twenty-seven
It is an equal failing to trust
everybody and to trust nobody.
—Thomas Fuller
This past week has been tense. Mom’s been working late hours. My normally clean room looks like someone else lives in it; it’s as disheveled as I feel. Ford and I haven’t made up yet, and I know our argument wasn’t big enough for this. It seems like every time I call or text, he’s busy with work stuff or hanging out with his new friends. I don’t understand why he’s acting like this. Hello, the surf comp is in four days and I still haven’t nailed the 360.
Damien should be here any mie="18in nute. He’s been a lifesaver. If it weren’t for him, I don’t know how I would have made it to the beach so much this week. I snag my cell, throw my duffel over my shoulder, and run for the garage. I can’t stand being late. The screwier things get, the earlier I like to be. Early is on time. On time is barely making it. And being late equals major stress.
Bam. I crash into Dad in the hallway. What the crap?
“Sorry, Dad. I didn’t realize anyone was home. I thought you were at the office this morning.”
He raises the back of his hand and then stops. I flinch. He grits his teeth. “That doesn’t mean you run around wild, crashing into things. You’re going to scrape the paint on our walls. Show some respect.”
The last thing I need is Damien knocking on our front door and hearing Dad yell at me or worse. “Sorry, Dad. I won’t run in the hall anymore. Damien should be here any minute and I didn’t want to make him wait.”
“Get the hell out on the porch and wait for him, then. I’ve got a case to work on. Are your chores finished?”
Is he nuts? It’s seven in the morning. In the summer. Who has their chores finished?
I do the only thing I can do—lie. “I started earlier this morning. I’m almost finished. I’ll have them done by the time you get home this evening.”
I bank on the fact that he needs to get to work and I’m about to leave. Good God, I’m tired of lying. It feels like my entire life is one big lie. Lie to everyone about what a wonderful family I have. Lie to dad about chores. Lie to mom about surfing and college and how I feel about Ford. Lie to Ford about not wanting to date him. That’s the one that makes me feel the worst.
He snarls, “Make sure you do.”
“Yes sir.”
Our zen-sounding door bell chimes. How ironic. I feel anything but calm.
“That’s probably Damien. I should answer the door.” I wait for Dad’s approval, dying that I’m now late.
“Get moving, then. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Okay, thanks. Bye Daddy.” I speed-walk to the front door and try to shake off the adrenaline rushing through me. It’s all good. I’m going surfing. All I need to do is work on surf skills and keep up with my chores. Then everything will fall into place.
I open the door with my best fake smile. “Hey. Sorry to make you wait.”
Damien takes my duffel bag. “No worries.”
“Thanks.” I punch in the code for the garage and duck underneath the door while it’s still rising. I snag my board and hurry out. Escape. That’s what I want. That’s where I’m headed. I close the door. Damien takes the board.
And then I deflate. “Crap.”
“What?”
“I forgot to fill the jugs with hot water,” I say, tucking my hands in and out of my sleeves. Damien and I have been rinsing off with fresh warm water after our surf sessions. It’s a little thing, but it feels so good.
“Chillax, girl. I’ll get your board strapped in, no rush.”
This is so not the day to go back inside and risk another run-in. But what am I supposed to say to Damien? We don’t have hot water? I’m extra-scared of Dad this morning? Yeah, right. I bite my lip and trudge back to the house. As I step through the front door, I hear cursing come from my bedroom. Shit.
Forget it. Just go, go, go. I rush to the pantry to grab some empty water jugs and fill them up as quickly as possible. Thank God we have an instant hot water tap. I’m working on jug number two when I hear heavy footsteps closing in on me. I’ll play dumb.
“Oh hey, Daddy. I forgot the hot water jugs. I’ll be out of your way in just a minute.” I glance backward to see dirty laundry in his hands.
“‘Almost finished,’ huh? I’d sure as hell hate to see what ‘haven’t even started’ looks like.”
“It’s really not that much. It looks worse than it is.” My pulse quickens and I consider bailing—leaving the jugs on the counter, running and never coming back. Instead I pop the lid onto the jug. Damien will think I’m crazy if I walk out without these things full, and I don’t want to explain any more than I want to face Dad right now.
He slams the laundry on the table. “Then you’ll have no problem showing me what spotless looks like tomorrow morning.”
I cringe. “Yes sir.”
He flings his arm in the air and shoos me toward the door. “Well, what’s wrong with you? You’re making him wait.”
“Yes sir.” I grab the jugs and scramble for the door, but not before getting a hard backhand on my rear on the way out. I guess that’s the only place he can be sure Damien won’t see, if it leaves a mark.
Tears smart my eyes. I won’t cry; he won’t win.
I jerk the Jeep door open and shove the water jugs onto the floorboard, then slam the door, blinking back tears and hoping Damien isn’t looking at me.
