by Nikki Godwin
Chapter Fourteen
It’s like a scene from a cruise commercial – white sandy beaches, bright blue water, sun shining, and palm trees swaying in a gentle breeze. A perfectly beautiful California morning. And I absolutely hate it.
The truth is it’s anything but beautiful. I jerk the curtain shut, twisting Solomon around in the fabric, but the sunshine pours through. It’s the first morning since the corporate jail party that I’ve woken up without the goal of chasing down Colby Taylor. But that doesn’t mean it’s not on my mind. A splash of Solomon’s blue reflection spills across the floor, and it makes me smile for half a second. Even from in between the curtains, he’s watching over me.
I don’t ask him for guidance, though. I already know he’d tell me to put on my best smile and my rubber Drenaline Surf bracelet and make the most of these last few days in Crescent Cove. I’ve worked too hard to buy time here, and I can’t waste what I have, even if I’m not on a mission to see Colby and learn the secrets of how to chase my forever down. I wonder if he’s ever regretted it, if there’s something he’d have done differently. But that’s something I’ll never get to ask him. I slip on my ocean blue bracelet and trace the embossed letters of Drenaline Surf with my finger. If I ever see coffee shop Tim again, I’m so giving him one of these to add to the collection of bracelets he had growing down his arm.
Reed pulls up behind Strickland’s Boating, one hand on the steering wheel and the other gripping his latte. I’m glad he agreed to an early morning coffee run with me because after thinking of Tim’s arm of bracelets, I could almost taste the chilled vanilla frappe from that morning at Jitters. I drop my empty cup in the trash can behind the register and flip the closed sign to open on my way out onto The Strip. I’ve never been much of a salesperson, but I figure if Vin can persuade someone to buy cheap hair dye spray, I can definitely sell one-dollar chances for a high-dollar custom surfboard.
But I don’t have Vin’s smart mouth to bark with, his height to intimidate with, or his iceberg eyes to terrify with. A group of guys are two stands down, looking at T-shirts, and they fit the stereotype for beach bums with their shaggy hair, tan lines, and brightly colored swim trunks. I can’t stomach the reminder of dream-chasing surfers. Not yet. Not alone. And definitely not this early in the morning.
So I settle on the two boys at the hot dog stand. Only pre-pubescent boys eat hot dogs at eight A.M. They can’t be older than twelve or thirteen, and I’m sure they at least have a dollar to spare. I push my hair behind my shoulders, resorting to total Linzi mode – cleavage and all – then lick my lips since I didn’t bother with lip gloss.
And it totally works. My simple pitch of, “Hey! Drenaline Surf is raffling off a custom surfboard at the competition this weekend. A dollar a ticket, you can’t beat that,” sends me straight to total victory and Shark’s surf shop is four whole dollars richer. Only 996 tickets to go.
I don’t even try to hide my goofy accomplished smile. I tuck the four dollars into a side pocket of my beach bag and head down the sidewalk of The Strip – smile, tickets, and newly found confidence in tow. Topher waves at me from twenty feet away, and I feel totally prepared for his sugar cube high, even combined with that bottle of Ocean Blast Energy in his hand.
But even with the tiny adrenaline rush from my success, my heart spirals into the pit of my stomach when I see Vin and Miles with him. From that smirky look on Vin’s face, I’m more than sure he witnessed my ticket selling, and he’d rather die than keep his mouth shut about it.
“I hope you don’t have plans for the rest of the summer,” Vin says. He stops directly in front of Drenaline Surf and folds his arms across his chest.
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“That’s how long it’ll take you to sell those tickets at the rate you’re going. Seriously, Haley? Twelve-year-old boys?” He shakes his head, and every point on his spiky black hair pokes holes in my confidence. But he did call me by my name for once. Maybe that counts for something.
Topher takes a gulp of his energy drink and licks his lips. “I’ll help you,” he says.
“The hell you will,” Vin interjects. “She can sell those on her own.”
He grabs Topher’s arm and drags him off down the sidewalk, leaving me standing under Drenaline Surf’s giant wave with Miles and his nappy blonde dreadlocks.
Miles shrugs his shoulders. “Looks like I’m gonna be helping you instead. C’mon, I’ll show you where the real deal surfers hang out.”
I climb into the passenger seat of Miles’ old truck. Gatorade bottles and candy wrappers litter the floorboards. He throws a handful of the trash behind the seat.
“Sorry for the mess,” he says. He pushes his sunglasses up into his crazy wild hair. “The guys taken you down to Horn Island yet?”
