Wavehouse Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Acknowledgements

  Advanced Reviews for Wavehouse

  “Wavehouse captures the twists and turns of growing up with sensitivity, humor, and heart-pounding surfing adventures. Fans of Sarah Dessen’s beachside novels will enjoy Kaltman’s seaside setting peppered with quirky and unforgettable characters. Warning: you may be tempted to grab a board and paddle out to Kendall’s Watch once you’ve finished.”

  – Diana Gallagher, author of Lessons in Falling.

  “Wavehouse is a much-needed addition to young adult fiction as it centers on a powerful yet painfully shy female athlete holding her own in the male-dominated sport of surfing. Alice Kaltman is able to put readers alongside Anna on her surfboard in a way that only an author who is a surfer herself could. In her descriptions, I can feel the wind through my wet hair, the acceleration of the surfboard beneath me, and the ecstatic terror of entering the shimmering barrel of a wave twice my height.

  Delightedly, Wavehouse also contains a heart-melting love story and readers will fall hard for the thoughtful and mysterious Men’s Junior World Surf Champion Chris Kahimbe. I especially liked how this budding relationship forces Anna to face her disapproval of her mother’s over-dependence on men and find her own balance in the feeling of being in love without losing herself to it.”

  – Megan Westfield, author of Leaving Everest

  “A super shy teen surfer braves ten foot waves, a stormy relationship with her single mom and the tumultuous tides of first love in this poignant debut YA coming-of-age story. I cheered for Anna aka The Surfing Siren and readers will too as she faces down her inner demons and overcomes her fears to let her gifts as an athlete and artist shine. A stirring exploration of the sustaining power of a young girl’s growing trust in herself, her friendships, and her unconventional family portrayed with honesty, wit and true grit. Bravo!”

  – Laura Geringer Bass, author of The Girl With More Than One Heart

  Wavehouse

  Alice Kaltman

  Fitzroy Books

  Copyright © 2018 by Alice Kaltman

  Published by Fitzroy Books, an imprint of

  Regal House Publishing, LLC

  Raleigh 27612

  All rights reserved

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN -13 (paperback): 978-0-9988398-8-2

  ISBN -13 (hardcover): 978-1-947548-38-1

  ISBN -13 (epub): 978-0-9988398-9-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017960264

  Interior design by Lafayette & Greene

  Cover design by Lafayette & Greene

  lafayetteandgreene.com

  Cover art by Alison Seiffer

  Fitzroy Books

  fitzroybooks.com

  Regal House Publishing, LLC

  https://regalhousepublishing.com

  For Noa, the reader who made me a writer,

  and

  Daniel, my partner in all crimes.

  “So on a summer’s day waves collect, overbalance, and fall; collect and fall; and the whole world seems to be saying ‘that is all’ more and more ponderously, until the heart in the body which lies in the sun on the beach says too, That is all. Fear no more, says the heart. Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, let’s fall.”

  -Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway

  Chapter One

  Shyness is a disease. It’s not contagious, and it’s not life-threatening—though sometimes it feels that way. Those of us who suffer from this disease are born shy; we’re genetically predisposed to freeze, crumble, or act like panic-stricken rodents in most social situations.

  The worst form of the disease is what I call “All-Star Shy Person Syndrome,” which means that contact with anyone who has a pulse can make you quake in your flip-flops. It doesn’t matter whether you’ve known them your whole life, or just met them that day. All you want to do is go hide under the nearest rock.

  There are some lucky shy folks, I call them “Type A’s,” who, in spite of their inherent social phobia, can transform themselves into confident alter-egos when on stage or competing in sports. But when they’re not scoring goals or hitting pitch-perfect high C’s, they’re stumbling through life with eyes averted, avoiding as much direct human interaction as possible.

  Then there are the less lucky Type B’s who, while moderately shy, turn to mush or stone at the mere thought of performing. Type B’s aren’t always so inept—they can manage a polite conversation with strangers if the situation demands it; plus, they’re cool with friends and family, who Type B’s think of as gems kept in special pockets, stored and safe. But ask Type B’s to perform? To go: “Tada! Look at me! Aren’t I great?” Forget about it. There are no comfort pockets for that kind of experience.

  If we’re lucky or persistent enough, an All-Star or Type B can become a Type A. But no matter what kind of shyness we each have locked in our genetic codes, we all know: once a shy person, always a shy person. We can’t will it away, no matter how hard we want to, no matter how hard we try.

  When I was ten years old, I still wanted to please my mother. I thought Sara—as she liked me to call her—was God’s gift to womanhood. I aspired to be just like her, even though I knew I was completely different. So when she signed me up for the Montauk Junior Surf Tournament, I didn’t consider saying no, even though my shyness antenna was bleeping at full frequency. I tried to convince myself that if Sara liked surfing in front of other people, then gosh, gee, maybe I would, too. Maybe the waves would win me over. Because even when they challenged me, even when they sent me tumbling into places blue, dark, and cold, waves were my best friends. Waves were my watery companions occupying the deepest and most special pockets.

