Wavehouse Read online

  “Oh you know what I mean.” Myra got up from the table. “Anyway, I’m tired. You can finish the bagel. I’ve lost my appetite.” She left the kitchen without saying goodnight.

  We’ve had our spats in the past, I reminded myself, as I devoured the half-eaten bagel. We’d gotten through those; we’d get through this.

  Before going to bed, I took out my sketchbook and drew a special Wavehouse with a peaked coral roof that resembled the Eiffel Tower. I drew stone-walled turrets that looked like Notre Dame, in and out of which fish swam wearing berets and accompanied by mer-people carrying baguettes in fishnet satchels. Underneath I wrote: For Myra. Sorry about Jimmy. Here’s your own underwater Parisian home. Note the hot merman floating behind the south turret. Now you don’t have to go anywhere. Love always, Anna.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  On our fourth night together, I told Chris about the Wavehouses. We were lying side by side looking up at the stars. Chris knew his astrology.

  “And that one there is Cassiopeia.” He pointed to a jumble of stars. “She was this super-hot Greek queen, but she was also a wicked bitch. Thought she was hotter than everyone, including the Nereids, which is near to impossible.”

  “Who were the Nereids?”

  “The sea nymphs.” He took my hand and kissed it. “The ocean dwellers. The real beauties. The ones like you.”

  “You know, I do sometimes fantasize about living in the ocean. In a Wavehouse.”

  “Wavehouse,” he mused. “Sounds kinda cool.”

  “They’re super weird, and I can’t stop drawing them. It started when I was a little kid. A Wavehouse is a home made out of all sorts of ocean-y stuff; shells, rocks, fish bones, sea grass, coral. You name it. I’m sort of obsessed. Probably a little insane.”

  “It doesn’t sound insane. Your Wavehouses sound awesome. Can I see them?”

  “Maybe. Sometime. If you stay nice.”

  “I’m trying.” He pulled me on top of him, and I could feel the rapid beat of his heart against my chest. He gently coaxed his fingers under the waistband of my shorts and pressed me hard against him. “Oh man,” he sighed, “I am really, really trying.”

  A week went by, and reports from Jersey were still not good. Sara was running into all sorts of snafus at the factory. She would call to check in and jabber away about everything that was going wrong, but I barely paid attention. All I cared about was when she was coming back, which I hoped would coincide with Chris attending his publicity gig. I couldn’t imagine being around my mother while he was here and I in such a state. Guaranteed she would know I was lost the second she saw me. It takes one boy-crazy girl to know another.

  The night before Chris left for New York, I left Meghan in charge of the shop and ducked out early. I stopped at the bakery for a baguette, then at Ronnie’s Gourmet Market—which was really just a deli with a few stinky cheeses and fancy nut mixes—where I bought the fanciest, most expensive, and least stinky cheese in the store. I shoved the food into my backpack along with a pilfered bottle of wine from the Berkowitzes’ liquor cabinet.

  “They’ll never notice,” Myra told me that morning as she handed me the bottle—a peace offering in exchange for the Parisian Wavehouse. We hadn’t talked much, and while she still seemed a little distant, we were more or less back on track. “They only drink Scotch. Wine is for parties, and they’re never here long enough to make friends and have one of those.”

  Halfway to Secretspot, I stopped to change into Sara’s blue dress. When I appeared at the edge of the cliff, Chris was waiting for me below on the beach. He whistled. “Belly Flop, you are a sight for sore eyes.”

  I made my way down to the beach and pecked him quickly on the cheek. I pulled out my sketchbook and thrust it toward him, scared that if I didn’t show him the Wavehouses immediately I would lose my nerve and never do it. “Show and tell.”

  Chris surveyed me from head to toe and said, “Well, now I certainly can’t be held responsible for my actions.” He took the sketchbook from my hand and bowed graciously. “But right now, these may interest me more.” He opened to the first page where I had drawn a wave shaped like a house with walls curled and leaning, and windows extruding like taffy.

  “Pretty weird, huh?” I chuckled nervously, my heart beating like a trapped bird in my chest.

