by Lisa Freeman
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not, and don’t you ever say that disgusting word around me again.”
“Lesbian. Lesbian. Lesbian. Lesbian. Lesbian!”
“You’re so gross!”
Rox kicked over my dad’s bike, and the soup went spilling into the driveway.
“I don’t want to go to Fiji anymore,” I said.
“Only I decide that.”
“No, you don’t.” I froze her. And then I said, “You may be right. We’re not lesbians. And since you don’t want Jerry anymore …”
“Don’t you dare.”
I jumped on my bike and kicked up some dust. Like headlights on a dark highway, Rox’s eyes lit up the night—she was that pissed. She went off like a pinball machine, banging around in the same place—ricocheting DING, DING, DING, DING. I had stuck it to her.
“I’m going to follow your order,” I called back at her, all happy, “and not let him out of my sight!”
As I rode home, I thought of her waking up next to Scotty and how she would kiss him, parting her lips slow, then hard, against his. I wanted to scream. How could Rox fall for a guy like that? How could she leave me and Jerry?
And that’s when it really hit me: Jerry Richmond was all I had left of Rox.
II
July 8–August 4, 1973
Thunder Moon
PUT BAD TIMES BEHIND YOU.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Birds and the Bees
Sitting on the beach, I looked at the empty space on my right and tried not to think about Rox. It had been two weeks, but I still felt shell-shocked.
I forced myself to think of something wonderful, and Windy was the first thing that came to mind—even though I still had no clue how to find her. You know, I don’t like fairy tales or rhymes, but despite that, I got into reading Through the Looking-Glass at 3:10 a.m. the night before. Maybe just because it was Windy’s pick. And also because I liked the way Lewis Carroll checked his readers into another world filled with magical creatures.
When I got to the chapter in the garden with the talking flowers and the bossy Red Queen, I again tried not to think of Rox. I had been her pawn. I wished I could shake Rox into a sweet, little kitten like Alice did with the Red Queen. But I wasn’t going to let any waterworks drip over her.
The world had changed so much since I had last seen her. David Bowie announced that he was never going to perform Ziggy Stardust again, and Tom Bradley had become the first black man to be elected mayor of Los Angeles. Jerry and I went jogging every day, and it was a lot easier now that I wasn’t smoking. Lots of girls had come by as recruits, but the lineup had nixed them all. The Topangas and the SOS were five and five. But still, I was in no mood to recruit, until the gossipy Mary Jo brought up rumors about Windy to the lineup.
It happened when we were swimming out to the buoy. She was backstroking and suddenly swam over to me. “Do you know why she got expelled from Marymount?” she said. “She was kissing a girl.”
“There’s no way that’s true,” I told them. “I met her boyfriend. His name is Pete, and he’s, like, twenty, buff, and has a mustache.” I lengthened my stroke and glided toward Jenni and Lisa. It was kind of ironic: the Funny Kine girl defending the non-Funny Kine girl.
When we got back to our towels, somebody picked up a copy of the Palisadian Post that had been left as trash. On the second page, it said that Wendy Davenport was transferring to Palisades High and entering the eleventh grade in September. It said she was such a great volleyball player that she would almost surely be starting on the varsity lineup.
What a weird coincidence. The whole lineup took it as a sign.
And that’s when it hit me: If the State lineup was also the volleyball lineup, we could turn the Pali High Dolphins into she-heroes. I liked the idea of the lineup becoming a team instead of just a bunch of beach babes. Then we’d have a purpose that went beyond getting tans and watching our hair get lighter. We could be winners. With the way I set, Windy’s notorious spikes, and Mary Jo throwing herself at every ball low to the ground, we could totally dominate.
Especially with the two towering six-footers on the team, our impenetrable blockers. I called them the No-Fly Zone. Michelle and Mindy were like twins, even though they weren’t related. I knew that guys called them something else, something awful. They called them the Double Baggers because they weren’t pretty. But to me, Michelle and Mindy were goddesses because they were Amazon-strong.
Jenni said, “Wendy Davenport is like a prodigy.”
