But I do understand. She hates me. Everyone hates me. And I don’t blame them.
“Jesus, Anise, I don’t know where your friends are. Do you even really care? You’ll probably just ditch them too.”
“What are you—”
She steps forward, her eyes hard. “Look, I get it. It’s not your fault you had to go to Nebraska, but Cassie leaves for boot camp in a couple of days, and then she’ll be shipped off to who the fuck knows where and won’t be able to talk to us for who the fuck knows how long, and you ignore her all summer? She’s one of your best friends, and she’s freaking out, and you go MIA because picking up the damn phone is inconvenient? I can’t believe you even showed up to my house tonight. Look, I can handle you ignoring me. Whatever. You were busy. I have thick skin. But you hurt my girlfriend, and I can’t forgive that.”
Her words hit hard, piercing my drunken haze. Cassie is scared about the navy? I thought she was excited. My eyes sting with tears. I can’t think of anything to say as Marie pushes past me, so I say nothing.
And then I run for home.
• • •
“Anise!”
I’m running through the sand.
“Anise!”
The grains hit my calves and stick.
“Anise!”
I stumble to the ground, hands braced in front of me.
“Anise!”
I right myself and keep running. But I’ve lost my lead.
“Anise Sawyer!” Someone collapses onto to me, her arms around my shoulders. I feel her strained breathing. “Fuck you.” The breathing calms a bit. “You know I can’t run for shit.”
Tess and I stand there together catching our breath.
My pulsing thoughts relax to a dim, inflamed hum.
Then Tess takes my hand and walks me to the water. We sit in the damp sand and let the tide wash over our feet. Surf Break is in the distance, the music more an echo than a sound. Only a few wanderers trail this part of the beach. I lean into Tess. Her shoulder is sticky with beer or saltwater or glow paint, but it doesn’t matter—everything spins less with her by my side.
After a few minutes, she says, “What the hell happened?”
My tongue doesn’t feel thick anymore, but I still struggle to get out the words. “Everyone hates me.”
“That didn’t answer my question,” Tess says. “But continue, who hates you?”
“Cassie, Marie—everyone!”
Tess snorts. Actually snorts. She’s laughing at me. “Dude, you know what Marie’s like. Remember the dance recital thing in seventh grade? She always flips her shit over the smallest thing.”
I guess that’s true. Marie tends to turn most situations into a level ten disasters. Especially if they’re about Cassie. “But,” I say, “Cassie’s mad at me too. Or not mad, worse. Hurt. I hurt her. She’s leaving for the fucking navy, and I stopped talking to her. I’m an asshole. I’m—” I gather a breath. “I’m just like her.”
Tess drops my hand, leans forward, and grabs a thin shred of driftwood. She uses it to draw circles in the sand. When she notices me watching, she breaks the driftwood in half and hands me a piece. We sit there together with our swirls, the tide washing them away as soon as we draw them.
“You’re not your mom,” Tess says after the long stretch of silence. Her words surprise me. She knows I don’t like to talk about her. Even if I accidentally bring her up. “You’re nothing like her,” Tess repeats.
Everything feels wrong—tight, loose, itchy, slick. I don’t believe Tess. I can already feel my mom’s infection crawling under my skin and coming out through my pores, mutating my DNA, turning me into someone who flees instead of fights, like now, when I ran away from Marie because I couldn’t handle a friend telling me the truth. “Then why did I leave everyone behind?” I ask. “Why did I ignore them? Why didn’t I care enough?”
“You didn’t,” Tess interrupts me, then pauses. “Don’t you understand the fact you’re asking these questions means you actually give a shit and are nothing like your mom at all?”
The words make sense, but they still don’t settle. Maybe I do give a shit, but the fact is, my friend needed me, and I wasn’t there. Just like my mom is never there when I need her. What if caring isn’t enough to keep me from turning out like her?
