Moonglass

by Jessi Kirby

  “And maybe you don’t understand all the reasons I decided to take the transfer.” Maybe I didn’t understand?

  I kept myself from saying anything, because I knew exactly how it would come out. I was too tired to start it all over again, so I let him go on.

  “Honestly, I’m not sure I do either. But I think, if you give it a chance, you’re gonna love it here. It’s a pretty special place. Wait till you wake up in the morning and look outside.” He squeezed my shoulders, searched my eyes for an answer.

  I sniffed and nodded, trying to smooth it over for now. It couldn’t be easy for him, either. “That beach out there is the only thing you have going for your case, you know.”

  He smiled and opened the door to my room. All of my furniture was there, unpacked. He had even made up the bed.

  “You arrange it however you want. I just didn’t want you to come home to an empty room.” He cleared his throat. “Most of your stuff is still in those boxes, but I got a few things out. You still have plenty of time to get settled in before school starts.”

  I stood in the middle of my new room, amidst my things, and tried to feel it. The word “home.” But it wasn’t there yet. For me, anyway. When my dad said it, though, it had a ring of old familiarity to it, and that was somehow comforting. I sat down on the edge of my bed, which felt the same as it had back home, ran my hand over the same worn-soft quilt.

  He rubbed his neck. “I gotta open the park in the morning, so I won’t be here when you get up, but I’ll leave some money on the counter if you wanna walk up to the Shake Shack for lunch. We can go for a dive or a surf or something when I get off.” He walked over and kissed the top of my head. “Good night, kiddo. I love you.”

  “Mm-hm. You too.”

  When the door closed, I stood up and looked around again. On top of my dresser sat my jar of sea glass, full with the greens and blues of countless hours spent combing the beach. I walked over and examined it, wondering what the ocean might uncover here, on this beach. Maybe a rare piece—purple, or yellow, or red. I set the jar on my nightstand, where it belonged, then changed out of my wet swimsuit.

  Any other day I would have opened my door to the outside and sat on the step, breathing in the night and listening to the ocean. But this day had been long and heavy, and the only thing I wanted was to start over in the light of the morning. I climbed into the cool of my sheets and switched off the light. For a long time I lay there listening to the sounds of my new home. The most noticeable was the rhythmic smack of waves on the shore, and then the static-like sound of their foam rolling up in disorganized ripples. The rest of the night outside was silent.

  I wondered what Laura and Shelby were doing at this moment. Thought of my grandma, probably sitting up with her glass of wine and a “late movie,” like she loved to watch. I replayed the conversation I’d had with my dad, spoken and unspoken, until I had myself convinced we’d be all right here … somehow. But then I rolled onto my side and thought of my mother, here on this beach.

  And like a reflex I closed my eyes against it all.

  I needed to run. Because for as long as I could remember, it was the one time when I could just move and not think of anything. Being in the water could calm me, but it wasn’t the same. When I was younger, after my mom was gone, the ocean was the place I went to be near her, where I would dive under the waves, thinking I’d maybe catch a glimpse of her there, hair splayed out like a mermaid’s—swimming, beautiful and strong and free. She felt close and peaceful that way, and since then, the water had become the place where I felt most at home. But being here, where she’d been before I even existed, where she and my dad had a history he had laid to rest until the night before, it somehow all felt too close. So I needed to run.

  I walked the narrow path to the sand and glanced at the run-down beach cottage as I passed it. In the weak morning light it seemed especially still and quiet. All the windows on the first story were hidden under sprawling bougainvillea, but upstairs I could make out a small window shrouded in dirt, and a tiny sagging balcony facing the water. Someone had woken up to a deserted beach a long, long time ago and had probably seen the same simple beauty of pelicans gliding in a line, wing tips hovering impossibly close to the surface of the swells.

  The beach and its cottages stood out in stark contrast to the other side of Pacific Coast Highway. Across four lanes, lining the hills was a series of homes that were really more like the celebrity compounds I’d seen in magazines. The higher up the hill they were, the taller the columns and the wider the arches got, like each house was in competition with the next. It was ridiculous. And sort of intimidating, if I was being honest with myself.

