Out of tune but willing, the crowd joins the man on the chorus. Wes does too, only softer. Something clogs his throat. He doesn’t want to overanalyze it.
After dropping five dollars in the basket at the man’s feet, Wes follows the progression of the crowd down the boardwalk. On his phone, “Scar Tissue” kicks in with its dulcet guitar riff. He walks along the bike path toward rock walls decorated in colorful graffiti. Sand dirties his lemon-yellow Pumas as he treads to the oceanfront skate park.
Venice Skatepark is this legendary structure built on the sand with two shallow bowls, one for amateurs and one for the fearless, along with rails, stairs, and platforms where skaters test new tricks. The ledge surrounding the main bowl is always crowded with burnouts and slackers and friends. Inside the bowl, people glide and wipe out equally.
Wes finds prime space near the railings. Phones are out everywhere, capturing the best tricks and epic fails. Too scared to scuff up their equipment, kids with new boards and shoes bullshit around the edges. But the homegrown, adrenaline-hungry talent swoop in, merciless, willing to risk more damage to their boards or scars on their bodies to impress anyone watching. These are the ones without any money or any fucks to give.
One boy, long and lean, with a mop of curly blond hair, hits a sick kickflip, then rockets into the bowl with enough force to soar his board over a parked bicycle on the other side. He lands perfectly.
The fans erupt.
“Sweet pink boxers, Colton!” yells a guy from Wes’s side.
Colton, lip-piercing glinting, flips his friend off. He tugs down his T-shirt in a losing effort with his sagging jeans.
Another boy, Latinx with a buzzcut, his clean board exposing his inexperience, drops in, then instantly wipes out.
“Holy shit.”
“Wow. That just happened.”
Nearby, a pack of girls in flannel shirts with cigarettes and sneers, and whisper to each other. One of them yells, “Come on, Juan! You got this.”
Juan, dusting himself off as he stands, smiles through defeat. But he grabs his board, climbs the bowl, and goes again. Wes respects his moxie. He didn’t lie down and give up. Wes, on the other hand, would’ve still been down there, waiting for an ambulance or Nico to rescue him.
Unlike Wes and all these rookies who stole their moves from YouTube videos, Nico’s a natural on a board. Sure-footed and brave, he’s more than earned the respect of everyone around here, from the newest to the crews that have grown older but no less ambitious about their craft. There are a few jealous, racist assholes who call Nico “basic Mexican trash,” but he’s above feeding their ignorance. He just carries on the way Mr. Alvarez taught him to.
“Call me Martín,” Mr. Alvarez would insist in his kind voice.
Wes never could. It’s weird because Wes has exactly zero problems calling his mom Savannah in public.
“Sure thing, Mr. Alvarez,” Wes would always say as Mr. Alvarez laughed.
He misses Mr. Alvarez’s laugh, nasal and high like Nico’s. Nico has his dad’s strong jaw and narrow shoulders too.
It’s been almost three years since his death. He’d always walk into a room smelling of weird chemicals that made Wes want to gag. He’d kiss Mrs. Alvarez on the temple and whisper something in Spanish, and she’d always warn him to wash his hands before going to pick up one of Nico’s twin sisters. It was a joke. Mr. Alvarez was the most hygienic person Wes’s ever known.
“I don’t get it,” whispered Nico two nights after his father died. “He was so careful. So clean. It’s unreal, dude. Like… how?”
Wes still doesn’t know. No one sat him down and explained what happened in the laboratory that morning. Nico never talks about it. “Freak accident,” Leo muttered over breakfast one morning while their parents whispered in the hallway.
Wes remembers sleeping on Nico’s bedroom floor for a week after the funeral. Not because Nico asked him to. Wes just needed to be close, fingertips away from his best friend. It felt as if he couldn’t do anything else to help Nico.
There’s no manual for how to help someone you love deal with death and grief, at least none that Wes has found.
It’s messy. It’s lonely. It’s gone today, then back tomorrow. No amount of hugs and prayers and “are you okay?” fixes grief. To be honest, Wes doesn’t think grief is something to be “fixed” or “get over.” It’s there for a reason.
