chapter 21
I hear my name and whirl to see Brendon running down the hall to catch up with me. He’s wearing his intense, serious expression, which, on the knee-buckling scale, comes in a close second to his grin. I order my heart to slow down and my books to stay in my arms.
“How about today?” he asks.
“Today?”
“After school. You and me.”
“You mean, our … like, getting together?” I can’t bring myself to say the D-word, because maybe that’s not what he has in mind. Maybe he just wants to hang out like I’m one of his surfer bros. Except for the fact that I’m a lousy surfer. I’m sure he noticed that.
“Yeah, our date,” he says. “But not surfing. I have a better idea.”
No neoprene! I want to pump my fist in the air, but I restrain myself. “Like what?”
“It’s a surprise. Meet me at—” He checks his wrist. He’s wearing one of those mammoth sports watches with enough buttons and dials to navigate a ship. “At 3:47. At the boardwalk in front of the roller coaster. Okay?”
“3:47?”
“3:48 is okay, too, but don’t be late. It has to be close to that time. You said you like secret places.”
Parrot Meg does her thing again: “I like secret places.”
His expression explodes into that grin. “It doesn’t get much more secret than this.”
* * *
In autumn on a weekday afternoon, nothing much is going on at the boardwalk. I wonder why Brendon wants to meet me here, of all places. The shops selling tacky souvenirs and overpriced corn dogs are closed until spring, and so are the rides. At first I wonder if this is about mini-golf, but Poseidon’s Kingdom is closed, too.
A deserted boardwalk on a dreary, gray day like this one can be kind of eerie. Most people think it’s too lonely to hang out with games and rides that sit there doing nothing. They prefer the bustling summer crowd, to get lost in the energy, the pushing and laughing, the lines of hyper kids. I prefer the empty boardwalk. I guess I’m different that way. There’s the sound of waves smashing on the beach, something you can’t hear when there’s music blasting and summer crowds. Overhead, the bright red and blue cars of the gondola sit still in the sky. I pass the motionless Pirate Ship ride and then the mechanical gypsy fortune-teller machine, whose eyes seem to follow me as I head for our 3:47 meet-up. Is the gypsy looking at me with pity or with a laughing, mocking expression? Does she know something that I don’t?
What if Brendon doesn’t show up? How long should I wait? What if he’s playing me so he can laugh himself sick? I just know that’s it. He’s home, smirking to himself at the image of the pathetic, naïve girl waiting among all the boarded-up rides and games. He’s going to tell his friends what he did, and they’ll get a good laugh out of it, too. The perfect follow-up to my mini-golf humiliation.
Why did I agree to meet him? How could I have fallen for this? I am an idiot! Why don’t I learn? Ambrosia is right! Don’t trust him! Don’t trust anyone. Embarrassment and anger, they both start building inside of me.
But when I get to the roller coaster, I see a hand waving from a little farther down the boardwalk. The distrust drains away. He didn’t lie. He’s here. He walks faster, breaks into a little jog. I steady my nerves, steady my everything.
“Hey!” he says, rushing up a little too close to me, then backing away.
“Hey!”
“You made it!”
“I made it!”
“I’m glad you made it. And all that!”
“Me too!”
He beams at me. I beam back. I play with my hair a little. He looks at his hands. What happened to all the exclamation points in our greeting? It’s like they fell off a cliff. Could our date have turned any more flat and awkward so quickly? I’m a loser. He’s sorry that he ever suggested meeting me here, meeting me anywhere.
“Hey.” He starts again.
“Yeah,” I say.
Thank goodness, in that awkward moment there’s the sudden clickity-clank of the Giant Dipper behind us. It makes me start, and I have an attack of the nervous giggles. A workman must be putting the famous wooden roller coaster through its paces to find out what repairs are needed. Good distraction. Brendon and I study the train of cars inching up the tracks. When it reaches the high point and shoots over the edge and comes tearing down the first wild dip, I don’t know why—we aren’t even looking at each other—but we get the same reflex. We put our arms in the air and squeal, imitating all the thousands of summer and weekend riders.
That breaks the ice a little. We both like roller coasters. That’s interesting. We can talk about that.
“I like roller coasters a lot,” I say.
“I like roller coasters, too!”
“The boardwalk’s fun when everything’s open in the summer.”
“But it’s even better now.”
I jump on that. “I was just thinking that! I’m glad you suggested meeting here. There’s a certain feeling to the boardwalk when no one else is around, a sad happiness.”
“Or a happy sadness,” he quickly adds. “Most girls I know think it’s too boring in the off-season. They get depressed by the whole ghost-town feel.”
