It’s weird to hear him talk about all this, and like the scars on his arm, I’m trying to fit all his ragged pieces together: the security guard at work with the lewd mouth who made fun of my mismatched shoes; the surfer boy, struggling to pull his drugged-up friend Davy off the crosswalk; the brother whose eyes shine with pride when he talks about his sister’s achievements; the guy who high-fived me when I took down the kid who stole the Maltese falcon statue . . . and the science geek standing in front of me now.
Maybe Walt Whitman was right. We all really do contradict ourselves and contain multitudes. How do we even figure out who we really are?
Porter finally seems to notice how much he’s talking and his golden face gets ruddy. It’s pretty adorable. “Okay, enough,” he finally says. “What are you nerdy about?”
I hesitate, wanting to talk about classic film as passionately as he told me about ocean rain, but then I remember the incident with Patrick and my stomach feels a little queasy. I don’t relish rehashing all that again. Maybe some other time.
“History,” I tell him, which, though a compromise, is also true. “Confession time. I’ve been thinking lately that I sort of want to be a museum archivist.”
He brightens, as if I’ve just reminded him of something. “Like, cataloging things?”
“Yeah, or I might want to be a curator. I’m not totally sure.” Admitting it aloud makes me uncomfortable. I get a little squirmy and feel the need to flee the scene, but we’re standing on a cliff, and there’s nowhere to run. “Anyway, working at the Cave may not be a dream come true, but it’s a start. You know, for my résumé. Eventually.”
He squints at me, and I tell him a little more about my museum dream—which fits in with my Artful Dodger lifestyle: behind the scenes, low stress, geeking out over old things, preserving historically valuable pieces that most people find boring. As much as I love film, there’s no way I’d ever want to be a director. I’m realizing that more and more. Put me in the shadows, baby. I’ll happily plow through boxes of old files. “I like uncovering things that people have forgotten. Plus, I’m really good at organizing things.”
Porter smiles softly. “I’ve noticed.”
“You have?”
“Your cash drawer. Bills all facing the same way, creased corners straightened. Everything stacked and clipped together for the drop bag all perfect. Most people’s drawers are a wreck, money turned every which way.”
My cheeks warm. I’m surprised he’s paid attention to details like that. “I like things neat and orderly.” Stupid CPA blood.
“Orderly is good. Maybe you’ve got some science in you after all.”
“Pah!” I exclaim. “Nice try, but no.”
His eyes crease in the corners when he chuckles. “Guess you don’t want to work in the Hotbox forever, though, huh?”
“God no,” I say, pulling a sour face. “Not the Hotbox.”
Just mentioning it by name makes us both thirsty, so we head inside the Honeypot and grab some drinks. By the time we’re done with those, the sun’s breaking through the fog—sucking it up, now that I learned that tidbit of science—and the warming midday air smells like my dad’s backyard, of pine and redwood, clean and fresh. I breathe it in deeply. Definitely doesn’t smell like this out east.
When we finally get back on the chairlifts, we’re sitting closer. A lot closer. I feel Porter’s arm and leg, warm against mine. His board shorts are longer than my skirt, his legs longer than my legs, but when the lift sways forward, our calves press together. I stare where our bodies are joined. For the tiniest of moments, I consider pulling away, making myself small again, like I did on the ride up. But—
I don’t.
And he doesn’t.
The bar comes down, trapping us together. Arm against arm. Leg against leg, flesh against flesh. My heart beats against my rib cage as if it’s excitedly keeping time with a song. Every once in a while, I feel his eyes on my face, but I don’t dare look back. We ride in silence the entire way down, watching the town get bigger and bigger.
A couple of yards before we hit the ground, he speaks up in a voice so quiet, I can barely hear him. “What I said the other day about you having champagne tastes?” He pauses for a moment. Mr. Reyes is smiling, waiting to unhitch our bar. “I just wanted you to know that I like the way you dress. I like your style. . . . I think it’s sexy as hell.”
LUMIèRE FILM FANATICS COMMUNITY
PRIVATE MESSAGES>ALEX
*NO NEW MESSAGES*
“If what I think is happening is happening, it better not be.”
—Meryl Streep, Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009)
12
* * *
I’m a mess. It’s been eight hours since Porter and I parted at the Bees and I haven’t been able to get his words out of my head. Sexy as hell.
Me!
He!
What?
He didn’t say anything else, barely even looked at me when he told me he had to “skedaddle” because he promised to help his mom unload something at the surf shop that afternoon. I think I thanked him for the muffins and the chairlift ticket. I’m not even sure. I was so flustered. I might have told him I’d see him at work. Mr. Reyes asked me if I was okay, so I know I stood there too long, looking like a complete lunatic. Then I walked a half mile in the sand to the wrong parking lot and had to backtrack to get to Baby.
“That’s all you’re eating?” Dad asks from my left elbow.
I look down at my bowl. It’s mostly full, but not because it’s bad. It’s really, really good, in fact. I’m sitting at a pink picnic table on the northern end of the cove, far from the madding crowd of the boardwalk. Wanda—sorry, Sergeant Mendoza—sits across the table. It’s hard to think of her as a cop now, because she’s dressed in jeans, and we’re eating dinner with her on the beach in front of a pop-up food truck, the infamous posole truck. Also because Dad keeps calling her Wanda, and every time he says it, he smiles a little, only I don’t think he knows he’s doing it. I think they might be playing footsie under the table in the sand, but I’m too distracted to check.
Posole, it turns out, is this amazing Mexican slow-cooked stew made from dried corn, broth, chilies, and meat. They have red, green, and white posole for sale at the truck, and I’m having white, which is the pork kind, and the mildest. It’s topped with sliced fresh radishes and cabbage, and there’re plates of lime wedges at the tables. The sun is setting over the Pacific, so the sky is this crazy gold-and-orchid color, and the posole truck has these multicolored lights strung up over the tables, so it’s all festive and fun. At least, it should be. But we can see a few surfers silhouetted in the dusky waves, and that’s making me think of Porter, which freaks me out.
So no, I can’t eat.
But I have to. I’m starving, and this is silly. I’m not going to be one of those girls who goes all woobly-woo over a boy and picks at her food. It’s Porter Roth, for Pete’s sake. We’re practically archenemies. Look at our stupid compatibility quiz—didn’t we fail that? Or did we? I can’t remember now. All I remember is how cute and earnest he looked, talking about phytoplankton and ocean currents, and how the tiny hairs on his leg tickled when the chairlift rocked.