by Katie Klein
“Aren’t they kind of far out?” I ask. I stand on my tiptoes, trying to get a better view.
“Nah. That’s where the good ones start.”
“It looks dangerous,” I point out.
“They’re good,” he assures me, folding his arms across his chest. “Why are you so concerned?”
I ignore the mocking edge to his tone. My heart slows as I watch them ride over another wave. I don ’t realize I’m holding my breath until I see her bobbing on her board.
Wherever you guys are . Whatever you’re doing: the blonde. It’s the blonde .
I choke on a lungful of air, coughing.
“You okay?” Arsen asks.
In the next moment, a figure steps up, stopp ing beside us. I glance over and recognize the small frame, the dirty blonde hair, and the boyish face immediately. Joshua .
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
It worked.
The girl from earlier stops beside him. Her auburn hair is pulled into a tight ponytail. She adjusts the bandeau of her bikini. Arsen glances over at them, a confused expression crossing his face. He shifts closer to me. The four of us stand there, watching the surfers. The cloud moves on, and the sun emerges again. I squint. Another wave passes beneath them. I move uneasily, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Waiting.
The surfers catch the next wave.
Joshua takes a step forward.
The wave breaks early. Then, everything seems to move in slow motion: the blonde pulling he rself to her knees, tucking her feet beneath her, rising. Rising. Rising. She’s barely on top of her board when a shift in the swell sends her over. Her body crashes, disappearing in the surf. The board flips over several times before riding back to shore without her.
“She’s under,” I mutter. I wait with bated breath, hoping she’ll rise to the surface. But I know how this is supposed to end.
“Hey!” the girl beside Joshua calls out to the lifeguard. “She went under!” But he’s already on his feet. A shrill whistle pierces the air. He grabs his bright orange preserver and races toward the sea.
My heart stops beating as swimmers clear out of the water. I suck in air and hold it in my lungs. Waiting. Counting the silence. It feels like a lifetime has passed b efore he reaches the spot where the girl went down.
She’s gone by now.
I wring my hands, fighting against the wave of nausea that works to consume me.
She’s gone. She’s gone.
Arsen focuses on the rescue, staring, an intense expression lining his featur es. Joshua has disappeared.
The entire beach remains frozen as the lifeguard tears through each wave with sure, steady strokes. A few surfers follow, paddling out to sea to help. The girl with the tattoo sleeve stands at the edge of the water, alone.
I clo se my eyes. The girl flails and struggles. Something pulls at her ankle, holding her down. Her leg remains fixed, tangled, while the rest of her thrashes for the surface.
There are others now. Helping.
I open my eyes.
“They’ve got her,” I whisper.
* * *
My muscles refuse to uncoil, relaxing, until I see the lifeguard helping her to shore. And when they stand together in the water, my knees weaken. I nearly collapse under my own weight, leaning into the wooden stand for support. I ta ke a couple of deep breaths, then turn, making my way back to the dune. Arsen , Joshua, the girl . . . they’re all gone. I pick up my towel and shove my feet into my flip flops. Still shaking, I traipse across the sand toward the path leading to the parking lot, stealing an occasional glance at the blonde girl who, on the surface, at least, appears to be okay.
When I reach the bike rack, it’s empty.
“What?” I look around. There are plenty of cars, a few empty spaces, but no bikes. I walk back to the beach. No bike. I return to the parking lot and walk between cars. Nothing. My gut lurches when I realize that not only is my bike gone, but it’s probably gone forever.
“Someone stole my bike,” I mutter. I force a laugh. It comes out low and shaky. “I cannot beli eve this.”
I take off across the parking lot on foot, keeping my eyes peeled.
As I walk the four blocks back to my house, I try not to think about how I’ll get to school, to work—if I can find another job. I’m hot, sweating, and winded by the time I reach our gravel driveway. I let myself inside then, exhausted, fall onto my bed and enter a calm, dreamless sleep.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“Get up.”
