“What are we doing tomorrow?” Emery suddenly asks.
I turn to her. “For what?”
She gives me a weird look. “For the Fourth of July.”
The Fourth of July. Normally on the fourth, we throw a giant party on our back porch and a bonfire on the beach. Dad and I invite all of our friends, and we spend the day grilling and surfing and blasting music, and we spend the night roasting marshmallows and watching fireworks illuminate the sky and paint the ocean. Aunt Jackie and the cousins usually plan their trip around the celebration so they can join in on the fun.
Who will throw the party this year? Will Cassie find someone else to compete in the how-many-marshmallows-can-I-stuff-in-my-mouth-and-still-breathe competition? Will Spinner find someone else to late-night surf with despite being weighed down by burgers and hot dogs and guacamole? Will Eric—Eric… I never read his message from when I was at the river with Lincoln. I forgot about it, about him.
A little more than two weeks from home, and already my life and friends are slipping away. The thought churns my stomach. I put my ice cream on the side table. I have to FaceTime them tonight, or better yet, tomorrow to wish them all a happy holiday. I imagine all their tanned faces gathering around the screen so they can say hello and tell me they miss me and they love me and of course summer is boring without me, and they promise to not do a single exciting thing until I get back.
But what if no one picks up?
What if they’re too busy enjoying marshmallows and fireworks without me?
“Yeah, what are we going to do?” Parker asks, jerking me back to here.
I know Dad’s original idea was to visit Aunt Jackie, then take the kids to the park for grilling and marshmallows and firecrackers, but the forecast promises at least another day of torrential rain, which means no grilling, no firecrackers, no celebration.
But I don’t have the heart to tell them that, especially without a backup plan in mind, so instead I shift on the couch and say, “It’s a surprise. I’ll let you guys know tomorrow,” because it’s a better answer than, “Absolutely nothing.”
• • •
As predicted, it rained all day on the fourth. We spent the whole afternoon inside with Aunt Jackie at the hospital. We played cards and ate apple pie, but being at the hospital on a holiday was still kind of depressing.
Later that night, alone in my room, I scrolled through my phone. There were a handful of texts from my friends, but I was drawn to the photos of the fireworks and ocean and crackling fires, and picture after picture of my friends smiling without me. It was our last Fourth of July all together, but we weren’t all together. I wanted to text my friends back but couldn’t bring myself to ask how their celebration was when mine was so bleak in comparison. Anyway, with the time difference, they were probably still celebrating and too busy to check their phones.
At least today, on the fifth, I wake up to a sky sunny and blue enough to belong on a cruise brochure. The kids and I get dressed in record time and trek to the park, the air deliciously temperate after all of that rain. As we journey, we toss the uneaten bag of marshmallows back and forth, picking one out and popping it into our mouths before passing the bag onto the next person. When we get to the park, I’m surprised to find Austin at the front entrance, skating back and forth, silver chains glinting in the sun. His gaze locks in on Emery as we approach.
I glance at Emery. She gives me the go away look. Austin seems like a good kid, and I’m happy she’s willing to talk with anyone, even if it’s not me, so I tell Parker and Nash, “Race you to the skate park!”
The boys need zero motivation for competition and they’re extra energized with marshmallow sugar, so they burst off down the path. I follow behind at a slower pace, passing Austin and giving him a nod and a smile. When I make it to the first bend in the trail, I turn to see Austin pass what looks like a CD case to Emery. As I keep watching, Emery glances up at me, and I expect a glare and maybe even a fuck off, but instead she smiles at me. A real smile. An Emery smile.
It’s like I just nailed a perfect ride.
I smile back, then jump on my board, intent on showing my cousins who really skates best in this family.
• • •
The boys beat me to the park, but I don’t mind their mocking because Lincoln is here. My stomach does its twisting and fluttering act, especially when I think about the muscles hiding under his flannel shirt. But then I stiffen—because Lincoln isn’t alone.
