by Lisa Freeman
“Do you know a boy named Nigel McBride?” she asked.
“What?” How did she know about Nigel?
Jean waited, egging me on with a smile. I nodded, thinking it was so weird to hear Nigel’s name come out of her mouth. I wasn’t about to get psyched out, but then she resealed my mouth with her hand.
“Do you?” she asked.
Was that a trick question or what?
She started hugging me in a way she hadn’t since the Java Jones was sold, playing with my hair, and looking at me all funny. She giggled and tried to tickle me and then she really lost it. She jumped up and started dancing. She really cut loose, taking both of my hands and swinging me all around until we fell on top of my bed. Bummer, we banged against the tent. The needle on my turntable screeched across Joni Mitchell’s tranquil voice, destroying Blue, one of my favorite albums of all time. Had Jean finally cracked?
“What’s the matter with you?” I shouted.
Without a doubt, it was just like the night she got the news that Uncle Mike sold the Java Jones. Jean had had way too many tumblers of wine. I just wanted to know what the hell was up, but she kept goofing around. For a split second, I wondered what my life would be like if she actually went over the edge.
“Mom!”
Jean held my face in her hands and said, “Nigel McBride would like to have you over for dinner at his house tonight.”
Before I could say anything, she continued, “With his parents, of course.”
“What?” I asked again. “Did he call?”
“No. He’s here.”
Before she could start another sentence, I was jumping all over her, hopping into her arms, and twirling around like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. Then I stopped and stood there. Did she just say: Nigel McBride was here?
“He went to get his car,” she said. Jean was in orbit because I was about to date one of the most eligible bachelors in the world. I knew she saw dollar signs instead of tan lines, but I didn’t care. It felt so good to be happy with her.
“Get dressed,” she said, dancing out of the room. “He’ll be back any moment.”
“Mom, please … be cool.”
Cool was so far out of her range.
“Please,” I said.
Ordinarily that comment would’ve caused a war between us, but this time Jean just closed her eyes for a beat and chilled on command. When she opened them, there was a strange look on her face. She whispered loudly after taking another sniff.
“Are you smoking Daddy’s weed?”
“No, I’m just burning it for incense.”
Jean took a look at the hash and whispered emphatically, “Honey, this is Daddy’s happy stuff. You don’t want to get high, do you?”
“No,” I said.
“Well you will if you smell this long enough. Now get dressed.” Jean picked up my incense tray, taking it with her as she left the room.
I ripped through my drawers looking for the perfect outfit. Nigel was due back any minute so I had no time to think. The only thing I knew for sure was that there was no way I’d blow it this time. Jesus gave me a second chance. This time I was going to nail it.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Girl Gospel
The first thing I did was put on my lucky underwear. I called them lucky because they left no panty lines and I never got my period in them. The rule:
Start at the bottom if you want perfection.
I also put on my fancy silk drawstring pants because I was meeting Nigel’s parents. It was important to look casual but presentable, pretty but not prude.
Surfers like their girls super sweet, so I went for the rose pastel and white look. My shirt was lacy but not see-through. I wore clogs, five abalone bracelets, puka shell earrings, and a thin scarf made out of vintage Hawaiian fabric draped around my neck. I put primrose oil on my hair because Nigel liked that smell. My rabbit foot was tucked into the pocket of Annie’s white jean jacket. The one with a puka shell sewn on for every guy she’d kissed. I had just gotten my lip gloss on when Jean slid into my room, all smiley and then not.
“You’re not wearing that, are you?” she asked.
There was no way I was going to have a fashion war. I was too happy but I knew what Jean was thinking, the rules beyond the rules. Call it the bottom line. A kind of girl gospel that mothers drilled into their daughters. It went like this:
Girls must dress, act, and live a certain way for one reason. Boys won’t like them if they don’t. If a girl can’t get a boyfriend, she’ll never get a husband. A man completes a woman. You see, women are not even whole people until they get married. Every girl must save herself for that special day and then she’d live happily ever after. If a girl didn’t follow these rules, before she knew it she’d be twenty-five, an old maid, and living with a cat. No friends or respect and no community to grow old in. She’d be alone forever like that Beatles song. She’d be Eleanor Rigby, die alone in some church, and get buried with her name.