I squeeze my eyes tighter, then open them, blinking. “What?”
My mom stands in the doorway, arms crossed, scowling, her lips pressed in a hard, angry line. “You’re not going to lay around all day doing nothing.” She enters my room and marches to the blinds, twisting them until they’re fully open.
“I haven’t been lying around all day,” I mumble. “Unless you think I sleep in my bathing suit.”
She ignores this. “Well, since you have nothing better to do than go to the beach and nap, you can take the dirty clothes to the laundromat.”
I groan. I hate doing laundry.
“While you’re there you can ask if they’re hiring.”
“I’m looking for a job,” I remind her.
She crosses the room. “It looks like you’re looking real hard. I’ve already taken on extra shifts to cover for you. As it is I’m going to have to find something else or we aren’t going to make rent next month.”
“Well, we’re used to that,” I reply, rolling my eyes.
“This time was supposed to be different,” she snaps. “I was counting on you.”
“It’s always supposed to be different, Mom. When are you gonna learn?”
“It was different . . . until you got yourself fired.” Her voice grows louder, angrier with every word.
“It was an accident,” I point out. “It was a crappy job anyway.”
“It was an honest living!”
“That we never seemed to be able to live off of!”
She exhales a loud sigh, shakes her head. When she finally speaks, her voice is calmer. “There aren’t many opportunities out there for people like us, Genesis.”
I despise how she lumps me into the same category as her. Because there’s no way I’m going to let myself end up like her. I will never be forty and waiting tables. I’m going to be better than that. “Why don’t you just ask Mike for help? He seems to be coming around a lot lately.”
“My personal life is none of your business.”
Instinctively, my hands curl into fists, jaw tightening. She judged Seth before she even knew him, then she demanded he never come over again. I force back a sarcastic laugh. “So it’s okay for you to interfere with my personal life, but I can’t ask about yours.”
“That’s different. I’m your mother. I have a right to know.”
I roll off my bed and pull open my dresser drawers, searching for clean shorts and a t-shirt. “We’re equal,” I remind her. “Equal paychecks, equal responsibilities . . .”
“Don’t even go there again,” she interrupts, voice clipped. “I still haven’t forgiven you for the way you treated me.”
I slip a new shirt over my head, covering my bathing suit top. “I don’t recall asking for your forgiveness,” I point out. “I don’t even think I’m sorry.”
“Take the laundry and get out,” she demands.
“I’m glad I have your permission,” I call out, heading down the hallway. “Because that’s exactly what I’m going to do. As soon as I have the money I’m leaving. For good. Good luck getting the electricity turned back on when I’m not around to hand over my tip money.”
She shuffles around the kitchen, yanking open doors and slamming them shut. “You wouldn’t last a month without me!”
“Actually? I think I could do better.”
As I slide my feet back into my flip flops, I notice the plastic laundry bin blocking the hallway, overflowing. The smell of chicken fingers and French fries lingers in the air, suck
ing me straight to Ernie’s kitchen. I lean over and hoist it up. My shoes slap against my feet as I head through the living room toward the front door, bin propped against my hip. I release the lock with my free hand and drive it open with my foot.
“I’ll bet he’s married,” I say as I walk out.
The screen door bangs shut, separating us. I smile, making my way down the driveway, feeling every rock and shell beneath the thin soles, satisfied.
TWENTY-NINE
The sun has just dipped below the horizon when I return. Moose is gone. Mom is at work. I carry the laundry basket inside, setting it on the living room floor as I enter. I grab the clothes that are mine and take them to my room, kicking the door shut behind me.
The house is silent.
The light of dusk glows faintly through the window, washing my room in grays and blues, shadowed.
Uneasy in the darkness, I walk over to my light switch and flip it on. Nothing. I flip it down, then up again. Nothing. I flick it a few more times.
“Great,” I mutter. “Fabulous.” And this is supposed to be the good season. I feel a spark of anger simmering beneath my skin and I want to scream. This was never supposed to happen again. It’s always never supposed to happen again. I smooth my hair with my hands, pulling it into a short ponytail at the nape of my neck.
