by Lisa Freeman
Sister Mary Helen didn’t sound too happy about it, but what was she going to say? “Yes, dear. Of course.”
And then, just to nail the deal shut, I said, “Will you pray for me, Sister?” I didn’t expect her to start praying right then and there. She sounded like she was having one of those seizures, so I just let the phone hang and went back to mom’s side, while the old bird kept praying.
The next day, when I showed up at State, Rox wasn’t talking to me. I used all the change in my bag to get her Red Vines and a Tab, so she wouldn’t be mad.
“You promised you wouldn’t leave me,” she said. “Where were you yesterday? I had to endure the Lisas alone.”
“My mom was sick.”
“Ha. Drunk, more like it.”
I straightened my towel and turned away. I was desperate to hide—like I was the last one to notice that my insides were leaking into a puddle all around me. There seemed to be a stain everywhere I went, thanks to Jean.
Rox flicked a new matchbook from Patrick’s at me. “You forgot I had my Chart House interview, didn’t you?”
“No … yes. I’m sorry. Did you get the hostess job?”
Rox took a little bow. “You bet I did. I start after this is over,” she said, pointing to her stomach.
Thank God Rox would have something to look forward to after this whole mess was done. I had heard that the Chart House was very romantic, with the sound of the waves and private booths. The ultimate date spot. All the waiters were surfers. Everybody wanted a job there, but only the chosen few got one. As the restaurant’s new hostess, Rox would be the first thing each guest saw as they entered, the sunset reflecting in the floor-to-ceiling windows behind her.
Jenni interrupted us by cautiously tapping Rox. I swear she barely touched her. “Look,” Jenni said. Lisa Y. was wearing a new pair of wire-rim shades with green-tinted lenses. And she was walking alone!
“Wow,” Jenni said, “you look hot.”
“I have the story of the century,” Lisa Y. announced. But before she told us what happened, she held up her prescription glasses and declared, “I can see!”
“You’re late,” Rox barked. “When do you plan on recruiting?”
“Where’s Lisa H.?” Jenni asked.
I had never seen one Lisa without the other. It was bizarre.
Lisa started talking so urgently that her words spilled out all jumbled together. “Remember the other day I was telling Lisa H. she was getting sunburned? Well …” Lisa Y. looked around to make sure the Topangas couldn’t hear her. “I swore that I’d never tell Lisa H.’s secret, but … here it goes: Lisa is a hardcore Mormon. Like, her family wears that ginormous underwear. No cigarettes, no soda, no alcohol. They have, like, twenty children, and—if you’re a girl—you have to wear a one-piece bathing suit.”
I couldn’t believe Lisa Y. was saying such disgraceful things. Back home, my Mormon friends up in Laie were really sensitive about what they called their “garments.” They wore them as a sign of respect to God. It was this sacred covenant, like when Jewish people wear yarmulkes. But Lisa Y. couldn’t have cared less. And I didn’t say anything.
Rox put both hands on her hips. “That’s not true,” she said. “Lisa H. always wears a bikini.”
“Exactly!” Lisa said excitedly. “We used to sneak into the gas station before coming to State so she could change.”
I couldn’t believe how easily Lisa Y. ratted out the other Lisa. Luckily for me, my secrets were safe. Rox was one hundred percent true blue, our friendship sealed with a Fiji pact.
“Yesterday,” Lisa continued, “Lisa H.’s mom walked in when she was taking a shower, and Lisa got totally busted, thanks to those teeny-tiny lines on that pink skin. Well … her mom went bananas—and when she saw the smokes and empty Coke can in her purse? She went even more bonkers. Long story short, Lisa Haskell got shipped off to Utah first thing this morning.”
“What?” Jenni said.
“She has to babysit her twelve cousins for the entire summer, then write an essay for her bishop, before she can come home.”
“Oh, great,” Rox said. “That means when I start working, there will only be three girls in the lineup!”
When I heard that dark tone in Rox’s voice, I moved into my peacekeeper role. “So how did you get all this info?” I asked Lisa.
“She called me, crying hysterically, while her father was packing a suitcase for her.”
Rox hardballed it in one sentence: “Good riddance to bad rubbish.” Everyone froze as she slammed her cigarette into the sand like a period at the end of a sentence, lay down, and rolled over.
