by Jenn Bennett
Lana serpentines around the displays, cheerfully greeting customers, and heads to the back of the store. She leans over the counter and tugs on the arm of a bronze-skinned middle-aged woman with generous curves and a massive cloud of frizzy ebony hair. Lana pulls her away from a conversation, whispering in her ear. The woman is definitely Polynesian, and definitely their mother. Like, whoa, crazy familial resemblance. Mother and daughter look in my direction. Both of them smile.
“Hello,” the mother calls out, coming around the counter to meet me. She’s dressed in jeans and a loose top. Unlike the rest of the family, she’s not muscular and fit, but more on the soft and plump side. Her big cloud of hair is pulled behind one ear and hangs to her hips. “I’m Porter and Lana’s mom. You can call me Mrs. Roth or just Meli. Everyone does.”
God, she’s so pretty . . . so nice. Smiling so wide. It feels like a trap.
“Bailey,” I tell her.
“Bailey Rydell,” she says, surprising me. “Porter tells me you work with him at the Cave.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Pops was super mean to her,” Lana reports.
Mrs. Roth scrunches up her face. “I’m so sorry. He gets like that sometimes. The trick is to either play his junkyard dog game and show your teeth”—she imitates a snapping dog, which is kind of adorable—“or you do what I do and just ignore him.”
“And don’t let his big talk fool you,” Lana says. “My mom totally wears the pants in this family.”
“That’s right, baby.” Mrs. Roth wraps her arms around her daughter. “How’d you do this morning? Find anything good to surf?”
“Nah, just paddled. Porter was right, as usual. Onshore winds were crumbling the waves.” Lana looks at me and brightens. “You should come out with us one morning, watch us surf. Porter likes it when someone’s there to cheer him on instead of Pops yelling at him.”
Mrs. Roth nods, smiling. “And boy oh boy, would he show off for you, my dear. You tell him you want to come see him surf one morning when the waves are fine. He’d love that. Just say the word, and he’ll be texting you weather reports at the butt crack of dawn.”
“He’s obsessed with weather,” Lana tells me.
“I know,” I say too quickly, unable to stop myself.
They both grin back at me like I’ve solved some big family secret code.
Mrs. Roth glances over Lana’s head and raises a hand to a customer. “Hey, baby?” she says to Lana. “Can you do me a favor and help Mr. Dennis?”
Lana makes a gagging noise. “Maybe when you start paying me an actual salary.”
Mrs. Roth gives me a sheepish look. “Don’t spread that around, okay? We’re not forcing them into child labor; it’s—”
“Technically, you sort of are,” Lana mutters, giggling when her mom pinches her waist.
“—just that times are tight right now,” Mrs. Roth finishes explaining.
“And Porter and I are the only suckers in town who’ll work for free,” Lana adds. “I’ll go help Mr. Dennis, but only if you let me stay out an extra hour tonight.”
“Half an hour, and go, go, go. He’s got that pissy look on his face.” Mrs. Roth swivels toward the front door and makes an exasperated noise; someone’s unloading a stack of boxes by the front door. “Deliveries go through the back. How many times do I have to tell that guy? Oh, Bailey, I have to take care of this, I’m sorry. I wanted to do girl talk with you. Stay here.”
As she races away to redirect the delivery man, I watch Lana struggling to pull down a surfboard from a high-up rack, where it’s stacked in the middle of several others. She’s all muscle—no eyelash-batting doll—but it’s hard work, and she’s breathing heavy, shaking out her arm and joking that she nearly smashed her hand getting the board out. It strikes me that there’s no one else working here. It’s just the four of them, running this place? And with Mr. Roth’s limitations, that leaves all the physical stuff dumped on the mom and two kids, neither of whom are getting paid. And then Porter has to turn around and work full-time at the Cave.
This really, really sucks.
And what about when school starts in the fall, and when Lana and her dad go on the surfing tour? Is Mrs. Roth going to run the store by herself? How will Porter keep his grades up and help her and hold down his job at the Cave?
