The Tribes of Palos Verdes

by Joy Nicholson

  “I’m keeping the diamond,” she tells us. “We might have to sell it for cash.”

  “If we run out of money we can pawn it,” my brother says.

  “Better yet, we can have it insured and lose it,” my mother answers, looking Jim in the eye.

  “Lie?” Jim asks. “Face to face?”

  “A little fib,” she answers. “You and I’ll go fifty-fifty. Then we’ll have lots of money. You could get more new clothes and the best winter wet suit.”

  * * *

  At home we eat fish sticks with mayonnaise and Oreo cookies. My mother says Jim deserves lobster, steak, and chocolate mousse pie, and he’ll get it after he helps her get the insurance money. But I tell Jim he might get in trouble. My mother interrupts.

  “Do you think money grows on trees?” She points at me, forking a mouthful of halibut, chewing it quickly. “Do you think it comes falling from the sky?”

  She wiggles her fingers in a graceful waterfall of imaginary money.

  “Money is what buys nice things,” she says.

  “Dad gives us nice things,” I answer.

  “No catfights tonight, ladies,” my brother says, stepping between us.

  “This isn’t a catfight, Jim,” my mother answers icily. “It’s fair for a mother to want the best for her family.”

  Then she turns to me. She asks me if I have a better plan to get money.

  I admit that I don’t.

  She frowns, looking at a point just above my breasts.

  * * *

  It’s hazy and yellow the next day. There are a lot of bystanders on the cliff, people from all sides of the hill, because of the Lunada Bay Whale Watching Festival.

  I’m in the furrow of the cliffs at Helsa Cove, smoking pot with two Eastside guys, lying lazily against gray rocks. They’re both pretty cute, and I’m flirting with them, basking in their attention. They talk about different kinds of pot, all with funny names: space weed, wicked red, Maui gold. I tell them I’ve never seen colored pot, but I have smoked Thai stick once. They’re impressed. Thai stick is the strongest pot there is, and the hardest to find.

  “Maybe I could get you some,” I say. There’s smoke coming from my lips as I laugh, covering the boys’ faces in a maze of mist.

  After a while, the bigger guy tells the other one to split. The smaller of the boys walks away, looking back sadly at us, coughing. The haze envelops the other boy as he moves toward me, gathering me in his arms, pressing his insistent mouth on mine. Wet, smacking sounds ensue.

  “So you think I’m cute?” I ask him, laughing. “You really do?”

  I let him put his mouth over mine, tasting the dark beer on his tongue. I feel very sophisticated, as if I’m in a movie, kissing a stranger in the daylight.

  He falls into the sand, pulling me down with him, hitting my head on a jutting rock, pulling at my shirt like an insistent child. I tell him to go slower, sick all of a sudden, remembering Dan. But he runs his hand over the front of my shirt, grabbing.

  “Get off me before I kick your stupid ass,” I say, jumping up, aiming my surf bootie square at his groin. I’m still staggering, stoned when I get in the water.

  My brother is already in the water. He will not speak to me. Even when I smash the nose of my board into his legs.

  “Why can’t you ever be normal?” he finally spits out. “Everyone saw you with those stoner guys. Everyone.” He strikes the water with his fist, telling me what he thinks I am, tears coming and falling into the water.

  “What’s so bad about kissing?” I say. “You should try it sometime, if Mom’ll let you.”

  He gives my board a shove, sending it toward the rocks.

  “I hate you,” he says.

  That night Jim stays in his room, away from me. He makes strange noises in the dark. He smokes the pot I slip under his door, but it doesn’t make him mellow. When I try to apologize to him, he sings very loud to Aerosmith and rips a newspaper into a thousand shreds.

  “I don’t talk to sluts,” he says.

  * * *

  All the girls love Jim. They call our house late at night and giggle into the phone, asking for him, not giving their name. I feel sick to my stomach when they giggle, but I say, very nicely, “I’m sorry, but you must have the wrong number, there is no Jill here.”

  Then I hang up the phone and answer it when it rings again. I hear the girl on the line say, “Medina Mason is the grossest, ugliest slut alive.”

