by Scott Brown
* * *
—
When I got back, Brian and Laura were standing with Drew and a doctor in green scrubs.
“You’re the other brother?” asked the doctor, whose name tag said Bhalotra and whose eyelids were varnished with purple sparkles. “She said you fell.”
“I’m Will,” I said. “I fell.”
The doctor looked us over: the Addams Family, featuring Teen Lurch. I realized how the whole thing looked.
Fell. Come on.
“Luckily, it wasn’t bad,” said Dr. Bhalotra. “Just three stitches. Head wounds bleed like crazy.”
“And are there any special instructions,” Brian asked, “for, y’know, wound care—”
“You’re a family member?”
“She’s staying with us,” Laura said. “She’s a family friend. There was trouble at home—”
“But this apparently happened at, uh, my place of business,” Brian interjected. “I work at the zoo? Will here, he interns there, and he’s been under a tremendous amount of stress, physically and…otherwise. I don’t know if you heard, we had a very upsetting incident—”
“The gorilla who died,” Dr. Bhalotra said. “Yes, very sad.”
Brian was presiding. He was being careful. He seemed to think he was filling out a police report.
I couldn’t hold it in: “Can we see her?”
Dr. Bhalotra and her purple sparkles looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, can you take us to her room, or…”
“She’s not admitted,” said Dr. Bhalotra. “She left. I assumed she’d meet you here.”
“What?” I asked, in a voice that came out louder and more demanding than Dr. Bhalotra liked, or so it seemed from the subtle half step backward she took.
“She’s eighteen. She checked herself out.”
* * *
—
She wasn’t at the house, either.
Her stuff was gone. The computer room was what it had been before she’d arrived: just a pullout couch and an obsolete desktop cinder block nobody could bring themselves to responsibly discard.
Monica never traveled with more stuff than would fit in a duffel. Ghosting on us probably hadn’t taken her five minutes.
Her phone was on the bed. Dead.
Monica, as she’d long predicted, had come ungridded. And that was ominous.
Drew was in the process of freaking out, pacing, turning over pillows he’d already turned over twice. “She left a note somewhere. She wouldn’t bug out without leaving a note.”
So we combed the place again. No note. Nothing.
Well. Not nothing.
On the highest shelf in the computer room, the shelf only I could see the top of, there was a thick manila envelope, unsealed. Monica’s college application. On paper. In longhand. Of course.
The first thing Drew noticed was that the application wasn’t to Irvine. Or even UCSD. It was to the Polytechnic Institute of Leiria in Portugal, and it was only half-finished. The deadline printed at the top was two weeks gone.
Drew just blinked.
“What,” asked Drew, “the hell?”
So that was Monica’s plan.
“And why leave it here?”
“Because she’s not going.” I was reading her personal statement, which was full of wavy Monican language and wavy Monican philosophy. And us. Her boys. How to build a civilization out of chaos, with a couple of lost kids you found at the end of the world. Nothing, though, about how to build a new civilization when the old one betrays you. Or just collapses into the ocean under its own weight.
“Look at this,” I said, but Drew was already grabbing the Yacht keys.
“Let’s go get her,” he said.
We knew where she’d be, after all.
* * *
—
In the passenger seat, Drew’s leg bounced like a fidgety grade schooler’s. He rolled down the window, let the wind dry the tear I pretended not to see.
Then Drew said: “Tell me the truth. Our game. Did you let me win?”
“Only a little.”
We ate a few more miles of asphalt not saying anything. Two little guys in a tin egg flying along at speeds hominids were never meant to reach. Two little guys who’d lost things, lost people. Who probably weren’t done losing people.
The road seams kept time.
Chuh-TUP.
Chuh-TUP.
“She’s okay, right?”
“Course she is. She’s Monica.” Even though I wasn’t sure what those words meant now. “We just gotta find her.”
* * *
—
We saw it from the cliff as we clawed our way down.
And we heard it before we saw it. Dull, crushing booms. Something chewing on the edge of the world.
The Sawtooth. Jesus. The lips were thick as anchor chains that day, and there were teeth behind them: this was the kind of boiling churn they warn you about, the kind that holds you down. The waves were coming in a steady corduroy, the offshore wind making them perk up straight. They walked in all stately, all elegant, but when they met the Sawtooth, they broke nasty, splitting every which way, left, right, no pattern—it was just energy, ricocheting off the jetties. I remembered, vaguely, some stray radio burble: something about a storm. A cyclone, half a world away. Waves coming our way, throwing themselves at our cliffs, heading to BoB to die.
And there, on the shore, at high tide, where those waves touched her feet, was their undertaker: Monica, knees up in her old motley wet suit, watching the water, waiting for something to rise. The Leviathan, maybe. Like it’d pop up and roar, in a monstersplaining voice, You were right all along, Monica: people are garbage. And then eat her. Or maybe us. Probably us?
She’d clearly been waiting for us, while just as clearly pretending that we’d ceased to exist, that the Big Wave had carried us off along with the rest of the world’s disappointments.
Drew hit the sand first. “Hey! Where’d you go?”
