by Jordan Ford
I like the way her nose wrinkles.
She has a cute nose.
It’s petite to match the rest of her, with just a smattering of freckles across the bridge.
I wonder how old she is. Am I talking to a freshman or a senior? She seriously could be either one. Skylar’s like that, although my cousin has a look in her eyes that screams maturity…worldliness. If she wanted to, she could strut into a bar and I bet not one person in there would think she didn’t belong.
This girl in front of me isn’t like that, though. She has a young freshness about her.
A sporty…
She unzips her wetsuit and starts to wriggle out of it.
It’s impossible not to look. The bikini she’s wearing isn’t one of those flimsy string things that Skylar and Savannah wear. It’s got a sporty, practical edge to it. Vibrant blue with a black trim.
That’s not why I’m staring.
She practically has a six-pack. I swear this girl is one tiny ball of muscle. I bet she could kick my ass if she wanted to.
As she bends over to pull the bottom of her wetsuit off, I get a clear shot of the shape of her tanned legs, her quads flexing as she balances on one foot. I can’t help a thick swallow.
Her eyes shoot to mine and I get another pointed look.
“Sorry,” I murmur, my cheeks flaring as I scratch the back of my neck and force my eyes to the ocean.
I focus on the surfers out in the water. One tall black guy is catching a wave, carving it up and making it look like a piece of cake.
I watch him until I hear a little throat clearing behind me.
When I spin back, she’s pulling a baggy sleeveless top over her wet bikini. Two wet circles instantly grow where her small breasts are, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. She bunches her hair behind her and starts squeezing the water out of it.
I watch it drip onto the sand.
“So, I don’t see you down at this end of the beach much.”
“Yeah, I…” I point towards the northern end, my words trailing off as I yet again feel like an imposter.
She flicks her hair over her shoulder and places her hands on her hips. She’s studying me again. I don’t know what the hell she’s looking for, and I can’t maintain eye contact.
I’m about to sniff and say my goodbyes when she shocks the hell out of me.
“Who dumped who?”
I glance up, my mouth agape until I see her expression. Her blue gaze is deep with empathy. She knows what this feels like.
With a heavy sigh, I droop my shoulders and mutter, “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not always.” She shrugs. “Dumping someone can be just as painful as getting dumped.” Balling up her towel, she shoves it into her backpack. Her statement makes me wonder if she’s the dumper, but her actions scream loud and clear that she was the one who was dumped, thrown completely off balance the way I was.
“I didn’t even see it coming,” I admit, scrubbing a hand down my face then crossing my arms again. I don’t seem to know what to do with my hands right now.
She smirks, but not in a bitchy way. “What happened?”
“I guess I’m just not cool enough for her anymore or something. She said she wasn’t feeling it, and there’s no point staying together if there’s no future in it.”
“Huh.” She nods and gives me a closed-mouth smile. There’s a kindness to it and my lips twitch in response, one corner rising to acknowledge her. Pulling her backpack on, she picks up her board and rests the end in the sand. “So, I’m guessing you looking lost down here means you’re no longer part of the Elite, then?”
Okay, so we have a name down here.
I wonder if they know we refer to them as the hippies.
She’s still staring at me, waiting for an answer, so I let out a scoffing laugh that’s short and hard, unable to look her in the eye when I say, “Still part of it, just falling in the ranks.”
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
“Feels like a pretty damn sucky thing right now.” I glance at her, my forehead bunching with a frown. I can feel it crinkling.
She shrugs. “Yeah, well, I’d see it as a chance to broaden your horizons. Get some decent perspective. Do something worthwhile with your time.”
My frown deepens as I swivel my body to face her head on. “Are you telling me I’m narrow-minded?”
“Pretty much.” She grins—killing my incredulity by looking so damn cute.
“Oh, yeah?” I’m losing the don’t-give-into-a-smile battle and have to lick my lips to get them under control. “And what worthwhile thing should I be doing with my time?”
“You could always try surfing.” Her bright eyes sparkle some more. They’re kind of enchanting, which is a weird thing to think.
I rub a hand over my mouth, then go for a deadpan look. I have no idea if I pull it off, but my voice sounds dry enough. “Surfing?”
Her smile grows a little bigger. “It’s the best thing in the world, man. I can pretty much guarantee that it will dislodge that stick you have up your ass.”
What the hell did she just say to me?
I’m not used to girls being so…so spiky? I don’t know if that’s the right word. Skylar’s kind of spiky in a semi-evil way. But this chick, her spikes aren’t so sharp. They’re like rainbow spikes that are supposed to tease and tickle.
Once again I’m fighting a grin, and it takes all my willpower to keep my lips in line and my tone sarcastic. “You’re so pleasant. No wonder you’re surrounded with so many friends right now.”
“Oh!” She laughs and flips me the bird. “At least I’m happier than you.” Tucking the surfboard under her arm, she starts walking for the stairs.
I like the way her hips sway as she negotiates the sand.
Pausing at the base of the steps, she grabs a long skateboard from the grass.
Huh, a surfer and a skater girl. I don’t know why I find that so cool.