If Rox had been a sympathetic kind of girl, she’d have been concerned about how the lineup had shriveled, but instead she smirked. No Claire. No Lisa. No McBrides—they were getting ready to leave—and no Jerry. He had made himself scarce. Rox was in total control. And I knew it was important to her that it keep looking that way. This is when The Rules were obvious and important—even if I made them up as I went.
It’s better to say nothing than something you regret.
The lineup went into a bake session. No one talked. Like a clock ticking, the sun moved to another part of the sky. It had to be almost noon.
“The VPMs are here,” Jenni said, all cheery. Even when there weren’t waves, the Van Patrol Members showed up every day no matter what. They surfed in swarms of jellyfish, blown-out two-footers, and tsunamis. It didn’t matter. They were always in the water.
“Lord Ricky gave them citizenship status,” Jenni continued. “It looks like they’ll hit State every day for the rest of their lives.”
The VPMs were natural locals. Unfortunately, they hassled the gay guys and didn’t think twice before slashing tires and breaking the windows of cars that didn’t belong at State. I saw three of them on the bluffs standing watch with a walkie-talkie. They were guarding the beach for Lord Ricky, making sure that since a Tubed reporter had arrived, the incredible waves that broke here were for locals only. This beach may have been public, but it was private now.
“I’ve made a decision,” Rox said, sitting back up. “Lisa, you’ll be Number One. Jenni, you’ll be Number Two. Here’s the catch: when you graduate, Nani will be Number One, and she gets to choose her Number Two. Do you both agree?”
Jenni and Lisa looked at each other, smiled, clapped, and hugged. And then it didn’t even take them a second to chill out and calmly nod.
“That sounds great, Rox,” Lisa said. Clearly she had forgotten all about her ex-best-friend-for-life. Poof. Gone.
Quietly, I asked Rox, “What happens when Lisa H. comes back?”
She gave me that diabolical look that could freeze you to the bone and make you want to run home with your tail between your legs. “Lisa H. is never coming back to State.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“I’ve taken her membership away. She’s out.” I froze, stunned. Rox’s meanness was more hypnotic than a pendulum swaying back and forth. I had to force myself to look away before she started laughing.
Two VPMs startled her, tossing their boards a little too close to us while they were waxing up. “Oops, sorry, Rox.” That gave Coco the opportunity to get a better look at Jenni. He stared so intently, Rox’s frown dissolved. It was important to her that the VPMs and the lineup were on the same team. And if they were dating, better yet.
The chemistry between Jenni and Coco was unreal. Rox looked pleased when Jenni blushed and turned onto her side, so all Coco could do was gape at her round, little ass. Lisa noticed Coco’s flirting, too. A move like that never got past the lineup.
Up close, I could see Coco’s eyes were a shade of crystal blue. There was no escaping them. And on top of that, his hair was bleached white from the sun and hung in a V down to the middle of his tan back. It was easy to spot him on State, now that the McBrides were gone. Coco guzzled Hawaiian Punch from a can, then tossed it gracefully into the trash. He gripped his board tightly under his arm and walked calmly across the
hot sand. As he pushed off into the water, Jenni looked at Lisa and said, “Let’s get wet.”
Rox grinned smugly as Jenni took Lisa by the hand and seductively walked her past the rest of the VPMs, not glancing back.
“And they lived happily ever after,” Rox said. She locked pinkies with me, started to laugh, and then stopped. “I’m going to get it done on Thursday.”
“Where?”
“In a doctor’s office.”
I thought, Lucky for you Roe v. Wade got passed six months ago. Nobody on the mainland seemed to know that, in Hawaii, abortion had been legal since 1970. Of course it was passed in the smartest state first.
Johnny Brewster stood above us with his board under his arm. He had to be least six feet tall with wavy, sandy-blond hair and a cute little face with thin lips. He was a typical crazy boy. But, most importantly, he ran the VPM empire.
I wondered what sign he was. I thought he was probably a Gemini, because he was smart. He paid homage to Rox by looking at her and saying, “Hey.”
That daily acknowledgement to the lineup’s leader is what gave him permission to move forward. This is a little known fact, but it’s the girls at a great surf spot who permit new locals to enter the water. Without us, there would be no protocol. That’s why we had to build the lineup fast—or else the Topangas really would take over. They were spreading like a virus.