“And here they come,” yelled Monica, over the din. She didn’t look back. The wind plastered down her hair, and the blue butterfly suture at her hairline looked like a barrette on a first grader. “Can’t a girl have some peace?”
“Hi,” I said. “I’m a monster.”
“Don’t,” said Monica, not looking at either of us. “Don’t be a boring monster. You already apologized.”
“Are you okay?”
“Don’t, Daughtry,” she said. “Just don’t.”
Drew waved the application.
“It’s fine that you don’t wanna go to Irvine. That you wanna get out. It’s fine. You could’ve told me.”
“Oh, but it would’ve gotten weird,” mumbled Monica, eyes on the Sawtooth. “And I didn’t want to hear you say, It’s fine, and give me your permission.”
“That’s not what I was— I’m not giving perm— ARRRGGH.” Drew slapped himself in the head with the manila envelope. “The point is,” he said, “you’re still applying somewhere, right? This”—he shook the envelope—“is a copy, right? You got the real one in?”
“Maybe.” Monica shrugged.
“Look,” said Drew, sitting heavily next to her, cratering the sand around him. “You can’t sabotage yourself to spite us.”
Monica just stared at him.
I tried to be funny: “Just because we suck doesn’t mean you have to. You don’t need to prove—”
“You think that’s what I’m doing?” Flashing green eyes bullwhipped between us, from one boy-man to the other. “I’m proving something? To…you? Wow! I had ZERO idea that’s what was up! Thank you SO much! For explaining me! To me!”
She stomped up the beach, into the BoB cave.
Drew was doing what Drew could: trying to make a new plan. “Okay. When s
he comes back—”
But she was already back. Carrying her primal eldest board, the one that was all wear and tear and repair, slashes over slashes, this crazy plaid of damage. Damn thing looked like it’d fallen from the sky with an alien alphabet scrawled on it. Like it was trying to tell me something, warn me. I’d been looking at that board since practically the first week we met. How had I never seen what was written there?
She walked right past us, not even a pause.
“You really shouldn’t…Mon?”
She walked into the ocean.
She paddled out.
And I had the funniest feeling…that I’d seen this before…this particular chaos. Déjà chaos…
“Great,” said Drew. “Now we’ve gotta babysit for an hour of ankle biters while she practices her footwork.”
I watched her paddle out. I watched her pass on a couple of four-footers. I watched her pass the jetty. But I think I knew even before she stepped into the water.
“She’s not…,” Drew said.
She was.
“Shit. She’s not…she’s…she’ll kill herself.” Drew clutched my arm. “Go get her.”
I took a step toward the ocean, toward Monica. Then I stopped.
“Will, what the…Go get her!”
I could get her.
My lungs, my arms, my legs. I could get her. I could pull her right out of there.
Or I could trust her.
if I do it
And there was Monica, paddling to the wrinkle of the Sawtooth, south jetty side.
when I do it
And she was too close to the jetty. And on the other side of her: the thumb-meets-forefinger swell of the wave itself. Tearing itself to pieces every forty-five seconds. Jetty and Sawtooth. Monica between Scylla and Charybdis, like in her monster books—
it’s because I know what I’m doing
Drew had given up on me. He was kicking off his shoes.
because I’ve figured it out
Drew was running toward the water.
you are the only person in my life who’ll understand
I ran toward the water, too. In two strides—
—I got Drew in a bear hug.
And lifted.
His bare feet came off the sand, kicked the free air.
All kinds of insane curses came out of him. I didn’t squeeze. I didn’t need to.
I held.
I saw her paddle over the first of the three waves.
Then the second.
Then the last.
And then she was ready.
Drew fought so hard, I was shocked at how easily I could hold him to me. How natural it felt. To hold. To just hold.
Love. And restraint. That’s civilization enough, probably.
Monica dug deep, hurled herself up and over the lip—
—onto the face of the Sawtooth.
It writhed. Bucked. Didn’t want her there. I saw her on the knife’s edge, trying to make the single decision that would either deliver her safe to shore or kill her dead.
And I thought, I’m wrong. I blew it. I let her go. It’s on me, it’s on me, I’ve lost her—
Drew was screaming.
And then I saw her…let go. Watched her knees bend. Watched her body relax into a perfect moment.
I watched her trust the water. Search her way inside.
Find the fold.
I knew she’d done it.
This was between her and the water. Always had been.
Drew was saying, No no no no no no no Monica no no no…
I held harder.
And Monica came down off the crest.
A red streak on the black curtain, a tear in the fabric of the universe, and the universe was howling for blood. The wave broke left. She vanished.
Pitted. In the tube. Inside the sea monster.
Drew went limp in my arms.
“It’s okay,” I told him. “It’s okay.”
And that’s how the Big Wave came. And the world ended.
And then behind that wave…
the tip of a board
…there’s always another one…
through the rocks, not so wide as a church door
…and another world.
Monica
Laughing. Crying. Upright. Alive. And riding it in.
Then we were all in the water, waist-deep, three people, holding each other like always. And like never before.
Because we were three different people now.
Maybe a new civilization. Maybe a new species.