”No,” I say, shaking my head.
I’ve wondered what Horn Island looks like since the first time I heard mention of it. It sounds magical and sparkling, full of enchanted mermaid girls and sexy surfer boys and more palm trees than Crescent Cove has moon décor.
”It ain’t much to see,” Miles says as if he heard my daydreamy thoughts.
The truck roars to life but chokes a few times on the way out of the parking lot. He fumbles with the radio stations and makes small talk about the east coast and how much he would hate living in a non-surf city. After spending time in the cove, I really think I’ll hate living in a non-surf city when I return home.
Ten minutes of interstate later, Miles takes an exit that loops around an old apartment complex. Weather stains eat away at the pale yellow paint, and a pit bull is chained up outside of one of the doors. There’s a window with bars over it, like a prison window, and I can’t help wondering how many drug deals go down daily here. So far, Horn Island is looking pretty ghetto.
Miles catches my stare. “Vin lives there,” he says, pointing back to the rotting apartment complex from hell.
“Are you kidding?” I ask. The hell with being dependent on Colby Taylor. I’d rather be dependent than live in Horn Island’s version of Alcatraz.
“No joke,” Miles says. “He’s lived there since he got kicked out a few years ago. Only place he could afford at the time. I don’t know why the hell he stays there now, though.”
We pass a run-down liquor store with dark green paint and half-working neon signs. My hope for Horn Island falters. There are no mermaids nor magic here. The buildings bleed together outside my window, classic downtown scenery…without any class.
Miles pulls into a parking lot near a boating ramp. The side wall is painted with a graffiti mural. A red sunset bleeds behind a jagged blue-painted wave. This painting is probably the most color Horn Island has seen in a while.
Miles points down to the ocean. “That way,” he says.
He grabs his green and silver surfboard out of the bed of his truck, and I follow him with my bag full of tickets, which will fail me if I need a weapon against any surf thugs.
A guy with an incredible natural tan and long black hair meets us halfway across the clumpy sand. It’s thick and dark and sucks on my flip flops like quicksand. The cove’s sand must’ve been imported from that magical land I’d dreamed up earlier. It’s not the same sand as Horn Island.
“Hell yeah! About time you got a new girl. She’s damn hotter than Kristin,” the guy says. He bypasses Miles, drops his blue surfboard, and grabs me in a hug. What ever happened to handshakes and personal space?
“I’m Kale,” he says when he pulls away.
“And she’s Haley,” Miles says for me. “She’s not my new girl either. I’m helping her sell tickets for Drenaline…and giving her a break from Vin.”
“Ohhhhh,” Kale says, retrieving his surfboard from the grungy sand. “Vin Brooks finally has a girl? That’s reason enough to get drunk and celebrate.”
I open my mouth to protest, but the two guys who Kale had been hanging out with near the shoreline circle us. My words would be los
t had I spoken them. I stand here awkwardly waiting for the talking to cease, but I refuse to keep quiet when one guy says it’s about time Vin got laid.
“I’m not dating Vin!” I shout over their voices.
I want to tell them I’m not dating him or sleeping with him or anything else their dirty minds might’ve conjured up, but I don’t.
“I’m just selling tickets because Reed asked me to, and I’m not dating Reed either,” I say instead.
That’s all it takes to send them back to the murky green water. I step over clusters of seaweed and cringe at the foamy white bubbles lingering on the waves that have washed ashore. Even the beach is ghetto here. I can’t imagine the West Coast Hooligans ever having to fight someone off of their surfing turf. I wouldn’t want to step in this water, much less surf in it.
“These are the rest of the Hooligans,” Miles says, pointing to the guys ahead of us.
“And I’m the honorary Hooligan,” Kale says. “Dominic won’t let me be official.”
The tall brunette in front of me spins around. “Fuck Dominic. I think four to one should be enough to let you be whoever the hell you want to be,” he says. “I’m Jace, by the way.”
I like this Jace guy already. He doesn’t like Dominic, and he’s the only one who didn’t assume I was sleeping with Vin.
Jace turns back to the slimy water and yells “Sapphire!” He dashes into the oncoming waves and paddles out toward the big wave that’s about to roll in.
Now I see why the Hooligans are so territorial. Horn Island has rocks – jagged, broken cliff kind of rocks – like the ones down in the cove near surf star’s beach house. But these rocks are bigger, edgier, and outright intimidating. And the waves, wow. They slam against the rocks and fall back into the ocean, collapsing in a huge splash and slinging themselves ashore in the most monstrous waves I’ve ever seen.