Half wet and half dry in the water, Lisa looked different with her shades on and without the other Lisa hovering next to her. She seemed more alluring and sexy. Lisa and Jenni made a good set.
I thought the big excitement would come when Coco charged past them on his first wave. Maybe he’d splash Jenni to get her attention. But it wasn’t Coco who made the first move. It was Johnny. He walked a little too close to Lisa, surprising her and making her turn. Then he actually touched her arm.
“Contact!” Rox told me, as if announcing a lunar landing. “This is going to work out fine. I’m such a genius,” she said. Like I didn’t already know. “You realize recruiting is up to you now,” she continued. “Those two lovesick puppies are going to be useless.”
Me? Recruit? That was ridiculous. It was the high-pressure responsibility of the new rulers. Not me. In an instant, my summer dissolved right before my eyes. I hardly had a minute to get a grip and conjure up a half-hearted, “No problem.”
CHAPTER NINE
Our Father
After an exhaustingly flirtatious day, the SOS packed up. Lisa and Jenni couldn’t stop talking about Coco and Johnny. They had sun-tight faces and greasy smudges all over from their favorite suntan oil, Bain de Soleil. They didn’t even care that Rox had announced that it was her last day at State for a while. She made up a story about going to Esalen in Big Sur with her sister, but really she just wanted to sound cool, so no one would ever guess she was getting a you-know-what. This way, her squeaky clean reputation would stay intact.
It’s so screwed up that when a girl graduates high school she has to look like she’s getting serious about life. Guys can be goofballs for another four years, but girls have to grow up instantly. I’ve seen lots of them cut their hair and start wearing pantyhose. And when it comes to beachcraft, well, girls aren’t supposed to go to State every day. Unless, of course, they have kids. Then it’s okay for them to live full-time on the sand. But for ex-rulers like Rox and Claire, visitation rights have to be used sparingly. It’s how they keep their fame intact.
I think Rox was relieved to be taking a few days off since Jerry wasn’t showing up. It kind of made her look bad.
When I saw Nigel’s baby-blue VW van parked on the bluffs, I grabbed my stuff with a sigh of relief. I told Rox I’d see her later, since she was treating me to the new James Bond movie in Westwood tonight. I waited my turn while one of the VPMs hosed off. Then I dipped in and quickly scrubbed the sand away so my skin would be shiny and smooth, the way Nigel loved it.
Just as I was about to step into his van, I stopped dead in my tracks. There was a strange guy in the driver’s seat. I backed away. Two of the VPMs guarding State went on alert.
“Nani! Nani, it’s me.”
“Nigel?” I tried not to look like I was seeing a horror movie.
“No, Shawn. Sorry to freak you out.”
I wanted to scream, but that would have set the VPMs off more. I don’t think they believed Shawn was a local. He sure didn’t look like one. His long hair had been shaved into a crew cut. I couldn’t stomach that I was looking at a McBride. His neck was skinny, and his Adam’s apple poked out. He didn’t look anything like himself. Where hair once folded over his shoulders, I could now see pimples and moles. He looked like the plucked chicken I once saw on Kauai that had hideous bumps on its white, greasy skin.
“What happened to you?” I asked.
Shawn put the van into reverse and said, “I’ll tell you on the way. You’ve got to help Nigel.”
“What’s wrong?”
“He won’t come out of the fort, and we’re leaving first thing tomorrow.”
“Only if you promise no hanky-panky,” I said. There was no way I’d get in a car alone with Shawn McBride under regular circumstances. I knew he would try to hit on me, so I waited until he crossed his heart, held up two fingers, and swore to God before I hopped in.
As we drove, Shawn told me about the Father’s Day Massacre. It seems Mr. McBride insisted that the “boys” give him something he really wanted. And what he wanted was to have his barber come over during the family brunch, sit Nigel and Shawn down, and shave off their hair. They couldn’t go to India, he insisted, looking like girls.
It sounded humiliating and awful. Poor Nigel. Shawn was better at shrugging things off, but Nigel was sensitive. Hair is a sacred thing. It holds what my dad called mana, which means energy. And cutting somebody’s hair is sacrilegious.