  Surfing wasn’t a choice for me; it was a calling. Sometimes it felt more natural than breathing. Sara claimed I started surfing when I was two years old. I still have fuzzy memories of lying on the nose of her surfboard, water surrounding us like a cave, with a clear view of sun and sky. When I looked up, I saw Sara standing with her strong calves squeezed around my little kid waist like a vise. No way would she ever let me fall.

  If only my wiser self c
ould go back in time and warn that young dummy. At ten, I was deep in an All-Star-Shy-Girl cocoon, avoiding other kids whenever I could, barely lifting my chin to say a polite “hello” to their parents.

  I knew something was wrong as soon as we left our home in Kendall’s Watch and cruised westward along the one-lane highway connecting Kendall’s with the world-famous— maybe even infamous—surf town of Montauk. Staring out the window at the familiar mile markers, dunes, brushy beach plums, and scrubby pines whizzing by, I felt sick to my stomach. We’d driven this route a gazillion times before and I’d never gotten carsick. This was clearly All-Star-Shyness-

  induced nausea. Soon enough, I was all sweaty palms, shaking knees, and blurry vision.

  Sara was oblivious. “This is gonna be fun,” she said as she chewed her gum and tapped her hand on the steering wheel. “The waves are gonna be perfect for you, Anna. Trust me. You’re gonna have the time of your life.”

  I did trust my mother—most of the time, anyhow. But not then. Deep in my shy core, I started to understand; there would be no fun at this tournament. There would be no perfection. Instead, I imagined, there would be disaster with a capital D. But I kept my mouth shut. Maybe, just maybe, I told myself, you’ll get out of the car and this terrible feeling will disappear.

  No such luck. As soon as we arrived at the Ditch Plains surf break in Montauk, I knew I was a goner. Crowds milled about the parking lot; parents unloaded beach umbrellas, surfboards, chairs, coolers, and kids. As Sara started pulling gear out of the back of our Jeep, I stayed glued to my seat and stared out at the beach. From the safe distance of the car, I could smell the sunscreen, sea salt, hot dogs, and beer. Even though it was still only early morning, people were ready to party. And when I say people, I mean lots of people. Surfers from all over the East Coast had shown up. And not just surfers, but friends of surfers, parents of surfers, grandparents of surfers, and photographers of surfers. Colorful umbrellas were staked out in prime spectator spots. Little kids screamed with glee at the water’s edge as frothy foam covered their feet; their moms stood watch, wearing modest sundresses and drinking pink drinks out of giant plastic tumblers. Teenage girls paraded in tiny bikinis, holding dripping ice cream cones, and a gaggle of old-timers sat in lawn chairs, gabbing away while battery-operated fans blew in their faces.

  I hugged my sketchbook to my queasy tummy. Other kids carried ratty baby blankets or stuffed animals around for security. Me? I hauled drawing supplies around wherever I went. Nearby, two girls my age laughed while their mothers

  gathered beach chairs and umbrellas. One of the girls, a blonde, glanced in my direction, then turned to her dark-haired friend and whispered. They both turned to gawk at me, like two hawks eyeing a defenseless chipmunk.

  “I changed my mind,” I gasped. “I don’t want to do this anymore. Let’s go home.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Sara said impatiently.

  “Please?” I pleaded. “I feel sick. I have a stomachache.”

  Sara tried the sweet approach. “You’re gonna rock this contest, Anna. I just know it. Now put the sketchbook down and get out of the car.”

  “I can’t.”

  Sara leaned over me, her shell necklace dangling in my face. “Listen, Anna,” her voice was low and steady, but oozed irritation, “We’ve paid the tournament fee already. Plus, we Dugans are not quitters. I’m not going to have my daughter, who is the best surfer under the age of eighteen, bag out of this contest.” Sara swung my car door open. “Get out. Pronto.”

  Hot tears formed in my eyes. The two hawky girls were still staring at me. They could see what a cowardly baby I was.

  “Can I…at least bring my sketchbook with me?” I stammered.

  Sara stared at the precious sketchbook that I clutched to my chest. I was strong, but about as wide as a blade of grass; it would be hard to pry the book from my clutches. A vein pulsed in the side of Sara’s long, tan neck. Her jaw moved as if she had a bunch of marbles in her mouth. Finally she spoke, “Okay, you can bring it, if it makes you happy. But don’t get all whiny if it gets sandy. And if other kids want to talk to you, stop drawing and have an actual conversation with them. Deal?”

  “Deal,” I replied happily. I put my sketchbook back in my canvas tote where my pens and pencils, stashed in a side pocket, were neatly rubber-banded in groups according to color. Scooting out of the car, I forced myself to follow Sara to the sign-up table. A super-stoked boy about my age finished his registration and whooped a big “Oh yeah!” while high-

  fiving his equally enthusiastic father. Sara and I were fortunately

  —or unfortunately—next in line.

