Chlorine: A Novel

by Jade Song, Imani Parks

Genres: Occult & Supernatural; Literary Fiction; Horror

Synopsis

In the vein of The Pisces and The Vegetarian, Chlorine is a debut novel that blurs the line between a literary coming-of-age narrative and a dark unsettling horror tale, told from an adult perspective on the trials and tribulations of growing up in a society that puts pressure on young women and their bodies… a powerful, relevant novel of immigration, sapphic longing, and fierce, defiant becoming.

Ren Yu is a swimmer. Her daily life starts and ends with the pool. Her teammates are her only friends. Her coach, her guiding light. If she swims well enough, she will be scouted, get a scholarship, go to a good school. Her parents will love her. Her coach will be kind to her. She will have a good life.

But these are human concerns. These are the concerns of those confined to land, those with legs. Ren grew up on stories of creatures of the deep, of the oceans and the rivers. Ones that called sailors to their doom. Ones that dragged them down and drowned them. Ones that feasted on their flesh. Ones of the creature that she’s always longed to become: mermaid.

Ren aches to be in the water. She dreams of the scent of chlorine—the feel of it on her skin. And she will do anything she can to make a life for herself where she can be free. No matter the pain. No matter what anyone else thinks. No matter how much blood she has to spill. 

 

 

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Release date: March 28, 2023

Publisher: William Morrow

Print pages: 248

Sample

One

You are not here of your own free will. You are here because I desired you first. I lured you to me using my intentional charms: my ethereal beauty, my siren song, my six pack, my tail with scales embroidered in flesh.

Forget what you know about mermaids. For too long you’ve been inundated by G-rated fairy tales, the blood and dirt in their original drafts scrubbed clean by salarymen in suits. They sold you false love disguised in pastels. Thanks to them, and the cubicle corporations they work for, you think mermaids wear bikini tops made of shells, swim in saltwater, and have flowy red hair. You think mermaids desire either to copulate with two-legged male sailors or lure them to their watery deaths—always or, never and. You think mermaids hate their bodies and their tails, though these are the parts of them that hold their power. You think mermaids have no power.

You are wrong.

Mermaids wear one-piece swimsuits sculpting severe camel toe. Mermaids have neither hair nor scalp, but latex swim caps, squeezing forehead fat out like dollops of leftover toothpaste from near-empty tubes. Mermaids swim in chlorine, thrive in locker rooms, and dive under and over lane ropes. Mermaids sprout thick and luscious body hair, until shaved off for aerodynamics. Mermaids would rather eat four bowls of pasta than a man—though a man does taste good, mermaids prefer not to waste precious stomach volume on such non-nutritious fare, for a man is not sustenance but an occasional dessert.

Mermaids are not born. We are made.

I burst into being when I was seventeen years old. I became a mermaid not as a pearl in a clamshell, but as a girl in a locker room shower stall at the University of Pittsburgh pool during my junior year of high school. I alone saw myself as a rightful mermaid, finally free of my short and pitiful life as a human girl. The others assumed I remained whatever they perceived of me before I ascended. But those were their impressions; their perceptions.

As a daughter: My parents refused to recognize my metamorphosis, pretending I was not a mermaid but their two-legged, high-achieving offspring.

As a top competitive swimmer: Jim believed me still his athlete, who won meets, races, and points, for him and his team.

As a best friend: Even Cathy presumed me remaining a girl. Her girl.

They are all wrong.

The media will corrupt you into trusting such nonsensical concepts as overnight success, but in reality, the journey from girl to mermaid is long. Mine took thirteen years, beginning when I was four, though I would not touch chlorine for another three—would not desire and then eventually learn to reject its chemical embrace. I look back to these beginning days with some fondness, and much exhaustion.

My mother gifted me a book of mermaid folklore from around the world for my fourth birthday, thinking the illustrations would captivate and distract me while she was too busy working to provide proper attention. Her plan worked, and I carried my book of mermaid lore everywhere, from preschool to the booster seat and back.

