I’m wearing a sports bra, so I strip off my tank and slide off my shoes and throw both in a pile along with my backpack. I feel Lincoln’s gaze on me. I duck my head and fiddle with the zipper on my bag to hide my flushed cheeks. Growing up on the beach, I’ve had to deal with a lot of unwanted stares, but Lincoln’s stare isn’t exactly unwanted. Also, I’ve been not-so-subtly gawking at his chest since he took off his shirt, and honestly I don’t mind him doing the same.
I finish fiddling with my bag and stand, watching the person in front of me jump off the cliff and into the open air, hearing them crash into the water beneath us. I step forward and grab the rough rope as it comes swinging back to the cliff. I turn to Lincoln. “So I just take this and jump, right? I’m not missing some safety precaution that will lead to my imminent death?”
“That’s it,” Lincoln says. “Trust me. I’ve jumped from here a lot, and I can assure you that death has occurred exactly zero times.”
“Okay.” I inch toward the ledge, letting my bare feet dig into the pebbled dirt. The drop seems a lot higher when I’m glancing straight down. Like a lot higher. Like maybe-this-is-a-really-fucking-unwise-idea higher. But the water is beautiful and clear and looks deliciously cold. “Fuck it,” I say. Then I back up, run, and jump.
As soon as my feet leave the ground and I’m swinging into the air, I release the rope and scream with sheer joy. Wind rushes past my ears, and once again I experience that unfiltered adrenaline that only comes with doing something a little bit reckless. I slam into the water with a giant splash, and instead of coming up for air immediately, I stay under, relishing what it feels like to be cut off from everything else. I crack open my eyes to swirling blue and imagine that when I break the surface, the Santa Cruz coast will welcome me home.
But then my lungs say enough, and I rise to the surface, breathing in the fresh but Nebraskan air. I crane my neck to locate Lincoln at the top of the cliff. It’s hard to see his face clearly, but I have a feeling he’s smiling right along with me. For a moment, I think of Eric and my last night at home, surfing in the nude and smiling at each other in sheer joy. Only two weeks buffer that moment from this one, yet this feels so real and the other like a dream.
“Nice job!” Lincoln shouts. “You good?”
I give him two giant thumbs-ups. “Definitely good!” I yell. I lean back and float in the water for a few peaceful seconds before I run back up the cliff to jump in again.
• • •
Two hours later, I’m soaked and exhausted and happy.
Lincoln and I took so many turns running up the cliff and jumping that I lost count, and the exertion has left us both hungry.
Ravenous.
Starving, actually.
The kind of hungry where your stomach wants to eat itself.
“Come on.” Lincoln gathers his things. “I know a perfect spot.”
“What’s wrong with this one?” I ask, already digging into my backpack for one of the sandwiches.
“Nothing. I just know a better one.”
Resisting the urge to chow down right here, I follow him once more through the woods, traveling down a gradual decline. My sneakers, tied around my bag, knock into the backs of my blissfully sore legs as we walk. The twigs and pebbles on the path remind me of the shell-sprinkled sand. Instinctually, I glance at the path for a sea marble but of course find none. A cool wind whips through the trees, drying my drenched sports bra and shorts. Eventually we come to a second clearing by the river, but this one is much smaller, secluded. I can no longer hear people shouting and splashing into the water.
We settle down onto the muddy riverbank. I flip over my skateboard to use as an unsanitary serving platter, then set out the sandwiches and water bottles. As I reach into my bag to dig out a final sandwich, I check my phone. There are messages from two people—Emery and Eric. Emery sent another picture of the boys. I hesitate before deciding not to open Eric’s message. I can read it later. It’s not like responding instantly will close the many miles between us.
“Ah, man. I wish these were bánh mì Spams,” Lincoln says as I unwrap one of the PBJs and bite into it.
