It’s fate.
I spin and tiptoe back across the rocks.
“Got another pod of dolphins out there,” Nate calls.
I run the toe of my flip-flop along a pile of rocks. I could pretend I didn’t hear him. But why? So we breathed together. So he makes me jump and leaves me off balance. I can’t deny that, but I also know that boys like Nate prefer to breathe with girls from the herd.
I join Nate on the cliff and take a seat on a smooth rock. Squinting, I spot dorsal fins. It’s hard to tell in the blue-black sea of rolling velvet, but there are six, maybe seven. I pull my knees to my chest, breathing in the quiet. Nate says nothing. I picture his huge, chatty family. Like me, he probably came to escape the noise. Or maybe he was doing work at the mudflats nearby. The sea swallows are expected within a week or two, and through the moonlight I see our newly erected fence posts.
Nate doesn’t say what brought him to this chunk of rock, and I don’t ask. We sit side by side and watch the sea. Like me, he seems content with the company of the waves and wind. At one point he settles onto his back, his intertwined fingers under his head. When the moon peeks out from a thin cover of clouds, the moonlight brightens our perch. I notice Nate’s shirt is from a 5K to raise money for juvenile diabetes.
I idly trace a series of wavy lines in the fine layer of sand dusting the rock. “So if you wanted to start a charity, how would you do it?”
He rolls to his side and raises himself on a bent arm. Moonlight and shadow play over the waves of his hair. “The bucket list?”
I flick a small pebble with my fingernail, and it sails over the edge into blackness. “What do you think?”
“Sounds like something Kennedy Green would have wanted to do before she died.”
“Where do I start?”
“With something you care about. Tia Mina would call them your passions.”
My passions. I hug my knees to my chest. There’s so much I want to do and see, so much that can’t be done chained to a school desk or in a single town on the edge of the ocean. “Art. I love art. I draw, paint, and make mosaics out of sea glass. I love my Vespa and traveling and finding new places. And freedom. I’m passionate about freedom to speak my mind and follow my dreams. I’m passionate about the freedom to be me.”
“You’re getting deep.”
“The more time you spend thinking about something, the deeper you get into your heart.” Great, now I’m channeling my creepy detention supervisor. “Forget I said that last bit.” Time to shut my mouth. I scrutinize the beach in the distance, surprised most of the bonfires are out. “What time is it?”
Nate holds his watch to the moonlight and squints. “Eleven thirty. Why?”
“Crap! I only have thirty minutes.”
“To do what?”
“A random act of kindness.”
“It has to be done now?”
“Before midnight.” It slipped my mind, but it shouldn’t have. It’s Nate, of course. He’s distracting. I scramble off the rock.
“What are you going to do?” Nate asks as he follows me through the grassy dunes.
“Not sure. I’ve already done the clean-the-beach thing.” At this time of night there’s not much going on, and there’s no one on this part of the beach but the homeless man.
“Do you need a ride? My dad’s truck is over there.”
Mr. White Knight to the rescue. We dive into an ancient truck with rounded wheel wells and running boards. He cranks the ignition a half dozen times before it coughs and roars to life. “Where to?”
“Head toward downtown on Calle Bonita. Maybe I’ll find a little old lady who needs help crossing the street.”
I don’t see a single gray hair but after two blocks spot an all-night grocery store. A man pushes a shopping cart through the parking lot. “Pull in there,” I tell Nate. When Nate stops, I jump out of the truck. “Hey, let me give you a hand.”
“I got ’em.” The man has beefy arms and a gut that hangs over his belt.
I settle my hands on his cart, which is filled with twelve-packs of beer. “I want to help.”
He swats me away, as if I’m a mosquito. “Get out of here, kid. I ain’t giving you no beer.”
“I don’t want any beer.” I reach for one of the twelve-packs. “I just want to do something nice for my fellow man.” Something crunches behind me, and I spin just as a little old lady bats a beaded purse against my head. I grab my right ear and yelp.
“Got her, Buddy!” The old lady raises her arm again.
The beer guy grabs her arm. “It’s okay, Mom. She’s leaving.”
