“She needs to start making new memories,” Marti sighs heavily. “Maybe I’ll go talk to her?”
Michael looks to me. I know he thinks I can accomplish this job. “I’ll try,” I volunteer quietly. “But I don’t think we should push her.”
“Thanks, baby,” he says, touching my arm as I step away. I only hope that when it comes to Andrea this time, I won’t let him down.
Flopping onto the queen-sized bed I kick off my sandals and sit Indian-style beside Andrea. Bunkmates for three days—when was it exactly Michael had thought we’d have our intimate rendezvous? Maybe Marti will give us a night on our own at some point, like Michael mentioned. Otherwise, after all the kissing and touching and looking I’ve done these past few weeks I might go crazy having to wait much longer.
Sprawled on her stomach, Andrea plants her chin in her hand, her eyes never leaving the television. “Whatcha watching?” I ask, though I can see it’s some kind of Disney program.
“Don’t know.”
“I was going to head down to the beach for a while,” I say. “I brought a kite. Did you see it? Actually, I brought three and you can pick the one you want. Would you like that?”
She shrugs, but remains silent. I found the kites at a shop in Santa Monica, a place where my dad loves to buy them. I made a point of stopping in there two nights ago, because I wanted us to have something special we could do together, and one thing I definitely remember from my childhood summers in Jacksonville is flying kites with my father. I bought a butterfly, a dragonfly, and a prism; I figure Andie can pick the one she likes best. I also tucked my mother’s red velvet cake recipe into my suitcase, because I want to bake her a luscious red, white and blue cake for Fourth of July.
“Well, okay,” I say, launching purposefully off the bed. “I guess I’m going to try surfing with Casey and your dad, then. I’ll see you later!” This time she does glance my way, and I almost sense that she’s torn. “Unless…you want to come?” I ask, hopeful.
She shakes her head. “See you when you get back.” She fixes her eyes on the television again.
Grabbing my oversized beach bag, the one with my one-piece and my cover up in it, I leave the room, wondering if the best strategy might not be simply to give her some room for a while.
In the car on the way over to the point, I begin to have second thoughts about this surfing plan. Staring out the open window, the wind tangling my hair, I wonder what on earth I’m doing. Trying to hold my own in a Man’s World, is that it?
Then we round a bend in the road, and I catch a glimpse of a few rogue surfers, splashes of color against profound depths of sea, and I’m reminded of the mystery, that transcendental thing that always seems to surround the sport like a holy penumbra. For years I watched the surfers down at my parents’ beach condo in Jacksonville; I watched and wondered, but I never tried it. That’s the problem with nearly dying—it brings into relief all those things you’ve never attempted, but always meant to do.
Casey’s radio plays an old Elvis Costello tune, one I haven’t heard in forever, and Michael starts to hum familiarly.
“The point’s packed,” Casey observes, slowing as we pass some parked cars on the shoulder. “Skeeter and Dobro are here, and that’s a sure sign that all the kooks are out.”
I’m sitting in the backseat, right behind Michael; I notice how the dark hair along his neck is trimmed close, how it spikes a little, and my fingertips burn with the urge to touch the prickling hairs. To lean forward in the seat and kiss him right there, on the nape of his neck.
But my appreciative reverie is broken when he launches into a crash course on surfing safety. “Just remember,” he cautions, “if you get caught under a wave, don’t fight it.” Slinging his arm over the back of the seat, he turns to me with a serious expression. “’Cause if you do, you’re spending energy. And that can cost you your life.”
My eyes train on a tiny fleck of a scar right at his hairline—how could I not have noticed it before? A silver crescent of a moon, as if someone took their fingernail and drew the line. “Gotta save all the energy you’ve got, Becca. Okay?” His eyebrows draw together like he’s wondering if I’m listening—or maybe just what I’m thinking.
“Oh, sure,” I reassure him, but my chest tightens reflexively. “No problem.”
“Just curl up into a ball, like this,” he continues, demonstrating a kind of ducking maneuver, protecting his face behind his hands. “You can be under those waves as long as a minute so you want to conserve.” A whole freaking minute without air? Asthma, anyone?