“Easy there. I waxed her yesterday. Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.” My voice comes out raspy, but if
I try to clear my throat it will just make it more obvious. “I guess I’m in a rush.”
Silence lingers for a minute. “The waves’ll be there. What’s with the hurry?”
I swallow hard, trying to clear my throat. “Too much.”
Damien turns to me. “Want to talk about it?”
Please God, start the engine already. We need to go. I need to get out of here.
“Not really,” I say, kicking off my turquoise flip-flops and drawing my knees to my chest.
He eyes Dad’s car in the driveway and nods like he understands. “It’s cool. If you change your mind … I’m here.”
If only he knew. I don’t answer. I stare out the window. I screwed things up with Ford. Our relationship is ruined. He’s got new peeps. I don’t want to do the same with Damien. I mumble, “It’s just the fact that my parents kind of have unrealistic expectations. You know? And sometimes my dad gets fired up when he’s pissed.”
He drives down the street away from our house, and with every foot between me and my dad, I feel a nervous energy pulsing through me. I’m unsure as to whether I’m going to laugh or cry or scream.
Damien stays quiet as we exit the neighborhood and I feel dumb for saying anything. I know better than that. Nobody ever wants the truth, not even close to it. It was a moment of weakness. I lost control of my emotions.
Once Damien gets on the highway he says, “Does that mean what I think it means? Like, he’s physical toward you?”
I squirm like an ant under a magnifying glass in the hot sun, my pulse quickening as a lump the size of a brick fills up my throat. I’m miserable; scraping Grimace Rock was a picnic compared to the humiliation weighing on me like a two-ton elephant.
He runs his right hand back over his dreads and then places it back on the wheel. He sucks in a big breath of air, starts to say something, and then stops.
I’m dying. This is why I never say anything. It’s not like anyone can do anything.
He blows air out his mouth and exits the freeway, where he flies across the frontage and whips into the first parking lot he can turn into. He parks and turns to me, intense. I’m wishing I could disappear.
He says, “You know you don’t have to put up with that. Right? It’s total crap. You know that. C’mon, you’re so freaking smart. Why the hell are you still there?”
And while I agree it’s crap, I’m angry. At my parents, my situation, at not knowing who to trust, at humiliating myself, at Damien’s judgment of me.
Bitter, I vomit words and random thoughts. “Oh, like it’s all that easy. Sure, I’ll just move out of my house. To where? With who? And are they going to love me? Like really love me? And why would they? And what about college? Are they going to pay for my education?”
Damien’s eyes grow big and he places his hand on the console between us. “I’m sorry. I know it’s complicated.”
I turn my head. “It’s more than that, and it’s not out of control. I mean … I can han >
Damien’s hands shake a little and his voice comes out real quiet. “But at what price?”
“Can we just go? More than anything, I need to surf today. Please? And don’t say anything. Nobody knows.”
“Not even Ford?”
I half whisper, “Not even Ford.”
I. Did. It. I surfed the freaking Point and lived to tell. No scratches.
After that conversation with Damien, I needed to blow off steam. I surfed my ass off today. I avoided the rocks and I surfed the Point. All day. Now I’m laid out on the sand like a wet noodle. Ecstatic. Exhausted. I can’t wait to tell Ford. But I don’t want to go home for anything. Who knows when Mom will be home? And I don’t want another run-in with Dad.
Damien sits beside me looking like a Billabong surfer ad.
I stretch out. “Ugh. I don’t want this day to end.”
“Then don’t let it. Let’s live on the edge.”
“How?” I sit up and grin mischievously at Damien, grateful he let things drop. Glad we had a good day. As far as I’m concerned, I’m going to act like I never said anything and it looks like Damien will do the same.
He pulls back a little, tries to hide his surprise. He taps his chin with his pointer finger like he’s thinking hard. Then he smirks. He snaps his fingers and shrugs. “Guess we’ll have to go shopping … on my old man’s card.”
I laugh, half shocked and completely amused. “No way.”
He stands up and puts my bag over his shoulder like a girl wears a purse. “Yes way. Girl, I can be cray-cray. C’mon,” he wheedles.
He’s so hot, standing there acting stupid. Wearing my bag. So tempting. For a split second I close my eyes. Then I give in. “I’m in. What’s that saying?” I twist around to pop my back. Got it. “Sometimes it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.”
He holds an arm out. We link elbows. Damien cracks me up. He’s a blast.
We get out of the Jeep in front of Goodwill and I walk on the lawn instead of the sidewalk. Such a stupid little thing, but I feel like such a rebel. Ford would be so proud. Crap. I’ve got to get him out of my head. Today I’m having fun—with Damien. Be gone, Ford Watson.