A short burst of wind descends upon the skatepark. Wes is wearing his dad’s old, blue UCLA hoodie. He tugs the zipper higher, then shoves his hands into the front pockets. He pries himself away from the carnage of two more skaters wiping out on the smooth bottom of the bowl.
The Strand, a bike trail that runs along the shoreline, is lit marigold by the industrial lights towering higher than the palms. Wes follows the path toward Santa Monica. On his left, a group of college-aged kids spread blankets across the beach. The flashlights on their phones move like dancing stars as they search through coolers.
In a year, maybe that’ll be Wes? Coming home on the weekends with Ella to spend a day at the beach after they visit Mrs. Rossi and the bookstore. Because, in a year, the bookstore will still be around. Maybe he can coordinate those trips with Nico’s planned bimonthly visits to his family.
Someone’s Labrador is parked on the edge of the sand with its tail wagging.
Wes pauses. He tugs out his phone and unlocks the screen. It takes him a few tries, but he manages to capture at least three high-quality photos that show the juxtaposition of the dog’s gold fur against the black ocean.
He texts all three versions to Nico.
Instantly, his phone buzzes. Two new messages. Unfortunately, they’re from Cooper.
He’s about to pocket his phone when it vibrates in his palm.
It’s a Pinterest photo from Nico.
Against a plain black background with bold white text, the image says, “If you can’t stop thinking about it, don’t stop working for it.”
What does that mean? Is Nico referring to saving the bookstore? Or is he talking about something else?
To: Nico
??? :|
Sent 8:41 p.m.
Nico’s gray text bubble fills with ellipses. Then it disappears.
Wes has no clue, and no time to decode Nico’s weirdness. But his phone emits a doo-doo-doo-doot noise and the screen lights up. Obviously, discussions of the Pinterest kind need to be held over FaceTime.
But, when Wes finally answers, it’s not Nico’s face on the screen. It’s an upside-down view of a pair of tiny nostrils. Breath fogs the lens before things go sideways. Images blur across the screen like one of those documentary-style horror movies. All the shaky visuals make Wes want to hurl. He hears giggles and bare feet padding on hardwood floors.
“Hey! Sofía!” Wes can hear Nico’s frustrated voice as the screen finally pauses on a giant Lego castle erected on a glass coffee table. “¡Tranquila!”
After a little maneuvering and more laughter, Nico pops into the screen’s view. “Wesley,” he says too fondly. “Perdóname.”
“Having fun?”
Nico puckers his lips. “I turned my back for two seconds, and Sofía convinced the twins to finish my orange soda. They’re on a mad sugar high right before dinner.”
“Wes! Wes!” He can hear the twins’ matching pitchy voices, but they’re out of frame. “Come over!”
Nico groans, head tipped back. Now Wes has a view up his nostrils. They flare, then shrink to normal size as Nico says, “Your fans have been asking about you since I got home.”
Expeditious amounts of heat surge into Wes’s cheeks. His mouth is stretched wider than the Pacific.
Deep wrinkles shrink Nico’s eyes as he says, “Wanna come by? Mom’s making gorditas.”
You little shit.
In the annals of their history, Sundays at the Alvarez house were We
s’s favorite. They’d catch the Big Blue Bus from Santa Monica to UCLA, walk the campus and dick around Westwood for a few hours, pretending to be college students with goals, before coming home to Mrs. Alvarez’s freshly fried gorditas.
“¡Gordita de chicharrón!” Wes loved the way Nico would shout whenever they walked back into his house, sun-warm and exhausted.
Some Sundays, they’d skip the Big Blue Bus for beach time with Sofía and the twins, Isabel and Camila. They’d build structures almost as tall as the Lego tower on the Alvarez’s coffee table. The twins would always bring their Barbies to live in the sandcastle.
“It’s a fortress,” Nico would clarify. “It’s to protect them from the invaders, Wesley, because aliens are obsessed with anything created by Mattel.”
After dinner, Mr. Alvarez would lead them all into the living room, Wes included, for all his favorite, age-appropriate sci-fi movies. Nico would burrow into Wes’s side, one of the twins would sleep across their laps, and they’d crack quiet jokes about the cheap special effects or corny acting throughout the film.
