Wavehouse Page 12

  “Excuse me?” Chris said, startled.

  I looked back at him. “I wasn’t talking about you.”

  “But I’m the only one sitting here.”

  “Sorry. No. He’s over there.” I tipped my head towards the bar. “Someone evil.” Rusty and the blonde were snuggling on barstools with their foreheads together. They couldn’t get cozier.

  Chris peered through our fishing net privacy screen. “Shit. Is that guy with the blonde woman your two-timer?”

  “Not mine. Someone else’s.” I didn’t want to say “my mother’s.” Telling the truth was too painful; although Sara was undoubtedly immature and maternally challenged she was still my mom. I wanted to protect her and kill her at the same time.

  Chris looked at me seriously. “I think we should leave.”

  I turned back to my half-eaten salmon and forced myself to shovel in a few more bites. My eyes were glued to my plate but I could sense Chris wasn’t eating. I glanced up at him. “It’s okay,” I lied. “I’m fine.”

  “No, it’s not okay,” Chris shook his head. “Hey, dude,” he called Kyle over.

  Kyle scampered eagerly over. “Yeah, Ceekay? What can I do for you?”

  “Is there a back way out of here?”

  “Really, Kyle,” I said, “it’s not necessary.”

  But Kyle only had ears for Chris. “Sure, man. Through the kitchen.”

  At the bar, Rusty and the blonde were now full-on making out. No coming up for air. In another minute he might have his hand up her shirt.

  “Unbelievable,” I said, shaking my head in disgust.

  “That’s it.” Chris stood. “Come on, we’re going.” He grabbed my hand and together we followed Kyle through the double doors, dashing past a kitchen crew—who were so busy frying, stirring, dicing, and slicing that they barely noticed us. Kyle pushed open the rear exit for us.

  “Thanks, dude,” said Chris. “You rock.”

  “Anytime,” sighed starstruck Kyle. “Oh Anna. So tell me, everyone’s dying to know, are you or are you not the awesome Surfing Siren?”

  I froze.

  “What’s the surfing siren?” Chris asked me.

  “It’s nothing. Come on, let’s go already.” I pushed past him and out the door.

  Chris and I might have escaped an awkward encounter with Rusty Meyers, but the price of freedom landed us in a back alley next to the Brinestellar’s dumpster.

  “Well this is lovely,” I said. “Eau de rotten fish.”

  “I still owe you dessert, you know,” Chris said. He gave my hand a slight squeeze, and it struck me—I hadn’t held hands with a male person since Gramma and Grandpa had taken me to Disney World when I was seven and Grandpa wouldn’t let go of my hand for the entire day.

  “How about we get some now?” I said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  We walked down Main Street to The Seaside Ice Cream Parlor, where customers were offered twenty homemade flavors, each with a beachy cornball name. I ordered “Coral Reef Chocolate Chip,” and Chris went for the “Sea Foam Strawberry.” We took our ice cream cones down to the beach and ate as we walked along the shoreline.

  I was having a really good time. Chris was funny and smart. He asked more questions but didn’t push. Silent pauses were okay, for both of us.

  “You may find this hard to believe,” I said. “But I’m, like, pathologically shy.”

  “Really?”

  “I used to be a lot worse. Now, I’m fine around family and all the people I’ve known growing up. And I can handle customers at the store, if I have to; though I prefer not to. I’m more of a back-room sort of girl.”

  “You seem fine around me,” Chris smiled.

  “Yeah, well, it took some work, believe me. Performing, though, is impossible. Even on a surfboard. It’s torture.”

  “That sucks,” he said.

  “I’m just so not the surf tour type,” I sighed. “Don’t take this the wrong way but besides my performance anxiety, I’m just not interested in all the hype. Other surfers know the names, the places. They read all the magazines. When I watch surf movies of professional competitions, I get nauseous.”

  He was quiet.

  “And now you tell me I wouldn’t even get paid as much as a bunch of brainless guys? I mean, why would I even bother? For fame? Free travel? A few surfboards? That’s so totally not my thing.”