“Wow, she must love mermaids. She can’t put the book down,” Mr. Osborne, my preschool teacher, said to my mother when she came to pick me up. “Can she even read the words?”

“Of course she can,” my mother huffed. She stormed off and tugged me away by my wrist. How dare anyone think her daughter illiterate, even at such a young age. Never mind Mr. Osborne was more worried about the content, thinking my underdeveloped brain would be warped by the darkness penetrating each tale: young girls disfigured, men drowned, voices silenced by witches. Never mind my mom did not read the book before she gifted it to me and remained wrongful in her thinking of mermaids as happy, bright, romantic. Never mind the book teaching me that the shadows inside need not be snuffed but treasured—that darkness existed to hide riches from ordinary mortals unable to handle their brilliance, and if I mustered the courage to dive into those veiled depths, these riches could become mine.

I dreamt myths larger than my girl body could hold.

Mr. Osborne, incredulous at my mother-approved precocity, would give me what he called his Five Finger Test: He’d grab the book from my fingers, flip open to a random page, point to a grouping of five words, and challenge me to read it out loud. He’d hold up five fingers as if offering me a high-five, planning to lower a finger with each word I recited wrong, until he’d wield a fist—a fist that never appeared, because I delivered the correct words every time. Yet he continued to steal my book and test me throughout the day, as if he believed I could read only in the morning and forgot how by the afternoon.

I cannot describe Mr. Osborne’s face or his classroom. The tiny details comprising insignificant men like him have long since been discarded from my memory. But I can easily recall the shapes of his greasy fingerprints on my book’s laminated cover. He gave me my first experience in attempting to prove myself to a man, with no avail.

My favorite folktales in the book were not the most famous. Likely you have heard of Hans Christian Andersen’s and Disney’s The Little Mermaid—I have already told you to forget what you know, but I know you will not, because you are human, and you are eternally trapped in your conventions. But know this then: the Little Mermaid was too desperate, too frivolous. I hated her disregard for her fantastical tail and family, her desire to ruin herself into sea foam for a man open to incest, who loved her like a sister.

It wasn’t just the European mermaids I disliked. I also disagreed with the Chinese mermaids featured in the book. Two of them were dependent on men: One stranded on the sand with no legs, needing a ship captain to carry her back into the water; the other covered in tiny rainbow hairs, marrying a man who stole her from the ocean, losing her voice in the process, returning home to the water after her husband’s death. While I do admire the latter’s rainbow armor, I refuse to follow their male-dependent trajectories.

The third Chinese mermaid in the book was named Nüwa, a deity with a beautiful woman’s face and a serpentine body. Nüwa wandered the Earth after it separated from the Heavens. Though the land was beautiful, decorated with rivers, mountains, trees, and flowers, with many living creatures to accompany her travels, she was lonely, craving a companion with whom she could converse and dance. So she used yellow clay, damp from the riverbanks, to mold shapes with faces, arms, and legs. The figures came alive, laughing and twirling around her, ridding her of her isolation. Every human being has descended from Nüwa’s clay sculptures. While I empathize with Nüwa’s loneliness, and thank her for her contributions to my birth, I disdain her desire for human company—there are many other beings whose camaraderie provides far greater enjoyment than humans’.

The folktale I loved most was the Passamaquoddy tale of two girls changed into water-snakes. Every Sunday, the two girls went to swim and play in their local lake together, naked, wanton. Men in their village spied on the girls and warned of sin, while, as usual of men, disregarding their own lust and hypocrisy. The girls did not listen, so the men came to snatch them away, intending to fix their purity—and discovered the girls had been transformed into water-snakes, their long hair and girl heads connected to wriggly and reptilian snake tails. The story, colored by colonialist Christian values, was meant as a warning against evil behavior on Sundays, but they didn’t see the truth of the ending. I was convinced the two girls were free, freer than I could ever be. I envied their ability to slip through those men’s grasps. I saw their evolution as a gift, so they could play in the water forever, not beholden to men’s needs or a moralist God’s schedule.