“What’s that?” Baby asked.
I told her, “A prodigy is somebody really young who can do things better than adults. Like Mozart.”
“Who’s Mozart?”
Lisa jumped in. “He’s this guy who lives in Malibu.” Jenni laughed. They were the perfect team. Lisa made the jokes, and Jenni laughed at them.
These rulers were getting way too predictable, and I didn’t like them teasing Baby. She couldn’t help it if things went over her head.
I had never had a little sister, but I had heard that they require a great deal of patience. Baby moved her towel between Lisa’s and Jenni’s. She gathered us into a small circle. I thought she was going to ask more about Mozart, but she said, “Since you guys know so much, I’ve got to ask you something. My mom told me not to do it with a guy, or even ask her about ‘it,’ until my honeymoon night.”
“Ask about what?” Mary Jo said.
“You know. Losing my virginity. My mom said men are supposed to do it a lot to practice before they get married. But girls are just supposed to kiss. So when men get a virgin to marry, they know what to do to make the virgin feel comfortable on her honeymoon.”
Lisa and Jenni weren’t even trying to keep a straight face—but Baby was serious.
Before the laughter got out of hand, I said, “You know, I heard the same thing.” Somebody had to come to Baby’s defense.
I was surprised when Jenni joined the conversation. Lately, she had been hinting that something might “happen” between her and Coco. She seemed to be on a permanent high—downright giddy. So I wasn’t too surprised that she eagerly explained, in great detail, how to have “intercourse.”
When she finished, Baby looked like she might throw up. But out of curiosity, I wanted to know if Jenni was following the rule:
Don’t sleep with a guy until he’s officially your boyfriend.
So I asked, “Jenni, do you still have your V card?”
“Oh, yeah,” she said reassuringly. “I just got all that info from this book The Joy of Sex. My parents had it hidden. Those little drawings in it tell a b-i-i-i-g story. Nothing like the sex-ed Disney cartoons we watched in fifth grade.”
“Oh, I remember those,” Lisa chimed in. “Jiminy Cricket said, ‘Hey, boys and girls.’” She imitated his squeaky little voice. “‘Let’s talk about your bodies.’ Then he danced and flung himself around.”
I didn’t see those cartoons in Hawaii. After Bambi’s mother died, I never wanted to see another Disney movie in my life. For sex education I got old Mrs. Kobayashi, who talked about the birds and the bees, flowers and pollination.
Jenni continued, “I love the way the princesses talked about not going horseback riding or exercising too hard when you have your period. Then the teacher showed us what a menstrual pad and belt looked like.”
“Scary,” Lisa said.
Mouthy Mary Jo latched on to Jenni and asked, “Can you bring that sex book to the beach sometime?”
Jenni didn’t dignify her with an answer.
Baby turned to me. “How old were you when you had your first real kiss?”
I wasn’t going to tell her last year, so I wove another mini braid down the back of her hair and changed the subject.
The VPMs were playing concussion ball—like football, but rougher. There were no goal lines or end zones; it was just tackling and hitting. It hurt just to watch them, and they didn’t stop until someone had to hobble away.
Jerry had been hanging out with them because they idolized him. He was like the Che Guevara of surfing, a revolutionary do-or-die type. Even on land, Jerry Richmond was always in motion, unburdened by day-to-day things like getting a job. He was a Taurus, so he liked risk and uncertainty.
That’s why girls adored him. Of course, I wasn’t one of them. I had just said I was to hurt Rox. Jerry and I were friends. Just. Good. Friends.
I knew love was a dangerous thing, like the ocean. Most people don’t understand this, and if they did they’d be really cautious before jumping into it. Think of it this way: Nāmaka is a sea goddess—not a playground but a giant entity with a mind of her own, foamy and bubbly, turbulent and surging. The fishermen back home use her traditional name, Namakaokahahi, and they have a rule: don’t get near a woman when she’s angry, or the ocean when she’s stormy. State’s ocean wasn’t stormy on the top, but she sure was underneath. Kind of like me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Party in the Palisades
We had been recruiting for almost a month, but the only potential SOS besides Baby was Julie Saratoga, who had been sitting in our guest spot. Let me tell you: she had charisma. Mojo in her stride. She smoked Shermans, which are brown cigarettes that look like long, skinny cigars. They were dark and mysterious—just like Julie. She had a body that impressed us all, too. She wasn’t thin, but she wasn’t fat. She was lush.