My phone buzzes with a text. Surprisingly, it’s from Patrick, as in, Patrick of Killian’s Whale Tours and my broken gaydar: Hey. You free? Wanna get coffee at the Shack? I’ve got new stuff from the film festival.
Well, what do you know? He doesn’t think I’m a total loser after our “date” fail in the video store. Before I can text back, the back door swings open and Porter breezes in, a huge smile on his face. Delight rushes through me until I see his father behind him . . . then I freeze up. “Pops fixed the seat. You’re good to go.”
Mr. Roth hands me my keys without looking me in the eyes. I think. I’m not looking him in the eyes either. This might work if we both keep avoiding each other. “Still dented,” he mumbles, “and it might stick when you unlock it, but there’s nothing I can do about that.”
“You’ll just have to wiggle the key some and knock it with your palm,” Porter volunteers cheerily.
“Or take it somewhere to get it fixed professionally,” Mr. Roth says. “But the worst problem you’ll have is locking yourself out, so you might want to carry your helmet inside with you until you’re more sure about it. And get a better wheel lock.”
“I’m headed to buy one right now,” I tell him. I scratch my hand, uncomfortable. “Thank you for doing this.”
Looking away, he grunts and shrugs the shoulder that doesn’t have an arm. After a few seconds of awkward silence, just when I think he might turn and leave without another word, he pins me with a hard stare and points a finger in my face. “You really want to thank me? Next time you see Davy Truand, you call me day or night and I’ll finish what Porter started. That boy is stupid and dangerous, and he’s obviously got you in his sights, so I’ll tell you what I tell my own daughter: You stay away from him as best you can, but if he comes anywhere near you, get your phone out and start dialing my number—hear me?”
Um . . . ?
I feel the rattle of the weird, low note that escapes the back of my throat. He’s sort of yelling at me again, but it’s in a concerned-parent way, and I’m not sure, but I think he’s offering to kick Davy’s ass for me now. I look at Porter for confirmation and he’s grinning.
So very confused.
All I can do is nod. So I do, several times. This seems to meet Mr. Roth’s approval. He nods back at me, also several times. And then he tells Porter to quit standing around like a lump and help his mom with the delivery that’s now coming around to the back door. I watch him head toward Mrs. Roth, and I’m stunned.
“He likes you,” Porter whispers near my ear, sending a small cascade of shivers over my scalp. It freaks me out that he has that effect on me in public, especially when his family is halfway across the store.
I find my voice and ask, “How can you tell?”
“For my dad, that was practically hugging and welcoming you into the family. He said you have grit.”
Artful Dodgers don’t have grit. Is this because I snapped at him outside? It’s hard for me to think too hard about it, because Porter is linking his index finger with mine.
“Hey, Porter,” a voice calls out.
I drop his finger and look up to see Mrs. Roth smiling sweetly from the door to the back room, her dark storm cloud of hair haloed around her shoulders. “Aw, I’m sorry, kids,” she says.
“You ladies met?” Porter asks.
“We did,” she answers, “And Bailey’s going to come watch you do your thing one morning.”
Porter raises both brows and has a look on his face that’s hard to decipher, like maybe he’s embarrassed, but kind of happy, too. “Yeah?”
“If you want,” I say.
“Yeah, maybe,” he says. “You should come see Lana,
for sure. If you can get up that early.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say, mimicking him. “I mean, I know nothing about tides and waves, and all that, so you’ll have to alert me when and where it’s going down.”
Mrs. Roth gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up sign from the door and then quickly lowers her arm before Porter can see it. “Sounds like a plan to me,” she says. “And I’m sorry to break this up, but I really need some help back here—Porter?”
“Sorry, duty calls,” he tells me.
I shake my head, dismissive. I’ve got to buy that new wheel lock before work. There’s plenty of time for that, but he’s clearly got stuff to do here, so I don’t say that. I just tell him I’m busy too, thank him again, and ask him to thank his dad again, who has disappeared with Lana. Mrs. Roth waves good-bye over the top of a stack of boxes when I leave through the back door.