“You wish they were what?”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Lincoln says, midbite, somehow talking while chewing without making it seem disgusting. “Peanut butter and jelly is great, but I’m just really craving some bánh mì Spam.” I give him another questioning look, so he sets down his sandwich and says, “Okay, I told you my dad is Vietnamese, right? So one of his favorite things to eat are bánh mì. Think of a baguette but better and filled with cilantro, cucumber, jalapeño, pickled carrots, and whatever kind of meat you want. And my mom is like deep Midwesterner American, and she loves Spam. Put the two together and you’ve got bánh mì Spam sandwiches. We used to eat them on road trips all the time because Spam doesn’t need refrigeration.”
“Sounds…interesting?” I say.
“Interesting? Try amazing. I’ll make you one someday. You’ll see.”
I chew over Lincoln’s words: I’ll make you one someday. Lincoln plans on hanging out with me again. My cheeks heat. Eric’s message is in my bag, but I’m in an entirely different reality. And for all I know, at this exact moment, Eric might be sharing fried cod sandwiches at the Shak with another girl, like our kiss never happened. And maybe it shouldn’t have happened because now a constant in my life has turned into a variable.
Life would be easier with less variables.
I look back at my sandwich, then to Lincoln. “Do you come here a lot?”
“I try to, but Austin prefers the skate park, and younger siblings have this habit of always getting their way.”
I think of dinner last night when Emery, despite her bad mood, relented and let the boys have the last two slices of pizza. I’m only here for the summer—Emery has been sacrificing pizza slices for nine years now. “I like it here.” I lean back, propping myself up with one hand, while keeping the other clean to eat my sandwich. “It’s nice, peaceful.”
“Yeah, I love the skate park, but nothing really beats pure Mother Nature.”
“Agreed—surfing is always better early morning or late at night. Empty beaches, empty breaks.” I take another bite of my sandwich. “Thanks for today,” I tell Lincoln. “It was…well, it was perfect. I really needed it.”
He glances at me, squinting in the sun. “I’m glad you had fun. You weren’t half-bad on that rope swing either.”
“Not half-bad? I was better than you.”
“You were so not better than me!”
“Oh, yes I was.”
“Anise, sweet Anise, I’m working with the one-armed handicap, and I was still leagues better than you. Just accept the facts.”
My gaze flickers to his missing arm, and this time ingrained manners can’t keep me from asking, “How did you… I mean, why do you only… Well…” I have a sneaking suspicion he always knows how I’m going to embarrass myself before I do it.
“Just ask, Anise. I don’t mind. I’d rather people ask than awkwardly avoid the topic. I was friends with this one guy for a solid two months—we hung out almost every day—and he never said a thing until one afternoon we were playing basketball outside his house and he just blurted out, Dude, did you know you only have one arm?”
I grin, but I’m still uncomfortable. I pick at the remains of my sandwich, flicking the crumbs to the ground, avoiding his gaze. “Okay, hopefully I’m not as bad as that.” I pause. “Lincoln, why do you only have one arm?”
“Zombie attack.”
“Come on, really.”
“Secret Service op.”
“Lincoln.”
He repositions himself, pulling one leg to his body and tucking his head on top of his knee. “Ever heard of ABS?” he asks. I shake my head. “Amniotic Band Syndrome. When I was a fetus, amniotic bands wrapped around my upper arm and cut off the bloo
d supply. Most of the arm was necrotic, you know, dead, at birth, so they amputated it.” He takes a swig of water and looks out toward the river. “Sometimes doctors can fix ABS in utero, but that would require the mother see a doctor during the pregnancy.”
The way he says the mother makes my skin feel tight. He plays with the leftover plastic wrap from his sandwich, his ever-present grin disappearing. I have so many questions for him, but I’m scared if I ask him, he’ll have questions for me too. And if he shares the story of his mother, I’ll have to share the story of mine.
So instead I simply say, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
We pick at the pebbles around us, haphazardly skipping them into the river. The gentle water sounds remind me of calm ocean days, lounging in the shallows of the water, soaking my feet with my friends by my side. It’s the longest period of silence I’ve ever spent with Lincoln, yet it’s as comfortable as the constant chatter.
