Furious

chapter 6



After school it’s raining again, a sudden storm that wasn’t in the forecast. I tell Raymond that I want to skip the bus despite the weather and walk home. That’s one of the ways we definitely aren’t alike. He doesn’t get why I like the rain and fog so much, how bad weather makes me feel in tune with the world as I know it. Raymond’s more of a sunshine and clear skies person, but he’s willing to humor me. We zip our jackets. His face peers out of his hood. He’s stuck on the same subject that’s obsessed him from third period on. Can’t blame him. I’m right there with him.

“You have to go there,” he says again.

“As if I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t know anyone who’s been inside. Sneak photos with your cell phone, okay? Take notes with your elegant handwriting. Promise? You can’t say no. Tell me exactly how Ambrosia invited you.”

“Again?”

“Every detail. Let me relive the thrilling moment with you.”

“Like I said before, she was holding my hands. You saw that. Weird, night? Then she leaned in and whispered, ‘You’ll come to my house. Tomorrow after school.’”

“That’s so Ambrosia. She didn’t ask. She ordered. Nobody ever says no to her. I wonder what she wants from you.”

“Why do you think she wants something?”

“Of course, she wants something! Meg, under Ambrosia’s flawless patina of impeccable mystery beats a core of pure emotional manipulation. Surely you’ve noticed that.”

“Maybe she…” I pause a second, remind myself of the pull of her perfume, the tickle of her breath whispering in my ear. I take a leap over Raymond’s logic. “I don’t know, maybe she wants to hang out with me. Maybe we”—I struggle to find the right word for what happened between us—“clicked.”

I immediately catch myself. Saying this might hurt his feelings because of the special Meg-Raymond bond that we’re both so protective and proud of. “Not click like you and I click. You know I don’t mean that.”

He extends his pinkie and I hook it to mine, and at the same time we say “Pinkie Pull of Trust.”

I go on. “But maybe she, you know, likes me.”

He lifts an eyebrow suggestively.

“Not that way! Maybe she thinks I’m cool.”

“Ambrosia? Don’t be ridiculous!”

Ouch. That hurts. The word ridiculous seems to echo in the damp air. At the corner we wait for a car to turn and then cross the street. At the curb there’s a big puddle that Raymond leaps over and easily clears with his long legs. I jump, too, and wind up soaking the cuffs of my jeans. Ridiculous. He talks on, either ignoring or not noticing the impact of that word on me.

“Earth to Meg. You spy with your sharp little eye the type Ambrosia surrounds herself with. Those girls date college guys. Not community college, four-year college. Sophomores. I’ve taken the time to look beneath your surface to discover and appreciate your core of pure wondrousness. But Ambrosia? Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not in her league.”

A knot in my throat tightens, twists. Things get quiet after that, and it’s not the comfortable silence between two close friends who agree on everything. With each step down the street, I flip between two feelings that shouldn’t even exist at the same time in the same mind together: I’m pathetic. (Of course he’s right about me not being in Ambrosia’s league. Nobody is really in her league. How stupid can I be?) I’m pissed off! (But Raymond didn’t feel what I felt. It happened! Ambrosia felt it, too. Raymond must be jealous of her. I bet that’s it! She didn’t call him a treasure.)

The next block is where we split off in different directions, and I’m more than ready to go. But Raymond holds me back by wrapping his arm around my shoulder. I start to push it off, but instead stand rigid to show him that I am not returning the hug.

“Meg-o-mania, don’t be mad at me. You know how my mouth works. I can’t help myself sometimes. When I said that you’re not in Ambrosia’s league, I meant it as a compliment. Take it that way. There’s something so cold and calculating about her, and you’re … you’re so warm and not calculating.”

I shrug, won’t meet his eye.

“Come on! Don’t be stubborn.”

I shrug again. I’m sure I’ll get over the sting of his insult eventually. That’s me. I always get over anything. Forgive and forget. Turn the other cheek. But right now, I don’t want to. I don’t feel like it. I’m glad that we live on opposite sides of town. He gives me his pleading puppy-dog look, and in return I lift my hand in a quick half-wave, show him my back, and walk away. I hope that motion says to him: I get to be mad sometimes, too.

I’m definitely in no rush to get back to the Land of the Leech, so I take the long way. I have a lot to think about besides Raymond. Something is going on. Ambrosia. Ms. Pallas. How do they fit together? Alix is part of this something, too. I feel it. And what is Stephanie’s place? Is she part of it? I weave west through some neighborhoods and eventually wind up on the single-lane walkway that borders the cliff along the coast. Being here clears my head a little. I can never get enough of the kelpy, salty smell and the cold fog on my face and in my hair.

I head north, my left hand tingling cold from the wind off the ocean. Ahead of me, I spot the town’s famous surfer statue that stands on a pedestal on a spit of land that protrudes above the water. The statue’s a little corny—a thick-haired stereotypical surfer dude, his chest broad and expansive as he grips his board behind his back, his chiseled profile contemplating the ocean for the next wave to catch. I get a kick out of how people decorate it according to the season: in December there’s usually a Santa hat on that head of metallic hair, and in the summer a baseball cap.