I still have a couple of hours to kill before work, plenty of time to buy my new wheel lock, so I text Patrick back and make plans to meet up with him at the Pancake Shack as I test out my newly repaired seat lock. As I’m doing this, high up on the gutter of the roof, I catch a glimpse of white fur: a cat. Two cats, actually. It’s my tabby from the churro cart, Señor Don Gato, and she’s stalking a big, fluffy white feline. I laugh out loud—I can’t help it—because it’s just like that children’s song. My Don Gato has found her true love.
“Don’t jump,” I call out to Don Gato. Both cats look down at me quizzically. “Trust me on this one, you’ll only break your leg and die. That stupid white cat is not worth it. But if you do jump, remember that during your funeral, the scent of fish will bring you back to life—or probably, in your case, the smell of churros.”
Don Gato plops down inside the gutter and starts licking his paw. She couldn’t care less about my warning. Well, I tried. Somewhere on this boardwalk, I silently hope that Sam-I-Am is living a smarter life than these two love cats, risking bodily harm on the roof . . . and then I remember Alex blowing me off.
“You know what? Screw it. You’ve both got nine freaking lives,” I call back up to the cats as I strap on my leopard-print helmet. “Live them a little.”
LUMIÈRE FILM FANATICS COMMUNITY
PRIVATE MESSAGES>ALEX>NEW!
@alex: Hey, Mink? You’re not mad at me, are you?
@mink: And what would make you think that?
@alex: I don’t know. I was just worried that you might be mad when I asked you to check with me before buying a plane ticket to come out here. You haven’t messaged since then.
@mink: I’m not mad. I would have thought you knew me better than that.
@alex: Err . . . Is that a joke? I can’t tell.
@mink: Sometimes it’s hard to tell someone’s tone online. Anyway, too busy to talk now. Catch you later.
“Please let me keep this memory, just this one.”
—Jim Carrey, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)
18
* * *
You’d think that two people who maybe, just might like each other (sometimes) and who definitely, usually (almost always) work together would find some time—or any time, really—to be alone. If not for kissing, then at least for talking. But an entire week passed, and all I got from Porter after the visit to his family’s surf shop was a daily greeting, a lot of smiling, and enough desperate across-the-lobby stares to fill up the entire cavern.
Every day, I watched the bruises on his face lighten and his wound heal, but as they disappear, so does the memory of what happened between us, and I am feeling something akin to physical withdrawals. Sure, I received some texts from him during work hours. They included the following:
On a scale from 1 to Hades, how humid is the Hotbox today?
You should wear sandals to work more often. Your feet are sexy. Maybe I’m the one with the foot fetish.
I thought about sneaking out to your house last night, but I didn’t want to risk getting you in trouble with your dad if I got caught.
I’m tired. Let’s go take a nap together in the big teepee.
And when he texted me, I think I need medical care. Will you come nurse me again? I nearly fell off my stool in the ticket booth. But when I texted him back that I would be right there, his reply was: Sigh. I wish. Pangborn is sitting next to me. Awkward.
The boy is killing me. K-i-l-l-i-n-g.
Things were much simpler when we were archenemies.
“Sometime I feel like Porter is Pangborn’s nurse,” I mutter under my breath.
Grace hands tickets through the window and mutes the microphone. “Know what I heard? That all that weed Pangborn vapes might actually really be medicinal. The old goat might have the big C.”
I frown. “What? Cancer? Who told you that?”
“It’s just a rumor going around. Don’t know if it’s true. You know how people talk. That girl Renee up in the café says she heard that he’s been in remission for years, and that he just uses it as an excuse to get high. So who knows? He doesn’t look sick to me.”
Me either, but can you really tell? And it’s not like I’m going to walk up and flat-out ask him. I hate rumors. It makes me sad that people are talking about Pangborn behind his back.
“What the hell is going on between you two, anyway?” Grace asks me as she adjusts the portable fan.
“Pangborn and me?”
She gives me a classic Grace eyeroll that clearly communicates: You know what I’m asking about; don’t play dumb. “Porter and you.”
