Wavehouse Page 11

  I nodded. “No earrings. This dress is enough of a stretch for me. I can only go so far.”

  She rummaged a bit more and came up with a tube of coral lipstick. “Please? Just a little?”

  “Uh-uh,” I shook my head.

  “Come on, Anna! One of us—you in fact!—is going on a date. A date! Did you hear me?”

  I groaned, but Myra persisted. “This is a life-changing event that requires special attention. And—if for no other reason—you have to wear lipstick for my vicarious pleasure.”

  I grabbed the lipstick. “Whatever.”

  Myra stood behind me and watched as I coated my mouth with the stuff, pretending it was SPF 50 zinc oxide lip balm. I had expected to hate the results, but the pinkish lipstick actually looked good on my smashed-tomato mouth.

  I smacked my lips together and took a step back from the mirror for one last long view. “Who the bloody heck is this girl?” I cried.

  Myra put her hands on my shoulders. “You can do this, Anna. It’ll be fun.”

  I turned around and grabbed both her wrists. “Wanna come along? I’m sure he won’t mind.”

  Myra frowned. “Yeah, right. Fifth wheel—love that position; born to play that role. In other words, not on your life.” She pulled out of my killer grip to reach up and smooth my hair.

  “Hey, how about tomorrow we go to the motel and ask Jimmy to be your contest surfer boy?”

  “I don’t know. I have to work with the biddies at the church sorting through stuff for Saturday’s rummage sale, and I’ll want to look good for this, um, Jimmy thing, so I might not have time—”

  I held a hand up like a traffic cop. “Like I said the other night, you are so worse than me.”

  Myra shrugged. “Okay. Okay. We’ll do it.” She turned me toward the door. “Come on, it’s time.” Myra pushed me out of her room and down the stairs. At the front door, we hugged.

  “Wish me luck,” I sighed.

  “You don’t need luck. You’re gorgeous and more importantly, you’re you. Now go. I’ll be waiting for the full report when you get back, just me and my pint of Cookies n’ Cream.”

  Chris was waiting for me in front of Brinestellar’s when I got there. He looked as good on land as he did in water, in a sea green button-down shirt and dark skinny jeans. Dry now, his sun-streaked hair was still wild, and ringlet-y, and framed his dark, handsome face like a lion’s mane.

  “Hey, Belly Flop. You look, um, really nice.” He smiled his crooked-tooth smile and reached forward. As I gave him my hand, I hoped mine wasn’t sweaty and clammy like Rusty Meyers’ had been. Chris’s hand felt like a giant warm, friendly paw. A shiver went up my spine, and I tried desperately not to reveal how undone I was by our touching. Chris’s hand was shaking a bit too, maybe even more than mine, which made me feel more relaxed.

  When we walked inside, everyone—and I mean everyone—stared. Even the few people there who hadn’t known me since the day I was born. Lots of heads nodded, and a low hum of whispering ensued. Was it really that bizarre that I, freaky Anna Dugan, was out with a guy? Or worse, was this because of the YouTube clip? Maybe these people were some of the new five hundred viewers? Most likely it was my dress. That, in of itself, was an Anna Dugan novelty. No one had ever seen me in one of those before. As we passed the bar, all the surfers standing around drinking their beers nodded their heads at Chris or gave him a thumbs-up, as if to say “Way to go, Dude.” I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or offended. All I knew was in that moment I felt mildly seasick.

  I noticed that Chris was also getting his fair share of female attention. Once she got her jaw up from the floor, Clarissa Morrison, the hostess, said, “Wow. Hi. Welcome to Brine-

  stellar’s.” Clarissa’s parents owned Brinestellar’s. She was only two years older than me, but dressed for work in a tight black cocktail dress and a whole face of paint.

  “Can we sit somewhere out of the way?” I asked.

  “Yeah, sure, Anna,” Clarissa managed. “Right this way.” She led us to a private spot behind a screen covered with old fishing nets and buoys.

  We could peek through the nets and see everyone, but nobody could really see us. Clarissa, leering at Chris as she handed him his menu, breathlessly sighed, “Enjoy.” While he looked at his menu, Clarissa handed me mine and, with eyes as wide as the Mississippi, she mouthed the words, Oh. My. God. Then she winked at me and my seasickness returned.