  Chris didn’t say anything. He turned the page and looked at the next Wavehouse, and the next, and the next. Finally, he spoke. “Where do these come from? Like, how do you think these things up?”

  I pointed to my head. “Up here. Some from dreams, some just from, I dunno, my imagination?”

  Chris nodded slowly and kept turning the pages, studying each Wavehouse. Uh-oh, I thought, now he really thinks I’m bonkers. He finally got to the last sketch, closed the book, and looked up at me.

  “So?” I whispered.

  “These are incredible. I totally want to live in them. Especially this one.” He thumbed back through the book, stopping at one of my personal favorites—a modest little cottage shaped like a conch shell, held aloft and nestled in the crux of four waves curled in toward each other.

  “I really like that one, too.” I sighed in relief and leaned against him.

  “Maybe we can live in one of your Wavehouses one day,” he said. “Together.”

  “In your dreams,” I said.

  “No,” he pointed to my head, “in yours.”

  I had had wine only once before, with Myra—another stolen Berkowitz bottle in tenth grade. We both got shit-faced, nauseated, and horribly hung over and decided never to drink ever again. With Chris, I was determined to sip in a ladylike fashion.

  The rest of the night we talked between bites of bread and cheese and sips of wine. I learned that Chris had left regular school at the age of ten to travel around the world on the Junior Pro Circuit—with a number of tutors in tow.

  “No school?” I asked wistfully. “Sounds like fun.”

  “It still sucked. Book-based learning of any kind has never been fun for me. I’m majorly dyslexic.”

  “Really?”

  “Any letter or number that can be twisted around and turned upside down, I’ll spin so it looks like nonsense,” he said. “Getting through a dumb kid’s book is still work, takes me forever. When I was in foster care I would lose my shit if I couldn’t understand something. I felt really stupid. I’d throw stuff, hit other kids. I was a mess. Major anger management issues.” He twisted his earring, clearly agitated. “But I’m much better in that department these days. I do my deep breathing, practice yoga. It helps.”

  I leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “Well, you are far from stupid.”

  “If you say so,” he sighed.

  I took a big swig of wine. My head was starting to feel like it was floating slightly—but not unpleasantly—off my neck. “Hey, you want to hear something school-relatedly stupid about me?”

  “Sure.”

  “In fourth grade we had a substitute teacher who was really mean. And as a shy kid, mean people terrified me the most. It was after lunch and I had to pee really, really badly.”

  “Uh-oh. I think I know where this is going.”

  “Yeah, exactly. Well, I was too shy to raise my hand and ask to go to the bathroom, so I peed myself. But I was wearing sweatpants so there was minimal, um, leakage.”

  “That’s intense, Anna.” My real name. He understood how deeply humiliating this incident had been for me. He grabbed my hand and squeezed. “I’m so sorry.”

  I downed the rest of the wine. “I sat in my own pee for two hours. When it was time to leave, the other kids got up and I stayed in my seat. The substitute yelled at me to get out. I had no choice. I got up, and there was a puddle of pee in the seat. She saw it.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She laughed. Harder and louder than any of the kids would have if they had se
en the pee puddle. I still remember the way she sounded—like a goddamn circus clown.”

  “Bitch. She should’ve been fired.”

  I poured myself a third—or was it a fourth?—glass, and took another hefty gulp. “You would think. But who knew? I never told anyone, not even Myra. You’re the only one who knows.”

  Chris stroked my hair, and I started crying—maybe out of relief, having let him know something so brutally embarrassing about my past; or from reliving that horrible day in fourth grade; or maybe because the entire evening had been so intense, wonderful, and sad. I started to drink more wine, but Chris took the plastic cup out of my hand.

  “Slow down, Belly Flop. I think you’ve had enough.”

  I lay down and pulled Chris down with me. Chris’s hands ran all over my body and it felt like I was being caressed by something or someone magical. I melted into the blanket, touching him all over in return. Messing around with Chris felt as glorious and natural as surfing. With the stars sparkling overhead I let my instincts and desires guide me, riding the most generous, intense, and fantastic wave ever born.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I am not sure whether it was Chris who took his clothes off first, or me. I felt like a tipsy nymphomaniac Nereid. We almost went all the way, but Chris stopped just in time.