My mind swirls dizzily as thoughts tangle together.
This isn’t possible. It’s Saturday. The electric company is closed. Why would they shut off power on a weekend?
I move to the window and peek through the blinds. Already the streetlamps shine, spotlighting the pavement. Just up the street, one house has its porch lights on. The interior of the home beside it is lit.
It’s just us.
I trudge to my dresser and open the bottom drawer. A half a dozen candles roll with the momentum. I reach for a candle and a holder, then fish around for a matchbook.
“What sucks,” I murmur, lighting the match and holding it against the wick, “is that not only does this not surprise me whatsoever . . . I’m actually prepared.” I wave the match until the flame goes out. A copper glow fills the room. A stream of smoke wafts to the ceiling. I inhale deeply and lay the spent match on top of my dresser. For some reason, the room appears dimmer with the candle lit.
In the next moment, something slams shut at the back of the house.
My stomach plummets. I freeze, listening.
Nothing.
I lean forward and blow out the candle. The room plunges into darkness. I feel my way along the dresser until I reach the door. I grasp for the handle, hand trembling, then lock it. I jump back, the sound of my slowing heartbeat reverberating in my ears. I gulp, suffocating on air.
Maybe Mom came home early.
But I know the driveway is empty.
Maybe it’s some kind of draft.
A shiver rolls through me. I hug myself tightly.
I take a few deep breaths, working to calm my racing nerves and rapid pulse. Hands shaking, I reach for the matchbook on my dresser. My fingers quiver as I rip out a new match. Just as I’m ready to strike . . . another rumble. A slam. A rumble. A slam. What sounds like drawers, rattling, open and shut. Open and shut.
My knees weaken, wobbling beneath my weight.
Someone’s in the house.
I release the unlit match and the book and catapult across my bed. I unlatch the lock of the window and push it up. It doesn’t budge. “Shit. Come on,” I choke. Tears sting the corners of my eyes, blurring my vision. “Come on. Come on. Come on,” I beg, whispering. A wave of warmth washes over me. With one final surge of strength, the window opens. I stop, scrutinizing the darkened room.
“Are you here?” I breathe.
No answer.
I force the screen out of its track. The twigs on the overgrown bushes claw at my legs as I lower myself to the ground, leaving tiny, superficial scratches.
I sprint across the lawn, stopping once to glance at the house. It’s dark. Lost in the shadows.
The shops and restaurants lining The Strip light up the night sky, giving the illusion of mid-day. Cars race in both directions. I bend over, holding the cramp piercing my side, beads of perspiration spotting my forehead.
A car horn beeps behind me. I jump, startled. A carload of guys pass, whistling and cat calling.
“Assholes,” I mutter. I hate this street. I hate these people. I hate this town.
I jog to Ernie’s, the only place I know to go. My calves burn, constricting with every step.
When I finally reach the parking lot, it’s empty. The building lights are out. A chill ripples through my veins. The restaurant shouldn’t be closed. Not at this hour. My flip flops smack against the asphalt of the vacant lot as I move to the side of the building, where Mom usually parks. Moose is gone.
Perfect.
I step into the bark of the landscaping and peer through one of the tinted windows. The kitchen lights are on.
Maybe Stu is still here. He might know what’s going on, where I can find Mom.
I pound on the front door, banging with my fist, and watch through the glass, expecting to see Stu pop out from the back at any moment.
Nothing.
I tug on the handle, anticipating resistance. But it opens.
I enter the darkened building. The streetlights and traffic cast strange shadows inside the dining room. They dance, moving, swallowed by the darkness. The place is clean, floors swept, chairs flipped upside down on the tables. The smell of bleach permeates the air, caustic, sharp.
I cover my nose with my fingers. “Stu?” I call, voice wavering. “Ernie? Is anyone here?”
Nothing.
Who would’ve left the kitchen light on? And the front door wide open?
