by Lisa Freeman
Heidi applauded and stuck out her tongue.
Less than three years ago, Nancy Norris and I would have been geeks together. Me, the half-half with no friends, and her, the freakazoid. In the kinder world I longed for, Mary Jo would be gone, and the cruel Heidi would be jettisoned into another universe.
Anger exploded within me. Then came an overwhelming sadness. I ran toward the water and got under a wave before anyone could see just how upset I was. If only I could get underwater and find the peaceful place between a wave and air, maybe I could begin to forget what had just happened, and figure out some way to improve the person I was suddenly afraid I had become.
I swam out to the fifty-foot buoy and floated on my back, thinking about what my dad always used to tell me: actions speak louder than words. Floating made me feel a little better. I let myself drop down deep where the water was colder and darker. There, I let out a scream, which was the only way I knew how to confess my sins to Nāmaka, goddess of the sea, Pele’s older sister.
The water tasted bitter, like a salt-rimmed drink. When I emerged on the surface, coughing, I saw that Jenni and Lisa had swum out to check on me.
“Are you okay, Nani?” Jenni asked, nodding at me consolingly. Lisa’s control and beauty in the water was very Rox-esque. It was kind of sexy. “Rox told us you’re sort of suicidal.”
Oh, great, I thought. Why didn’t she just take out an ad in the Times?
“We’re all upset, too. But let’s just maintain, okay?” Lisa said.
We heard Heidi’s unmistakable voice as she swam out to us. “Hey, you guys!” She seemed pleased with herself. Jenni and Lisa looked at each other.
“Can we vote about her right now?” Jenni asked.
“Hell, yes,” Lisa said. “My vote is NO.”
“NO,” Jenni said.
“NO,” I said, letting out a huge sigh of relief.
We had stitched ourselves back together. I thought, I might not be able to reinvent the wheel, but I can reinvent the lineup. Enough is enough. You don’t need to be perfect if you catch my drift, but the bottom line is:
Hot girls don’t have to be mean.
I was going to make this pono, make it right. I wasn’t going to become a hypocrite who acted one way and talked another.
I would feel better if there was another girl with dark hair in the lineup. Someone who was darker, like me. That would really shake things up, tip the scales, shift the SOS gears. It’s not like dark hair was the same as dark skin, but it’s a start.
As our uninvited guest was about to join us, I told Lisa and Jenni, “I’m going to walk to the Pier and recruit.” Before Heidi could say another word, we gave her a taste of her own medicine. All three of us submerged at the same time. With one deep breath, we ditched her and swam together underwater, all the way to shore.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Windy
I slid into my flip-flops and strolled onto the wide-open sand. I needed to hear myself think. Jerry Richmond chased me down the beach. “I’m coming with you,” he said.
If only I could get off suicide watch. I wasn’t sure whether having Jerry Richmond with me would be an asset or a liability. “I don’t have any razor blades,” I joked, holding up my uncut wrists. He didn’t think it was funny. In fact, he looked concerned. So I told him, “I’m just going to the Pier.”
“Ohhh,” Jerry said tapping his forehead with his fingertips and looking up. “Lisa and Jenni thought you said you were going to jump off the Pier.”
That was so not funny, but we both started laughing. Walking next to Jerry, I crisscrossed my feet into other people’s footprints in the sand. The deep ones reminded me of my dad’s.
Once we got past the green wall, Jerry said, “Even the gay boys check you out.”
“I don’t know why.” I looked down. I wasn’t wearing anything special: just my three-inch jean shorts sitting low on my hips, spiderweb-crocheted top with open sides, and my Levi’s pocket purse slung down my back. I guess everybody looked at my hair now because it was so long it dangled past my butt. I tossed a Fireball into my mouth.
“Is that cinnamon?” Jerry asked, leaning a little closer.
“Yeah, Fireball.” I backed away. Regardless of his faults, he was still Jerry Richmond, a sex god: six foot tall, with gleaming blue eyes that slanted just slightly over his high cheekbones. Majorly good looking. Not as pretty as Nigel but … a total babe. And totally off-limits.
“Smells good. Usually you smell like smoke.”
I was flabbergasted. “You can smell my cigarettes?” I asked.