  These were the people whose kids I was gonna go to school with. Kids who sat up there on the hill with million-dollar views of the ocean, but who probably never really saw it. They probably liked the status it gave them, to live near the beach. But other than that, I guessed it was just a pretty backdrop for their BMWs and designer clothes.

  As soon as I had the thought, a tiny part of me realized how self-righteous that would sound if I actually said it out loud. But still. My friends and I prided ourselves on cute thrift store finds and our ability to dig up change anytime we needed to put gas into our old cars. Those were the things that entertained us and made life fun. And now they were the things that were missing. Before I let myself think about it too much, I walked over the sand and breathed in the morning.

  At the waterline I looked south to where my dad had pointed the night before, and I shook out my legs before starting off in a slow jog. On a good day mine were the first footprints on the sand and I floated, legs moving effortlessly over a landscape of sand, shells, and seaweed. Today my legs felt a little tight, so I eased into it. As I ran, my eyes automatically went to the ground, scanning for sea glass. It was an old habit. One that probably slowed me down. I followed the high tide line and the bits of shells, seaweed, and pebbles, but nothing glimmered at me from the sand, so I let my eyes wander up and over the waves that broke gray-green in the rising sun. Down the beach, in the shadow of the cliff, two heads bobbed in the water. A wave rose behind them, and one of the surfers paddled hard to catch it. I stretched out my strides and settled into a smoother pace, curious about the guys in the water.

  As I got closer, I could see they were shortboarders and that they were sitting practically on the rocks, waiting for a set to come through. A look at the flat glassy water said they were either extremely optimistic or extremely inexperienced. I decided they were good-looking, charming optimists and picked up my speed a little more. The sun had emerged from the morning gray, and the warmth of it loosened me up. As I neared the point, a small wave rose off it, and both surfers paddled hard. One stood and pumped his tiny surfboard with his legs, trying to maintain some kind of momentum. My dad would have rolled his eyes. He surfed a ten-foot single fin board and never wore a leash. Had he caught the same wave, he would have paddled in smoothly, popped up, and gone straight to the nose to finish out the ride.

  I hopped over their backpacks and turned my attention to the point, where black cliffs rose sharply from the green water and mussel-covered rocks. Briefly I let myself wonder how my parents had met here. I couldn’t even picture them that young. Was it my dad out in the water and my mom walking the beach early in the morning? He’d probably tell me if I asked. He’d probably be happy to.

  I dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it had come into my head, and hopped over a tangled-up strand of seaweed. Three more paces brought me to a large rock, and I tagged it with one foot, pushed off, and turned around. As I did, I stole a sideways glance at the guys in the water, which wasn’t enough to tell how old they were or what they looked like, but enough to know that they were looking in my direction, probably trying to figure out those same things. I put my head down, suddenly self-conscious, and picked it up again. This time to a pace that was faster than comfortable. A slow burn spread out in my chest as I flew over the sand, hoping they did
n’t realize.

  Thankfully, just up the beach something caught my eye in the brightening sunlight. It looked like a piece of frosty ice sitting on the sand. Out of place, but next to invisible if you weren’t looking for it. I stopped abruptly to pick up the thick half-dollar-size piece of sea glass, then turned it in my fingers and held it up to the light. It was pitted and translucent on the outside, but there was one edge that was still crystal clear, a window to the inside of the glass. In the center I saw the small spots my mom had told me about. Something about the process of making the glass that meant it was close to a hundred years old. She would have said it wasn’t a great piece, because of the broken edge.

  I liked the ones with the chips in them, though, where you could see what the piece looked like bare and pure, before the ocean had tumbled it around and worn it down. The beauty of a piece like this was that after it had been worn down, something had happened to crack it open. Something big.

  I curled my fingers around it and ran the rest of the way back, switching it from hand to hand and feeling like I had found a small treasure.

