She does have massive all-natural boobs for someone so small, drawing undivided attention to the twins with bronzer and glitter. Her tan has replaced the winter white we Midwesterners have. I pull from my father’s side and have dark hair and fair skin, which tends to blister and burn if I’m not careful. Bristol has strawberry blonde hair, freckles, and green eyes, with olive skin that acquires sun in a matter of hours.
When Will hands her a red wetsuit to put on, she’s crestfallen, hands on her hips in protest. “I can’t surf in my bikini?”
“Of course…but it must go underneath your wet suit.” He finds a reason to brush a hand against her back. “This isn’t my choice.”
She pouts. “I want to get a tan.”
He turns to the small group gathered for surf lessons, but his stare’s intent on her. “Does anyone know why we wear wetsuits?”
Everyone shakes their head ‘no’, pulling on the array of colorful wetsuits.
“The fabric’s special, it’s called neoprene. It basically protects you against the elements, keeps you warm, helps avoid cuts from objects, and keeps you buoyant in the water.” Will shifts from one side to the other, playing with a woven bracelet on his wrist. “Does everyone know what buoyancy means?”
A teenage boy with braces and acne provides an answer to his question. I tune out, anxious to try something new, my bare foot tapping the sand impatiently.
Will’s voice cuts back into my thoughts as he broaches another subject, this time on the history of surfing. My sister foams at the mouth as he explains how surfing came to fruition after Lieutenant King James wrote about it in the late 1700s.
Bristol proceeds to ask a million questions as the rest of us grow fidgety. Will glances at his waterproof watch, startled at the time. “Okay, everyone, time to practice popping up and down before we hit the waves.” He motions his hand in what we learn is a ‘shaka’ sign, the universal surfing term for ‘hang loose.’
Bristol pretends to be unable to extend her thumb and pinky finger while curling her other three fingers in the palm of her hand. “Oh, I’m hopeless,” she shrugs, “I guess I can’t be good at everything.”
Will snorts, grabbing her hand and placing it in the correct position. “See...you can do it.”
Her flirtatious smile and blinking eyelids have him going gaga over her. She better cool it on the eye fucking or he’s going to think she has an eye twitch.
I try not to gag, disgusted.
“Can we start?” A younger gentleman wearing plaid boardshorts and a beer gut yells out.
“Abso-frickin-lutely. Let’s go through this one more time.” We lay our boards in the sand and start running through the motions as Will strides to each surfboard and instructs us through the positions, his sinewy arms articulating every movement.
“Does everyone fall in love with surfing?” says a boy with a Southern accent in the group. I think Mississippi, but it’s not like I’ve left Nebraska much.
“After you catch your first green wave, then yeah.” Will waits for everyone to ask what that is, so he pauses as the chorus of “what’s that mean?” and “what’s a green wave?” flood in.
Both him and the brat are attention whores, a match made in heaven.
“It’s an unbroken wave, one of the hardest parts of surfing since so much depends on the type of swell and winds.” He squints at the sun. “As soon as you have an ideal wave, you’ll keep craving it. You’ll chase it, like a dragon.”
Grinning at Bristol, she swoons with her hands strategically placed on her hips, elongating her short torso.
I have my feet planted in the sand, ready to get in the water and start putting into practice what we’ve learned about standing up and balancing on our boards.
After a couple hours with one-on-one instruction from Will as we take turns catching waves, he lets us do our own thing as his videographer films us.
Nicholas is his name. Last name Mercer. I call him Nick and he corrects me in a mild tone, he prefers Nicholas.
Another young guy, but polar opposite from Will.
He’s blonde and blue-eyed – here from southern Utah. He’s been in Hawaii going to school for the past couple years. This is his ‘room and board’ job, as he explains.
By the time our lessons have finished, Bristol and I both have a date lined up for the night.
I decide it’s in our best interest to double date.
For once, she doesn’t argue.
Looking back, I wonder if there would’ve been a different outcome if we had skipped the surfing lesson and sat at the pool all day, listening to music and reading magazines.
Would she still have disappeared?
5
Blair
As we get ready to go out, you’d think we actually like each other, our friendship blossoming again. We turn on my iPod and blare the Pussycat Dolls as I sit on the edge of the bed. Bristol applies my make-up. Her cosmetic bag weighs as much as my suitcase.
“You have such pretty eyes,” she compliments, swiping lilac eyeshadow on my lids.
“Me?” I’m surprised. “You got voted best eyes in your class.”
“Yeah, but yours are a hazel color with green flecks. They’re unique.”
“Thanks.” I give her a genuine smile.
She highlights my cheekbones with bronzer, the few days of sun giving me a nice glow, albeit still a light one since the sun hates me.
Singing along to the music, spirits high, I decide to take the sisterly bonding full-throttle and pry into her life, which I never do.
Our paths have diverged when they were once a linear path to each other. We used to share the same bed and our innermost secrets, now we’re lucky to share a moment that’s not a drag-down fight.
“You dating anyone back home?” I get the courage to ask, my voice neutral.
Her face reddens as she focuses on the rosy blush she’s about to apply. “We’re not allowed to date, remember?”