  “This isn’t right,” he gasped. “Not without protection. Not here. Not now.” He got up and started to get dressed.

  Without Chris’s body next to mine, I started to shiver. Unsteadily, I reached out for my clothes and got dressed, feeling like an idiot.

  “We could go up to your house,” I suggested. “Just hang out more.” Please say yes, I prayed. Show me that you still like me.

  He shook his head. “Not a good idea. My friend is up there. It would be too weird.” He sat down again next to me and kissed my forehead. “I really want to. But we’ll just have to wait. It’s late, and you should get home. I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll surf together before I leave for the city. Deal?”

  He was being a gentleman. I let myself relax. Maybe I wasn’t such an idiot after all. “Deal,” I agreed.

  Chris walked me to the end of the path, and made sure I was sober enough to ride my bicycle back to Myra’s. I was, but still, I barely slept that night. Luckily, Myra had to get up at dawn to join the blue-rinse ladies at the Community Center, so she made sure I was up as well. I’d arranged for Meghan to open the shop, so I had time for a last surf with Chris.

  Our breakfast choices were limited to Peanut Butter Captain Crunch—which we usually ate with guilty pleasure knowing full well it had zero nutritional value—or plain yogurt with mushy brown bananas. I opted for the Captain, while Myra went for the more sensible choice of yogurt and fruit.

  “So, how was last night?” Myra asked, staring at her phone while spooning healthy glop into her mouth. Her tone reeked of disinterest.

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Yeah, sorry.” She shook her head as if trying to clear it of cobwebs. “I’m distracted.”

  I wanted my best friend back. So even if she really didn’t want to know, I wanted her to know. What happened, and what almost happened, with Chris had been overwhelming. I felt frazzled and confused. I wanted Myra’s levelheaded advice, so I told her all about my night. She stared at me from across the table, eyes wide open, mouth agape.

  “You did it?” She was interested after all.

  “No, we almost did it.”’

  “Almost is, well, almost as good as it,” Myra said. “No, actually almost is better. It shows restraint and commitment.”

  “The restraint part was all him. It’s a good thing he stopped me. I was being really stupid. I am so totally ashamed of myself.”

  “Anna?”

  “Yeah?”

  Myra looked upset. “Thanks for telling me.”

  “Okay. So why do you look like someone died?”

  “Just forget it.”

  “I can’t forget it. What’s wrong with you? Are you jealous?”

  Myra stood up. She looked like she might cry. “I’m not jealous, okay?”

  “So what is it about then? Paris?”

  “No.”

  “Then it is about me and Chris.”

  “Okay. Sure. Believe whatever you want.” Myra stood up. “I gotta go get ready.”

  She left me at the table with my hangover and my soggy cereal. I never expected Myra to be any kind of mystery to me. I felt like a snail without a shell, but I needed to rally. She had her old biddies and I had my waves.

  I got to Secretspot twenty minutes later. The waves were mad, good, humungous machines that would be challenging but exciting to ride. I could see them form, first just a hump, then a hill, then a mountain topped by white water spray. This wouldn’t be a session for trying new tricks. I’d be lucky to stay on a wave without getting snuffed and boiled underwater in the impact zone, hell-munched, and forced to hold my breath for dear life until I finally popped up for air, thanking my lucky stars.

  There was no sign of Chris. Maybe he was waiting for the surf to clean up. I glanced up at the Ramelle house, but the sun bounced off the big glass windows and prevented me from seeing anything.

  I was bummed that Chris hadn’t been waiting for me on the beach, and that he still hadn’t arrived. I had spent much of the night fantasizing about Chris and me as a grown-up couple, living happily ever after as professional surfers with little surfing kidlets. It was the first time I’d let myself really consider the possibility of a pro career. I’d tossed and turned for hours. I would somehow have to get over my performance anxiety before anything resembling a surf-centric life—with or without Chris and kidlets—could ever happen.