My phone beeps. I slip it out of my bag. Another text from Emery of Nash sleeping on one of the park benches. Hopefully he didn’t do anything too ridiculous to wear himself out. “Crap,” I tell Lincoln. “It’s almost four. We should probably get going.”
“Sounds good,” he says. “Think you’ve got enough energy in you to skate back?”
“Do I have any other choice?” I ask.
“Nope.” He grins.
“Then I guess I do.” I smile. “In fact, I think I have enough energy to race you there.”
• • •
By the time we get to the skate park, we’re sticky with sweat. The park is almost empty, since most kids have gone home for dinner. I focus on a somewhat surprising sight—Emery and Austin sitting next to each other on a bench, sharing a pair of earbuds.
They look peculiar yet perfect together—Emery in her bright summer dress and sandals and Austin in his black and chains and Vans. Their heads are bent toward each other as they laugh and talk without pause.
“Huh,” I say.
Lincoln also watches them. “Being a ladies’ man is in the Puk genetic code.”
“You’re both adopted.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Nature. Nurture. Po-tay-toe. Po-tah-toe.”
Before we can continue to stare at Emery and Austin, Parker and Nash rush over in an excited fury. Nash jumps off his board and flings himself at me, almost toppling me to the ground with a colossal hug.
“Whoa there!” I catch him and hug him back. “Is everything okay? What’s this affection for?”
“Nothing.” He wipes his hands on his shorts. “You’re sticky.”
“Guess what?” Parker asks.
“What?”
“Austin taught us how to noseslide!” He looks down at his skateboard. “Do you want to see?”
“I definitely want to see. Go on and show me before we head home.”
Parker and Nash high five each other, and then Nash waves at Austin. “Come watch!” With the whole earbud/Emery situation, Austin must not hear him, so Nash starts to call again.
“Hey, how about you just show me and Lincoln? Private viewing, okay?”
Nash shrugs his shoulders. “Okay.”
“What’s a noseslide?” I whisper to Lincoln as we join the boys by a long, empty bench.
“I’ll teach you if you want.”
I roll my eyes. “Maybe next time.”
We stand next to each other, watching as the boys prepare for their trick by doing a few calisthenics that look straight out of an ’80s workout video. Lincoln’s right shoulder brushes against mine. We watch the boys grind across the bench with just the nose of their boards, the rattling wood against metal, and I pretend not to notice—but a million percent notice—as the tips of Lincoln’s fingers graze against mine.
Nine
It rains for the first three days of July. Fat droplets hail down, beating the house without reprieve, the sun hidden beneath thick, gray clouds. My mom once showed up in a storm like this, breezing through the front door, past our shocked faces, oblivious as she dripped water onto the wooden floors. Sometimes, during a particularly loud clap of thunder, I think I hear the doorbell, and my stomach clenches as I picture her on the stoop, soaking wet and with a smile I’ll be too angry to return. Or even worse, sometimes I imagine the same thing, but I return the smile.
I wonder if she really meant it when she said she’d visit this summer, or if the thought flitted through her mind, as temporary as the water dripping down the living room windows. I try to imagine her here as a teenager, grieving the death of her mom, watching rain pour down through this exact view. Why was she so determined to leave this house, her family?
Back home, rainy days equal TV marathons with my best friends. We splay out on couches and binge watch the latest season of our favorite show. Here, rainy days equal being stuck inside with three kids, my foot constantly jiggling up and down from excess energy.
“Want to play?” Parker asks. I look away from the window to where he’s on the floor playing a video game. I’m lying on the couch, intermittently watching the rain and thumbing through my favorite parts of a Detective Dana novel, trying to find the section where she breaks her own suspect out of jail to solve a murder.
Emery is in her room, where she’s spent the past few days. I check on her every few hours and am usually greeted with a blank face and an “I’m fine” or a “No, I’m not hungry” or a “No, I don’t know where Nash hid all the batteries from the remotes and smoke detectors.”