Three other people surround him, all of whom look vaguely familiar, like maybe I saw them here another day but wasn’t quite paying attention. My stomach continues to twist, but this time with anxiety. I’m used to meeting new people. On the beach, there are always tourists to give directions to, annuals to party with, and visiting surfers to meet. But the thing is, I was always meeting new people on my turf. Now, for the first time in my life, I’m the intruder. It was easy making friends with Lincoln because he basically did all the work for me, but the idea of meeting three new people at once is intimidating. And I don’t like to think of myself as being easily intimidated.
My pulse races as I take in the three strangers, especially the girl in a magenta romper, popping small ollies while talking to Lincoln. It’s obvious this is her environment, not mine.
My mom would know exactly what to do in this situation; she always knows how to make herself comfortable somewhere new. A few weeks after my thirteenth birthday, she swept into town after being gone for more than a year and a half, at the time her longest absence ever, and my emotions were at a full boil. I was cold, angry, harsh. And yet, she was impossible to resist, wearing me down, tempting me with giddiness and promises of adventure.
One Saturday morning she coaxed me into an old convertible and drove us down miles and miles of coastal roads, roof down, wind whipping through our hair. We stopped to grab greasy fries from one of the unhealthy fast food places Dad hates, picked wildflowers off the highway median, ran through the dunes, not caring as we tracked sand back into the car.
Later that evening we ended up wandering some unfamiliar beach, our hair twisted into dozens of tiny braids from one of the overpriced tourist booths, and we came across this small wedding party. The ceremony was long over, music pumping, bonfires crackling, and food and alcohol flowing. She insisted we go, and I insisted we didn’t. She insisted until I gave in, and by the end of the night, we were taking pictures with the happy couple and playing bocce ball with some of the bridal party.
If my mom were here, she would know what to do.
But she isn’t here. She’s never here when I need her, which is why I’ve learned not to need her. I’ll avoid the situation and hang out with Parker and Nash. But before I can nudge them toward a different part of the park, Lincoln waves me over. “Yo, Anise! Come here!”
Fuck.
Okay. I can do this. I’m a confident, capable person, and these are Lincoln’s friends, not bullies from a cliché movie. Maybe we’ll all become best friends. Maybe I’ll post photos with high saturation to show I’m having a good summer too. “You guys okay?” I ask Parker and Nash. They nod, Parker already tugging Nash toward his favorite set of low rails.
I want to pull some kind of trick as I head over—grind on one of the benches, pop an ollie or two, or even a kickflip, anything so I don’t look like I’m a complete encroacher. I don’t want Lincoln’s friends to look at me like I look at all the tourists in Santa Cruz, the ones who fall off their surfboards before ever properly standing up. However, as strong as my desire is to look like I belong, my desire to not make a complete fool of myself is even stronger, so I skip the tricks and skate straight over.
“Anise, meet Tom, Clayton, and Sofia.” Lincoln points to his three friends. “Guys, meet Anise. She comes to us from the fine city of Santa Cruz, where she spends her days surfing and surfing with a small side of surfing.”
“Oh, and don’
t forget surfing,” I say.
We grin at each other. The pleasant stomach fluttering returns.
“Very cool.” Sofia smiles at me. She’s pretty—undeniably so—and by the look of her toned calf muscles, she can probably skate circles around me for hours. She continues to perform little tricks on her board as she talks to me, like Lincoln does, like she doesn’t have to think about what her feet are doing, like it’s as natural as running her hand through her hair. “I went surfing at the Wedge last summer. I totally sucked, but it was awesome.”
Great. She’s talented, pretty, and humble.
“So Anise,” Clayton says. He has alarmingly blue eyes and a short and stocky build. “Have you ever skated in the bowl before?”
“Not yet,” I say.
Lincoln clasps me on the back for a second, his fingers on the skin exposed from my tank top. “Anise here is a bit of a skating prodigy. I’m sure she’ll pick it up quickly.”