  Once Clarissa tore herself away from our table, Chris put his menu down and smiled nervously. “I thought she would never leave and I would have to pretend to look at this menu forever. I guess I had to take you out to dinner to learn your name, Anna.”

  “Dugan,” I blurted, like I had Tourette’s. So far dating was hard work.

  Chris looked confused.

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I’m totally confusing. My name is Anna Dugan. First. Last. In that order.”

  “But you’ll always be Belly Flop to me.”

  I felt my cheeks get hot. “What’s your last name?” I asked.

  Chris paused, swallowed and then said, “Kahimbe. Christopher Kahimbe. First. Last. In that order.”

  Kahimbe. It sounded vaguely familiar. “What kind of name is Kahimbe?”

  “It’s Kenyan. I’ve got Kenyan, Hawaiian, and Caucasian blood coursing through my veins. That’s why I look like a mutt.”

  “No, you look like a Wheaten Terrier.” What was I saying? I was talking too much. This is a problem for Type B’s. We so rarely talk to strangers that once we get comfortable we overdo it, and say really stupid shit.

  “Excuse me?” He laughed and held his hands up like begging paws. “Woof. Woof.”

  “Never mind,” I croaked. Words were spilling out too fast, as if I had no control. I had to switch gears. “Hey, let’s order. I’m starving.” I opened my menu and pretended to read. “The fried calamari in this place is sick.”

  We decided on fried calamari to share, followed by a swordfish burger for him and a salmon steak for me. After Sam, the waiter—luckily not a leering surfer or a gawking local—took our order, Chris cleared his throat and said, “So, Belly Flop. I have to tell you. You’re one of the best surfers I have ever seen. And I’ve seen plenty, believe me.”

  Blush. Blush. Major blush. At this rate I would be beet red before dinner arrived.

  “Are you gonna compete in that tournament down in Montauk?” he asked.

  That stupid tournament was like a case of herpes. Erupting at the worst possible times. And truly never going away. “No,” I said fiddling with my fork, trying to think of another subject to move us away from this toxic one. But I wasn’t quick enough.

  “Why not?” he persisted. “I’m sure you could win. Not just the girls’ division. You could get the overall best surfer prize. To put it in ‘dog terms,’ I’ll bet you’d get Best in Show.” He giggled.

  I did not giggle. Where was the food already? I wanted to lose myself in a plate of calamari. “Competing just isn’t my thing,” I whispered.

  Chris continued. “I grew up on Kauai, and I’ve been surfing forever. I’ve done all the major breaks on the Hawaiian Islands. I’ve been to Australia, Bali, Fiji, everywhere. And really Belly Flop, you’re right up there with the best of them. You could go pro…if you wanted.”

  I could feel the sweat form on my upper lip.

  “Not that pro women make anywhere near as much money as the men,” he continued, “which is totally unfair, but there are people trying to change that.”

  Uh-oh, I thought. I do not want to go into a panicked state, especially not now. Time to divert with humor. “Who wants to travel all over the world with a bunch of gnarly brain-dead surfers, in places where you can get malaria, or be bit by a scorpion or maybe even eaten by a shark?”

  Chris laughed. “It’s not like that. Believe me.”

  “H
ow would you know?” I managed to stay calm by sitting on my hands and digging my fingernails into the backs of my thighs.

  Chris shrugged. “I’ve done a few competitions.”

  “What’s a few?”

  “I dunno. I’ve sort of lost count.”

  While Chris fumbled with his napkin, the busboy arrived with our bread basket. I shuddered inwardly when I saw it was Kyle Yeager, an over-eager fifteen-year-old surfer who was way too energetic for his own good.

  “Dude!” Kyle exclaimed, grinning foolishly at Chris. “I am, like, so stoked that you are here. I just started shredding with my new Ceekay five-seven and I am so ripping on that board, it’s insane.”