  I say, “What number are you calling, please?”

  He shakes his head sadly when I hang up, biting his lip, not moving. He slumps low in the seat, staring at his bitten nails.

  When Heather calls, I feel guilty. Reluctantly I give him the phone. His eyes are bright, alert now, but he doesn’t say much. His voice is very low. He covers the receiver with his hand, curling up. He doesn’t look at my mother.

  * * *

  On Friday night he comes out of the bathroom wearing his best chinos and a tan and blue polo shirt. He looks very handsome, his hair brushed to the side, then slicked back a little with styling mousse. His eyes are bloodshot, even though he used half a bottle of my Visine.

  He tries to act like it’s no big deal, but my mother gets up immediately. She circles him slowly, her face dark and impassive. She doesn’t say anything.

  “Well,” Jim says, straightening his shoulders, walking toward the door, “I’ll be back by ten.”

  “Have fun,” I say, but the words hang in the silence.

  “Where is it you said you were going?” my mother asks, coming very close to him, sniffing the air near his hair. He stands in the hall, blinking under a single beam of light from the ceiling.

  “I’m going to a party at Steve’s with some of the guys,” he tells her.

  “Who’s going to be at this party?”

  My brother swallows. He picks at the skin on his hands.

  “I don’t know, Mom.”

  “Have fun then,” she says, angry.

  * * *

  At exactly ten he walks back in the door. My mother ignores him, keeping her eyes on the television, even though she’s been looking at her watch every five minutes.

  “Hey, Mom,” he says. “What are you watching?”

  She doesn’t answer. He goes and sits next to her. She still doesn’t talk to him.

  “Hey, come on,” he says. “I’m back on time.”

  My mother looks at him out of the corner of her eye. Then she breaks down. She cries and cries, until her eyes are swollen almost shut. Her chest is heaving, mucus and tears run down her chin. Her hands clutch at his.

  “It’s okay, I was only gone for a few hours.” Jim’s voice is very gentle, he touches her face softly. “I have to go out sometimes,” he says. “But I came back. See?”

  My mother tells Jim she’s lonely without him; when he leaves it reminds her that she might be alone someday, without a man in the house. Jim holds her hand gently, but repeats that he has to go out to meet his friends, have fun with them once in a while.

  “Why?” my mother says, her eyes filling up again.

  The next day he tells me he kissed Heather Hunt in a closet. He smiles a tight smile.

  “Good for you,” I say, looking away. “I have some new boyfriends, too.”

  * * *

  On Halloween I’m in the back seat of Thornton Simpson’s older brother’s car. Thornton switches sides, sweaty thighs moving against the leather seat, looking back and forth to see if his friends are watching from the parking lot. Jim is with Heather, alone on the cliffs.

  “Why don’t you calm down?” I ask. “If you’re going to kiss me, just stop breathing so much.”

  “I’m not sure I should kiss you,” he answers. “You have a bad reputation, Medina. Everyone says so.” Then he says he’ll do it if we go somewhere else, so his friends don’t see us.

  “It isn’t even your car,” I say hotly. “You can’t even drive.”

  “Well, you can’t even shut up for a minute, can you?�
�� he says.

  “Forget it,” I say, “you take too long.”

  “You’re such a weird girl,” he says, pulling the ghoul mask back over his face.

  * * *

  Jim locks himself in his room Monday night to talk on the phone. He pretends he doesn’t hear my mother, even when she walks up and down the hall, loud, four times in a row.

  But later he goes to her room to make peace. He listens to her talk about my father—all the girlfriends she suspects he’s had, a nurse, a lifeguard, someone’s Swedish wife. Jim listens, barely talking, until she’s almost asleep.

  He jumps when the phone rings at eleven.

  My mother tells Heather it’s rude to call so late on a school night. Then she hangs up.

  “She should wait for you to call,” my mother huffs, awake again.

  * * *

  There are the popular beaches, show beaches, where the cool, good-looking boys surf for their girls. The California dream in wave after dizzy wave—the beaches where my brother likes to go.