  By the time I stood stretching in the sand, the beach was alive and the sun shone brightly as families lugging umbrellas and sand toys staked out their spots. The unmistakable smells of syrup, coffee, and bacon wafted over, drawing me up the beach to where I could see small groups of people milling about. Out in front of what must have at one time been another cottage, a sign read THE BEACHCOMBER. The deck was packed, and the sounds of clinking plates and happy Sunday morning chatter almost drowned out the waves. The people waiting stood by in sunglasses, smiling and laughing while their kids played happily in the sand. It was definitely a different set of people from what I was used to seeing up north, and it was exactly what I’d expected here. The people dressed to impress, even for breakfast at the beach, which made me feel distinctly out of place in my sweaty shorts and sports bra. Actually, I would have felt out of place in this crowd no matter how I was dressed. I watched a moment longer before turning to head for a shower.

  “So. Do you always run that fast?” a voice behind me asked. I turned around and saw a tiny blond girl in a long sundress, heeled sandals, and sunglasses the size of her face. She shifted the giant bag on her shoulder, and a fluffy white dog poked its head out.

  I glanced around. Nobody else she could be talking to. “Uh, no, not always. Why?” I couldn’t decide if I was suspicious or annoyed.

  “Well, I never ran, because I always heard it shortens your muscles, but I was watching the Olympics this summer, and all of the runner girls are really skinny, but not too muscley, kind of like you, and so I decided to do cross-country this year. You know, running on a team.” She blinked a few times, waited for a response, then clarified, “To lose some weight.”

  I looked at her tiny, perfectly tanned frame, trying to figure out if she was serious. She didn’t seem to notice, and I let her go right on with it.

  “Anyway, it starts tomorrow, and so I told my dad that this would have to be our last breakfast down here, because the only thing I like to order is the macadamia pancakes, and they’re totally fatty.”

  I had to say something. Anything. “Huh. I don’t think I could swear off pancakes.” Lame, but what did she want me to say? Tell her that she clearly didn’t need to diet? That lugging that bag around with her dog in it was probably workout enough for her skinny arms?

  She looked me over, then smiled sweetly. “Well, could you imagine what you would look like if you ran and watched what you ate? My mom is, like, the queen of working out and dieting, and she hasn’t even had to have lipo yet or anything. Well, besides Botox, but she’s almost forty-five. Can you imagine?” She smiled, clearly proud, and a little breathless. I pursed my lips together, hard, trying not to smile. She was actually serious. She went on. “So are you here on vacation or something?”

  “Actually, I just moved here. Last night.”

  She stuck out her tiny French-manicured hand. “I’m Ashley Whitmore. I would have been the sixth if I was a boy.”

  I shook her hand and was surprised that she had a good, firm handshake. I half-expected her to curtsy or something. “I’m Anna. Ryan.” We stood for a moment, looking out toward the water, and I felt totally justified in my earlier assumptions about the people I’d be going to school with. I wished Shelby and Laura could meet this girl, just to see that people like her really existed. Maybe I’d call them later.

  I turned south to hide my smile, and something caught my eye. It was a man, and he was … crawling? I shaded my eyes and squinted down the beach at him, trying to make sense of it or see if I was wrong. I wasn’t. He was an old man, bear-crawling on the tips of his fingers and toes toward us. I watched, waiting for him to stand up or sit down or something, but he just kept … crawling. Ashley sidled up to me with an easy friendliness that made me feel a little guilty.

  “So. Where are you going to school?” Only half-listening, I squinted at something that swung back and forth from the man’s neck.

  “Oh, um, I’m going to Coast High.” As he crawled closer, I could make out several things hanging from his neck. I could also see that he had his ankles wrapped in white tape that stood out against his taught, thin legs. Ashley put her hand on my shoulder and squeezed.

  “Serious? That’s where I’m going! I’m transferring from private school because my parents say I need a bigger taste of the ‘real world.’” She chewed her gum thoughtfully, and I wondered how “real” Coast High, in the richest part of Orange County, could actually be. “I don’t really mind, because I hated our uniforms. And the girls there could be kind of catty.” I caught a whiff of watermelon as she turned to me, cracking her gum. “We should maybe stick together—so we’re not, like, alone at first. I don’t know anybody who goes there.” She took a breath, and I could see that a new thought had come into her head. “Hey! Why don’t you run on the cross-country team with me? It could help us both out.”