I glance down into the bowl, which looks to be about eight feet deep, much steeper than my average wave. Before I have a chance to consider further, Lincoln leans over to murmur into my ear. “I’m not saying I bet these guys twenty bucks that you’d make it on your first go, but I’m also not not saying I bet these guys twenty bucks that you’d make it on your first go.”
I look at him. “Seriously?”
He grins and raises his eyebrows. “Seriously.”
My thoughts churn for a second. “Fine. But we split the winnings.”
“Fine.”
“Sixty-forty.”
“Fine.”
“I’m the sixty.”
His grin widens. “I figured.”
• • •
The first time I got on a surfboard, it was in the middle of an afternoon on a weekday in the dead of winter. The beach was as empty as the beach ever gets. Dad stood by my side, taking me step by step through all of the maneuvers like he’d been doing for weeks, assuring that I had each move memorized on the packed sand before ever wading into the water. So on that day, the day I finally surfed, I knew exactly what I was doing, and only Dad was there to watch.
Now as I stand at the edge of the bowl, one foot planted on the tail end of my skateboard, the other hovering above it, an audience of not one but six people stands behind me—Lincoln, his friends, and of course Parker and Nash. Emery and Austin still haven’t shown up, and part of me wants to use that as an excuse to put this act of foolishness on hold and go check on them.
“Okay,” I mutter, then rehash the quick tutorial I was provided. “Plant foot on board, drop in, turn board, keep momentum, don’t lean back…definitely don’t fall…”
I’m not sure why I’m doing this. It’s not like I need, what—twelve whole dollars? I mean, I wouldn’t say no to twelve dollars, but it’s a pretty small sum of money considering I could break an arm, or worse, my pride. No, it’s not the money.
This summer took away my surfboard. I’m not going to let it take away my confidence too.
So with two short breaths and one deep one, and my new mantra of “Fuck it,” I stomp down on the front of the board and plummet into the bowl. The plunge is quick and steep, and common sense says it should lead to a very painful fall on my ass, but then the adrenaline floods, and reflexes take over, and I turn the board to the right and then the left at the last second, just balanced enough to stay vertical while sustaining momentum, and then I’m racing across the flat expanse of the bottom of the bowl, bringing my left foot down to the ground to kick for more speed, trying to accumulate enough to ride up the other side of the bowl.
As I get closer, I imagine that I’m not coming up on a wall of concrete, but a wall of water, a beautiful barrel wave, and I either have to face the wall or give up. I don’t give up. So I kick hard three more times, lock my knees, and burst back up the other side of the bowl, the tip of my board inching past the edge of the wall, and—“Fuck!”
I lose grip of my board and fall backward into the bowl. My feet trip as I attempt to run instead of fall down the steep side. But I’m too unsteady. I fall on my ass, my board clattering down beside me.
I sit there and try to ignore the very prominent pain in my posterior. Why the fuck did I decide to try this in front of a bunch of relative strangers? Then someone starts clapping, one of those slow, sharp claps.
Someone whistles, and someone says, “Hell yeah,” and someone else says, “I really didn’t think I’d lose that bet.”
I crane my head back to find Lincoln smoothly sliding down the side of the bowl with his full-dimpled smile. He reaches down and offers his hand, which I take. After pulling me to my feet, he picks up my board and gives it to me. “Pretty rad, surfer girl,” he says.
“I’m not sure how falling on my ass equates to rad, but if you say so…”
“Dropping in without falling flat on your ass is basically impossible the first time around. So trust me, what you managed was pretty rad.”
We both crawl out of the bowl, and by crawl, I mean run, climb, and then jump out of the sharp vertical slope. Lincoln’s friends all clap me on the back and congratulate me, including Sofia who grabs my forehead and presses it to hers. “Girl, you are my new hero.”