  “Some of us need the money,” Chris shrugged. “Those of us who come from nothing.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m being an asshole. I can get way too critical.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “So, what was the deal with that guy at the bar? If it wasn’t you he was stepping out on, who was it?”

  “It’s my mother he’s two-timing. They’ve been hooking up for the last week or so. And Sara’s sort of dramatic, so I’m worried she will blow some major fuses over this one.”

  “I know all about dramatic mothers,” he looked at his feet.

  I waited for him to say more. Give advice—something. But he didn’t. Finally, I spoke. “Rusty Meyers. What a sleaze bucket.”

  “Well, he sure seems to be.” It was dark so I couldn’t see his expression clearly, but something seemed off. I screwed up, I thought, and now he thinks I’m an emotional basket case daughter of a skanky mom. Plus, I probably hurt his feelings when I was mouthing off about ‘brainless’ surfers.

  “You must think I’m some kind of reverse-snob bitch when it comes to surfing,” I sighed.

  “No, not at all. I was just thinking of something else. I was off in la-la land for a minute. But I’m back.”

  Wherever he had been in that rapid-fire mood shift, he was again back at the beach with me and his rapidly melting Sea Foam Strawberry cone. The way he looked at me told me so; that, and the way his non-cone-holding hand let go of mine so he could put his entire arm around me. That was it, I decided. No more discussing my neurotic professional surf aversion or my mother for the rest of the evening.

  Myra opened her front door before I even had a chance to knock. “So?” she asked loudly.

  “Can I at least get inside?” I whispered, looking back at the empty street. Five minutes and ten seconds earlier Chris had been there. 12:35 a.m. on the corner of Fairview and Emerson. I mentally marked the time and spot where we had kissed goodnight.

  “Yes, m’lady.” Myra stepped aside, sweeping a deep bow.

  “Very funny,” I said, poking her in the ribs as I passed. In the living room, I collapsed on the Berkowitzes’ mammoth pillowfest of a couch. My butt hit something hard, and I reached behind and picked up two books, Study Abroad: Paris and The Sorbonne: An American’s Perspective.

  “What are these?” I asked.

  Myra plopped down next to me and offered me her Cookies n’ Cream container, which still had a few slurp-able spoonfuls left.

  “Don’t try and distract with ice cream. That’s not fair.”

  Myra shrugged. “If I do have to move to Paris, I should be prepared.”

  “Do you want to go?”

  “No. I don’t think so…”

  “I don’t think so? You don’t sound very convincing, Myra.”

  “Come on, Anna, you know me. I’m an information junkie. My parents could be moving to Cleveland and I’d read books about that not-terribly-exciting city.”

  “I guess,” I sighed. “Just promise you’ll keep me in the loop, okay?”

  “I swear on this stack of potentially irrelevant Parisian guidebooks,” Myra proclaimed with mock grandiosity. “So, some ice cream for your thoughts?”

  I shook my head and gently pushed the ice cream away. “No thanks. Already had some.” It was probably the first time I had ever said no to more ice cream. I looked down at the slip of paper Chris had given me with his cell phone number and a sweet little note:
/>   For Anna,

  The most beautiful girl in the world.

  I am so glad our surfboards collided.

  Keep this number safe. 917.555.9531

  XXXXX-Chris

  What a night of firsts! A date, a kiss, a love note, and no appetite for Cookies n’ Cream. A day for the history books.

  Myra stared at me as if I were a frog she was eager to dissect for extra credit in bio. “Please,” she pleaded. “This is painful. Put me out of my misery. Speak!”

  “Um…” I stared up at the ceiling. “I had the salmon. It was delicious. It was covered with crumbly stuff and—”

  Myra swatted my arm. “Big whoop. No more food facts, please. Human details only. Date details.”

  “Clarissa Morrison was wearing a dress that I swear she will have to cut herself out of when she gets home.”

  “Anna. I couldn’t care less about Clarissa’s dress. Boy details, please.”

  “Okay, okay…he’s famous.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “No. Seriously. He is. He’s a professional surfer. His real name is Christopher Kahimbe but he’s known as Ceekay.”

  Myra eyes widened. “No joke?”

  “No joke.”