Glancing over her shoulder, she gives me a brilliant smile and calls out, “Think about it, Stick Boy.”
And I’m left in the sand, watching cutoff denim shorts and two tanned legs ascend the stairs.
I don’t really know how to feel about the conversation we just had, but as my eyes track back to the waves and the surfers, a slow smile grows on my lips.
“Stick Boy,” I murmur, shaking my head.
I should be insulted.
I should be frowning.
But all I can do is laugh.
Stick Boy.
No chick has ever called me that before.
Because that girl I just spoke to is like no chick I have ever met before.
6
The Great Divide
HARLEY
Stick Boy.
I called him Stick Boy!
I can’t decide whether to shake my head in shame or laugh out loud. The look on his face when I insulted him. Classic.
“You’re so pleasant,” I mock his words and start laughing again.
Leaning into the curve, I round the corner on my skateboard and stop by our yellow mailbox. The paint is peeling, exposing patches of rusty metal beneath. It’s kind of in keeping with our house, although the cream-colored paint peeling away from the weatherboards is exposing all manner of deterioration. I hate to think how rotted the wood must be by now.
I can’t see it getting fixed anytime soon, though.
Our little house was built God knows how long ago, and I’m pretty sure it’s had zero maintenance done on it since we moved in. All Mom and I have managed to do is fill it with stuff and ignore the leaks and cracks. I sometimes wonder if Grandpa would be disappointed in us, but I never knew the guy, so I try not to think about it.
Entering the cluttered carport, I rest my board against the one patch of wall that isn’t taken up by a cracked mirror and an old mattress that is beginning to smell. My nose wrinkles as I park my skateboard next to it.
I don’t know what the time is, but I know I’m late.
Looks like it’ll be shower-in-a-can for me this afternoon. Rushing through the house, I pinch my nose against the lingering stench of smoke in the air.
Great. Mom’s home.
She’s probably sitting on her unmade bed, her eyes glued to some talk show while she puffs away on her cigarette.
I don’t bother to call out a hello. She probably doesn’t want me to interrupt her show anyway.
Grabbing the stick of deodorant off the bathroom windowsill, I lift each arm and rub plenty under each pit, then go a step further and snatch Mom’s aerosol can and give myself a quick spray across the torso. The watermelon scent hits my skin and masks the salt and sweat.
Yes, I’m gross, but I’m late and I can’t afford to get fired right now.
My boss gives me a little leeway because she’s cool, but if I’m too late, I’ll get a grilling. And if I want to eat half-decent food, then I need to earn some cash.
My mom works and all. She actually has two jobs: three days a week waitressing at the Fish Shack and five nights a week working at Sugar Pop, this seedy bar about fifteen minutes south of Ryder Bay. I hate that place. I’ve only been there once—last year when Mom locked herself out of her car and refused to get an Uber home. Instead I had to get an Uber there to deliver the spare key.
It was like two o’clock in the morning and I was pissed.
I told her as much, and she stopped talking to me for three days as punishment.
That’s Mom for ya.
I don’t know if I’ll ever understand that woman.
Even though we got left this place by Grandpa, I’m assuming mortgage free, money is still tight, because Mom likes the good stuff. Not the healthy stuff like fresh fruit and vegetables, but the good stuff like the latest flat-screen TV mounted on her bedroom wall, the trips to the day spa so she can get her weekly mani-pedi, and of course the expensive wine bottles in the bottom of the fridge.
I’ve tried to get her to spend the money on things I need, like healthy food for a growing teenage girl, but she tells me that she grew up on chips and fast food and she turned out just fine.
She should take a look in the freaking mirror once in a while.
She did not turn out fine, and I refuse to end up looking like her.
So, if I want to eat food that doesn’t come out of a package, foods that contain vitamins, minerals and things that will feed my muscles, then I have to earn my own money and pay for it myself.
Fresh fruit and vegetables shouldn’t be so expensive.
I run my fingers through my wet, salty hair and attempt a ponytail. It ends up being a hash-job, a messy bun concoction, but it’ll have to do.
Throwing on my pale blue pin-striped shirt with the Freshest is the Bestest slogan on the back, I avoid the mirror and head out the door.
“Harley? Is that you?”
I cringe and call out, “I’m late for work, Mom!”
“Come here.”
Muttering a soft curse under my breath, I head back through our little living room, jumping over Mom’s stack of gossip magazines in the hallway before pushing her door open. The cigarette smoke hits me straightaway and I wrinkle my nose.
Mom doesn’t seem to notice how disgusting the habit is. A stream of smoke billows out of her mouth as she points one of her long painted nails at me. “Where you been?”
“Surfing.” My expression is no doubt telling her what a dumb question that is.
“I’m working tonight.”
What else is new?
“You’ll have to get your own dinner.”
I get it every night anyway.
Holding in my snarky replies is hard work, but I clench my jaw. I’ve learned that the best way to keep peace in this house is to never bite back. If I talk back to her, she gets pissy with me, and her silent treatment is louder than a rock concert. I know that sounds weird, but the icy cloud that descends on this house when she’s angry is unbearable.