“Yeah. Nigel calls you his little smokestack.” Then he scooped up my hair like water and held it to his face. “Yeah: smoke … and ocean … and—what is that? Prell?”
“Jeez, Jerry. What are you, some kind of bloodhound?”
“Yeah, I am. I have a very powerful sniffer.”
I thought about how my mom smelled before and after a shower. Her permanent scent was eau de Benson & Hedges, Jergens lotion, and, just like me, Prell. That was scary.
I handed Jerry my cigarettes. “I’m gonna quit,” I said.
The minute those words came out of my mouth, I regretted it. I watched him stick my Lark 100s in the back pocket of his trunks. I gave his little butt a tap, just like I did with Nigel. It was hard and round.
I thought, I can never touch this guy again. If I do, I’m asking for it. So I made up a new rule:
Keep your hands to yourself, and never touch a guy you want to be friends with.
As Jerry talked about the dangers of nicotine, my eyes wandered to a one-of-a-kind girl nearby, lying on her belly in the sand as she read a book. I read, but I’d never do it in public. She lay between two hunky guys who looked to be in their twenties—very impressive. The side of her face sparkled with suntan oil, giving her an otherworldly beauty, as if she was just visiting Earth for the afternoon. While Jerry rambled, I focused on her. Without moving, I stalked her like a jaguar scoping out its prey. She had caramel-blond hair with lots of highlights, not super long, but beautiful in the way it hung straight down to just below her shoulders.
The girl stretched, and a shiver of joy ran up my spine as I saw her muscles—not big like those of someone who swims the butterfly, but perfect and long, balanced and even. The best way to describe her was toned. Not only that, she had the kind of body every girl wants: a flat belly, narrow hips, firm legs, and a great tan.
She playfully slapped her boyfriend on the shoulder as she turned over. Then she squeezed his cheek. He looked like Mark Spitz, the Olympic swimmer, with his black hair and mustache. She had scored. But it was funny how she wiped her open palm on his arm, leaving clumps of tanning lotion fresh out of the tube. Their fingers interlocked. It wasn’t like they were holding hands; this was more intimate and precise.
The other guy with a mustache had something in his lap. Jerry did a double take. “Nani, look. Is that a rat?” I couldn’t stop him from turning me to face the group. I groaned internally. This was not the approach I wanted. He strutted past me.
“Jerry!” I squeaked. But it was too late. This was not going to be the most impressive introduction. But the two guys sat up straighter when they saw Jerry Richmond walking toward them, with his dark hair, six-pack abs, and red trunks slung low.
“What is that?” The two guys looked like meat packers, musclemen. Supermen. Not body builders, but impressive, like soldiers.
Tucked in the guy’s mighty biceps was a white teacup Chihuahua with squinty, teary eyes. It was missing teeth, and it grimaced as it looked into the bright sun. Jerry said, “Give me a break. That isn’t real.” He moved to pet him, and the dog almost took his hand off. The guys laughed.
“His name is Ringo,” one of them said. “We smuggled him onto the beach in this picnic basket.” Inside the basket was a pink pillow embroidered with the Beatles’ famous drop-T logo, and a small plastic container of water.
In the middle of the guys, the girl continued to read. Her eyes were
peacock blue, and she smelled like graham crackers. Like I said, she was r-e-a-d-i-n-g.
“Want a beer?”
“Totally,” Jerry said. They poured cold Miller into large Styrofoam cups for us. We clinked our glasses and said cheers like we were old friends.
The guy with the dog introduced himself as Pete. The other guy’s name was Adam; I guessed he was the girl’s boyfriend.
I looked down at her. “What are you reading?” I asked. She didn’t answer.
Adam pinched her and said, “Wendy,” to get her attention. But I thought he said “Windy,” like that old song by The Association.
“Windy. I like that name,” I said.
“My name is Wendy, not Windy.”
“Well, you’ll always be Windy to me,” I said, just to see what she was made of.
“And you’ll always be—” She held her palm open, waiting for me to answer.
“Nani.” Our eyes met and locked for a little too long. I thought, Right on. There was an immediate sizzle between us. Maybe Windy felt it too, because she shifted uncomfortably on her towel and went back to her book.