  These days he talks to the towel girls. They laugh at his jokes, serve him beer, stretch their bodies in front of him until he sighs. I try to get his attention by waving at him until he gives me the thumbs-up sign, but he turns away from me.

  I head off to Pratt Point, my new favorite break, an ugly stretch of coast to the east of our house. Only the outcast boys come here, the boys who talk about nothing except beer and water. Some of them are old like Dan, in their thirties, already lost to time. They survive alone, attached by a cord to their boards, everything else fallen away.

  These are the boys who take drugs and didn’t take college exams. They are immersed in liquid thoughts, how to drink too much, how to get up. How to patch their skin when it splits on impact. They are the boys who will sell anyone drugs just for beer money, surf-wax money. Practically nothing.

  People call them the bottomfeeders.

  “Hey, it’s Jim Mason’s sister,” one of them says when I walk by. “Give the Jimster my regards.”

  I’m surprised how well the bottomfeeders know Jim. They say he’s been coming around a lot the past few months. They also say he’s always slow to pay, and he never jokes around. But they assure me that the drugs he’s buying aren’t any big deal; he mostly gets cheap “sissy stuff like dexies and Quaaludes.” No big deal.

  So I look the other way as they take Jim’s money, give him packets, give him local’s credit.

  * * *

  Jim thinks he’s the only one with secrets, but I know where things are buried. My mother’s right about one thing: I’m an expert spy. I’m always snooping, prying, searching in drawers. Breaking into secret places, hidden stashes of papers, reading, culling, sorting. Quietly finding out everything they don’t want me to know.

  Here is a letter from my father. I read it in my closet, with a flashlight, while my mother and brother watch TV.

  Sandy,

  Enclosed you will find a check for the children’s schools, plus the water bill. Please do the sprinkling at night to save money. Please turn out the lights if you aren’t using them. The house will eventually be sold, like it or not, Sandy, when the kids are gone. You have no need for such a large house. For Christ’s sake, you don’t even like the ocean. It would be best if you followed your heart to Minnesota. My fault is that I spoiled you. You need to learn I am a doctor, not an endless nipple, running with endless money.

  Please don’t lie to the kids; revenge won’t help anyone.

  Phil

  PS. The credit cards are for emergencies only!!!!!!!

  For revenge, my mother runs the sprinklers all day, flooding the lawn. In the arid California climate, her garden sustains ferns, orchids, lush green grasses.

  In the middle of the afternoon she lets the lights blaze from every room. She leaves them to burn all night, “to keep burglars away.”

  She heats, air conditions, ionizes the rooms. She uses electricity as a weapon.

  The refrigerator is stocked, stuffed to the point of bursting, with the richest, Frenchest, most buttery foods. Dozens of frozen dinners recline in neat rows in our freezer, plus ribs, roasts, steaks standing stiff, in hulking mounds.

  “We have to keep extra in case he doesn’t send a check,” she says.

  When my father calls, angry about the tab at Lunada Bay Market, she cries to Jim.

  “He’ll kick me out into the street,” she weeps.

  “Over my dead body,” my brother tells her, calm.

  * * *

  When the Vals come to the bay today, their tires are slashed, and rocks are thrown at their retreating figures. Most of them get into their dented Volkswagens and drive away.

  A few Vals waver, standing with their boards at the top of the trail. They say no one owns the P.V. cliffs—they’re public property. Jim runs toward them, breathing as hard as he can. He knocks a guy’s surfboard out of his hand, and throws it over the edge of the cliff. It tumbles down and down, splitting into pieces when it hits the rocks. Jim starts throwing punches wildly, knocking a guy down as the other Bayboys run to back him.

  “Get the fuck off our beach,” Jim yells, punching a small guy square on the jaw. Skeezer jumps in, punching, too. The guys start to run, but Jim corners them, bearing down on them, kicking at their retreating feet. When they dive into their car, Jim follows it down the street, kicking it, screaming at the top of his lungs. He’s still screaming when the car is half a mile away. He’s breathing hard, enraged; it takes two Bayboys to stop him from following.

  “You’re a crazy man,” Skeezer enthuses, looking at Jim with new respect.