When Mr. Alvarez died, Sunday dinners became rarer. They stopped visiting UCLA too. By senior year, Nico decided Stanford was the college for him.
“They have a highly ranked medical school.”
Nico didn’t have to tell Wes the reason he wanted to study medicine was because of his father. Because, for whatever reason, he thought becoming a doctor meant he could save others from Mr. Alvarez’s fate.
“Wesley?”
Wes jumps. In the small square at the bottom corner of the screen, his eyes are cartoonishly big and his mouth is wide enough to drive a SUV through.
“You okay?”
No. Wes’s been so zoned out, he’s walked for five minutes in the wrong direction. Shit. His stomach growls like a starved tiger.
“Do you want to come over?” Nico asks again. He’s shifted to somewhere quieter. Wes can just make out the navy and white stripes on Nico’s pillowcase and the nose of the skateboard deck from their infamous bloody-eyebrow incident. He recognizes the colorful calavera design.
Wes really wants to be there inside the Alvarez’s beach house, but he knows he can’t. Not tonight. His head’s in a messed-up dark hole. He can’t risk ruining all his plans to tell Nico about his nuclear-sized crush on him because of a dinner invitation. BuzzFeed’s Crushes 101 quiz doesn’t exist for him to scrap his list over gorditas and orange soda.
“Rain check?” Wes requests. “Totally forgot to do laundry today.”
“No clean underoos?”
Wes pulls his phone back enough for the lens to capture him flipping Nico off.
“You’ll disappoint your fans.”
“I’ll make it up to them,” Wes promises.
“And me?”
Wes is almost certain it’s wishful thinking that makes him hear the hope in Nico’s voice. It’s not there. He sucks in a breath, then says, “Of course.”
Nico mumbles something quietly in Spanish, then their video feed fuzzes out. Wes has just enough willpower to pocket his phone and not call Nico back. This isn’t the Big Moment.
“Tomorrow,” Wes says to the sky.
“Tomorrow’s not promised,” a dark-skinned Black girl with pink and purple braids sings as she passes him.
And Wes is about to reply with a very Ella-worthy sarcastic barb, but he turns the wrong way and face-plants into the sand, as one does.
Chapter Twelve
“What about this one?”
In the full-length mirror, Leeann turns and turns. Her bare feet sink into the cream-colored shaggy rug. The bridal salon’s dressing area is separated from the main floor by French doors. A long white sofa sits against one of the powder blue walls opposite the mirror. It’s currently occupied by two girls on their phones, typing away and occasionally snapping photos of Leeann as she shows off another dress.
This current selection, a ball gown with a sweetheart neckline, beaded bodice, and flowing white skirt, is number four. The other three hang ignominiously on hooks near the closed doors.
Wes slouches deeper into one of the comfy armchairs a few feet away. Head tilted, he examines Leeann as she spins; the skirt flutters like a cloud. Before he can respond, Tiffany says, “It’s… cute.”
“Cute?” Leeann’s mouth droops.
“Very cute,” Tiffany amends in the least convincing voice Wes’s heard all morning.
Tiffany is Leeann’s former college roommate. She has voluminous, soft-looking curls and wide, engaging, brown eyes. Wes supposes, as a bridesmaid, Tiffany’s obligated to be sensitive of Leeann’s dress choices as she hasn’t uttered a single “I hate it” since they started browsing for potential gowns two hours ago.
“It’s kind of boring. Very TLC-friendly.” Grace Chen, Leeann’s older sister, has zero problems voicing her opinions. Her auburn-tinted dark hair is swooped into a clean ponytail, amplifying the sharpness of her cheeks and the arch of her thin eyebrow. She’s taller than Leeann and, even seated, she’s all legs and arms and neck.
“That’s not a bad thing,” says Leeann, still frowning in the mirror.
“Maybe we can do less cute and more HBO After Dark,” Grace suggests. “It’s your wedding, baby sister. Be glamorous and bold.”
“Thanks for your honesty,” Leeann mutters.
“That’s what I’m here for,” says Grace, eyes glued to her phone again.
“Don’t listen to her,” Tiffany insists. “It’s a good dress.”