He gives me a bearlike growl, and I hurry back to Nate’s truck where he’s rubbing his chin and trying not to laugh. “That didn’t go well.”
I rub my ear. “Start driving.”
A half block down the street we pass a brightly lit restaurant. Mariachi music floats from the patio, where a waiter carries a large tray of food to a pair of late-night customers. “There! Pull into Dos Hermanas.” I run inside the Mexican cantina and shout to the woman at the register, “Two street tacos to go!”
“Beef or chicken?”
“Whatever’s fastest.”
The woman tilts her head as if she doesn’t understand English, and Nate leans in close and winks. “It’s a taco emergency.”
Within four minutes I have two steamy chicken tacos and a side of guacamole. “Back to the beach—hurry!”
Nate punches the accelerator. We squeal out of the parking lot toward the ocean. When we arrive at the grassy dunes, I point to the road’s shoulder. “Pull over there.”
Once out of the truck, I rush through the grass and past the lifeguard tower where I spotted the homeless man.
“Here!” I thrust the tacos into his face.
He backs away from the bag as if it were a live snake. “What’s that?”
“Tacos.”
He scratches at a tuft of greasy, matted hair poking from the side of his head. “What’s it for?”
“You.” I wave the bag, sending curls of charred-meat-and-onion steam through the air.
He squints at me through a sun-roughened face. “You on drugs?”
“I am not doing drugs. Why does everyone think I’m doing drugs?” I take a long breath. “Listen, I’m trying to do something kind.” I turn back to Nate. “What time is it?”
“Eleven fifty-eight.”
“Just take the tacos.”
The man licks his lips, and I wonder when he last ate. Something scampers through the grassy dunes. Remnants of laughter echo from the beach far below us.
“Please,” I whisper.
Bronson’s right. I’m pathetic.
After checking his watch again, Nate takes the bag from my hand. “I got this.” He sets the bag on the corner of the cardboard, grabs my hand, and pulls me away. I’m about to kick sand at him when paper rustles behind us. I turn just as the man shoves one of the tacos into his mouth. Juice dribbles down his chin as he snatches the other taco. I jog away, too embarrassed to stick around.
Next to me Nate makes a snuffling sound. His shoulders jiggle. My lips twitch. By the time we climb back into the truck, we’re laughing out loud.
“Check.” Nate positions his fingers as if holding a pencil and makes a check mark in the air. “One random act of kindness.”
“More like random act of weirdness.” I raise my face to the night sky. “This is crazy.”
“But crazy in a good way.”
Yes, it felt good. Kennedy would have approved. I settle against the cracked leather seat in the old truck. “By the way, you broke the law.”
“What?”
“You sped.”
“Did not.”
“You drove eleven miles over the speed limit on the way to the beach. I checked the speedometer as we passed the cop car sitting in the convenience-store parking lot.”
He grimaces. “Those tickets aren’t cheap.”
I rest my elbow on the edge of the open window. “You
shouldn’t spend so much time with me. I’m a bad influence.”
“True,” he says with another shake of his shoulders.
When we reach my street, the bungalow is still filled with Cupcakes, but now they have company. Three new cars are parked out front. Nate finds a spot near the neighbor’s house, and I weigh the wisdom of spending the night with Tiberius. I reach for the door handle, but Nate locks his fingers around my wrist. I start to pull away, and he lets up, the touch softening until it’s just the featherlight brush of his fingertips against the top of my hand.
My heart beats triple-time, and the blood courses through my veins so hard, I can almost see it pulsing in the top of my hand. When I look up from our hands, I see Nate’s face, more puzzled than pained or impassioned. He looks very un-Nate-like, as if he’s not sure who I am or what to do with me.
It’s a good thing for both of us that I recognize the truth about this disturbing collision of our worlds. “Nate, I’m not your kind of girl,” I say, not unkindly.
He turns my hand over, so we’re palm to palm. The bewildered look gives way to something warmer. He inches closer, simultaneously pulling me toward him. “Shouldn’t I be the one to decide who my kind of girl is?”
“I don’t like shoes.”
“You have cute toes.” A dimple appears.
