes and nose, I turned. A hard look pinched my features. “Would you like something?”

The young, warm, male face behind me startled me. “Do you really have a working model of the Midnight, Deep Sea Zone suit, and the Ultra-Submarine?” The young man bubbled, nearly exploding at the seams as he awaited my reply.

I searched his face for any allusion to ridicule. His wide-set brown eyes were clear and focused. Deeming him sincere, I answered, “Yes, I do, Mr . . . ?”

“Correa. The name of César A. Correa is at your disposal, Miss Sinclaire.” He extended his hand in my direction. Frowning, I shook it. “Are they really ready to be used? Have they actually been previously pressurized and proven to be in working order?”

Balking at his obvious enthusiasm, I whispered, “Yes. Both my MDS suit and the U-Sub are fully operational and await a bit of field work.”

Mr. Correa threw his arms around me in a moment of gusto. “A bit of field work? Doesn’t that sound modest for someone who wants to explore the final Earth frontier?”

I wasn’t sure how to take the hug, so I patted him awkwardly on the back until he released me. “This is your lucky day, Miss Sinclaire.” He put his hands on his hips and threw his shoulders back. “Although none of those buffoons and scaredy cats in the room back there will come with you, I happen to have a couple spare months lying around. They are waiting to be filled with such an endeavor.”

Presentation boards clattered to the floor again. My red leather briefcase landed with a thud. “Am I awake?” I gasped, putting a recently vacated palm to my forehead. “Who are you? How do you know any of this?”

Chuckling, Mr. Correa gathered my belongings. “Well, I overheard you were having a conference meeting today with a few people from the university. One of those viejos exiting the room happened to be an old friend of my grandparents. He was more than happy to share the details I missed.”

“Where do you get off spying on people?” I asked with suspicion. Others before him had sung a similar tune, punctuated with rhythms of bribery and notes of falsehoods. “I know people like you. You can’t steal or buy my ideas.” I gulped back my next retort to keep from sounding bitter as I snatched my boards and case back from him. He hovered close enough that I could smell his rich, earthy aroma.

He laughed. “You think I’m from the government?” When my lips twitched down, he sobered. “That’s fair. You probably have had all sorts of people come to your door looking for a get-rich-quick scheme.”

I side eyed him as he handed me papers, pens, and red lipstick. “Are you not?”

Mr. Correa bowed from the waist. “I am the solitary grandchild to two sets of deceased grandparents. Neither money nor time is a concern.” His vampire teeth flashed me a quick smile. Disappointment seized me as he looked at his wristwatch and said, “I’m sorry, but I’m behind schedule. Do you mind sharing more details of your plans tomorrow over . . . lunch? Here is my card. Call me later to set a time.” With those rather flighty-sounding last words, Mr. Correa was gone.

My heart refused to stop racing. I hugged the small white square to my heart, bending the cardstock. Was this the person I had been waiting for? Clutching at my belongings with a vigor I had not possessed scant minutes earlier, I hastened home, hugging the narrow, windy curves of Mayaguez’s roads to the vibrant green and steep mountain roads of San German. Even from here, the Caribbean ocean filled the horizon. I skidded to a stop in front of the orange mountain house with all the flurry of a child bearing good news to their guardian.

My grandmother, my childhood guardian, knew I was excited before she saw me enter. As the front door banged against the entry table, she hollered from the kitchen, “Sit down, you crazy girl, before you faint!”

I galloped into the kitchen, plopping myself on a worn fiberglass bar stool, a goofy smile plastered to my face. My fingers thrummed out the rhythm of my heart on the countertop as I closed my eyes and pinched myself, praying I was not dreaming. The pinch hurt. My joy mounted.

When I opened my eyes to the chocolate pie of congratulations in my abuela’s hands, I immediately burst into tears. I waved Mr. Correa’s rumpled business card in the air. “He wants to talk over lunch tomorrow,” I sobbed. “I can’t believe it. I might actually have a dive mate!” Taking the pie from her to set aside, I launched myself over the table and took the old woman into a solid hug.

“I am so proud of you, Aleja, but please stop suffocating me,” Abuela crooned, patting my hair. The silver-haired, spunky old lady had been my guardian since I was nine and had seen me in such hysterics before. “Calm down, mi Alejandrina,” she continued. “I have always known this would happen. You are my beautiful nena who acts a little crazy at every moment of success.”

I snorted. “Abuela,” I said as soon as I could breathe. “I cannot mess up tomorrow. This could finally be it. I have interviewed so many people and been so cautious. I still wish I didn’t have to find someone. If only Mari would be willing to come with me . . . or you?” The tension sobered me while my excitement evaporated. My eyes went to the darkening leaf-textured hills across the canyon. Other than two good friends and Abuela, I didn’t trust many people. And of those three, one feared the ocean, one was infatuated, and the other believed her wiry arms and legs and bedtime of eight o’clock deemed her too old to go.