Julie Saratoga was from Ventura, a small, sleepy beach town up north, and she used to hang out with the Raw Surf Commandos at C Street. They were the only ones who could coexist with the town’s large community of Hells Angels. She wore a straw hat that went with the pink in the chevron design of her bikini, and a hip-long macramé purse, the kind with beads jingling on the tassels.
Word of mouth was, her boyfriend had just broken up with her. So she was single and sort of temporarily misplaced. That happens to girls when they get dumped. They realize they spent so much time with the guy that they lost all their girlfriends. What interested me about Julie was how unfazed she was about going solo. That’s something you can’t fake, but here’s the rule:
Never give up your friends for a guy, because you’ll need them someday.
Julie was going to hang with us later at the VPMs’ big party at Coco’s house. We’d know pretty fast if she was ready for the big time.
Lisa and Jenni put her to the test by making her tell the Topangas the wrong address. Julie confided in me, rather pleased with herself. “I gave them the address in Kenter Canyon. Lisa told me they won’t know it’s the principal of Pali’s house until they ring the bell or sneak around the back. Either way, they’ll miss the party.” She had a funny, high laugh that was contagious. I really hoped we could keep her.
I was determined to have fun tonight. Here’s how I did it: I put on extra Whiplash mascara (the kind Alice Cooper wears) and lip gloss with a tinge of red. And this was the really extreme part: at a garage sale the week before, I had gotten Jerry a top hat and myself a black ostrich-feather boa. I wore that boa like I was Marlene Dietrich. I wanted to be a cabaret girl with garter belts over my bikini, but I knew the Palisades wasn’t ready for that yet. So I went for my signature look: a blouse, unbuttoned and tied, matching suede hot pants, pale pink socks that went over my knees, and three-inch platforms. Once I put on my thick, black eyeliner, I felt like an exotic bird.
I wanted to show Jerry Richmond that I could be on time without wearing a watch. Long before his van pulled up to 33 Sage, I sat on the steps, legs crossed, leaning to one side, like I was bored and had been there for hours. When Jerry arrived and saw me, he drove the van up over the curb and started howling like a wolf.
“What?” I said.
“What?!” he said back.
“What?”
“I kind of want to make out with you; you look so hot,” he said matter-of-factly.
The truth was, I would have gladly stuck my tongue into his mouth, but I didn’t—even though he looked as pretty as a girl.
I surprised him with the top hat and he stuck it on his head. He pulled it right off again, but I flashed all my pearly whites and said, “Leave it on. You look so cute.” He was all clean and silky, no sand between his toes, wearing dry, navy-blue trunks and an open tuxedo shirt with ruffles down the front. He leaned toward me like he wanted to kiss, but I just looked out the window and played snotty.
“Not an option,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Of course we listened to T. Rex: “Electric Warrior,” “Telegram Sam,” and “Children of the Revolution,” which was my favorite.
He shifted over again and asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to make out?”
He was such a pain in the ass. I had to change the subject, so as we passed Marquez Elementary, I said, “Bet you didn’t know there was a really powerful Mexican family named Marquez, who owned everything from the Palisades to Santa Monica. They were proud, and now their relatives live totally unrecognized in the Canyon.”
It was the same exact story as in Hawaii, just different names. Once-powerful families who couldn’t get anyone to pay attention to or hire them. Before Jerry left for Hawaii, I would make a point to teach him about Queen Emma, the last Queen Lili‘uokalani, and King David Kalākaua the Merrie Monarch, who brought hula back.
“Are you suuure?” Jerry gave me a couple winks and a goofy grin.
“Did you know Pico Boulevard was named after Pío Pico, who was the last Mexican governor? And Sepulveda was named after Don Francisco Sepúlveda?”