We held each other for a long time, the three of us. Just to feel what it was like, being the new thing we were. Knowing the new thing wouldn’t last forever, either; maybe it wouldn’t even last the summer.
Knowing there were other ways we’d love each other and hurt each other that none of us had dreamed up yet.
Knowing those people, the people we’d love and hurt in the near or distant future, in those other not-yet-dreamed-up worlds—those new people wouldn’t be the new people we were now. They’d be entirely different people.
And then they’d be different again. Somehow they’d find a way to hold on to each other anyway, despite the slippery shedding of skin after skin.
Because we were going to grow forever, like the Great Creatures of the Age of Fish, whether we liked it or not.
Finally Monica peeled herself away. Said something. Barely audible over the Sawtooth—
which was furious with us,
which, like all monsters,
even the ones inside, especially the ones inside,
is never beaten, but can be cheated, can be fooled.
What Monica said was:
“I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”
This book didn’t begin with me.
(If I have one key talent, it’s showing up at the right moment, like Super Grover or penicillin. I highly recommend showing up. It works. Over time, it really works.)
This book began when two remarkably sharp, remarkably busy authors I know—Dustin Thomason and Michael Olson—started cracking a modern fairy tale about a runty kid who suddenly starts growing, growing, growing. Then didn’t have time to write it.
I had time.
And then: I had help.
XL wouldn’t have amounted to much had it not been for a whole Middle-earth’s-worth of gracious humanoids. Here they are, the small nation who made this book with me:
Jennifer Joel, agent and sorceress. Who suggested I jump aboard in the first place. Who took an airy notion and sold it into existence. Who makes things real, then makes them better.
Erin Clarke, editor and alchemist. Who took a chance on a weird little guy with no books to his name. Who made this story deeper with every judicious, whip-smart note. Erin, Biology Boy bends the knee.
I’d like to talk about the people who taught me how to write.
The ferocious voice-in-the-darkness known as Gillian Flynn, famed author and less-famed co-paddleboat-helmsman and appreciator of the lost art of pig-imatronics, who has read me since we were cubbies, who has generously come to my aid, in the wilds of Alabama and the mean streets of Kips Bay, and who has taught me, directly and by example, how to get out of my own damned way. She is, quite simply, the bravest and best there is.
Anthony King (also a reader and noter and deepener of this book), my best and oldest friend in the world, the funniest guy in the room, and the bar I’ve tried fruitlessly to clear since we were fifteen in Durham, North Carolina, writing sketches about guys who think they’re awesome because they listen to Chicago. [For the record? We listened to Billy Joel. And didn’t think we were (all that) awesome.]
Mark Harris. I wish every aspiring writer a Mark Harris. Great wit, great understanding, gre
at clarity, and great kindness, miraculously gathered in one human, and that miraculous human actually takes the time to tell you the one thing you need to hear, in that moment, to unclutter your mind, your soul, and your writing.
Adrienne Kennedy, oneirist and thaumaturge, who shed some of her considerable light on me. She taught me to live in a dream of my own design and not apologize.
Tom Bailey, author and educator, my first real writing teacher. Who made me feel like it was worth it, like I was worth it. Who plays the music beautifully, and shares it. Elizabeth Clark, Doug Torrington, Scott Price, Rita Goebel, Isabel Samfield, Richard Marius—I don’t know where I’d be without you.
Brian Raftery, whose hyperfunnysmart voice is always in my head, making connections and cracking wise, and Jennifer Williams Raftery, a gifted storyteller and storylover in her own right, who read this book when it was nothing but pages, and had brilliant suggestions that made it more-than-pages.
There are two unforgivably brilliant Davids I don’t deserve, both of whom read my first few pages and gave me notes that made the opener infinitely better: David Stuart MacLean (The Answer to the Riddle Is Me) and David Auerbach (Bitwise: A Life in Code). You can walk into a bookstore and buy their unforgivable brilliance, and you absolutely should.
Thanks to artist Kelly Chilton, searcher and surfer and dreamer, for the surfing research and associated soulfulness; to Cheryl Blount, for making my wavy blatherings sound a little more real; to Michael Fisher, for straightening out my tangled basketball plays.
If you enjoy a mostly typo- and fragment- and continuity-error-free book-reading experience, you can thank my fastidious copy editors, Stephanie Engel, Artie Bennett, Amy Schroeder, and Dawn Ryan. Kelly Delaney, you shepherded this thing through the summer storms, and we all survived! Salute!
David Levine and Anne Heltzel both saw something in this book early on, and made things possible that would not otherwise have been possible.
Many, many thanks to the magic eyes and mage-like judgment calls of Elisabeth Gehrlein Marsham and Zack Rosenberg, who advised me on the cover art.
I wrote this book in a series of cafes and restaurants—Cafe Evolution, Roost, and Riff’s Joint, mostly. Thank you for being patient with me when I turned your coffee bars into standing desks. And thanks to Daniel Bullen (Shays’ Rebellion: The True Story of America’s First Resistance), my office roomie, for finding a space that was both dog- and standing-desk-friendly.