Shit. “I’m disruptive in math and don’t play nicely in sand-boxes.”
“I’ll have my little brother say a Rosary for your soul.” Another dimple.
“Nate, I’m being serious.”
“Me, too.” His eyes are a dark, steamy chocolate, every hair on his head in place. Everything about Nate is perfect. He’s charming, smart, kind. Everyone likes him. And that’s the problem. I’m not everyone. I’m not good at sharing paint. I don’t know about tree-acquisition rules. I’m not one of the herd.
His fingers twine with mine. The heat must be burning off all the oxygen in the cab of the truck, because I’m light-headed.
A pair of headlights slashes across the windshield. Bronson pulls up in his red Mustang, which is filled with Nate’s sporto buddies. The muscles in Nate’s hand tense and harden. The Mustang lets loose a loud honk. Nate drops my hand and slides back to the driver’s side.
My lungs expand, and finally oxygen rushes to my brain.
I lunge for the passenger-side door. Nate doesn’t reach for me. Instead he stares at the roof liner of the truck. “Let me walk you to the door. It’s getting late.” No more dimples. No more steamy eyes. Welcome back, Mr. Polite and Proper.
He’s also an ass.
I shake my head at my own asslike behavior. “I’m in a made-for-cable teen-angst movie.”
“Excuse me?”
I jerk my hand toward the Mustang. “You’re embarrassed to be seen with me.”
“Why would you think that?”
My fingers fumble along the truck door for the handle. “On a deserted rocky shore or the dark cab of a pickup truck I’m fine for a quick grab and feel, but when your buddies show, I’m not the right kind of girl.” I find the handle and yank. The door groans open, and I stumble out of the truck.
NOVA WON’T GO, SO I WALK TO THE BEACH.
This morning there will be no dolphin watching or working on the sea-swallow nesting site. Either would be a bad choice, as I might run into Nate. Running into Nate would mean I’d have to talk to Nate, and I’m not sure what I’d say to him.
We’re two separate species, Nate. You’re a member of Sporto Popularus, and I’m classified as Art Nerd Rebelum. No intermingling of species.
Or … When you lace your fingers with mine in a whisper of a touch, my heart booms and my pulse pounds, and I can’t breathe, therefore risking death by asphyxiation.
Or the ever popular and appropriate … Asshole.
Which is why I’m walking to the beach in search of the Del Rey Fun and Sun Rental Shop. Every item on the top half of Kennedy’s bucket list is of the do-gooder variety, and after last night in the truck with Nate, I decided I needed a break from good. This morning I skip to: Ride a bicycle built for two.
Business is hopping at the Fun and Sun Rental Shop this sunny Sunday morning.
“I’d like to rent a tandem bike,” I tell the woman behind the counter.
“Sorry, I rented out our last tandem about half an hour ago. Can I interest you in a beach cruiser, caster board, or unicycle? We have so many choices.”
“No, thanks.”
I try Beach Bikes and Beyond, Toby & Trey’s Bike Emporium, and Cheap Wheels. All rent tandems, but all are sold out. The Del Rey boardwalk stretches three miles along the Pacific Ocean, and I stop at every shop that rents things with wheels. At mile two, one of my flip-flops breaks, and I toss them into the trash.
Near the end of the boardwalk I enter Bubba’s Beach Bikes. The handwritten sign on the front window notes he’s already out of beach cruisers, but Bubba assures me he has a tandem bike he’ll rent to me for two hours. “And I’ll knock the price down to ten bucks because it’s in pretty bad shape. Salty sea air rusts stuff.”
Bubba, a skinny guy with a long face and carrot-colored hair, wheels the bike out of the back room. Both seats are cracked and split, and rusty dots pit the frame.
“Perfect,” I say.
Bubba takes my money and wheels the bike, which squeaks like Aunt Evelyn on one of her bad-hair days, onto the boardwalk. “Okay, Captain,” he says. “Where’s your stoker?”
“My what?”
“Your back rider. I need to give you both a few tips. You each play different roles on a tandem. Your stoker is your power on climbs, but he can also throw off your equilibrium. You need to work together on weight shifts, pedal force, and coasting. Tandem riding is all about teamwork. It’s about two riders becoming one.”