How do you know all this?” he asked.
“I go to class.” That made him laugh—actually more of a chuckle. He barely made a sound. His smile was so beautiful it made me slouch forward to get a better look.
I could see why he unhinged Rox. He was totally genuine. In the rearview mirror, the scattered lights of the city flickered below. There was something beautiful and serendipitous about all of this. I could have just driven around with him for the rest of night.
“Hey!” he said, thumbing the steering wheel. “Is there a Señor Lachman, too?” he said, pointing to the Lachman Lane street sign. He was making fun of me. That’s what happens when girls are smart and know something guys don’t. He was back to his annoying self. I let it roll right past me. At least he didn’t want to kiss me anymore.
Then, out of nowhere, he said, “You know, it had never been better with Rox. Now all this.”
I could have said the exact same thing. As awful as she was, I missed waking up looking into her eyes. I bet he did, too. I wondered if she let him put oil on her hands or if he kissed her slowly, like I did. Did they tell each other their dreams? I doubted it. Jerry cranked the music. It’s funny: I never thought Rox and I were two-timing him. I didn’t see it that way because we were girls.
The van kept chugging up the steep, winding road. It was pitch black. Jerry had to put on the brights. He told me, “We’re looking for a carport and a flat, white roof.”
“They all look that way,” I said. Then, luckily, we smelled pot wafting down Lachman as we rolled into a traffic jam. Vans were double-parked, and there were guys with towels over their shoulders and dripping wet hair walking in the middle of the road. There must be a pool. Obviously I had my bikini in my Levi pocket purse, along with a few Fireballs. That was a rule.
Jerry clapped his hands. “I hope they’re playing Rod Stewart tonight.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because maybe then you’ll get up on a table and go into a hula craze again. That was so hot.”
I would never live down that night at the McBrides when Mary Jo dosed me with Blue Cheer, a.k.a. LSD. It gave me a one-of-a-kind reputation, but it wasn’t something I would ever do again.
“Hula is not some girly show to turn guys on,” I snapped at him. “It’s a prayer, a sacred story, and a way to live life. It has mana, spirit—energy.”
“You know what?” he said. “I still want to make out with you.”
“How can I teach you any
thing if you keep acting like a sex-crazed mental?” I banged the dashboard.
“Hey, watch the van!” Jerry said.
“Nigel won’t mind if I dent it up a little bit.” I hit it again.
“Okay, okay, you never have to do the hula for me. It’s okay.”
I had to accept that Jerry Richmond was a typical surfer. I couldn’t expect too much.
“Stop the van,” I told him. I jumped out, slamming the door. “I’ll see you in there.”
I merged into a flow of people walking toward the party house. It was small, but sort of stately with its well-manicured lawn, perfectly even hedges, and pretty, little daisies. Mary Jo stood on the roof directing traffic in just her bikini and cowboy boots. The VPMs sat next to her. Their bare feet dangled past the rain gutter as they shared a joint.
Mary Jo pointed to a girl below and called out, “Looks like she’s gonna hurl!” Whenever somebody threw up this early, you knew it was going to be a good party. Too bad it was always a girl with long hair.
The VPMs handed Mary Jo a bucket of water balloons. It’s not very heroic to throw that stuff at defenseless people, but I never claimed Mary Jo was a hero. She started chucking them at anybody without a tan. People scattered. I ducked out of the way, but the two girls in front of me, wearing leather-patched miniskirts, weren’t so lucky.
They screamed as Mary Jo soaked them.
“Alriiight. It’s a party,” Lord Ricky shouted. I hated how he stretched out each word he said like it was sooo important.
I had somehow found myself standing all alone next to him and his psychopathic friends. It looked like a pool man’s convention. I call these scrappy old guys “Hunters.” They like to look at women through peepholes and come to parties in search of underage girls. This party was a mecca for that: there were young girls everywhere.
They immediately formed a circle around me. Someone struck a match. I didn’t recognize any of them except for Lord Ricky, who identified me as the girl from Hawaii. That’s when I remembered the rule:
