“Dune?” Ripple ran to greet her brother. “What’re ya doin’ home?”
The thirteen-year-old surf star dropped his salty backpack and took off his white straw fedora. Blond hair the color of Baked Lays swung above his shoulders as he lovingly hugged his sister back.
Awwww.
“Coach kicked me off the team.” He shrugged like someone who cared but didn’t want anyone to know.
“Why?”
“The Atlantic was all lit up with phosphorescence. It was past curfew but I had to get in and ride.”
“At night?” Ripple gasped, finally sounding like a nine-year-old.
“It was totally worth it.” He rubbed his bare chest. “I caught a six-foot left and the water was glowing all green and everyone came out to watch and—” He stepped down the single step that led to the sunken living room and plucked a plastic Macintosh from a bowl of fake fruit on the rickety end table. “Who’s this?” He tossed the apple in the air and caught it.
Kristen’s skin stung the way it had when Principal Burns announced, to the entire school, that she had been named captain of the soccer team. He looked right at her, and she blushed like there were a hundred of him.
“Hey, I’m—”
“Oh, this is Ms. Gregory, my tutor.” Ripple flirt-knocked the apple out of Dune’s hand and giggled when it rolled across the floor.
“Stop calling me that!” Kristen reddened again, this time from rage. She was nawt going to be used and humiliated by a nine-year-old. As soon as their father came home, she was going to quit.
“Hey,” he snicker-waved, unsure what to call her. “I’m Dune.”
Kristen remembered seeing him at Briarwood’s wave pool dedication ceremony last spring, but she’d been so distracted by her then-crush Griffin Hastings she hadn’t noticed what a perfect hang-ten he was.
Ehmagawd! Kristen swallowed hard. Did she actually just think that? Whenever she had super-cheesy thoughts like a perfect hang-ten, she was entering crush mode. “You can call me—”
“Ripple!” Dune really looked at his sister for the first time since he’d walked in—from her pink headband straight down to her purple rhinestone flip-flops. “What are you getting tutored in? Looking like an OCDiva?”
Kristen silent-gasped. Was that what the surf guys called them?
“Trying,” Ripple admitted shamelessly. “And please, from now on call me Rassie. Like Massie, but with an R.”
Dune hiked up his gold and brown slouching board shorts. “It makes more sense if you lose the R.”
Ripple burst out laughing, then whipped a stuffed starfish at his defined shoulders. For the first time in her life, Kristen envied a beige pillow.
“New York sucks.” Dune tugged at the shark tooth necklace hanging around his neck, his mood shifting like the tides. “I can’t believe I’m gonna be landlocked in Westchester all summer.”
Just then a large, fit older man padded through the open door, his bare callused feet slapping against the dark floors like tap shoes. He clapped Dune on the shoulder. “Whose fault is that, son?”
“Dad!” Their shirtless chests slapped as they came together for a hug.
Brice Baxter smiled and ruffled his son’s long straight hair. He wore camouflage trunks and a faded yellow DON’T WORRY, BE HAPPY baseball cap. “Now go grab your boards. We’re going tanker surfing.”
“But I just blew my hair!” Ripple whined.
Her father laughed, never suspecting that his tomboy daughter could have been serious.
“So, you’re not mad I’m back?” Dune said to the fallen apple on the floor.
“Nah.” Brice pulled the cap lower. “Your mother will be mad. But that’s why we got divorced. That woman cannot go with the flow. I would have been mad if you passed up phosphorescent surf. Besides, the Tavarua trip is only six weeks away. Enjoy the break while you can.”
Dune’s warm brown eyes beamed respect and love for his father.
“You surf, Kristen?” Brice asked, the crispy corners of his hazel eyes scrunching with genuine hospitality.
“Um, no. I’m more of a soccer person,” she said, making it perfectly clear that she was far from an OCDiva.
“Then tell your parents you won’t be home for dinner.” He rested his arm on her sunburned shoulder. “Dune is gonna teach you how to surf.”
Without hesitation, Kristen texted her parents, then followed the Baxters out to their blue Chevy Avalanche. Maybe she could give her job one more chance . . . for poor Ripple, of course.
Alicia Page 9