The cars make another loop, and I raise my voice almost to a shout to be heard over the rumble. “I don’t mind depressed at all. I’m more of a ghost-town kind of person than most.”
He’s studying me, really listening, which I take as encouragement to go on. “I like being the only thing moving here. When everything around me is still like this, I can almost feel the blood going through my veins. It makes me feel really alive.”
When he doesn’t respond—just more of his serious look—I want to take back my words. Why did I say something so bizarre? Blood through my veins? He doesn’t have a clue of what I’m talking about. It’s even worse when he does respond: “I can leave if you want to be the only thing moving.”
“Oh no! That’s not … I mean, I didn’t mean … not at all. I’m glad…”
“I’m just teasing you. I’m not going anywhere. What you said about feeling alive? I feel it here, too.”
He checks his watch and motions for me to follow him down the boardwalk. He has a high-spirited, skipping walk that I never noticed in school. Maybe he doesn’t have it in school. There he has to act cool and aloof to fit in with those Plagues. He dashes over to the Tsunami ride. “When I was eight, I threw up my entire guts on this ride. The centrifugal force on half-digested cotton candy was awesome.”
Well, that wasn’t the most romantic memory for him to share, but in a strange way it is romantic. It’s the sort of thing you tell someone that you don’t want to pretend with, a person that you want to know the real you, barf episodes and all. To reciprocate, I point to the Double Shot, a tube of metal with cages at both ends.
“And on our left, we are passing one of my worst memories. I came here with a group of…” I start to say kids in my group home, but leave out the group home part. “At the first drop, I cried so hard they had to stop the ride to let me off. I still cringe thinking about that walk of shame.”
“Care to indulge in some Dipping Dots?” He mimes purchasing a large bowl at the boarded-up stand, and as we walk we pretend to share the cold treat, oohing and aahing over the delicious flavors and chiding each other for being pigs and taking more than our half.
“Here’s something you can’t do in the summer!” Brendon makes a dash to a kiddie ride, a ring of wildly painted sea creatures that, when powered, go round and round and up and down. He scans for a security guard, then jumps into the seat of a purple-and-yellow whale with big green eyes. “Good old Bulgy!” He strokes the creature’s neck. “This dude rocked my world when I was five.”
Brendon looks totally ridiculous on that ride, a muscular surfer with his knees folded to his chin in order to squeeze in. But so cute. Playing with the steering wheel, making stupid little-boy driving sounds, he looks happy and open, just like the little kid he probably was in kindergarten. I wish I had known him back then.
I stand outside the gate of the ride and extend my hand in his direction. He slaps it like kids usually do with their parents. We touched. He gives me a sheepish look and hops out.
“What a dork. I haven’t done anything like that in forever.”
“It’s my bad influence. I bring out the dork in people.”
He thinks for a second. “That’s a good thing. I’m happier being a dork than a jerk.”
He checks his watch again. Why does he keep doing that? Does he have somewhere else to go? Is he bored with me? He must be bored. He doesn’t seem bored, but people can act one way and feel another. That’s happened to me before. It’s happened to me a lot. It embarrasses me to think that he’s bored and is looking for a way to dump me. Then I feel kind of mad about that. I’ll beat him to it. I’ll dump him first. I wish I had a watch to check, too.
“Well, this was fun,” I say, super peppy. “But I have to go now.”
“What?”
“Thanks and everything. I liked seeing your secret spot.”
It’s Brendon’s turn now to fumble for words. “But this isn’t … you have to go? I thought. When I said … I want to show you…”
I am so relieved. He looks too disappointed to be faking it, so I must have been wrong about the dumping part. I backpedal hard. “I guess I can stay a little longer. I mean, I do have something else to do, like I said. I didn’t make that up. But if you want me to stay…”
“I want you to stay.”
“For real?”
He leans in closer and I think: He’s going to kiss me. It’s going to happen. He’s going to kiss me on the lips in front of the Ferris wheel. But instead of lips, his finger moves gently over the corner of my mouth. “You had a little crumb there. Must have been an escaped Dipping Dot.”
I blush. That was almost a kiss. It made my legs go weak. “I’m a messy eater.”
“It’s settled, then. You’re staying?”
I nod.
“Good. Because this isn’t the secret spot. This is just the boardwalk.”
Again he checks his watch. “It’s time.” He reaches out like he wants to take my hand and I start to give it to him, but we both change our minds at the same instant. He walks quickly, and I take giant steps to keep up.
“Come on,” he urges.
At the far end of the boardwalk, behind the Logger’s Revenge ride, there’s a hole in the chain-link fence that cordons off the boardwalk from the cliff above the river that empties into the ocean. Using both hands, Brendon widens the opening so it’s just big enough for me to squeeze though. When I’m on the other side I do the same for him, and then we’re both standing on a high, narrow cliff ledge.