  Ceekay five-seven. Sudden realization clicked on like a spotlight. It wasn’t me, or my sexy dress that had caused the commotion. It was him. Chris Kahimbe. The Chris Kahimbe. Better known as Ceekay, current Men’s Junior World Surf Champion and god to all gromettes—known for his signature, radical moves. Even I, in all my surf-culture ignorance, knew the nickname, even if I hadn’t recognized the face. Or the body.

  “Holy shit!” I gasped. “You’re Ceekay.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” Mr. Christopher Kahimbe—a.k.a. Chris, a.k.a. Ceekay—said weakly, and I swear he looked a wee bit scared.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Surprise, surprise. The understatement of the friggin’ century. Kyle Yeager hovered like a buzzing insect, while Ceekay stared at me with a freaked expression I hadn’t yet seen on his face.

  “Dude. You totally kicked ass at the Billabong Invitational at J-Bay this year,” Kyle blabbered. “Like, my cousin has this satellite dish that gets so many channels it’s insane. Like four hundred, or something. We got to see the whole competition, man, in like real time, ya know? It was four in the morning, a whole bunch of us, totally wasted—”

  “Later, bro,” said Ceekay.

  Kyle wagged his head.

  “Like, leave. Now.” Ceekay’s hands formed fists, and his expression got tight and aggressive. For a split second, he looked like a different person altogether.

  Luckily, the dim bulb that resided in Kyle Yeager’s brain seemed to flicker on. “Oh. Yeah. Later. Right. No worries.”

  Ceekay’s expression softened as he hiked his thumb in the direction of the kitchen.

  After Kyle left, Ceekay looked at me and shrugged. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for almost whaling on poor Kyle, or for not telling me who he really was.

  “I should have told you sooner,” he continued. “But when I met you and you obviously didn’t know who I was, it was sort of cool. You know, to just be…”

  “Chris?”

  “Yeah, just Chris. I like that guy, Chris.”

  I liked him, too. It was Ceekay I wasn’t so sure of.

  “Well, what are you thinking?” he asked, after a moment of tense silence.

  What could I say? Hey there, super surfer. I’m a bashful loser who’s never been on a date before. I’ve worn a dress, like, twice before, and one of those times was to my great-aunt’s funeral so it doesn’t even count. I make weird drawings and have only one friend. I was nervous enough before about this date and now I think I might faint. I swallowed and took a deep breath.

  “Okay. It was a big deal to come here with you. And now I learn you’re a celebrity. From someone else, I might add.”

  “Just forget all that celebrity BS,” he said. “I’m still the same guy.”

  “You probably have groupies. Girls swarming all over you.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “But some. Right?”

  “Some girls like to hang out.” He was fiddling with his earring. “That doesn’t mean anything happens.”

  I didn’t know what else to say. I had begun feeling comfortable with Chris and now Shy-Person-Type-B-ness was threatening to come back with a vengeance.

  “I swear I’m not some asshole surf jerk,” he said. “I’ve got more going on than that.” Chris’s hand rested near the breadbasket. It was shaking, in a nervous, vulnerable way; the way my hand shook sometimes. Maybe he did have more going on than that.

  “Okay. Maybe you’re not some asshole surf jerk,” I mumbled.

  We sat in silence for a moment and then he spoke. “Can we start over?”

  “I guess.” I reached for a dinner roll. It was still warm. Maybe I had an appetite. Just maybe.

  “Okay. So, what do you want to talk about?” he asked.

  I didn’t really know what I wanted to talk about, but I did know I no longer wanted to talk about myself or surfing. I took a bite of bread. It might be a good time for my tidbit. “So, wanna know what locals say about that house you’re staying at?”

  “Sure,” he nodded.

  “Well…um…one story is that it isn’t really owned by Ms. Ramelle. That it really belongs to some Colombian drug lord who stashes major shipments of weed in it.” There. I got it out. Easy, if not breezy.

  Chris shook his head. “No weed. I would know.”

  “Okay, then… This one’s my favorite. A coven of witches—hundreds of years old—that live in the house and only come out at night.”

  “I think I would have heard them by now.”

  “Dead bodies?” I squeaked. “Buried in the basement?”

  “Okay, that one creeps me out. I’m sleeping in the basement.”

  “Sorry. It’s just, you know, a local rumor.”