“So yeah,” Miles interrupts my awe. “Jace is Vin’s age. Grew up with him and Shark. And the other guy is Theo. He lifeguards down at the cove. That’s all of us, though. Horn Island’s West Coast Hooligans.”
Another shout of the word “Sapphire!” echoes behind us.
I look to Miles, who laughs and instantly explains. “It’s how we call dibs on a wave, like calling shotgun. It’s our code word, just to say that I saw it first and I’m riding it home.”
Miles motions for me to walk with him, leaving Jace, Theo, and Kale to the waves. He leaves his surfboard in Hooligan territory. He kicks a left over Dr. Pepper can along the shoreline, daring the waves to snatch it away. I don’t speak until we’re out of earshot of the other guys. Miles hasn’t done anything to help me with selling these tickets, but maybe he’ll enlighten me with some Horn Island secrets. The Dr. Pepper can dings against the toe of his flip flop and lands with a thunk on the wet sand.
“How can you be an honorary Hooligan?” I ask.
“Kale didn’t grow up here. He’s from Hawaii, and Dominic said if we let him in, we’d have to let anyone in,” Miles says. “He just doesn’t like anyone else in our waters. None of us do, really. But Kale surfs with us anyway.”
Dominic has been a jerk since I got here. I’m betting he was beforehand too. Just thinking of that smug grin on his face the day I flipped off of the jet ski with A.J. makes me cringe.
“Kale gets it though,” Miles says.
We approach the lonely maroon can he’d kicked earlier, still hanging on to the sand, refusing to be taken out to sea. Miles kicks it again.
The cloudy ocean water rushes over my flip flops. I take them off and carry them along the way. “Gets what?” I ask.
“Surfing,” he says. “Like real deal surfing. He gets what it’s like to be out there, being a piece of the ocean, becoming a part of the wave. It’s spiritual really, seeing how big the ocean is and how small you are. Just having faith and trusting in the ocean like you’d trust in God to watch out for you.”
And here I thought it was about the adrenaline rush – the wind breezing past you, the salt water stinging your skin, riding that wave into shore and defying nature by staying upright on a wild splash of ocean. I shouldn’t wonder what it’s like for Colby, if he does it for the thrill or for that moment that no one else could possibly understand because you’re the only person in it riding that wave.
I stop and watch the greenish brown waves roll toward us. I bet Shark taught him the secrets of the surf right here in Horn Island, between those jagged rocks and the collapsed pier in the distance. My inner forever-chaser wants to haul all of that wood away to plaster around Shark’s underwater photos, but my more poetic side can’t imagine this beach without a collapsed pier. It gives the place character.
“So,” I say, hoping to keep the conversation alive, “Dominic doesn’t get it. Why does he do it then?”
Miles stops, repositions the Dr. Pepper can, and draws his leg back like he’s about to kick the game-winning field goal. “For the glory of being the best,” he says. “But he’s not the best. You can’t be the best when you’re a fucking show off.”
The maroon can grows smaller and smaller as it flies through the air. I don’t see where it lands, but I’m sure Miles will kick it again if we stumble across it. A group of people move in our direction, coming from beyond the collapsed pier.
“Who the hell are they?” Miles asks, like I’m supposed to know.
I don’t answer him. He stands as solid as those jagged rocks in the water. We stay right here on the shoreline until they come within a few feet of us. I feel like I’m on the front line in an ancient war, like I can’t fire until I see the whites of their eyes.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Miles asks.
There are two girls and three guys, two of whom are carrying surfboards. Both of them are taller than Miles, who is probably five-foot-six flat-footed. Still, Miles doesn’t move.
“To surf,” one of the guys says. “The waves are better down there.”
“I know,” Miles answers. “But that’s Hooligan territory. From the pier to those rocks – those waves are spoken for.”
I glance behind us to take in a panorama of ‘Hooligan territory.’ The waves are definitely better there.
The other guy laughs and rams the tip of his surfboard into the sand, letting it stand next to him. “I don’t see your Hooligan name anywhere on it. It’s a free country, so I’ll surf in whatever water I want to surf in.”
Miles laughs and shakes his head. “You’re either deaf or just fucking stupid. The pier to those rocks – my water. The pier and beyond – your water. Now get the fuck out of here or I’m gonna fuck you up and drown you in my water!”