“Beats me,” I say, thoroughly grumpy. I’d already told her about the kissing. No details. Well . . . some details. Grace has a way of dragging things out of me. “Maybe he’s dating someone else, and he’s trying to juggle two girls at once.”
Grace shakes her head. “No other girlfriend. He works at the surf shop after he leaves here every day. It’s open until nine. Then he turns back around and works there every morning—and that’s if he hasn’t been surfing. When has he got time for another girl?”
Good point. I feel guilty for even joking about it.
“I saw him arguing with Mr. Cavadini about the schedule that just got posted,” she notes as her phone buzzes. She checks the message, texts something back, and smiles to herself.
“And?”
She shrugs as she passes tickets through the window.
Now my phone buzzes with a text. It’s Porter. We both have tomorrow off. If you’re not busy, would you like to go on a date? Time: tomorrow afternoon until ? Chance of being caught by your dad: very low. (Please say yes.)
I look up at Grace. “Did you know about this?”
“About what?” she says, the picture of innocence. “And, yes, I’ll cover for you. You can tell your dad you’re spending the day with me. But my parents want to actually meet you, so you’re coming round for dinner on Tuesday. We don’t play nerdy board games, but my dad cooks and will force you to help in the kitchen while he tells stupid jokes, so fair warning there.”
“I owe you big-time, Grace.” I can’t type Yes fast enough.
• • •
The next day at noon, I park Baby in the alley behind the surf shop, neatly wedging her into a small nook between the building and Mr. Roth’s van. Mrs. Roth says she’ll keep an eye on it but assures me that no one in their right mind would steal anything from them. One look at Porter’s scary-ass dad and I believe her. But I’m not really all that concerned about Davy rejacking Baby, I’m just relieved to stow the scooter back here, where my dad won’t be likely to see it if he’s out and about.
I slide into the passenger side of Porter’s van and smooth the hem of my vintage-patterned skirt as he speeds out of the alley, making all the rubber sea monsters on his dash bobble comically. It’s sunny and clear, a beautiful summer day, and we haven’t said all that much to each other. We’re both nervous. At least, I know I am, and I’m pretty sure he is too, because he’s exhaling deeply an awful lot and not his usual chatty self. He hasn’t told me where we’re going yet, only that I should be p
repared to do some strolling. “It’s air-conditioned, don’t worry. I wouldn’t subject you to Hotbox temperatures on your day off,” he told me yesterday in the parking lot after work. I’ve been in the dark about everything else.
“You really aren’t going to ask where we’re going?” he finally says when we’re headed south on Pacific Coast Highway, following the ocean past the boardwalk and the Cave.
“I like a good mystery.” I have a couple of flashbacks of our last trip this way, when we were looking for my lost scooter, but I’m not going to bring that up. Instead, I’ve been trying to solve the puzzle on my own, deducing things from the direction we’re headed and the time we’re leaving—not exactly primo romantic date time—and what he’s wearing, which is a pair of jeans with an untucked wine-colored shirt that fits obscenely well across his chest. I can’t stop sneaking glances at his arms. Because, let’s face it, they are great arms. Great arms that lead to great hands . . . and I wish those hands were touching me right now.
Once you’ve had an amazing kiss, can you die if you don’t get another one? Because I feel like that’s what’s happening to me. Maybe I like him way more than he likes me. God, that thought makes me feel off balance and a little queasy. Or maybe I don’t like him at all. Maybe our relationship is being held together by the thrill of a good quarrel and raw sexual attraction, and my initial instincts about him were right. I hope this date wasn’t a mistake.
“I’m glad you trust me,” he says, relaxing for the first time today and showing me a hint of that beautiful smile of his. “Since we’ve got some miles ahead of us, let’s test your musical tastes.”
“Oh, brother.” We both break out our phones, and he lets me scroll through his music library, finding we have little in common there—big surprise. But, and I’m not sure why this is, I’m almost glad about it. Because we spend the next half hour debating the merits of the last few eras of music history—disagreeing about almost everything—and it’s . . . fun.