“This is where you tell me, ‘Whatever you do, don’t look down,’ right?” I say.
“Not afraid of heights, are you?”
I shake my head and give a nonchalant smile, even though I am not thrilled about being suspended twenty feet above the water on a ridge that’s not much wider than my shoes.
“Don’t worry. It’s safe. I’ve done this a lot. Follow me.”
With Brendon in the lead, we inch along the cliff and follow the steady downhill slope toward the open ocean. I don’t look beneath my feet and I keep my back pressed against the solid rock wall for security. When we get close to the bottom, Brendon waits for a wave to recede and then he jumps onto the only small patch of sand that’s momentarily dry. Everywhere else, there are nasty-looking boulders.
Then it’s my turn. He must sense my hesitation, because he holds out his arms—“Want some help?”—and as much as I want those arms around my waist and my hands on his neck, I also want to do this on my own. I don’t like being a helpless girl. Because I’m not. I’m a Fury. I should be able to jump a few feet. I tell him I’m fine on my own, and he gives advice:
“Time it right. Avoid these big rocks. Wait. Wait. Now! Jump!”
My knees buckle a little and the legs of my jeans get splashed, but other than that it’s a perfect landing. I did it. Just offshore, though, I see another wave build and break. I glance left and right, wondering how we’re going to avoid getting soaked or even bowled over. I panic as a flood of white, swirling foam rushes at me. Brendon’s hand takes mine and pulls me backward with the water pursuing quickly.
It stops because it hit a barrier. We’re in a cave, a small one but big enough for two to squeeze in tightly. I have my second attack of giggles of the day, and I’m normally not a giggler. Maybe it’s the relief of not drowning. Or noticing that overhead, a dozen orange sea stars framed by clumps of dark seaweed cling to the ceiling. Maybe it’s because I’m gripping tight onto the sleeve of Brendon’s flannel shirt so we can both stay balanced on the same boulder, and there’s no place else to go.
“Welcome to my humble secret spot,” he says. “Like it?”
“It’s amazing! How did you ever find this place?”
“Coincidence.”
“There is no such thing as coincidence, young earthling. There are only karmic lessons from the cosmos. Maybe you were supposed to find it.”
“Yeah, well, I did a total klutz move surfing, and the cosmos ripped my board away from me. The current took it into here. I paddled after it. The cave is underwater most of the time—except for a short period when the tide is super low like it is today. I come here when I want to think.”
“Think about what?
I catch him looking at me out of the corner of his eye, weighing whether he wants to tell me. “You know … stuff.”
“That’s descriptive.”
“Sorry. It’s hard to say it out loud. I think about … well … you, for one thing.”
“Me?”
“How I treated you when you were gutsy enough to ask me to go golfing. And how I treat other people. I haven’t always been the nicest guy in the world. I think about the person I want to be. And whether I can ever be that person. Do you think people can change?”
“Of course!” I’m not saying this just to be flirty. I think of what I discovered about myself recently, how so much is possible. I can’t give him the details, but I want to say something encouraging. “Yes, definitely. From personal experience, I know that people change. You can, too.”
I peek around the opening of the cave and get a glimpse of the famous surfing spot. There’s a lineup of surfers, probably his friends, waiting for the next set of waves to roll in. “Cool angle on the surfer statue! This is how the seals, otters, and whales must see it.”
I’m surprised at his reaction. He stares at the statue like he’s scared of it, or hates it, or both. His voice goes flat. “Yeah, Prince of the Waves gazing out into eternity.”
“That statue. It reminds me of you.”
His body shifts uncomfortably. I feel it as a tug on the flannel in my hand. “What? Did I say something wrong?”
“You don’t know? You really don’t know?”
“Know what?”
His jaw tightens and the resemblance to the statue is even stronger. “My grandfather was the model. Big-wave surfer from way back. My father looks just like him, and I look like my dad did at this age. My family’s been in this town for a long time.”
“That must be something,” I say. “To know where you came from. To feel connected to a place and to people. I wish I…”
I let the sentence run out. I don’t know how much Brendon knows about me, and I don’t want to turn this into a pity party about the poor foster kid who doesn’t know her own parents or belong anywhere.
“There are some good things about it,” he says. I wonder if he’s going to say something else. He seems to want to, but he pauses. I want to know more about him. Anything. Everything. I ask: “That must mean that there are some not-so-good things, too.”