“Come on,” I purse my lips. “No one follows that.”
“You did.” She smirks. “Oh yeah, not by choice.”
“Shut up, brat.” I throw a tube of mascara at her.
“Stop moving, you’ll ruin my good work.” She raises her brows. “And it was hard enough to turn you into a swan.”
I stick my tongue out and she giggles. “Okay, okay. I’ll dish.” She smirks. “He’s a senior. He’s on the football team.”
“What position?” I ask, as if it matters. I can tell she wants to play coy but deep down wants me to care and take an interest.
“Quarterback.”
“Matt Eppley?”
“No.”
“Brad Samuels’ younger brother?”
“Nope.” She puts the brush down. “Do you really want to know?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
“Do you really care?”
“Only if he can carry the ball for a touchdown.” She taps me with the bristled brush on the forehead. “You’re such a brat.”
“No, you are.” I laugh.
“It’s P.J. McGrath.”
“Oh, I graduated with his sister, Samantha.”
“I know. She hates you.” She closes the case of blush. “Why does she?”
“Because she was popular and I wasn’t?” I guess.
“True.” She raises a brow. “Looks like you came out of your shell since college though.”
I nod my head in agreement. High school had been rough for me. I wasn’t a jock, wasn’t a nerd, wasn’t gifted at an instrument or academically inclined.
Average.
I was average.
Which is worse than being bad.
You’re remembered for winning or excelling.
Hated if you lose or fail.
But being in the middle means you are invisible.
“Do you know where you want to go to college?” I stand up, brushing the flyaway powder particles off the cream duvet cover.
“I might just stay in town.” She heads to the mirror to
focus on her own make-up application.
“What?” I make eye contact with her in the reflection.
“Yeah, I think P.J. and I are going to get married.” I assume she’s kidding by her straight face.
“You’re seventeen. You’re kidding, right?” I remind myself to give her some slack or she’ll clam up and stop talking, reverting back to her hormone-driven moods.
She shakes her head, fumbling for an eyeshadow in the cloth make-up bag she carries everywhere. “Mom and Dad got married at nineteen...”
“Why would you do that?”
“I’m not.” She leers at me. “I’m going to join a sorority and be just like you.” Her eyes roll in the mirror.
“Whatever.” I thrust my hands on my hips.
“Don’t worry, I plan to leave, if Mom will let me.” Her eyes close as she swipes the small brush across the creases of her lids. “I can work at the church in the office and save money until P.J. and I can get our own place.”
“Why couldn’t you move out?”
“Mom keeps mentioning me staying at home, going to community college and helping with Isaiah.” Franklin Community College is thirty miles away, a thirty-minute commute. Flat stretch of road, and it means she can stay put without wasting money on an apartment.
“Isaiah?” I’m stumped.
“The toddler they're adopting.”
“They’re adopting a child?” I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. “Since when? And why didn't anyone tell me?”
“You don’t live at home.” She shrugs. “I thought they had. It’s not like it’s a big secret.”
I stomp to the phone, dialing my father’s cell number.
He answers on the second ring.
“Hi darling daughter, how are you?” He’s in a good mood, jovial.
I’m not.
“You’re bringing a child home and didn't bother to tell me?” I pout. “Why do you always act like I’m not part of this family?”
“Your mother did talk to you about it.”
“No, she didn’t. I'd remember if a child just happened to ‘join’ our family. That’s not a convo you just forget.” I know my father longed to have a boy but instead got two girls.
But he had never seemed to mind.
“That’s why your mother and I took a trip now – since the little boy’s in Iowa, we have to finalize the adoption process when we get back.”
I’m quiet, my brain going into overdrive.
“Blair, Isaiah’s a child with no stability and in need of a better situation than he has – a child that has no control of his circumstances except a druggie mother who gave birth to him when she was fourteen. It’s the right thing to do.” He’s collected. “Can you understand our position?”
I say nothing.
“Blair...”
“Put Mother on,” I demand.
For once, he doesn’t chastise my tone.
“Hi Blair...” my mother’s voice trails off.
I repeat the same offense.
“You don’t live at home.” She’s nonplussed. “Go back to your vacation and stop trying to ruin ours.”
“Bullshit.”
"I told your sister we would pay for her tuition if she helped with Isaiah. Daddy has a lot on his plate with running the farm and you’re in Omaha doing God knows what, a seven-year plan to nowhere.”
“Since when did college become a waste of time?”
“When you decided to attend and use it as an excuse to party.” She’s agitated. “I’m hanging up now.”
The phone goes dead, the annoying static blaring in my ear.
I slam the phone down, disgusted.
Mother never suggested they help with my tuition. I couldn’t get scholarship money because I’m an average student. They filled out the financial aid forms, but that’s where the buck stopped.
Yet they want to bring another child home to raise.
“Bitch,” I mutter.
When my parents talked to us about abstinence, these were the kind of stories they would point out as proof that having sex resulted in dire consequences. My mother forewarned that if I was to ever have a baby as an unwed teen mother, she would not be supporting it.