I stand and smudge my toe in the sand. Then I kick the sand. Then I kick the water, stepping further and further into the ocean until it ripples around my thighs, and then I look up at the moon and scream. I scream so loud that my throat feels raw and my head light. I scream so loud that my hands shake and my eyes water. I scream loud so that—even if she’s halfway across the country—my mom might hear my cry.
Eighteen
I wake with a pounding headache and sand in my mouth. No, not sand. The complete absence of moisture. Another reason not to drink, besides it not mixing with surfing—hangovers are the fucking worst. Without moving any of my lifeless limbs, I pry open my eyes and look around.
Tess and Lincoln are also on my bed, sprawled on either side of me. They’re fully clothed, as am I, still in our stained neon and tie-dye.
After Tess calmed me down last night, I found multiple worried texts from Lincoln on my phone. We met him back at the house, where he must have not been that worried about me, because he was making grilled cheese sandwiches with the remainder of the bread and cheese and dancing to a Motel/Hotel song blasting from my computer speaker. He too assured me that my friends didn’t hate me. Apparently he stayed with a few of them after he lost track of me, and they wanted to know where the hell I was so they could hang out—which should relieve me, but Marie’s words keep replaying in my mind.
With the effort only an absurdly full bladder can provide, I crawl out of bed and find my way to the guest bathroom. I flick on the light and glance in the mirror, which is a mistake. My normally hassle-free hair is a tangled rat’s nest, and there are dark circles under my eyes, not to mention streaked neon glitter paint. If I were to judge the success of the night by the look of my face, it must have been a pretty shitty night. I turn the water on hot and scrub my skin until it’s clean. When I glance back in the mirror, I notice something, or rather, the absence of something. The note I left for my mom isn’t there.
Does that mean she—
Or Dad could have—
But as the questions rush through my mind, I realize I don’t need to know. I don’t want to know. Basing my decisions off of her choices, living my life off of hers, has only led me down troubled paths. If I’d been thoroughly determined to not be her, just like she tried to not be her mom, I would’ve never left Santa Cruz, would’ve never experienced the world outside of my home, would’ve never met Lincoln.
I won’t spend the rest of my life as a reaction to hers.
I won’t spend the rest of my life wondering, will she, what if—
I won’t spend the rest of my life trying to fill in the blanks she leaves behind.
• • •
Ten minutes later, I’m out on the deck with a clean face, empty bladder, and a steaming mug of green tea. The mellow taste makes me think of Dad. The sliding glass door opens. Tess pads outside. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she’s wearing one of my sweatshirts over her outfit from last night. “You look like shit,” she says.
I nod. “You too.”
She comes and sits down on the chair next to me. “Give me a sip of that.”
I hand her my tea and then lean back, trying to get my eyes and mind to focus on the crashing of the waves. But they won’t focus.
“Want to talk about it?” Tess asks as she hands my mug back to me.
“Not really.” I take a sip. “Maybe.” Another sip. “Yes.” I look Tess in the eye. “You really don’t think I’m like her?”
“You are absolutely not like her,” Tess says, then covers my hand with hers and continues
, “That said, you are a bit of an asshole.”
“I am?”
“You are.”
“I am.”
Silence passes as we hand the tea back and forth.
“Look,” Tess says. “It wasn’t your fault you had to go to Nebraska. Everyone knows that, but we also know you have this thing called a phone, and a computer, and you used them maybe twice in the past month. I mean, you can’t treat your friends like that and expect to find them in the same spot you dropped them, you know?”
I do know. And suddenly I feel sick. Really sick. Stomach gurgling, throat constricting sick. I jump up from the chair and without time to do anything else, run over to the balcony and vomit off the side into the sand. “Fuck,” I say, spitting out the sour taste in my mouth. There’s a hint of Dragon Berry. That makes me vomit again.
“You okay?” Tess asks. “I’ll get you water.”
A minute later she’s handing me a glass. I take a few sips. “I’m fine,” I say and collapse into my chair. “Sorry. Fine. It’s—”
“Rum?”