Somehow what I was wearing boiled down to all that.
I prayed to Jesus and everybody else in the God category to help me get away from 33 Sage as quickly as humanly possible and to make Nigel fall in love with me once and for all.
“You’re not wearing that,” Jean said again. This time it was a statement, not a question.
“Mom,” I mouthed, trying to get her to mellow.
“You are not going to the McBride home in those cheap Hawaiian clothes.”
I could hear Nigel flipping through a magazine in the living room so arguing with Jean was not an option. I tried to reason with her and then I tried to bargain. I tried everything. But Jean was being stubborn and wouldn’t budge. She said, “Fine. Have it your way. I’ll just tell him you won’t be able to go.”
Jean turned to leave the room. Before she could finish her sentence or get passed the doorframe, I slammed the door shut. There was no way she was going to ruin this for me. No way.
“Do you know who these people are?” she demanded. “They’re in LIFE magazine this month with Billy Graham. They know the president of the United States. And they’re richer than Uncle Mike will ever be.”
I thought about tying Jean up, taping her mouth shut, and locking her in the closet. My hand clenched the doorknob as she paced around me. She stopped abruptly and started tapping her foot with her arms crossed.
“Do you want to be like me when you’re thirty-two, struggling for every dime?” she asked.
“Hell no,” I said.
“Then change your clothes.”
“No,” I said right to her face.
“Yes,” Jean said. To make her point, she yanked my hair hard.
I pushed her. I didn’t mean to slap my mother, it just happened. Before I could say I was sorry or ask her if she was okay, Jean pulled the door open, exposing both of us to Nigel. She straightened her patio dress and casually strolled down the hall as if nothing had happened. My hands were shaking, and I tasted blood in my mouth. Did she hit me or did I bite myself? I didn’t have time to figure it out. Nigel was waiting. He was wearing baby blue cords, a white Hang Ten t-shirt, and Wallabees. He looked good in clothes and his dry hair had a slight wave. He was acting very polite and had a smile plastered on his face.
“What time would you like Nani home, Mrs. Nuuhiwa?” he asked.
“Midnight is my regular time,” I said quickly, walking to him. “Right, Mom?”
Jean slowly opened the front door, pointed to her cheek, and waited until I kissed her. She took a step back and glared at me. That was the most pissed off I’d ever seen her in my whole life.
“You kids have fun,” she chirped.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Second Chance
I breathed a huge sigh of relief in Nigel’s van and coughed. It smelled of Windex and a new piña colada air freshener that hung from the rearview mirror.
“I washed the van for you.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. There was nothing in the rules about w
hen surfers do nice things or are super polite like Nigel was being.
The ocean was totally glassed off and the most righteous shade of blue I’d seen in Santa Monica. I never thought I’d appreciate a totally flat ocean as much as I did right then. The world was quiet without waves and smooth until Nigel cranked a tape in.
He shouted over the blown-out speakers, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
That caught me completely off guard.
“This is my favorite song in the world,” he went on. It was an eight-track of Norman Greenbaum’s “Spirit in the Sky.” I nodded along with the rhythm.
Then Nigel asked, “You want to know some of my other favorite things?” Of course I nodded yes. “My favorite strokes are freestyle and butterfly. I’m on the swim team at Harvard. That’s my high school. It’s just for guys. My favorite event is hundred butterfly. My favorite food after practice is two double patty cheeseburgers, fries, and an extra thick chocolate chip milkshake.”
He went on telling me Twister was his favorite game. Pluto his favorite Disney character. He wanted to see the pyramids and Panama Canal. His least favorite subject was English, but he loved to read Hemingway. What! What? I yelled in my head. Guys, let alone surfers, back home didn’t read. Not even comics. I nodded along with the music as Nigel continued to chat, pointing out important landmarks.
“You have to have fake ID or be over twenty-one to go up there. The Sunspot is like Roy’s, locals only,” Nigel said. “I use my older brother’s driver’s license.”