Yet Isaiah’s from a teenage mother. Go figure.
My sister’s trying to defuse the situation, hearing my end of the conversation.
“I’m not ruling out a state school. Might be fun to join you. You’ll be a junior, so at least I’d have two years with you.” Her eyelids are now a luminescent shade of coral, not too bright, the color bringing out the green. ‘Unless you’re on the ten-year plan.” She gives me a sly look.
“We could buy a car and share it,” I suggest, watching her line her rims with a charcoal pencil.
“Yeah, maybe. I don’t want to rule anything out. I’ll apply there and see what happens.”
“What about your dream of becoming a fashion designer?” I reach for her prized necklace, the one she’s trying to clasp back on her neck, the letter “B”.
We both have one, a Christmas present from my father my freshman year of college.
He took pride in gifting them to us, enjoying the pleasant look of surprise on our faces. They’re from an actual jewelry store, not the teen one in the mall that sells cheap merchandise that turns your skin green.
The small velvet box was wrapped in white and gold paper and tied with a bow. We were instructed to open them at the same time, my father glowing proudly as he saw our faces light up.
It was the most expensive present we’ve ever received. My parents say Christmas is about helping those in need – our focus should be on families in the community that need donations.
I connect the delicate gold chain, adjusting it so the ‘B’ sits in the hollow of her clavicle, the small indent, the pit of her neck. She only takes the necklace off if she’s in the water, removing it right before our surf lesson. I didn’t bring mine on this trip, leaving it in my jewelry box at the sorority house. My roommate Shay’s trustworthy, or at least she’s proven to be so far.
Her eyes drift up to mine. “Mom says that’s impossible and I should focus on church, meeting a man, getting married, and finding a stable job.”
“But is that what you want?” I gather her hair behind her, making sure it’s not caught in the necklace.
“Look, I know you and Mom fight a lot and don’t have the best relationship. She loves you and even though she’s harder on you, it’s because she knows you need more pushing.”
“Why do I need more pushing?” I bite my lip, trying not to show my annoyance.
“Because you’re lazy.”
“I am not.”
“You are. You have potential but don’t use it.” She turns to face me. “Blair, you can do so much, but you lack the focus.”
“What do you know anyway? You’re just a baby.” I don’t want to discuss my shortcomings anymore, so I tease.
“Shut up.” She kicks a bare foot out at me, catching me lightly in the knee. She’s wearing a white fluffy robe, the ones the hotels provide for your comfort.
“Well, don’t throw your dreams away on account of anyone.”
A decade later, I wish I could heed my own advice.
6
Blair
She changes the subject. “Can I borrow your plaid mini-skirt?”
“Okay, Avril.” I reference the rocker chick, Avril Lavigne, notorious for her standard uniform of short skirts and skater girl attire. “What’re you wearing on top?”
“White tank that I’m gonna twist in a knot at the bottom.” She grins. “Gotta make it sexy.”
“What should I wear?”
She tilts her head at me, wanting to give advice. Clothing’s her specialty.
“What about the baby blue satin halter top and your short shorts, the white ones?” She winks. “I’ll put some loose curls in your hair.”
“What’re you doing with yours?”
“Keeping it straight. Maybe even borrow your clip-in e
xtension so I can have a pink streak in the front.” She shrugs. “If that’s okay.”
I’m shocked. She’s never acted interested in having a contrast in her hair between the hot pink and blonde. She’s straight-laced and conforms to the standard norms.
“Yeah, sure, no problem.” I point to the hair piece. “It just snaps in.”
She giggles. “You know Mom will kill me if I dye my hair.”
I pull our shared curling iron out of the tote bag in the closet. As I’m plugging it in, she yells across the room. “Have you finally had sex?”
I blush crimson. “Maybe.” My hands focus on unwrapping the cord and pressing the ON button.
“That’s a no...why not?”
“I haven’t met anyone I like.” I stare down at the slate-colored plastic, watching the red light flash. When it’s ready, it stays a consistent red instead of intermittent blinks.
“You’re gorgeous – you have lots of opportunity. I figured you did it with Dillon Penski when you dated him.” She’s referencing my first real boyfriend my freshman year of college. He was the same age, awkward and gangly, his head filled with calculus numbers and wet dreams.
“Nah, third base.” I watch her drop her robe and slide into a pair of black lace thongs, more risqué than anything I own. “Wait, have you had sex with P.J.?”
“Maybe…” Her voice trails off.
“Why go out with Will tonight if you two are together?” I’m confused. My sister is the nun of our family behind Daddy, or so she pretends.
She volunteers every week at the nursing home in town, teaches Sunday school to the Pre-K class, and helps with fundraisers at our high school.
“I want to have some fun.” She wiggles her fingers to prove a point. “Will’s so hot and we’re on vacation. Who knows when we will have this opportunity again? Plus, I need something to compare it to.” She acts as if this is the most logical answer and I’m stupid for asking.
Walking over to the closet, I pull her clothing choices for me out.
“Fine, then let’s make a pact. Whatever happens tonight stays between us.” I step into my white cotton shorts and pale blue halter.
Into the Night Page 4