“Expectations.” The word comes out harsh, blunt. He motions toward the Prince, a gray silhouette against a gray sky. “I’m supposed to be just like him, and just like my father, carry on the oh-so-important family legacy. Never question it. Ride the biggest waves and tackle the hardest surf, win all the contests, be the biggest badass dude in the water. Have the coolest friends, the sickest board, the newest wet suit, the hottest girlfriend. What if I don’t want the hottest girlfriend?”
“Every guy wants the hottest girlfriend.”
Fierce. “Not this guy.”
“You always date the hottest girls in the school.”
“Because that’s what everyone expects me to do. What if I want a girlfriend I want and she’s not so hot?”
Now I’m the one who’s fidgeting. He rotates on our rock and gives me a funny look. “Uh-oh. Did I just blow it? Yeah, I blew it. I’m not saying you’re not hot. Because you are.”
“Yeah, right.” I lick my index finger, touch it to my bottom and make a sizzling sound.
He laughs. “See, that’s what I mean! What if I want a girlfriend who makes me laugh and thinks about things in interesting ways? Maybe I want a girlfriend who’s not in the popular crowd and who prefers the boardwalk in the winter and doesn’t complain about hanging out in a cave and takes risks and…”
“And,” I add, hopefully, “is hot, too?”
“Definitely. Smoking hot.” Another laugh, but he quickly turns pensive. “I’m talking about more than just my choice of girlfriends.”
“I know that.”
“It’s about my whole life. What if I don’t want to carry on some stupid surfing family legacy? What if I want something else? What if I want to figure things out for myself?”
“Surfing? You want to give that up?”
“No way! I love surfing. Without it, I feel disconnected from everything—the air, the water, from myself. Coming down the face of a wave, the power, the explosion of colors, being eye to eye with an otter, being part of all that. It’s the best. But for him”—he juts his chin toward the statue—“for my dad, for Pox, for all those guys, it’s not about any of that. For them, it’s about competition and winning and making new surfers feel like shit. It’s about ruling the break, being royalty, the prince. They miss the point.”
Everything he says meshes with what Alix feels about surfing and how Stephanie relates to nature, and what I felt during my short surfing experience. “No one can be prince of the waves,” I say. “The ocean can’t be ruled by puny people. It doesn’t even know we exist. We’re lucky it lets us hang out in it sometimes.”
He laughs again, though I wasn’t trying to be funny. “Exactly. You get it. But if my dad or any of the Plagues heard me talking like this … It’s hard to go against your friends and your family, against who they think you are and who they expect you to be. Sometimes I feel like I’m living a secret life. Prince of the Waves on the outside. Somebody else—I don’t even know who yet—on the inside. But I want to stop pretending.”
“So stop, then.”
“It’s not so easy for me. Not like for you. You say exactly what you feel.”
“Me?” My voice goes up an octave.
“You stood up in class and said you hated everyone.”
“Oh God, not that!” I try to hide my face in my hands, but that puts me off balance and I almost fall into the tide pool below our feet. Brendon saves me by wrapping his arm around my waist.
“It was weird as hell, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how you said exactly what you felt. I can’t stop thinking about you. Meg, do you hate me, too? Please don’t hate me.”
I can’t speak. I can only feel his hands.
“Is this okay? That I’m holding you like this?”
I nod approval and manage words, the right words, I hope. “Let the real you out. People will like that person. I really like him.”
He’s so close and I feel him wanting to get even closer. I want to confess my biggest secret to him, too: I’m not what I appear to be on the surface, either. But I stop myself. I don’t dare. I can’t.
With his free hand he takes my face by the chin, turns it in his direction. We are nose to nose, belly to belly. He kisses me, and he tastes of salt water and apples and a taste that’s uniquely him. We kiss and kiss again, moving only our mouths so that we can stay on the rock.
Then who cares about getting wet? Not me, not us. We make the decision together silently, and stumble into six inches of freezing-cold water, hardly feeling a change in temperature, and we keep kissing with the sea stars overhead and the barnacles and mussels hunkered down on the walls and hermit crabs scurrying around.
It feels like we’ll never stop kissing. Neither of us wants to. And maybe we wouldn’t have, except for the big wave breaking through the barrier of the cave. Water surges to our knees before being sucked away again. This time we can’t ignore the cold or the danger of the rising surf. We laugh and kiss again and hop around splashing each other. Brendon checks his watch. He sounds slightly drunk, and that’s the way I feel, too. Drunk and shivering and happy.
“Tide is coming back in hard. We should have left five minutes ago. We need to scramble.”
He leads me away by the hand. In my mind I say good-bye to the crabs, the barnacles, the urchins and anemones, and to the seal’s-eye view of the Prince of the Waves.
I wonder: will I ever return to this dangerous, magical spot that exists for only a few precious moments at a time?