Across from Temescal Beach, just off PCH, was a steep dirt road. At the top of it was a tiny art deco shack with a red neon light flashing SUNSPOT on and off. I made a memory photo in my mind.
Just before Topanga, Nigel showed me the haunted whorehouse.
“That’s where Thelma Todd got murdered. She was a movie star in the thirties. I think her gangster boyfriend did it. The police found her dead in the garage.” Nigel was a regular tour guide. He honked his horn.
“Hi Thelma,” he waved. “Shawn and I used to sneak in there when we were younger. We’d hear weird noises all the time. And on the staircase it was so cold, we could see our breath even on hot days.”
“Freak me out,” I said.
“Freak me out,” Nigel agreed. “We tried to catch feral cats. I love cats, but Shawn and I weren’t allowed to have girly pets, only big dogs. Retrievers mostly, for hunting with my dad.”
I was stunned how much he talked as we drove past the Chart House and Moonshadows. Annie made surfers sound like mutes, but this was not the case with Nigel McBride. He told me his whole life story.
We went past Malibu and Paradise Cove. When we got to Leo Carrillo, the beach had turquoise water like Hawaii. Nigel pulled over to the side of the road and told me, “This is where I talk to Jesus.” He explained, “Since I accepted Christ, the ocean is my church and where I always feel God. He’s almost like a liquid holy spirit, you know? It’s like Jesus speaks to me through waves.”
I nodded and said, “Totally.”
This was the full-on date. I was going to meet his parents. I had to ace this. We had been driving for like forty-five minutes. Norman Greenbaum had been replaced by Jethro Tull.
“Did you know Tull is born-again?” Nigel asked.
“Cool,” I said.
There were horses running free on the lush hillsides and a few stables scattered behind an endless white picket fence.
“It’s really beautiful up here.”
The sound of my voice surprised me; it was hashed-out and calm even though inside I was like a jumping bean. I guess Jean was right about secondhand smoke because I really sounded mellow. Nigel smiled and softly put his hand on my face, gently turning my head toward a sign that had a “W” spray-painted over Cortez Beach.
“That’s where I buried Wiggles my hamster. My dad doesn’t go for sentimental stuff. Fish are flushed, burial at sea, and all other pets are bagged and tossed into the trash. But Wiggles got a real burial. I put him in one of those long matchboxes, dug a little hole by that sign, and made a cross out of eucalyptus leaves. Dad never noticed. He’s only into golf and guns. That ‘W’ stands for Wiggles. We renamed this place Wiggles Beach.”
Nestled just beyond a row of trees was an ornate iron fence with a giant “M” on it.
“There’s my house,” he said.
Talk about the pearly gates. I’d never seen anything so fancy. My back was sweating, and I needed a smoke. Then my stomach started to growl. I was trying not to fidget, but the gurgling was out of control. Two important rules came into play:
Never fidget.
Never let them see you panic.
It wasn’t even five yet, but I hoped there would be some rolls or snacks before dinner that would help quiet down my stomach.
The fact that Nigel wasn’t very good at driving a stick was definitely making the situation worse. Every time he shifted, I was thrown forward and then slammed back. By the time we pulled into the driveway, I felt carsick.
“What’s the secret password, mate?” Lord Ricky said, springing out from behind a large banana shrub. I jumped so high I almost went through the sunroof.
“Jeez, Rick!” Nigel yelled.
Lord Ricky was wearing a neck brace and a kid’s pirate hat. He had a patch over one eye and a plastic hook dangling from his left arm. His lieutenants were wearing trunks and jackets but no shirts. Were they invited for dinner, too?
“You asked me to watch the front gate,” Lord Ricky said, poking at my window like I was a fish in a bowl. I rolled it down and asked, “What happened to you?”
Like I cared.
Lord Ricky explained he ate it at The Wedge down in Newport. He sprained his neck but didn’t get paralyzed. Nigel continued, “He did a total rag doll when he hit the bottom because he was so loaded.”