“Yeah…”
But it’s not just the rum. It’s this fear that even if I’m not my mom now, I will be someday. Like I’m predestined to be a terrible person or something.
But I won’t accept that. I can’t accept that. Because like Tess said last night, where my mom doesn’t give a shit, I do. I give a shit about my friends and their lives and how I treat them. My stomach churns with how much I give a shit. And alcohol—it’s also churns with alcohol.
“You’re right,” I say. “I kept seeing pictures of everyone having a great summer without me, and it was hard to keep hearing about all I was missing out on.”
“Which makes sense. But if you’d called us, you would have known we were hardcore missing you.”
“I should probably apologize,” I say.
“You probably should,” Tess agrees.
“Want to come with me? Moral support and all that?”
“Hmm, how about I entertain your very attractive boyfriend instead?”
Boyfriend. Another thought I keep avoiding. Lincoln will leave soon, and “boyfriend” has a certain permanence attached to it we can never really have. For now, I’ll avoid it a bit longer. One breakthrough a day seems reasonable enough.
• • •
I hesitate when I get to Eric’s house. The one-story clapboard home with dozens of wind chimes dangling off the back porch is almost as familiar as my own house, yet I feel like an intruder. Normally I’d let myself in through the unlocked backdoor, but I pause. I’m not sure if I’m welcome.
I knew I had to visit Eric first. Eric who wasn’t even at Marie’s party last night, Eric who I kissed and then barely talked to all summer, Eric who I’ve been friends with since before I could spell the word friend. I pull out my phone and start to message him. Then I erase what I have and put my phone back in my pocket.
Taking a short breath, I climb the stairs to the porch and walk barefoot on the worn wood slats. The wind blows up behind me, and with the sun perching behind its nest of clouds, my skin prickles. I knock twice before letting myself in.
The house is set up much like mine, so the back porch takes me directly into the kitchen. The room is empty and cool. “Hello?” I call out tentatively.
No response.
“Hello?” I call again.
This time I hear some shuffling. A door opens and closes. Feet pad down the hallway. And then, there he is, wearing no shirt, gray drawstring sweatpants, and a band pushing back his thick blond hair. My mouth grows dry for a moment at how attractive he really is.
But when my gaze meets his, all that summer heat fades.
There’s no warmth in his eyes.
He smiles anyway. Kind of. A partial smile that doesn’t reach beyond the crick of his lips. “Hey, Anise.”
“Hey.” My voice barely comes out, so I clear my throat. “Hey. Hi.” I smile. “How are you?”
“Good. Great.”
It’s awful standing like this, a dozen feet separating us, staring at each other like strangers. No, strangers don’t look at each other like Eric is looking at me. I twist the hair tie around my wrist and then force myself to hug him. The hug is awkward and stiff, but at least he hugs me back.
“So,” I say and take a small step away. “How’s summer been? I missed you last night.”
He stares at me and then in a short tone says, “Yeah. Wasn’t in the mood.”
“Right,” I say. “I wanted to make sure you were okay… I mean, I wanted to make sure we were okay… I…I’m sorry.”
The silence stretches between us until Eric sighs. The sigh loosens the rigidity in his stance, the firmness in his gaze. He gestures at the couch that faces the ocean. We sit down next to each other.
“Look, Anise. I’m not mad at you. I’m—” He pauses, thinking. “I heard about Lincoln. You had every right to go off and meet someone. We kissed once. It’s not like we were dating. It’s not like we’d even discussed it.” Another pause. “But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been waiting for you. I thought we had something. And it was really hard when you had to leave for the summer. But I knew you’d be back. Except then you stopped talking to me. And I couldn’t—I don’t—understand why.”