I reread the pages of the Passamaquoddy tale as my nightly bedtime story, wondering if I’d meet a girl friend someday, and if we’d intertwine into water-snakes. Where was she sleeping each night, without me? And where would we sleep each night, together, after transcendence?

I gave up my daily mermaid recitations when I entered elementary school. There was no use for illustrations or folktales in the American education system, diluted by the dead white male canon. The rigid schedule of school, homework, and the general existence as human wore me down, though not completely: I never forgot my mermaids. Outwardly, I studied. Inwardly, I sought the weightlessness of water, to be as liberated as the aquatic beings in my imagination.

We couldn’t afford a pool in our backyard, so I begged my mother to let me join a swim team. She refused for an entire year, thinking piano was the right path for me, until she read a viral article online about the best extracurricular activities to teach kids time management. Armed with the listicle advice, she capitulated to my begging and pulled back on car repair to save money for team dues, in the event I did manage to qualify for the team with no prior experience. It was more important for me to learn control than it was for her to drive safely. And she didn’t need prior American athletic experience to understand sports were expensive. Any extracurriculars were extra lines on her monthly budget lists, yet all were mandatory for my future.

She dropped me off at the high school, where there was a pool in the basement for tryouts. I was seven years old with the wrong swimsuit and no swim cap. Until that day, the biggest body of water I had been in was our house’s bathtub. Yet when I dove into the pool, I felt like I had arrived home, like my seven years of life until then had been one long cross-country car ride, and the pool was the hot shower to wash off the filth collected from roadside stands and gas station bathrooms. I was liberated, unblemished, and one step closer to becoming the mermaid I always intended to be.

When I decided, years later, to sprout my tail, it was a hearkening back to the book I loved and the mermaids encased within. Though the pages were torn, the illustrations remained vivid with the legends and depictions of the aquatic adventures I longed for. I reread the pages each night when my eyes grew tired from squinting at the needle during the many hours of sewing practice. I marked each page with bloodstains from my fingertips, gashes where I clutched the needle too tightly—

I’m getting ahead of myself.

I do not regret much about my seventeen years as a human girl. Looking back in wistful longing is futile. Though, I will admit, I do perhaps wish I let Cathy kiss me sooner, such as during an inevitable game of Truth or Dare at our end-of-season parties. Girls were always dared to kiss other girls, and I should have taken advantage of the despicable excuse when I had it. Then I would’ve had the memory of her lips against mine to comfort me while I was alone in the hospital, my mermaid tail perfect, but the threat of unraveling so close by.

But let me be clear, so you cannot misconstrue my motives: while my journey may seem lonesome, I was never alone in my scars. I was the sole chlorine mermaid on my team, but I was not the only girl to self-mutilate. As proud athletes, it was expected our mutilations were a natural course of action to reach peak condition. Some cut. Some bulked. Some purged. It’s all the same. Together we girls molded our bodies and selves into what Coach Jim wanted. What we wanted.

We mutilated our hair, cultivating our arm leg pit vagina hair for months like farmers growing wheat, until we cropped it off in one hour, together at the shaving party before the big meet. The razors cut lines down our calves coated in whipped cream, finger pads wrinkled and pruny. We soaped up each other’s backs, an adolescent lesson in Sappho. If you shave my back I’ll shave yours. We emerged from the locker room showers as naked mole rats.

We mutilated our guts with bowls of raw oats mixed with applesauce, stacks of banana walnut pancakes, pots of pasta mingled with marinara and basil, shakes of protein powder blended with egg whites, casseroles of coalesced buffalo chicken dip. We scoffed at nutrition labels based on a 2,000-calorie diet and we scoffed at the skinny girls in the cafeteria who pecked at tiny containers of Light & Fit Strawberry Flavored Greek Yogurt.