  I looked at her. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know, you’re all athletic and pretty in a strong sort of way. You kind of have a surfer-girl thing going for you, with your brown skin and the wavy blond hair and all. If you join with me, you could help me run fast, and I could help you diet and totally perfect how pretty you already are!”

  I’d been watching the crawling man approaching the sand in front of us, but now three of the four things she’d said processed, and simultaneously I wondered if I needed to diet and whether or not she had ever been punched. Then I wondered if she was this friendly with everyone. She was smiling, like she’d thought up the greatest idea ever.

  I cleared my throat, stalling for an answer she wouldn’t be able to argue with. “Um … I usually just like to run by myself. And I think I’ll be fine without a diet. Besides, don’t you think junior year is a little late to start a new sport?” The crawling man was directly in front of us, and I could now see that the things hanging from his neck were crosses of different sizes. They swung heavily, making his unnatural crawl look even more painful. What in the world? People here were turning out to be all kinds of crazy.

  Ashley breezed on. “Oh, I don’t care about doing good in the races or anything. Besides, you looked fast. And if you’re starting out in a new place, at least you’d have something to be, so you don’t end up just lost in the crowd, because there’s nothing worse than being alone while everyone else is part of something.” She moved her hand from my shoulder down to my arm and squeezed again. “Come on, Anna. It’ll be fun.”

  I decided I was entertained by Ashley. My friends and I were nice people, but I didn’t think any of us would have befriended a perfect stranger so breezily. And with such seemingly good intentions that came out so, so wrong.

  It was strange, but also kind of nice, considering. She did have a point about the lost-in-the-crowd thing. I had a feeling she probably made friends with people pretty easily, and that could be a good thing for me too, since I’d always been a little on the reserved side. Sh
e probably had offended a lot of people too, but maybe they all just overlooked it, as I was finding it surprisingly easy to do. She seemed genuinely oblivious to the fact that anything she said could be potentially insulting, and for some reason that made it kind of forgivable.

  “Maybe I will,” I said, already resigned to what I was about to say. “Join the team, I mean.” She squealed and hugged me, which again seemed strange and not, at the same time. As she started to lay out a plan for what it would be good to wear to the first morning practice, the crawling man passed us, and I saw on his sweat-soaked T-shirt a single word. REPENT. Ashley interrupted herself midsentence.

  “Isn’t he sad? He does that every Sunday. Everyone calls him ‘the Crystal Crawler.’ My dad thinks he’s just some old crazy, but I think he must feel really bad about something and he’s doing his punishment, or repenitance, or whatever.”

  “You mean ‘penance’?”

  “I guess. I don’t know. I’m not Catholic.” We both watched as he crawled slowly on, seemingly oblivious to the kids darting in and out of the water in front of him. His calves were balled up tight, and the muscles shook with the effort of each step. I wanted someone to go take his arm and help him up.

  “How far does he crawl?”

  “I think he does the whole beach. He does it all day. Usually, after breakfast on Sundays, my dad goes back home to work and I stay down here awhile. I was here all day last weekend, and I saw him go by three times.” She looked at her watch. “Anyway, we’re supposed to meet at school tomorrow at seven thirty for our first practice. I’ve already met the coach. Do you have a ride?”

  “Tomorrow?” I hadn’t expected to have to subject myself to her perkiness so soon. I wasn’t even sure I’d actually agreed. Ashley was looking at me expectantly. “Yeah, I guess.” I watched the hunched figure for one more long moment, then turned back to her, resigned. “I’ll be there.”

  “Good.” She smiled. Her phone rang. “Oh, hang on a sec.” She rummaged in her bag, around her little dog, like he was just another item in there. He didn’t seem to mind. She pulled out a bright pink phone with a crystal-encrusted A on it, and I almost laughed out loud. Of course. “You’re already there? Yeah, okay, I’ll be right up. I’m coming right now…. I’m walking up there. The air is on, right? It’s getting hot. Okay. Okay. Bye.” She tucked the phone back into her purse and smiled.