Grace sighs. “I hope we’re not settling for ‘good’ now.”
Quietly, Wes snorts. This unintentional sitcom has been thoroughly entertaining.
“Wes?” Eyebrows raised, Leeann looks at him in the mirror. She has the same cheeks as her sister, but Leeann’s eyes are softer and seem effortlessly friendly when they’re focused on someone. “What do you think?”
Wes shouldn’t be surprised by Leeann’s inquiry—this is not the first time today his opinion has been requested—but he can sense Tiffany’s curious stare and Grace’s judging one pin him to the chair. He’s certainly not an authority on wedding dresses. More than once, he’s had to Google things like “A-line” and “Basque” and “Who the hell is Queen Anne?” His own wardrobe doesn’t extend past sweatpants, hoodies, and graphic T-shirts. He wears shoes for comfort, not attention. But this is important to Leeann, so he’s attempting to be thoughtful and constructive with his views.
“Uh…?”
Okay, attempting might’ve been an embellishment.
In the mirror, Grace sizes Wes up. “Are we sure we want…” She peeks down at Wes’s electric blue Pumas. “…his opinion?”
Her phone case is bedazzled in pink jewels outlining a Hello Kitty. He doesn’t think she has room to discuss opinion levels.
The corners of Leeann’s mouth quirk, showing off twin dimples. Her shoulder-length hair is twisted up in a messy bun so she can access the dress’s neckline and how her bare shoulders look. “Yes,” she finally says, raising an eyebrow that matches her sister’s. “That’s my brother—your future brother too—and his kickass thoughts matter the most.”
A flush burns Wes’s cheeks.
“O-kay,” mumbles Grace.
“I think…” Wes pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. He considers Leeann’s reflection. “It’s not over the top. It’s not unnecessary and, what did you call it? HBO After Dark?” Wes pointedly waits until Grace scowls before continuing. “Because that’s not you. It’s kind of a princess vibe, but definitely the princess who has no problem stepping up and ruling the kingdom and ending anyone who challenges her.”
Leeann chortles. Soft, loose pieces of hair escape the bun and fall around her cheeks. She’s wearing minimal makeup, and everything about her is a dream. That’s probably the magic of precisely chosen store lighting and object spacing. Wes is certain Jessica,
Leeann’s personal dress attendant, sells everyone a new dress and a share of whatever pyramid scheme she’s pushing with this kind of lighting.
“Thanks,” whispers Leeann.
“As future maid of honor, I hope you’ll at least listen to me when we go veil shopping,” Grace says with a huff.
“Girl, bye. There’s no way you’re maid of honor over me.” Tiffany puckers her lips.
“I’m her sister.”
“I’m her best friend and the one who introduced her to Leo.”
Hand over her eyes, Leeann groans as they squabble. Wes doesn’t envy her at all.
Sneakily, he snaps a few photos of her in the dress. He doesn’t plan to show Leo—that would require some form of communication—but maybe he’ll text them to Savannah. Then, he swipes away all his notifications except one. Nico’s updated his Instagram with a new post. It’s from a few hours ago; a shot of the morning sun still kissing the ocean’s surface. Pinkish blue skies float above the darkened silhouettes of palm trees. Wes recognizes that view without peeking at the tags.
“Have you two decided on a date yet?” Tiffany asks. She stands behind Leeann, helping fix the dress’s tangled skirt.
“Not an exact date, but a month.” Leeann puffs out a breath to get hair out of her eyes. “May of next year.”
“May? A little cliché, don’t you think?” Grace says, tapping away at her phone.
“Nope,” Leeann replies cheerily, as if she’s grown accustomed to fending off her sister’s judgment. Wes should study her tact, then use it to vanquish Leo. “We didn’t want to do something too soon. Leo’s getting ready for the LSAT. Then he’s starting law school.” She brushes invisible lint from the bodice. “Plus, Wes starts UCLA in the fall. We wanted to give him a chance to adjust to campus life.”
Wes sits up, stunned. They picked a wedding month partially set around him? It’s a kind gesture—and something completely unexpected coming from his brother—but… Wes doesn’t know if their life choices should be based around his very uncertain future.
The Summer of Everything Page 12