We were Fit, but not Light.

We mutilated our beauty, though this sense of beauty was an outdated version defined by narrow wrists and bird bones. We created a new and improved beauty from weightlifting, stair climbing, swim practicing. Our shoulders thickened, our thighs expanded, our muscles bouldered, our hair grew limp, our skin cracked dry into a mockery of fish scales.

We mutilated our language: 8x200’s middle 100 red, 12x25’s off the blocks sprint, 8x400 IMs descending fast, 6x25’s underwater kick, 8x50’s IM order, flipturns snorkels kickboards pulleys. A secret code, written on chalkboards and whispered among lanes, a dialect only we spoke.

We mutilated our bloodstream. Mr. Venezia, our chemistry teacher, taught us about osmosis, where molecules flowed back and forth until equalized concentrations lay on each side. After class, at practice, we argued whether chlorine replaced the blood in our veins. We prodded one another’s skins, imagining the element drifting through our selectively permeable membranes. Are we bodies of water? Are we swimming in pools of blood? We licked our dry arms miles away from the pool and the sharp chemical odor wafted from our pores.

But we did not mutilate our girlhood. We were girls, always, first, even when we were fish, and we never forgot it, even if some of us were so overworked our periods disappeared. Under the steaming showers where we stripped naked after practice, young skin red from lack of oxygen, we stole glances at each other’s stomachs, judging whose was flatter, or at each other’s breasts, wishing our own were bigger. We huddled together to do our team cheer, arms looped around each other’s necks as we pitched our heads back and forth, yodeling: Hear us scream and see us swim, don’t mess don’t mess don’t mess with the best ’cause the best don’t mess. We slid our hands around each other’s waists to assist pulling up the $300 technical racing suit. If it took longer than ten minutes to put on, it was too small, but shorter than five and it was too big.

We were tougher than the football players and the tennis players and the track athletes combined, even tougher than the boys’ swim team. Our high school swim team was a small world, but it was ours—we ruled with a dihydrogen monoxide fist.

Do you understand the world I lived in? How my mutilations were a gift?

Most of my teammates developed scabs and scars. They were too afraid to draw blood, so their incisions were shallow. I pity their fear. Sometimes I flit back and forth in my watery haven to watch Cathy, Brad, Ally, Mia, Rob, even Luke with curiosity as they head off to frat parties and underpaid entry-level jobs, and I feel nothing but sadness for them—how useless it is to seek healing through unreturned crumbs of affection and meaningless retirement funds!

Despite their past torments inflicted upon me, I have forgiven them a long time ago. Mermaids do not trouble themselves with the petty troubles of their human past.

As we delve into my tale, I must caution you every mermaid is different. Some tails are made of shimmering scales, and some, like mine, are made of skin and thread and knots. Popular discourse may force you to assume all mermaids have the same experiences, opinions, looks, and emotions, but I assure you, everyone has their unique points of origin contributing to their mythology and the overall canon: The Little Mermaid for a man, the Starbucks mermaid for corporate coffee, Nüwa for friendship. My own reasons were neither for partnership nor for profit—mine were simply a slow uncovering of my true self. While the people I swam with, and their behavior, can be considered catalysts to my transformation, their impact was—in the end—minor. Neither my Coach Jim, nor my best friend Cathy, nor my parents, nor my teammates, nor their viewings of me as an object of intense perverse affection, can be listed as the main reasons. I transformed because I became who I was meant to be all along. A mermaid who thrives in fresh water, chlorine water, seawater, ever adaptable, if I had my tail.

Back then, I was a girl, a body of water, a liminal state of being, a hybrid on the cusp of evolution.

Now, I am Ren Yu.

I am 人鱼.

I am person fish.

I am mermaid.

And so goes my tale of becoming.

Are you ready?