  “The Ceekay? The surfer? With the wild blonde, sexy hair? The one from Hawaii who does the deodorant commercial on TV?”

  “Deodorant?”

  Myra nodded. “It’s actually a very tasteful ad. Ceekay’s first personal hygiene product endorsement. Filmed in Fiji, I think. Artistic. Sort of film noir…or surf noir, I guess.”

  “How is it that you know more about Ceekay than me?”

  “I watch more TV than you.”

  “True.” Myra had a real appetite for pop culture. “And I have been known to peruse certain youth-oriented websites to keep abreast of the inane trends and vapid celebs our fellow teenagers follow.”

  I was quiet. The idea that I had just kissed someone who did TV commercials—for deodorant no less—was bugging me out.

  But Myra was chatty as ever. “Which is why I also know who your dreamboat used to date.”

  “He’s not my dreamboat. He’s my, my…I don’t know what he is. Well, who did he use to date?”

  “Inga Ward.”

  “Who the frig is Inga Ward?”

  “Hello? Who’s Inga Ward? Geez, Anna, sometimes you’re the most clueless person n the universe.”

  I stared Myra down as if I was the school principal, and she, a juvenile delinquent sent to my office on a regular basis. “Inga Ward. Details. Now!”

  “Okay, okay,” Myra rolled her eyes. “Inga Ward is an actress who won almost every single film award last year for her role in Hop, Jump, and Skip. She played Candace, a white-trash kid from the South who cons her way into Harvard without ever having graduated high school.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I kid you not. It gets worse. Or better, depending on your perspective. You want more?”

  I nodded, but my stomach felt queasy.

  “Before acting, she modeled. She was, like, every major designer’s muse. She’s older than us, but not much. Home schooled. And really smart. I just read at yewawtono.com she’s deferring enrollment to Yale, where she got early admission, so she can do a film in Tibet with Jess McMaster.”

  “Jess McMaster?”

  “The next Leonardo DiCaprio.”

  I groaned.

  “Personally, it’s the Yale thing that gets under my skin,” Myra continued. “I’ll give Inga her natural beauty and talent. But brains, too? I mean, hello? That’s just depressing.”

  I grabbed a pillow from the corner of the couch and covered my face. “So what’s Chris doing with me?” I mumbled into the fabric.

  “First of all, I think Ceekay and Inga are history.” Myra tossed their names around as if she had known them for years. “I mean, they’ve been back and forth for a really long time. But now rumor has it that Inga’s on to some other hottie.”

  “Rumors aren’t truth, Myra,” I sighed. “What if he’s still with her?”

  Myra frowned. “I seriously doubt it. I saw tons of photos of her on a yacht off the Riviera with an English lord who plays polo.”

  “Where did you see these photos?”

  “In the totally reliable People Magazine.”

  I looked at her doubtfully.

  “Anna, it’s the most respected tabloid around.”

  “For now I’ll pray you’re right.” I peered over the pillow at Myra. “You said ‘first of all.’ So what’s the second reason Chris is with me?”

  Myra grabbed the pillow out of my hand and tossed it across the room. It hit a stone Buddha, which wobbled then steadied, smiling its impenetrable, sturdy Buddha smile. “Secondly,” Myra proclaimed, “you are infinitely likable, smart, cute, and all sorts of other things. Plus, you and Ceekay have the whole surf connection going. And I think surfing is one thing Inga doesn’t do. So don’t be such an insecure weenie.”

  “Easier said than done.” I sat upright, grabbed the Cookies n’ Cream, now completely liquid, and slurped it in one big gulp.

  “So now give me the blow-by-blow of the date. Without food facts.”

  I told Myra pretty much everything. How the date began; the stuff he told me, and the stuff I told him; how we bolted through the Brinestellar’s kitchen like a couple of secret agents; how we discovered we could both wiggle our ears and touch our noses with the tips of our tongues; how I thought the date was over when I brought up the pro surf stuff, but how Chris put us back on track; how we had agreed to surf together at Secretspot for the next few days until he had to leave to do a promotional event in Manhattan. And, then there was the kiss. My first ever. Right there on Myra’s corner. The kiss that washed away any lingering doubts I had as to whether it was a real date or not. After the kiss, I knew; this zany, wonderful night had been the real deal.