Lord Ricky held up his beer and saluted. He said, “Pardy Hardy.”
Brad and Stu were smoking cigars, which didn’t help my stomach one bit. I could hear dogs barking and music playing somewhere down the driveway. I looked around and saw a few dozen vans and tons of cars parked on Pacific Coast Highway. Nigel was laughing as Lord Ricky did a little jig and pushed open the gate. With the motor idling and radio turned off, I could hear metal clanging in the back and realized the van was filled with kegs of beer. There must have been ten of them stacked on top of each other.
“Just keep Valley Dudes out,” Nigel said over his shoulder as he downshifted then put his hand on my leg.
The driveway leading to Nigel’s house was long and curvy. In the distance, I could see a large pink hacienda-style estate with a red terra-cotta tiled roof. It was the most beautiful home I’d ever seen.
“That’s the guesthouse,” Nigel said, pointing. It reminded me of the Kahala Gardens where I used to watch rich Japanese girls from Punahou get married. This place made Uncle Mike’s home look like a low-rent apartment on Hotel Street.
I wanted to disappear. It would be perfect, I thought, if I could just twitch my nose from side to side, blink a couple of times, and poof, be gone. Nigel drove us around a turnabout and down another steep driveway. I noticed a sign marked SERVICE ENTRANCE.
I wondered how everyone got down this monster driveway. The music was louder and louder the closer we got. Then I saw rows of golf carts with MCBRIDE written in bold navy blue letters on either side. I felt like such a stoner. Everything was moving slow. Nigel blasted his horn as we made a final turn and that’s when I saw the crowd. There must have been more than two hundred people there, cheering and clapping their hands. A band was playing. Nigel asked me, “Do you like Honk?”
Not only did I like Honk, I had a Honk t-shirt.
“They’re hot,” I said.
Honk’s music was like one perfect wave after another. They were legendary in Southern California. The band scored the soundtrack for Five Summer Stories. It was being called the best surfing film since Endless Summer. Gerry Lopez was in it, too. I’d almost forgotten about Gerry L
opez.
“The band came up from Corona del Mar when they heard we were having a party. But once they got here and started playing, I realized it wouldn’t be a party without you,” Nigel said and kissed me in front of everyone.
I laid my head on Nigel’s shoulder as we drove toward a kidney-shaped pool. A hoard of people, including Jerry and Shawn, swarmed the van. I could see the Lisas, Mary Jo, Suzie, and Jenni, sunning on lounges while Rox and Claire floated in the pool on queen-sized rafts. Everyone else was into the music. Guys were dancing, pogo-ing up and down as the voice of Honk’s lead singer, Steve Wood, echoed through the property.
Shawn guided Nigel into a parking spot close to a cabana and an outside dining area. The main estate was on a hill behind us. It was nothing short of spectacular. It looked like a postcard I had seen of The Beverly Hills Hotel.
All of State Beach was there.
“Is that Bob, the lifeguard?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Nigel said. He wasn’t very excited about seeing him.
“If we get him laid once in a while, we get more waves.”
That made sense to me, but I wondered which chick would actually sacrifice herself to that dweeb. When I looked around, something dawned on me. Everyone was in bathing suits. Even Nigel had dropped his pants and unbuttoned his shirt. But not me, oh no, I was TCFS, too cool for school, in my dinner-with-Nigel’sparents outfit. What a hash-head I was. I had broken the oldest rule in the book:
Never go anywhere without a bathing suit.
There was no way I’d make it through the night without a suit. I couldn’t even take off my clogs because my silky drawstring pants weren’t hemmed and I’d be tripping all over them. I tied up my blouse and rolled it back so my midriff was totally exposed. I looked very Bianca Jagger standing by her private jet. Then, I decided to roll my pants down on my hips. This sexy-ass look with my scarf tied around my wrist to hide the extra jewelry I wore to impress Mr. and Mrs. McBride would become my signature look. I actually had created my very own State style, just like Claire was the only one who wore turquoise and Rox was the only one who wore far out necklaces and bathing suit tops instead of shirts. I would always be known for low pants and a tied-up blouse.