“Doesn’t reading in the sun hurt your eyes?” I asked. Her legs were freshly shaved, and her bathing suit was a rich shade of coral I had never seen before. I felt a push and pull between us, and I waited for her next move. She had strong SOS potential, and then some.
Pete held up Ringo. He had dressed the dog in a little terry cloth robe and hood.
“Who made the outfit?” I asked.
“I did,” said Windy. I could tell by the look on her face that she was amused. She continued, “I make my suits, too.” And then she showed off her bikini by twisting side to side, moving her hips this way and that and holding her hand up so I could admire the snug fit of her top. I felt my heart pound faster. Windy touched just below her belly button and said, “See how I put some extra elastic on the bottom so they don’t fall off in big waves?”
“Do you surf?” I asked.
“Bodysurf.”
“Yeah, she’s gone out at The Wedge,” Adam said.
“Are you insane?” I asked.
“It wasn’t that big,” Windy said, looking down at a ring on her finger and twisting it round and round, like she was slightly embarrassed.
I noticed the writing on the ring when she stopped fussing with it. It read Marymount.
“What’s your last name?” I asked.
Windy sighed and said, “Davenport.”
I knew that name. Wendy Davenport had a reputation. Rumor had it, she did something unthinkable, unbelievable, and unforgivable, and it got her thrown out of the fancy Catholic girls’ school, even though she was their number one volleyball player.
“I heard Samo High and Pali were fighting over you.”
She looked away, nodding, and said, “Where do you go?”
“Pali.”
Windy hesitated and said, “Yeah, that’s where I’m going, too.”
“I’m on the team,” I said, thrilled.
“Oh, cool.” She smiled. In the same sentence she said, “What happened?” pointing to my Band-Aid.
What was I going to tell her? My girlfriend and I made a pact to be together forever? “Nothing,” I finally said with a tight grin.
I could have sat with Windy for the rest of the day. She tossed me the book she was reading: One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey. “It’s the third time I’ve read this. My life is better when I read about someone else’s—even if it’s fiction. Check it out.”
I looked at it and handed it back to her.
“No. Read it,” she said. “Give it back to me when you’re done.”
I couldn’t carry a book down the beach. That was too uncool. So I asked her, “Can you hang on to it for me, until I come back?”
“Sure.”
That set me up perfectly for later, when I would invite her to State the next day. She was interesting, not easy, and beautiful. But protocol was protocol. I couldn’t be in too much of a hurry. It’s like foreplay: if you want to get it right, you take your time. I had to finish my beer and wrap up this meet and greet, leave, and then come back and ask her to drop by State. That’s the way it had to be done. Can’t be too fast, too easy, or too clear.
I tried not to look back as Jerry and I walked away. He was talking, but I hardly heard a word he said. All I could think about was Windy.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Other Side of the World
Music was drifting down the beach. “Layla” was the song that wouldn’t die. There it was again. Derek and the Dominos reverberating in my ears.
“How many years are they going to keep playing that song?” I asked Jerry. “I’m sick of it.”
“Why do you take things so personally?” He laughed, and he started playing air guitar and singing it to me in his awful voice. I tried not laugh.
A moment later he was jogging backward and telling me what Pete and Adam had told him. “They’re going to Morocco at the end of the summer,” he said, “to ride camels and look for dinosaur bones. Those guys got the travel bug. And they said I’ll have to run a couple miles a day to build up my stamina for the big waves in Hawaii.”
How cool, I thought. Windy’s brother and her boyfriend are buddies.
Jerry turned toward the pier and broke into a jog. “Come on, Smoky,” he yelled to me.
“Don’t call me Smoky.”
“Okay, Smoky.”
I tucked my Levi’s pocket purse in the back of my shorts and placed my necklaces, both the Saint Christopher medal from Nigel and the coral one from my dad, under my left bathing suit strap so they wouldn’t pound me in the face.
Running on sand is harder than on cement. The sand absorbed every step I took and made my calves burn almost immediately. It felt like I wasn’t getting anywhere fast, so I strayed down to the water’s edge, where the beach was firmer.