  I hadn’t known what kissing was supposed to be like, where lips and tongues were supposed to land, if eyes were supposed to remain open or closed, or where you put your hands. All I knew was that I liked what had happened at the corner of Fairview and Emerson. The secret crushes I had had on guys before had caused minor tingles and tame fantasies in my body and mind. The kiss with Chris was something else—it left me jazzed up and jittery. Not that it had started out all that smoothly. When I realized he was about to kiss me, I puckered my lips the way I did when I kissed Grandpa’s forehead. I must’ve looked like a blowfish. Then Chris’s warm, smooth mouth met my own and I realized I was supposed to relax my lips, so I went all slack, like a dead flounder. Chris’s lips felt like pillows, pressing tentatively at first, and then with more urgency.

  Just relax, I told myself, and do what he does. Finally, I found my kissing stride. Like a swell gathering momentum, my lips parted and soon we were riding the kissing wave full on, both our tongues doing a crazy dance around each other, our bodies pressed together, our arms like thick ropes keeping us entwined.

  Myra, of course, wanted all sorts of details about the kiss. Usually I could tell Myra everything, but I couldn’t tell her about the kiss. I wanted to keep the actual mechanics all to myself. Plus, at some point Myra would have her own first kiss and whenever that happened, I wanted it to be without expectation or comparison—as new and fresh as a first real kiss could possibly be. So I told her the bad news: there would be no kiss news.

  “You suck,” she said without any real malice.

  “I know. But you’ll get over it.”

  Myra shifted her seat, assuming a faux casual position. “So, has he changed your mind at least a teensy tiny bit?”

  “Changed my mind about what?”

  “About the whole professional surf thing. I mean, if he’s such a nice guy maybe that’s a good sign. Maybe it means there are other nice people in the professional surf world.”


  “He’s probably the exception to the rule.”

  Myra blew a puff of frustrated air. “I don’t know, Anna,” she shook her head. “Not to get all psycho-babbly or anything, but you really need to sort out your issues on this professional career stuff.”

  “Issues?”

  “You’ve got to get over this. I mean, look at you!”

  I looked at me. My body had gone from a comfortable couch sprawl to a tense, tight ball. My arms locked around my knees, bound tight like the straps of a medieval torture device.

  “Studies show that one of the best ways to get over performance anxiety is to do the thing you’re most anxious about over and over again until it’s a no-brainer.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said.

  “Like surfing in front of an audience, competing, winning money,” Myra persisted.

  “Not happening. Sorry. We need to talk about something else that’s freaking me out. My mother. Remember Rusty Meyers?”

  “The advertising guy. Huge, potentially compensating Yup-mobile. What about him?”

  “He has just gone from sleazy to total slime.” I told her about Rusty and the blonde, and their Siamese twin, lip-locking behavior at Brinestellar’s Bar. “We were sitting off in a corner so he didn’t see me,” I said. “So here’s the dilemma: do I tell Sara, or what?”

  Myra frowned. “If it were anyone else besides your mother I would say tell. But Sara is so, um, unpredictable.”

  “Exactly. I’m really scared she’ll do something embarrassing. Go banging on doors in the middle of the night. Screaming bloody murder in the center of town. Throw things. None of those would be firsts. I hate it when she makes a fool of herself. Why does she always spoil things even when she doesn’t know she’s spoiling things?”

  “Because that’s what our mothers do. Both of them. One way or the other, even when they don’t mean to, they spoil things.”

  I had lost count of the many times Sara had unintentionally made my life worse. There was the time she volunteered to work at the fourth grade bake sale, and proceeded to donate a case of beer. When the principal told her that alcohol couldn’t be sold at a school event, Sara shrugged and said, “That’s lame. It’s made with yeast.” Or the time she chaperoned the sixth-grade Halloween Hop and came dressed—or rather un-dressed—in a form-fitting nude bodysuit and a pink beret, and kept yelling, “No, I’m not a penis. I’m a manicured finger, for Christ’s sake!” I cringed in the corner while everyone, kids and grown-ups alike, stared at her and snickered.