  Chris laughed. He grabbed a roll of his own and took a big bite. His hand was still shaking a little but I could tell we were back on track.

  Look at me, I thought. I’m actually having fun. Having fun with a guy. A guy who’s a world-famous surfer. But I’m not supposed to think about that part.

  Sam came with the calamari. While we dug in, I asked, “So besides surfing, are you into anything else?”

  “Well, I’m totally into music,” Chris replied, popping a crusty calamari ring into his mouth.

  “What kind of music?”

  “Classical, mostly,” he acknowledged, a little self-consciously.

  “Classical? You?”

  “Yeah, me,” he replied with a slight wince. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

  “Sorry. You just don’t look like the kind of person who listens to classical music, that’s all.”

  “Well, I am. Classical music reminds me of nature, the ocean in particular. Take Wagner’s Ring Cycle; totally reminds me of a hurricane swell with all that clash and clamor. All that danger and anticipation. And then there’s melancholy music that reminds me of gray, murky water. The calm before the storm. It’s also like the stuff people feel, but don’t express. The deep, dark secrets we hide from each other. Schubert’s Sonnambula is one of my favorites. And then Beethoven—that dude’s string quartets slay me.”

  “Sounds like you know a lot about it. The music, I mean.”

  Chris shrugged. “I guess. I used to be into other kinds of music. I was in a rock band when I was younger, but it kind of went bad and soured me on the whole scene.” His expression got dark for a moment and then he looked up, back to bright. “Besides, what does someone who’s into classical music look like?”

  I thought for a minute. “You got me. I don’t have a clue.”

  “And so what about you? Any other hidden talents, besides that smoking take-off and world class bottom turn?”

  Am I ready to tell Chris about my Wavehouses? Not just my stupid stories about the movie star’s house, but my own wacky, watery homes? I took the last rubber band of calamari and dipped. “Not really,” I said. “But, it’s cool that you’re into classical music. Really, I totally get it.”

  The calamari basket was swept away by Kyle, as Sam delivered the entrees. Between bites, I gabbed for fifteen minutes straight about Myra, about Gramma and Grandpa, and The Shell Shop.
I avoided talking too much about Sara, and the Wavehouses were completely locked away.

  “What’s the deal with your family?” I asked. “Where are they while you’re traveling the world?”

  Chris dropped his eyes to his nearly empty plate. “Oh, they’re all back in Kauai. Scattered around the island. At least, last time I checked.”

  Then, Chris looked up, his eyes bright. “Hey, why are surfers generally more cheerful and relaxed than other people?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Chris smiled. “Because they’re the only grownups who get to pee in their clothes on a regular basis.”

  “That is the lamest joke I’ve ever heard,” I giggled.

  “Yeah, it may be but you’re laughing.”

  As the evening wore on, we talked about less personal stuff—more jokes from him, local lore from me (jokes were not my forte), some tour-related gossip from him. It got easier to ignore all the people staring at us. Clarissa went up in my book when I saw her stop slobbering surf fans from storming our table, napkins and pens at the ready for a Ceekay autograph. To surf-ignorant Sam, we were just a couple of relatively well-behaved kids. By the time we finished our entrees, I had almost forgotten that Chris was anybody other than Chris—a funny, sweet guy who seemed to like me, maybe, as much as I was starting to like him.

  And then the fun ended. Not because of the adoring crowds, or a Kyle faux pas, or a Clarissa oversight. No, the fun ended because of my mother, as usual—Sara Dugan, my own personal party-pooper. Always there to burst my bubble, take the wind out of my sails, gum up my works, put a wrench in my wheel, wreak all-around havoc, disaster, and doom.

  Okay. Blaming Sara isn’t entirely fair. She wasn’t directly pooping on any parties. What messed me up was glancing over toward the bar and seeing Rusty with his arm draped around a blonde with major curves. Rusty leaned toward her, whispering in her ear. Whatever he said must’ve been totally

  hilarious because the blonde laughed hysterically, before giving Rusty a big, fat smooch. I swear I heard her lips smack from across the restaurant. Some business client, I thought. “Two-timing turd,” I muttered.