“I’m too old. I was too old when your parents asked me too.” Her cinnamon-brown eyes drifted into memory, a reminder of why I hadn’t gone with them either. “And you know Mari would go if she could.”

I sucked back one side of my lips. “Or I could go alone?”

“Cannot. Out of the question.” She tsked loudly at me.

“But what if Mr. Correa isn’t the one?”

“Pshaw. If this isn’t the one, there will be another,” Abuela contradicted as she stood and stretched. “It took years and years for your parents to acquire enough funding for their Amazon expedition, but in the meantime, they spent so much time exploring and researching here in the Caribbean, they made many other breakthroughs. This is your first rodeo.”

I wanted to believe her, but the fear of never achieving my dream burned like a fresh scrape.

“Let yourself have hope this will work out, Aleja,” Abuela admonished. Her eyebrows drew low, indicating she saw the obtrusive thought that brought down my mood.

“What if this is a prank or joke? What if he doesn’t really want to come? What if he is only curious and he just wants to meet to satiate his curiosity? What if he is actually a government spy?” The last two people applying for the position had shown way too much interest in my project. With some digging by my law enforcement friend Rafi, they had been exposed as government agents. “This is way harder than I ever thought it would be.” The stool creaked with my trembling.

“While you do have many things working against you, Aleja, you deserve miracles,” Abuela replied steadily, ignoring my worry with a pat of her hand on my own. Her black eyes and gentle face remained placid.

Swallowing hard, I hugged Abuela tightly.

“Give him a call before bed,” she encouraged, kissing my hair. “Don’t wait too long, it’s getting late.” The deep gold and purple of the sky through the window behind her testified to her assertion. Humid darkness was already hanging heavy on the canyon floor.

I lay on my bed, rehearsing what I would say when I called Mr. Correa. Anxiety forced me to my desk, where I scratched down a faint outline of how I would present my excursion plan over lunch. My eyes wandered to the pictures framed on the desk. They led my thoughts over the past fifteen years of my life.

The grief over losing my parents was no longer stabbing, but it had been for the gangly eleven-year-old girl stumbling her way through the corridors at Yale. It hadn’t lessened much when I was thirteen at Duke and didn’t look like I belonged in more ways than one.

The teasing, the cold shoulders, and the silent treatment from other students. My hair was too dark and wildly curly beside the smooth locks of my already older peers. My features were too Anglo to be considered Puerto Rican, and yet too indigenous to be considered beautiful in a typical American way. On the mainland, I was considered foreign and uncomfortable, and on the island, I was considered an unremarkable gringo due to my mixed heritage.

So many contradictions and disappointments had marred my life. I still had worked hard with the unwavering support of Abuela at my back. Abuela. I looked at the clock. It was just before six. Shaking the adrenaline out of my arms, I forced myself to call Mr. Correa.

To my horror, his secretary answered on the first ring. I prepared for inevitable rejection.

“Office of César A. Correa of Correa House Investments, how may I be of assistance?” Her voice was friendly yet formal.

“Ummm,” I began with a rousing silence filler. “Hi. This is Alejandrina Sinclaire. Mr. Correa asked me to call.”

“Ah, Miss Sinclaire, we have been awaiting your call. Give me one moment and I’ll connect you . . .”

“César Correa here. Miss Sinclaire, I presume?”

Startling at the sudden change from the secretary’s soprano to the deep masculine resonance of his voice, I replied, “Yes, this is Alejandrina.”

His smile carried through the phone. “I’m so glad you chose to call.”

I cleared my throat, sitting up straighter. “You said you weren’t a spy.”

“I most definitely am not. So, lunch?”

I smoothed my night-humid damp curls back from my face. “Um. Yes.”

“Do you prefer seafood or Chinese cuisine? I need to make a reservation.”

“I mean, I prefer Puerto Rican Chinese food, but a sit-down style restaurant might be better for our conversation?” The phone screen stuck to my face.

“I shall pick you up at around noon tomorrow, if you would kindly provide me with your address.” His taking command of the conversation unsettled and excited me a bit.

I promptly dictated my street and house number. “It’s the bright orange house with the flag on the patio,” I added for good measure.

“I will see you then,” he stated firmly, a definite finality to his tone. “Goodnight, Miss Sinclaire.”

“Goodnight,” I echoed weakly.

The phone clicked as our connection severed. Feeling suddenly drained, I peeled off my clothes and sank into the bathtub. When I came out, Abuela served me a piece of pie.

“So . . . ?” she prompted as she took a bite.

“He is going to take me to lunch tomorrow so we can talk more about my proposal.” I knew my voice was tinged with disbelief.

Abuela shrugged and laughed. “I knew he would.”

“What if he isn’t a spy?”

Abuela’s smile faltered a flicker. “Then I guess you head to the bottom of the ocean.”

Jazmin Lister

The Heart of the Beast Prince