I take a few steps back because I know with everything in me that Miles will hit this guy. He’ll get into a knock-down brawl before he’ll let these guys surf in Hooligan territory.
The first guy who spoke hurls his surfboard onto the ground. Oh, how I wish it would’ve snapped in half. He bulks up, standing a good six feet, and looks down at Miles. Part of me wants to scream for the other Hooligans, just for back up, but the smarter part of me knows not to dare insult Miles’ pride that way.
I don’t have time to scream, though. Miles lunges forward, slamming the guy into the sand in one blow. He rears his fist back and blasts the guy’s jaw. The girls with the intruders both scream – for help and for the other guys to do something – and I’m thankful because they’ve alerted the other Hooligans.
I spin around just as Kale dashes past me and tackles one of the standing guys to the ground next to Miles’ grappling session with the tall guy. Theo lands in the mass of flying fists in record time. I guess his lifeguard rescue training paid off for other things as well.
“What happened?” Jace asks, catching his breath next to me.
“They wanted to surf in your territory,” I say.
It’s amazing how calm Jace remains while his friends indulge in the ass kicking assembly before us. He doesn’t join them, but he doesn’t make any effort to stop them
. He waits it out, as do I, while the other girls scream and cry for their boyfriends to stop fighting. These fifteen seconds feel like a solid five minutes.
But the intruders scramble to their feet and run – back toward the outskirts beyond the collapsed pier, away from Hooligan territory. Miles dusts off his shorts, and the others head back down to the water, like nothing ever happened.
I seriously want to head back to the cove now. This Hooligan business is no joke!
“Sorry about that,” Miles says. “What were we talking about?”
Gosh, this guy is freaking bipolar. “Dominic,” I say.
“Right,” he says. “And guys who don’t get it. Like those kooks.”
Kook – a wannabe surfer. Now I remember.
“If Dominic wins that sponsorship, I’m quitting surfing altogether,” Miles says.
I stop on the shoreline. Sponsorship. Every surfer’s dream. Who the hell would want Dominic’s arrogant smile plastered on a billboard? Who’d want him wearing their merchandise and being a poster boy for them? Forget the fact that he’s actually a decent surfer. From what I gather, he’s terrible at being a decent human.
“Who wants to sponsor him?” I ask.
Miles bends his eyebrows, and I’m not sure if it’s because of my question or the sun.
“Drenaline Surf,” he says. “Dominic and I are both up for sponsorship. They’re announcing the winner at the end of competition week. It’s a huge deal. How can you not know about this?”
I suddenly feel so out of the loop, out of this close-knit little circle that I thought I was becoming a part of. A.J. hasn’t even mentioned sponsorship or the Hooligans having competition within their own surf gang. I thought A.J. was pretty open about everything with me.
“I guess they don’t want to bring up the fact that there’s a battle within a family,” I say.
Miles smirks and nods his head, which lets me believe that my pathetic attempt at an excuse might be somewhat true.
“We used to be pretty good friends,” he says. “But he got wrapped up in himself. Topher’s always been my best friend, though. The only good thing about Dominic winning would be that he’d ditch us and Kale could be official.”
My heart aches for Miles. It aches for him to win this, to have the chance that Colby has to live out his dream with the Drenaline Surf logo pushing him forward, into new places and new waters and new waves, and letting him conquer them head on.
The sky is orange with the red sun falling back into the ocean, just like the graffiti painting by the parking lot. The water ripples with colors of fire and blood. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the beach at Crescent Cove look this eerily beautiful. It’s haunting, and I think this moment will stick with me forever – being on the run down beach of Horn Island, sitting in the dirty sand with Miles, Kale, and still too many blue raffle tickets, watching the waves slosh against the rocks and the remnants of what use to be a massive pier.
I never want to leave. It’s that same magical feeling I feel in Crescent Cove when I’m watching the blue waves and sitting in the white sand with a cotton candy sky around me. But this time, it feels real. Real in a sense that I haven’t felt since I’ve been here. Real in a way that I couldn’t understand because I was too busy chasing Colby to realize how much was around me and why he had to bail on me with nothing to remember him by but memories and a lime green paper star. California, the ocean, this surfer way of life…
Kale grabs a seashell that just washed up with the waves and turns it in his hand. It’s the perfect shape of a mountain goat’s horn. He places it in the palm of my hand, and I squeeze it, letting the edges dig into my skin, savoring this moment and soaking in every ounce of Horn Island air I possibly can.