Though I never wanted to go back to the McBride’s Malibu home, I had to. Nigel needed me.
“How long has he been in there?” I asked.
“Since last night—but I brought him a pizza.”
I thought about how my mom had avoided Father’s Day altogether. The night before, she had taken a bottle of vodka into her room and closed the door. I had watched TV.
When the security gates bearing the gold initials MB opened, I saw the pink hacienda mansion with the red-tiled roof. I hadn’t been here since that party when I got dosed last summer. That was when the bad blood started between me and Mary Jo. The SOS banished her and Suzie after they spiked my beer with acid. I did a rock-and-roll hula that sort of made me famous with the locals.
I was not happy about being back.
There were waiters everywhere, in black pants and white shirts, folding up chairs and putting plush cushions into bags. Others were taking down the huge tent, shaking out the white tablecloths and lugging outdoor heaters into a truck. Shawn explained that, the night before, his mother had hosted her annual fundraiser for The Blind Children of India. He parked the van and scurried into the mansion.
I knew my way around. I walked past the pool, through the rose gardens, to the far end of the estate, to where I’d find the notorious fort—the World War II bomb shelter where Nigel had been hiding. I opened the door to the Love Shack with its familiar smell of cedar, pot, and mold, and I made my way down the stairs in total darkness.
“Nigel, it’s me. Are you there?”
I flipped on the switch, lighting up the rows of green and red Christmas lights around the brick walls. Then I saw him, crunched in a corner, hiding under the giant Santa and the rest of his mom’s Christmas decorations. He pulled a blanket over his head, making a human teepee, and he wouldn’t come out.
“I’ve already seen Shawn, so I know what you look like.” It was painful to watch him timidly emerge, pouting like a little boy who had peed his pants in kindergarten.
“Pretty bad, isn’t it?”
I went into girlfriend mode and said, in my most soothing voice, “To a degree—but not really,” even though I was thinking: FRA
NKENSTEIN!
It took a while, but eventually I coaxed Nigel out to take a shower, eat a sandwich, and save India.
The McBrides’ gourmet kitchen was bigger than my house, and it contained a feast of leftovers from the party. I made a killer turkey sandwich for Nigel and polished off the leftover lobster salad, eating it with my fingers. I put the sandwich on a fancy plate and garnished it with homemade potato chips.
Just as I turned to set it on the counter, I smelled the stench of vodka and Tabasco. Mrs. McBride wobbled in wearing furry slippers and a chenille robe over her formal attire from the party. It looked like she just woke up. Did she sleep in her clothes? Her hair looked like a termite mound, and she was crunching loudly on some celery from her Bloody Mary. Diamonds the size of grapes hung from her earlobes.
Unlike the rest of the SOS, I try to avoid sweeping judgments, but when I saw Mrs. McBride maneuvering so excruciatingly slowly, there was only one word that came to mind: drunk. We watched each other in silence. Then she removed a crushed corsage from her dress and let it drop onto the marble island between us. She looked at my sandwich and daintily handed me her glass.
“This looks lovely. Thank you, dear.” She took the sandwich I had just made for Nigel and pulled some money from her bra. “This is for working overtime.”
I had never seen a fifty-dollar bill before. It reeked of strong perfume and was so crisp I had to be careful not to get a paper cut. I was just about to slip it into my pocket purse when Nigel zoomed into the kitchen, snatched it out of my hand, and slammed it back into his mother’s.
He put his arm around me as Mrs. McBride took a giant bite out of the sandwich. “This is my girlfriend, Mom.” He was so tall and defiant. But what I would have done with fifty dollars! Mrs. McBride looked away as Nigel escorted me around the counter. Luckily I had untied my white lace blouse and tucked it into my jean shorts, so my midriff was covered. I guess when she saw my flip-flops she realized I wasn’t the maid.
Mr. McBride entered the kitchen, filling the room with the kinetic force of a nuclear flash. I had never seen someone so famous before. He was, after all, the most prominent business tycoon in Nixon’s inner circle, and he had a daunting presence. I tried not to gawk or stare. He was wearing a floor-length velvet bathrobe, his belly protruding and his thick, ash-white hair combed to one side over his head.