“Is anyone here?” My voice cracks.
A low moan. A groan. The sound like ice on my skin.
I swallow hard. My heart pounds in my chest, hammering its way through my rib cage, blood roaring in my ears.
“It’s Genesis. Is anyone here?”
I maneuver slowly around the tables, footsteps light, and pass into the kitchen. “Hello?” I whisper.
Another groan.
“Stu?”
I scramble closer, crashing to the floor beside him. Blood pours from his nose. His eyes are swollen black and red, unrecognizable.
“Oh my God.” I force my lungs to fill, lightheaded and unsteady.
I reach for a dishtowel and place it carefully against his nose to stop the bleeding. “Stu? What happened?” I breathe. “Who did this? Were you robbed? Why is the restaurant closed? Where’s my mom?” The questions tumble out one after the other. Stu doesn’t answer any of them. Already the blood pools around his head.
“I’m going to call for help, okay?”
I stand, knees wobbling beneath my weight, and stagger toward Ernie’s office.
When I pull open the door . . .
“What’s up, Genesis?”
I jump back, stomach clenching in fear, heart fumbling a beat.
“Shit, Arsen. What’s going on? What happened to Stu?”
A bitter smile twists his lips. “There was a little accident,” he explains, expression smug.
“Did you call someone?”
“Maybe.” He pauses, wicked eyes dancing. “Maybe not.”
I try to push by him, but he remains fixed in the doorway. He leans his arm across the frame and laughs. My eyes travel past him, and I realize: he’s not alone. Two guys. And a girl. A girl in shorts and a tank top, hair bright red, a tattoo sleeve crawling up her arm, the images seeming to move. I step back, muscles quivering with effort.
“What’s going on?” My voice is barely a whisper.
Arsen moves toward me. “That’s a really good question. Why don’t you tell me?”
I fold my arms across my chest, hugging myself tightly. “I asked you first.”
His eyes flash with a sliver of amusement. “I already told you. There was an accident.”
“Did you do this?�
�
A low laugh, but no answer.
“Why is the restaurant closed?” I ask.
“Freezer trouble. Refrigerator trouble. Stove trouble. You can’t cook much when the food’s spoiled and the grill won’t heat.” He takes another step forward. I move backward, trying to increase the distance between us. “Now it’s my turn. What are you doing here?”
I swallow hard. “I . . . I came looking for my mom,” I explain. “Where is she?”
“Your mom is fine. She left hours ago. She was meeting what’s his name.”
“Mike.”
“Yeah, that’s him. Why do you need her? I thought you guys weren’t talking.”
“I . . .”
“May I?” he interrupts. “I’m guessing you were at home. Heard a few random noises. Got scared?”
A spike of terror rips through my body. My eyes narrow. “What?”
He laughs again. “Genesis. Genesis.” Gazes at me from beneath his lashes. “I knew you’d come.”
“Who are you?” I ask quietly, steady.
He draws his shoulders up, shrugging. “That depends. Who are you?”
I turn, ready to run. In the blink of a moment, Arsen is in front of me, pushing me backward, into the stainless steel counter. “There’s something different about you,” he says. “I mean, at first it was because you’re hot, you know? I wasn’t really looking for someone, but you seemed awfully convenient. And then you turned me down. . . .”
“It was complicated,” I remind him. I clear my throat.
“What a useless articulation,” he replies, rolling his eyes. “That means nothing to me. What I want to know is . . . how complicated?”
I press my lips together tightly, afraid to open them. To say the wrong thing.
“What were you doing at the beach today?” he asks.
I don’t answer.
He slams his hands against the counter, pinning me between his thick arms, angry face inches from mine. “What were you doing at the beach today?” He shouts.
“I . . . nothing! I was laying out!” I lean back, as far away from him as I can.
“No,” he replies, looking at the floor, laughing quietly. “You know something. Something you aren’t supposed to know. It’s not a coincidence . . . what happened today . . . with you there. What do you know and how do you know it?”