At Pali, we had to jog once around the field before volleyball practice. Our coach, Ms. Patterson, always told me to pretend I was holding a goose’s neck in both hands to keep them loose, but I also had to position my wrists on either side of my breasts to anchor them so they wouldn’t bounce. I wasn’t as well-endowed as Rox, but things had definitely changed in the last year. I was determined to keep an even stride with Jerry, and I had to concentrate on breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. No way was I going to lag behind.
When Jerry took off in a sprint, I did, too. It was a full-out race. He might have been taller, but I was fast and leaned into my stride before he ever knew what hit him. I had Jerry at first, but when he cut loose, the race was really on. We were neck and neck, just like those horses galloping to the finish line at Santa Anita. We tore through the sand, zooming around people, not stopping until we touched the huge wooden pilings that held up the pier.
He bent over, holding his knees, totally winded.
“You probably would have won,” he said, “if you didn’t smoke.”
“Maybe you’re right. Give them back.” Jerry looked stunned as I grabbed my Lark 100s and unceremoniously dumped them in the nearest trash can.
This beach attracted a different crowd than the one at State. The families who hung out here definitely did not include Malibu blonds. They were working people enjoying their day off, swimming in shorts and Tshirts. No sexy bathing suits here. They reminded me of folks on Oahu, where the money doesn’t flow easily, but families are stronger.
It was spooky under the Pier, and it smelled of rotting wood. Cars driving over wobbly planks echoed so loudly I couldn’t hear what Jerry was saying. Then we noticed the unmistakable smell of pot.
A guy in a leather jacket approached, asking if we wanted quaaludes or speed. They were the new most popular drugs. I’d heard one slowed you down, and the other one cranked you up. Jerry waved him off. I could tell he wanted me to keep moving as we passed a sailor in whites ducking away with a girl in a sequined dress. This whole place reminded me of a place back home called Hotel Street,
where guys go to get a girlfriend for an hour.
Stepping back onto the beach on the other side of the Pier, another world stretched out in front of us. I felt like a teeny speck of a girl. Looking at the sea, I felt like I really understood how massive the mainland was. Beyond Santa Monica was a succession of surfing meccas: trestles in San Onofre; Windansea in San Diego, where the great surfer Bob Simmons drowned; Mexico; then South America—and beyond that, the Panama Canal. It just went on and on—not like Oahu’s beaches that curve around the small island and end up right back where they started.
We strolled by a faded cardboard sign that read Tarot Readings. A woman in a Gypsy costume sat at a collapsible poker table. She looked like a cartoon. Who was she kidding with that patch over one eye? She pulled out a card and tried to hand it to Jerry and me: two naked pink people dancing arm in arm. “The Lovers,” she said with a thick accent.
“No,” we both insisted at the same time. The woman chuckled and pushed an offering bowl toward us. I gave her a Fireball. I didn’t want to take a chance on her jinxing me, even though I was sure she was a complete phony.
“Thank you,” she said. “You can touch my snake.” A giant albino python twisted out from under her shawl. “Don’t worry. She’s already eaten today.” The woman had a crooked finger, which she pointed at me. “You are on a slippery slope,” she said.
I charged ahead and didn’t look back. What did she know, anyway?
Past flocks of white doves, people rode bikes to a red shack with blue and yellow stripes. “What’s over there?” I asked Jerry.
“Hot Dog on a Stick. When we come back from Zephyr, I’ll turn you on to one of the best dogs in town.”
I flipped my hair so he couldn’t see that I was pissed off. Zephyr was kind of far away. Way farther than I’d wanted to go.
“Can you tell me more about Hawaii?” Jerry asked.
“I’ll think about it.” That’s all I said.
Jerry Richmond looked really surprised that I didn’t say yes. “You’re such a badass,” he said.
—
We’d hit the edge of Venice. A grassy hill led up to Bicknell and 4th, where the Zephyr store was. It used to be called Select Surf Shop, but now it was home to the notorious Z-Boys. I watched them skateboarding, zipping through orange cones only two feet apart, trying not to nick one or fall—but when they did, they’d roll down that hill like rubber balls and stand up laughing, bleeding from their elbows. Their toes were bleeding, too, and I thought that would make them slip off their skateboards, but it didn’t.