  Later the Bayboys slap high fives on each other’s hands, and spin tall tales about judo and protecting P.V. from the scum. Jim says we should beat them up bad, next time. His eyes flash as he waves his fist at the street.

  “Even the genius here could help kick their ass.”

  “Kick it, girl,” Mikey says.

  Jim and I smile at each other for a split second. Then Skeezer says, “If she doesn’t fuck them first.”

  Motion

  My brother is teaching Heather Hunt how to surf today. The top part of her bathing suit keeps coming down as the waves hit. My brother is nervous with her, motioning for me to go away.

  “How are you supposed to stand up on this thing?” Heather asks, giggling.

  “Whichever way feels best,” he says, trying to be suave.

  “Actually, it’s better if you use your right foot,” I say, swimming very close to them. “I don’t think you’re exactly a goofyfoot or anything.” I say this with as much disdain as I can muster. Heather might be pretty, but she looks like a moron on a surfboard.

  “What’s she talking about?” Heather whispers to Jim, tossing her soft black hair over her shoulder. She gives my brother a secret wink, and then turns away.

  “Could you go over there, please?” my brother says, jerking his thumb at me, twitching his neck to the left.

  When I get out of the water I’m cursing. I see someone standing there, but I walk away fast, hiding my face behind my hair. I hear footsteps behind me on the rocks and someone swatting brambles and sea oats away.

  I kneel down to wax my board, pretending to ignore the person. When I finally look, it is not Skeezer or Mikey.

  The guy waits for the perfect time to approach, counts slowly to ten on his fingers, and doesn’t move. He watches the whales go by, then I bolt up, preparing to slide back into the water, beyond him. He runs, slipping along unsurely like a crab. He reaches me and stops.

  Up close, he looks like Ichabod Crane, all limbs and Adam’s apple. He is wearing a thin black shirt and dark pants. He looks scared.

  I jump when he comes closer. There’s an awkward silence as we perch on the same rock. Slowly he folds and unfolds his hands as if he has something to give me. I pick up my board, waiting for him to say something.

  “Hi, I was wondering if maybe I could borrow some wax.”

  I hand him the wax, an automatic Palos Ver
des gesture.

  “Sure, whatever.”

  He has no board to coat with it. He doesn’t move. I break the silence, ask him where he’s from, pretending I don’t know. He stammers and watches a gull waft by with a fish in its beak. He turns so he is half facing me, and takes a picture from his pocket, a picture of Jim and me at Yosemite.

  “Look, this is you, right?” His hand shakes. “I’m Adrian Adare. I live with your father.”

  I look at the picture as it drops into the rocks.

  “My brother’ll kill you. Get out of here.”

  The picture floats in the tide pool. Before I can grab it, a wave of spray comes over the photograph, covering it like a mist of tears.

  Skeezer and John Lapidus sit in the water, making predictions about Adrian and me. They beckon me to swim out to them. They laugh together.

  “Who was that fool,” Skeezer asks, “some dickhead from the Valley?”

  A wave comes up, and though I’m not first in line, I jump on it. It brings me nervously toward the shore. I fall. I angrily rise.

  When I paddle back out, they call to me again.

  “Who is he?”

  “No one.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is he your boyfriend or something? From the Valley?”

  They make suggestive noises and look at one another meaningfully.

  I take the next wave in, running up the trail, pants in my hand. I won’t let them see me cry, not for this.

  * * *

  Adrian waits at the top of the cliff. He offers me a joint when I reach the top. I smoke without thanking him, dragging the sweetness deep into my lungs, fighting back tears. I tap my foot, looking indifferently into the horizon.

  “Why did you come here? Did my father tell you to come?”

  I kick the dirt, sending clods over the face of the cliff, not looking at him.

  He blows out smoke and says, “No.”

  “Good,” I say, “good, because that would be so lame.” I look past him, listening to the wild dogs scatter in the bush.

  I ask him, “Do you even surf, or are you just a poser?”

  “Of course I surf,” he says, laughing, smoking. Then after a silence, “So your brother wants to kill me? Is he the one with that stupid girl?”