As I get closer, I make out a carved jack-o’-lantern with a broad, leering grin sitting at the statue’s bare feet, near the plaque: Prince of the Waves. The statue was dedicated to the community a long time ago, and there’s something familiar about the shape of the surfer’s head and the set of his mouth. Up close, you see a tension in the surfer’s jaw, and this makes me certain that he’s more than a fantasy archetype. He’s human with human feelings. My guess is that the sculptor based him on a real person.

I wrap my hands around the metal railing that separates me from the steep twenty-foot cliff and the ocean below. I bend back my head to follow a V-shaped flock of pelicans that are struggling against strong headwinds.

Who was this Prince of the Waves?

I bet that just like me, in weather just like this, he stood on this spot, the edge of an entire continent, the point where land ends and there’s nothing left, nowhere to go that’s solid. I wonder if he, too, imagined how these waves started far away. Something big and dangerous—an earthquake or hurricane—set them in motion, and they traveled through space and time, gathering strength and eventually meeting their end here.

A crash on the rocks below my feet.

I’m sure a science teacher like Mr. H could explain exactly how the shape of the cliff, the direction and pull of the current, and the force of the wind all come together to make this one of the most famous surfing spots in California. On most days, the waves roll in steadily and evenly shaped, musical like a poem. But right now they remind me of an argument, yelling and screaming, starting in one direction and suddenly veering into another, breaking apart, colliding and unpredictable.

I squint through the fog and light rain, and I can’t believe what I’m seeing. There’s actually someone, a surfer, in the water. A wave slams hard, burying the figure and tossing around the board like it’s nothing but a toothpick. There’s so much churned-up water, it looks like angry milk. Not even the Plagues would be out there today. You have to be crazy. Or you have to be someone who doesn’t care about getting hurt. Or you have to be obsessed. Or part fish. Or someone who’s a match for these waves, as fierce as the ocean itself.

I loosen the string of my jacket hood, let it drop back, then remove the clip from my hair. I shake my head. Each strand swells with moisture, turning my hair even wilder than it usually is, as coarse and tangled as a steel-wool pad.

What would it be like to be that surfer? To kick my legs and pound my arms, to punch my whole body through thick walls of water. To yell and scream and charge. To have nothing to lose. To have that much anger and not be afraid of using it.

All along the cliff, there are signs—DANGEROUS. UNPREDICTABLE SURF. STAY BACK—but right now instead of warning me, they tempt me. I lean forward on the rail and bend way over, far enough to see the cliff from a whole different angle, the way the surfer sees it.

Smash. The waves crash again on the rocks below. I breathe in, feel the power of each wave unleashing its force on the ground beneath me.

My eyes follow the surfer, who is now paddling toward the cliff, following some invisible diagonal line to where I’m standing. I begin making out individual features that confirm what I already know. I don’t know how I know, but I do.

Alix hoists herself out of the surf at the base of the cliff, like she’s been coughed up by the sea. Her hands tear away at the brown mass of kelp, skinny strands like mermaid’s hair, or witch’s hair, that’s wrapped itself around her ankles and the board. She shakes water from each ear. She turns to squint at me.

I want her to wave. I want her to recognize me as the girl who hates everyone, too.

But no, she glares at me and spits on the ground. With her board under her arm, she walks in the opposite direction.

* * *



“You’re late!” the Leech yells.

What I don’t say: I hate you!

“You forgot the cat food! What’s He-Cat supposed to eat?”

What I don’t say: Poison!

“Look at the mud you tracked onto the floor! Scrub that now!”

What I don’t say: You scrub it!

On my hands and knees, I wipe the floor clean of scuff marks.

What I do say: “Clean enough?”

“Enough of your sass.”

I see her arm swing back and then forward. If I have the time to see it, why don’t I move away? Why don’t I block it? Why don’t I defend myself? I feel her palm hard across my face. What she just did, hitting me, that’s against the law. She’s not allowed to do that. But it doesn’t matter. The law is meaningless. Who will enforce it for me? Who will take my side against hers?

In my room I cry, but it’s the kind of crying that is silent and only a little wet.

I cry because I’m so alone. Because of the way Raymond hurt my feelings today. Because of the way Alix ignored me. Because a boy like Brendon will never notice me. Because I’ll never have a real family. Because of all the times I held my tongue and this is what it got me. I cry because of so many hurts and insults that I can’t begin to name them all. I still feel the Leech’s slap across my face.

Enough. Enough!

I don’t want any more of this. I want things to be different. My whole life to be different. Especially for me to be different.

It can happen. It has to happen.

I feel something brewing.

I’m ready.

But ready for what?

What?

The rest of the night I spend on research for our Western Civ project. I dive into it. Here’s one of the things I learn:

The ancient world didn’t have much in the way of official laws and punishments. It was eye for an eye. If you hurt me, I hurt you. In ancient Greece the practice of personal vengeance against wrongdoers was considered natural and necessary.





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