The thing is, even though technically I just failed, their encouragement is empowering. And the fact that I almost didn’t fail is even more empowering. So when they ask if I want to try again, I don’t think about the rather large bruise forming on my ass; instead, I think about how exhilarating it would feel to burst over that wall with a perfect landing. And so I smile and say absolutely.
• • •
When I climb out of the bowl for what must be the hundredth time, I find Austin in front of me, safety pins glittering in the sun. “Nice ride,” he says.
“Thanks.” I wipe the sweat from my forehead and grab the water bottle that I think is mine but also might be Parker’s and take a giant swig. Once my breathing slows to normal, I glance around. “Where’s Emery?”
Austin looks down at the ground and scuffs his shoe against the concrete. “I don’t know… She didn’t want to come with me.”
“You don’t know where she is or you don’t know why she didn’t want to come with you?”
“Uhhh…” Austin scratches his forehead under the swished front of his hair. “Both. I don’t know. She was in a weird mood.”
My heart beats fast with the wrong kind of adrenaline. Emery is twelve. She’s perfectly capable of hanging out in the park in the middle of the day alone, but still. I’d rather know exactly where she is. I pull out my phone and call her, but it rings and rings and rings.
Emery always has her phone with her.
I dial again.
And again.
Austin stares at me, his expression turning from bummed out to concerned. “Do you want me to go get her?” he asks.
The third call goes to voice mail. I shake my head. “No. I’ll get her. She’s fine. I mean, of course she’s fine. I’m just going to go… Will you watch the boys? Wait, no. Actually…”
I spin. Lincoln’s standing on the other side of the bowl, cheering on one of his friends. I speed walk over to him, my throat tight, my legs shaking from something other than exertion. “Watch Parker and Nash for me, okay? Don’t let them out of your sight. I’ll be back.”
His brow creases. “Wait, what—”
But I don’t respond.
I grab my skateboard and race toward the park entrance and, I hope, Emery.
• • •
Emery isn’t where I left her. Not in the parking lot, not by the entry sign, not by the wooden benches along the main path. I call her again and again, but she doesn’t pick up. I pace back and forth in front of my skateboard, cursing Austin for leaving her alone and cursing myself for leaving her alone with Austin.
He fooled me with his smile, with his generosity toward Parker and Nash
, when the truth is I should have never trusted someone who uses safety pins as buttons. Why would he just leave her here alone? Okay, well, maybe because she asked him to, and he was respecting her wishes. This is my fault. I’m responsible for her, and—
“Come on, pick up,” I mutter. This isn’t good. This really isn’t good. Emery always has her phone with her. If she’s not picking up, that means… No. I’m not going to think about that.
Do I call the police? Dad? Do I go back to the skate park and ask Austin more questions? Do I—
Wait. The basketball courts. Maybe she made up with her friends.
Before the thought fully forms, I jump back onto my skateboard, following the occasional sign that points me in the right direction. I don’t even have to think about my balance as I skate anymore. The movement comes naturally as I speed down the paths, curving with sharp, pinpointed turns to avoid crashing into pedestrians, ignoring my sore muscles, not pausing to take in anything around me but the same two words on each sign—basketball courts, basketball courts, basketball courts.
Eventually the path opens to a chain-link fence, like the one surrounding the skate park, except this fence surrounds two basketball courts. Old men, probably retirees, are midgame on the first one. But as I near the second court, I find exactly who I’m looking for—a group of preteens.
I spot Emery standing on the outskirts of a tight-knit group of kids. The flood of relief is so strong that I rush up to her and pull her into a tight hug. I do this before I remember there was drama with her friends and this is the first time she’s hanging out with them since the lake.
“What are you doing?” she screeches—actually screeches—voice high and tight, face red.
I stumble away, feeling a new type of panic. Emery was making up with her friends, and now I’ve embarrassed her. “Umm…” I try to think quickly, but my mind spins. Her friends give me judgmental glares I swear only twelve-year-old girls are capable of. “Sorry—nothing. We need to go. And you wouldn’t pick up your phone.”
Girl Out of Water Page 14