  I decided to paddle out, hoping that he would soon join me. The waves were brutal, which provided a good distraction. Facing the reality of challenging waves, I tried to focus on preparing myself for a dicey surf session. I waited for a lull, which would give me thirty clean seconds to paddle out before getting pummeled. Between sets the ocean turned deceptively flat, the kind of calm that fooled beginners into thinking, Gee, this doesn’t look so bad. I’d often seen novices paddle out leisurely in a lull, only to get creamed seconds later and have to turn back to shore exhausted and ashamed. Even ace surfers didn’t always figure the timing out—luck played a big part. Mentally crossing my fingers, I dove in and paddled like a steamboat, a turbine engine, a windmill. A super gnarly current pulled me westward, messing up my intended entry spot, and increasing the odds I would get completely mashed by a breaking monster. I was forced to “duck dive” under one chaotic wave, pushing the nose of my board down with my arms rod-straight before the mess broke over my head. I wedged my knee in the middle of the board for extra leverage, and channeled myself deep under the wave. When I felt the current was right, I angled back up and shot out of the water like a rubber ducky, leaving the frothy mess behind me.

  The first wave I chose was a bomb. It had so much power and such a steep face that I didn’t even have to paddle to catch it. It swelled underneath my board and propelled me downward. I hunkered in a low crouch, shoulders forward, back curved, joints fluid, and feet riveted to the board.

  I iced it, found the sweet spot, and rode that killer for a blissful fifteen seconds, boosting it back over the horizon at the end. In surf time it was a long trip, like a transatlantic flight, a journey to the bottom of the sea, or a shot to the moon. The next hour would’ve been a total blast, except that Chris had still not arrived. Maybe I got the time confused, I tried to tell myself. Maybe he’ll show up soon.

  At 8 a.m., it started to cloud over, another minor weather system coming through that would make the waves bigger and better, but wouldn’t be great for business. The morning would be slow at The Shell Shop and Meghan would be fine on her own, which bought me a little extra time in the water. Once noon hit, however, vacationers would exh
aust all the cloudy-non-beach day activities that Kendall’s Watch had to offer—miniature golf, the lighthouse tour, the petting zoo, the whaling museum—and there would be nothing left but retail recreation. Then it would be all hands on deck at Dugan’s Shell Shop.

  But Chris never showed. In between sets, I peered up at the house and thought I saw someone looking out the window, but it was hard to tell for sure. Maybe he overslept, or maybe he was just… gone. By 9 a.m., I had given up hope. I took one last wave—a brutal steep right with so much power that I had to knock my knees together to stop my legs from shaking as I careened down the face. Instead of cutting back up and over when the wave was about to close out, I pointed my board toward the shore, lay on my stomach, and rode the foaming white water boogie-board style all the way to the beach.

  I stumbled onto the sand and started packing to leave. Once my heart calmed after ninety minutes of exertion, I expected the physical pain to stop. But all it did was shift, lodging lower in my stomach. I recognized this feeling from childhood, from the many times I had wanted Sara for something, and she was nowhere to be found. This time, it was Chris who had left me hollow.

  “Screw this,” I said aloud. Dropping my backpack, I trudged farther up the cliff, following a narrow path that wound its way toward the house on the hill. I scrambled over rocks and ducked past branches that slapped my legs and face—but I barely felt a thing. Fury fueled me, even though I’d surfed like a madwoman for over an hour and should’ve been exhausted.

  The path ended at the lower section of the house. The sliding glass door wasn’t locked, so I walked right in. Funny how feeling jilted makes a person do things entirely out of character. This was so not a ‘me’ I was familiar with; I seemed disturbingly Sara-esque.

  I entered a finished basement that was dark and funky. A few slouchy couches surrounded an old coffee table; an outdated TV and sound system were stacked in one corner, and a guitar leaned against the wall. A bed in the corner of the room was perfectly made—for a split second I thought, Chris sure is neat for a guy, but then I realized it hadn’t been slept in at all. There was no sign of Chris here—no clothes, no suitcase, and no surfboard. I stared at the hotel-neat bed, while my dripping board shorts made a wicked puddle on the shag carpet.