Looking at my mom is always kind of depressing. We’re alike in features—same blonde hair, blue eyes, petite frames. Even our noses match.
But I don’t want to end up looking like her.
There are bitter wrinkles around her mouth, weary bags under her eyes, and just a general sense of discontent. She blames the world for her problems, and it shows.
I sometimes wonder how I stay living under the same roof as her, but it’s not like I have anywhere else to go. Besides, maybe she needs me. Maybe I need her. Because she’s all I’ve ever known.
“I gotta get to work,” I murmur, backing out of the room, desperate for fresh air and escape.
“Have fun scanning groceries.” She cackles.
I clench two fists and get out the door before I’m tempted to throw something or shout that at least I don’t dress like a skank and work at some bar where men spend the night pawing my ass.
Mom would probably take pride in that fact.
With an irritated huff, I grab my skateboard and hit the road. I push as hard as I can to build up quick momentum and get away from my cruddy little house and super-annoying mother.
Why did I rush to work?
I hate this job.
Hiding it is sometimes an effort, and forcing a smile as I listen to that constant beep of groceries being scanned is doing my head in today.
The ocean was sweet this morning.
The waves are calling me.
And I’m stuck in a grocery store going brain dead with the mundane.
Well, I’m actually not going brain dead. If I’m honest, my brain is working overtime playing a game of dodge ’ems.
The thing I’m trying so desperately to dodge?
Pretty rich boy.
Stick Boy.
Whatever I want to call him.
His long torso and broad shoulders keep swirling through my mind. I keep trying to push it back, but then his face will bloom right in front of me. That square chin, those full lips as they tried not to smile at me.
Ugh! Harley, stop it! You’re being ridiculous.
Clearing my throat, I square my shoulders in preparation for my next customer and try not to stiffen when I notice two teenage girls slip into my checkout.
They’re not just any teenage girls.
They’re Elites.
I can practically smell them coming. Their rich perfume and the way they strut, it kind of emanates from them, creating these long-reaching ripples that affect everyone in some way or another. I bet the guys drool over these two in their skimpy shorts and tanks tops. Their long hair is flowing down their backs like two dark waterfalls that curl and wave in just the right places.
They’re both kind of gorgeous.
Annoyingly.
The short one has a hard, angular edge to her. She’s skinny all the way and should probably be strutting a catwalk rather than standing in some cheap grocery store. The taller one is a little more average in size. She’s not fat or chubby or anything, just normal-looking, with a pretty softness to her.
Soft or not, I bet she’s still a bitch below the surface. Aren’t they all?
What is it with today and encountering these people?
My nostrils flare as I force a friendly Freshmart smile.
The taller girl gives me a fleeting grin, her dimples flashing, but it quickly fades as the short sharpshooter fires off a quick round. “Oh, please.” She rolls her eyes at me, then mutters to her friend, “Why are we shopping in this dive?”
“Because it’s closer than home, and you wanted instant snacks.”
“Remind me to just go with the hunger next time.” She pulls a disgusted face, like even being in this place is giving her germs.
What a snob!
I try to hide my inner thoughts as they dump their groceries on the belt. I glance down at the pile of food, figuring out what I can as they inch towards me.
Freshly sque
ezed orange juice.
A pint of raspberries.
A bag of carrot and celery sticks.
And a bar of chocolate.
Huh. So they want to be healthy, but just can’t quite resist the chocolate. Although it is dark. Okay, points to the rich girls for eating well.
Again, I keep the thoughts to myself as I scan the large bar of chocolate and slide it into the bagging area.
I’m on my own today and will need to bag these up once I’ve put them through. I don’t mind so much. At least I don’t have to make small talk with someone I work with. That’s always so exhausting. Laughing at Roger’s lame jokes or nodding and smiling at Tammy’s endless stories about her super-hot, super-sweet, super-sexy boyfriend. Or the worst, listening to Nelly’s puppy woes as she tries to train not one but three beagles. Ugh. Painful.
“Did you scan that twice?” The petite girl with large green eyes and an arrogant smirk tips her head at me.
“No.” I give her a closed-mouth smile.
“Can you check?” Her tone is sharp and snarky, and if I didn’t like her before, I definitely don’t like her now.
I glance at my screen, even raising my finger to scan the list.
“Not scanned twice,” I confirm.
“Right. I guess you know what you’re doing.” It’s impossible to miss her scathing tone. “It’s not like you need a degree to work in a place like this, but I’m assuming you need a little intelligence.”
My insides start to roil, like the building of a wave inside of me. I try to stem it, hoping to hold back the tsunami wanting to spew out of my mouth.
I bet you haven’t worked a day in your life, you spoiled little brat.
“Oh, and this.” The taller girl grabs a pack of gum from the aisle racks and slaps it down on the belt.
“Savvy, it’s not even sugar free.” The short one flicks her friend’s hand away, then looks at me. “This place does have sugar-free gum, doesn’t it? I notice your stock is very limited here. You don’t have many of the brands I’m used to buying.”