Who knew tandem bikes had so many rules? “I don’t have a stoker.”
He scratches the orange soul patch on his chin. “But you want a tandem bike?”
“Yes.”
“That’s weird.”
“Welcome to my world.”
Bubba looks at me as if I’m crazy but finishes the tandem lesson and sends me on my way.
I have no idea why Kennedy wanted to ride a tandem bike before she died. Maybe her film crush rode a tandem with the love of his life in her favorite movie, or maybe she never rode a bike because she was afraid of falling and needed someone at her side to help her conquer her fear. But I do know that a person’s past affects the choices she makes in the present and for the future. Case in point: As a kid I never caught on to math, so in the future I will not choose to be an accountant.
So what kind of past makes a person want to do a random act of kindness every day for a year? Did Kennedy grow up in a family of do-gooders, or was she desperately in need of kindness because there was none in her world? My fingers curl around the gearshift. But the why doesn’t matter. The important thing is that I complete the list.
Pretty soon I’m cruising and squeaking along the beach walk. This tandem stuff is a piece of cake, no different from riding a regular bike and much easier than adopting four leatherback turtles and starting my own charity. But according to Bubba, tandem riding is all about teamwork … two riders becoming one.
I want to do things right, you know?
I growl so loudly, a woman on a bike with a kiddie carrier swerves out of my way.
So I need a stoker. My choices are few. Cousin Pen? She’d brake just to make me work harder. Uncle Bob? In San Diego. Nate? Won’t go there.
Then it hits me. I know just who to ask.
My sophomore year a boy from detention invited me to a party at his house. While there, I ran into Macey, who said she lived a few doors down. At the party Macey and I spent most of the evening sitting on the pool deck with our feet in the water, keeping drunks from peeing into the pool.
I don’t remember much about the party at Detention Guy’s house, but I do remember he lived off Paseo del Sol. I pedal along the street searching for Macey’s house and try to figu
re out what kind of dwelling houses a teenage grim reaper. No black paint. No gravestones or cypress trees draped with wisps of moss. After I’ve knocked on two doors, a neighbor informs me the Kellingsworths live in the white house on the corner with lime-green trim and a salsa garden.
“You must be Rebel!” The woman who answers the door wrenches my arm nearly out of its socket as she pulls me into the entryway. “It’s so nice to have Macey’s best friend over. She told me all about you. How you help with the pies. How you hang out together after school. You’re the artist. So talented. I’d love to see your work. Macey’s in the kitchen. Would you like pie?”
Macey stands at the kitchen sink, her arms buried in soapy water, two pies cooling on the counter. She wears black shorts and a black T-shirt. It’s strange not to see the hoodie hanging from her shoulders.
Macey looks up from the soapy water and drops the bowl she’d been scrubbing.
“Hi,” I say with an awkward wave.
Mrs. Kellingsworth stands with her hand clasped to her chest. “I’ll let you two girls chat. I know at this age there’s so much to chat about. School and clothes and movies and boys. Chat. Just chat.”
“I am so adopted,” Macey says to the dishwater after her mother leaves.
“Your mom has nothing on my Aunt Evelyn.” Although ever since the procurement of Red Rocket trees, Auntie Ev’s been less antagonistic, which has led to a little less snark from my corner of the bungalow.
I pull out a chair at the table and sit. The air in Macey’s kitchen is warm and heavy with sweet smells. My nose twitches. “Cinnamon?”
“Nutmeg.” Macey gnaws on her bottom lip as she slips the bowl into the drainer and jams her hands back into the soapy water.
“I rented a tandem bike,” I say.
She washes two forks.
“I thought maybe you’d like to ride it with me.”
She scrapes gunk off a large spoon. “Ride? With you?”
“Yeah.”
Measuring cups and spoons clank as she plunges them into the water and shakes her head.
“It’s a nice day, and it’s fun,” I say.
Another head shake.
“Listen, Macey, I need to ride a tandem bike with someone.”
Goodbye, Rebel Blue Page 8