“I know,” I say. “I felt the same way, but when I got to Nebraska, it was strange.” I try to figure out how to explain it. “It was like half of my world suddenly fell away, and even though I knew I’d be back in a couple of months, it didn’t feel that way. And then I met Lincoln and—” I hate myself as I feel a smile flickers to my lips. “Well, I met him. I wasn’t thinking about you... Oh shit. Not that I wasn’t thinking about you. That sounds horrible. I just meant—it wasn’t a choice between you or him because you weren’t there. I wasn’t here. I wanted to be back here with you guys so badly, but since I couldn’t… I guess it was easier to pretend you didn’t exist. Shit, that sounds bad again. That’s not what—”
“Anise, it’s okay.” He leans back on the couch and kind of laughs. “It would’ve been nice to stay in touch this summer, and obviously this would have been much easier if either of us had shared our feelings with each other, but we didn’t, and I get why it was hard, and we’re here now. And you’re with Lincoln. Whatever happens, we’ll always be friends. Well, as long as you return my text messages during all future disappearances. We’ll be okay.”
“You sure?” As relief washes over me, I realize just how scared I was of losing one of my best friends.
“Yes, of course.” He pulls the band out of his hair and plays with it. “I’m not saying it won’t be a little weird at first, but you’re one of my people, and I’m one of yours, and that’s never going to change, even if you date a thousand guys over me.”
I give a shaky laugh and wipe the few tears from my face. “A thousand?”
• • •
The rest of the apologies are less nerve-wracking but still take the majority of the afternoon. Most are a repetition of the following:
Me: I was an asshole.
Friend: You were an asshole.
Me: I’m sorry for being an asshole.
Friend: I forgive you for being an asshole.
Me: Want to go surf?
Friend: Yes.
I make a special apology to Cassie and Marie. I still can’t believe they’ll be gone so soon. Cassie accepts my apology instantly because she’s a million times nicer than me. Marie accepts too, even though I have to repeat I was an asshole a couple extra times for her. I’m already planning care packages to send them when they leave town.
It’s weird. I’m kind of glad I spent the summer in Nebraska, not only because I got to spend so much time with my family, but also because it was like a trial run for when my friends and I will all be in different places. What would’ve happened if I went out of touch with my frien
ds for an entire year instead of a couple of weeks? The fix wouldn’t have been as easy. It might’ve been impossible.
It’s the last day of Surf Break now, and we’re all exhausted from endless hours of surfing and dancing and watching the amazing demos from visiting athletes. Once the tension cooled, Lincoln made fast friends with everyone, especially Spinner, who insisted Lincoln teach him how to skateboard. Maybe I’ll even spend some time at the skate park this year. I used to look down on skateboarders, but if they’re even a quarter as great as Lincoln, those are friends I want to have.
“Dude, we so don’t have enough marshmallows,” Tess says, dropping about a dozen bags of marshmallows on the table we’re setting up with hot dog buns, chips, and drinks. Like I promised at the beginning of summer, I’m hosting the end of Surf Break bonfire.
“Tess, we literally have enough marshmallows for the entire festival. I think we’re going to be okay.”
She mumbles something, and it’s hard to hear, but it sounds like, yeah, but they’re not the jumbo Kraft ones.
Lincoln comes up behind me and wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me into his warm chest. I look up to smile at him, and he’s already smiling at me. “Come on,” he says and tugs me forward. “Let’s go down to the water for a bit.”
I’m hesitant to leave setup since I’m the host, but we’re mostly done, and parties like this tend to take care of themselves, with everyone pitching in, so I wrap an arm around his waist and follow him down to the shore.
The beach is almost empty. All the tourists are on the road out of town, and most of the locals are inside, exhausted from the eventful weekend. Lincoln and I settle on the packed sand, and as the water laps over our toes, we watch the sun melt into the water.
“I leave tomorrow,” he says.
I know that, yet my stomach still twists at the words. “You could leave the next day,” I suggest, “or the next.”
He shakes his head. “No can do. Promised Austin I’d be back to hang out with him for his last few days of summer.”
Girl Out of Water Page 26