  Panic bubbled up from the pit of my stomach when a freckly woman, with a name tag that read “Alison,” handed

  me a green jersey. She proceeded to explain the rules of the event: “You’ll be competing against fourteen other girls, sweetheart. Only five of you will go out at a time. The goal is to catch as many waves as you can in a thirty-minute heat, and surf those waves as well as you can. So it’s a combination of quality and quantity. After all the girls have gone, the judges will narrow you down to a group of four. Tomorrow we’ll do a second heat and decide on first through fourth place winners in your division. At the end of the tournament, the judges vote on the best overall surfer from among the top contestants. Do you understand all that, hon?”

  I gulped.

  “How much does she get when she wins first prize?” asked Sara.

  Alison looked confused. “How much what?”

  “Money, of course,” answered Sara.

  “There’s no cash award in this contest. All proceeds benefit the East End Women and Children’s Shelter down in Hampton Bays.”

  “You’re kidding,” Sara replied testily. “You mean these kids don’t get any payback for their hard work?”

  “Sorry, but we’re not running this competition as that kind of event. Competing to benefit the children’s shelter is payback enough for our kids.”

  Alison, glancing down at her clipboard, called the next contestant. A whole pack of people now lined up behind us, and some of the grownups had clearly heard our exchange. They looked at Sara as if she had some kind of illness—Greedy Mommy Disease—though I was relieved to see that the kids were oblivious, too jazzed up to pay attention, happily jabbing each other, telling jokes, having the kind of kid-surfer fun that was out of my reach.

  As we walked away, Sara grumbled, “La-de-dah. Isn’t she the noble one?”

  “If you’re angry at her, we can just leave,” I tried.

  “Fat chance. Even more reason for you to win,” Sara muttered, yanking me toward the beach. At ten, I was too puny to carry my own surfboard, so Sara carried it for me under one muscular arm. Over her opposite shoulder, she had a giant beach bag filled with the day’s supplies: two beach towels, an old Mexican blanket, bottled water, granola bars, gorp, easy-to-peel clementines, zinc oxide for lips and 50 SPF sunscreen for the rest of the body, a floppy sunhat for me, a sexy trucker hat for her. I had a modest tank suit on under my oversized tee shirt, while Sara was in full display in a teeny, tiny bikini barely concealed under microscopic board shorts.

  We found a spot on the crowded sand. Kids ran everywhere—the youngest, goofy and unselfconscious, played games of tag and wrestled like puppies in the sand; those my age and older pretended to be chill, but I could tell that some of them were nervous—maybe not quite at my high-alert level, but definitely not as cool-cucumbered as they’d like people to think. One girl chewed her cuticles as if she’d been starved of real food for days; a boy twisted the hem of his rash guard so tight that it looked like he might rip it to shreds. Most of the competitors seemed to know each other, and I imagined that gave them comfort. They looked like they felt right at home while I felt like I’d landed on Mars without a spacesuit.

  A stage was set up on the beach, blasting reggae music from gian
t loudspeakers. A few older couples danced with beer cozies in their hands—clearly soused even though it wasn’t even 10 a.m. yet. The whole scene was a giant, chaotic beach party, and shy kids like me hated parties. This would be worse than apple bobbing or Pin the Tail on the Donkey. This was a party where kids were competing and showing off. I had no idea how to do either of those things.

  “I’m hungry,” Sara said. “You want something? I’m gonna

  hit that food stand over there.”

  I followed the trajectory of her long arm and manicured finger to a table manned by a couple of hunky surfers. Shaggy blonde-brown hair and biceps; broad shoulders and board shorts. My single mother’s favorite kind of food.

  “Nah, I’m okay,” I mumbled.

  Rummaging through her beach bag, Sara brought out a granola bar and a bottle of water. “Well, do me a favor and have these. I don’t want you paddling out there without some fuel and hydration in your system.”

  Sara brushed the sand off the back of her short-shorts and sashayed over toward “the food,” leaving me to wait and worry.

  I stared out at the ocean. The waves were decent, four to six feet, steep, curling and nicely formed. Normally, I loved those kinds of waves, but on that day I wasn’t so sure. My All-Star-Shy-Girl perspective distorted everything, including the surf. Those perfect waves looked as unpredictable as killer sharks who, if hungry enough, might want to eat me in a few swift bites.

  The first heat was for boys under seven. They strutted about flexing acorn-sized biceps, jerseys hanging below their knees. One little fellow clung to his father’s leg like a barnacle to a rock. Aha, I thought, there’s the shy one. A horn bleated like a hysterical goat, and they all dashed in and began to paddle—even barnacle boy.

  My stomach seized and spasmed. Even watching other kids compete seemed to make me queasy. Sketching, I knew, would calm my nerves; I opened my sketchbook and looked through the quirky drawings—Wavehouses from my dreams.