She says she’s fine. But she still won’t talk about what happened with her friends. I told myself I’d tell Aunt Jackie about the situation if Emery hadn’t cracked by now, but the problem is there technically isn’t a situation. She’s not crying. She’s not trying to harm herself. There aren’t any bullying threats in the mail (or on any of her social media accounts, at least not publicly, and yes, I stalked her online to check). I want to protect her, but I also don’t want to blow the situation out of proportion or betray her trust if it’s unnecessary. So I’ll give it a couple more days. A couple more days can’t hurt, right?
I shake my head at Parker. “No video games for me. What about Nash?” As I ask the question, I look around the room and discover why it’s been so quiet. Nash isn’t here. “Parker, where is your—”
A piercing scream comes from the backyard.
I throw my book to the side and jump to my feet. “Stay here,” I tell Parker. I’m not sure why. Instinct kicks in, and it just seems like the right thing to say.
I yank open the sliding glass door and rush outside into the beating rain. Heart pounding, throat thick, I scan the backyard for Nash but don’t see him in the downpour. Then another noise follows, this time more of a whimper. “Shit, shit, shit,” I mumble, my stomach knotting because the whimper comes from the empty pool. I run to the edge, push away my dread, and look inside. Nash is crouched in the middle of the concrete pit, helmet askew, holding his leg.
“Crap, fuck, crap, crap,” I curse, sitting down on the ledge of the pool and dropping in, my bare feet almost slipping on the rain-slicked surface. “Nash, are you okay?” I rush over and squat beside him in the stagnant half inch of sludgy water. “Let me see your leg.”
“I’m sorry,” he whimpers. His tears mix with the rain. “I wasn’t skating in the pool! I swear! I was bored, so I came out to skate, and it was wet, and I slipped and fell in—”
“It’s okay,” I say. “You’ll be all right. I’m not mad, I promise. Let me see your leg.”
Some relief sweeps through me as he removes his hands. There’s blood but not much. It’s all coming from a single laceration that doesn’t look very deep. And what’s even better, as I run my fingers over his leg, pressing lightly, he barely winces. Nothing seems to be broken. His scream was probably fear more than anything else.
“I’m sorry, Anise,” he says again.
> “Don’t be sorry. It was an accident. Accidents happen.”
“I know, but they’re scary…like Mom’s.”
I’ve never seen Nash like this, so vulnerable, so somber. I guess Emery isn’t the only kid in this house who realizes Aunt Jackie’s car accident could have been much worse. “Your mom is okay now, and so are you. The accidents are over, and you’re both okay.” I hug him tightly.
“But bad things are infinite, right?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, just because Mom got into an accident it doesn’t mean she can’t get into another one, right? One bad thing doesn’t stop more from happening.”
My heart clenches, as my mind whirs for some kind of comfort to share. He’s right. Bad things are infinite. But I kiss his head and hug him tighter and say, “That’s true, but you know what else is true?”
“What?”
“Good things are infinite too.”
• • •
After further inspection inside and out of the rain, I’m relieved to find Nash’s injury is nothing worse than fright and a small cut, so after pouring on a ridiculous amount of rubbing alcohol to prevent infection, I bandage him up and expect everything to go back to normal.
But here’s the thing: Nash doesn’t want everything to go back to normal because apparently even the smallest wound for a nine-year-old equates to at least twenty-four hours of indulgence. “More ice cream!” he hollers, jumping up from the couch and hopping on one leg to the kitchen, even though both of his legs are totally fine.
“Me too!” Parker shouts. He climbs out of the armchair and follows Nash into the kitchen with his own bowl. Emery goes after them so Hurricane Ice Cream doesn’t destroy the kitchen again. She emerged from her room when Nash screamed and has stayed downstairs to help dote on him.
A few minutes later they’re back in the living room with an extra bowl for me. We bum around watching an old episode of Full House, the one where Stephanie accidentally drives a car through the kitchen, which feels a little too close to something Nash might do if he ever gets his hands on car keys, especially with the amount of sugar flooding his system right now.
Girl Out of Water Page 13
