Wavehouse Read online

  “This place must go off big time with a northwest wind and southeast swell,” Sara said.

  With a crutch under each arm, and a cast on her left leg and right forearm, I could not believe she had come to the beach.

  “What are you doing here?” I yelled.

  “That asshole Rusty texted me saying he was leaving town and that it might be best for everyone if I got my car out of Amelia’s driveway before she returned tonight. Can you fucking believe that guy? I nearly die—we nearly die— and all he’s thinking of is covering his slimeball tracks. But he’s not getting off so easily,” Sara smiled. “I left Ms. Ramelle a note on her door telling her all about his two-timing ways. Old college buddy, my ass.”

  “But you’re not supposed to be up and around yet!”

  Sara shrugged. “I thought I would take a peek at the cove during daylight. Geez, it really is sweet out there. Damned shame that I can’t surf for god knows how long.” She looked out at the Secretspot surf like a toddler eyeing a bowl of jellybeans.

  “You’re supposed to be resting. In the hospital.”

  “Anna, I couldn’t stay there any longer. I was going bonkers. It’s the most boring place ever.”

  “It’s a hospital, Sara,” I groaned. “Not a beauty spa.”

  “I know,” she sighed. “Okay. To be honest, I couldn’t afford it. Our crap insurance only covered one night. And they had to let me out once I showed them how good I was on these suckers. I was speeding up and down the hallway like a total pro.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “Mr. Shore picked me up at the hospital. He let me practice driving on the way here. What an old sweetie.”

  “Do Gramma and Grandpa know?”

  She nodded. “They’re not happy about it, but they’re not making a big stink because I promised to stay with them for the next few days. Gramma wants to be all motherly and shit. Make me soup and muffins and god knows what else. I’m gonna get fat as a cow.”

  Sara, fat? Impossible.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t be taking your room. The doctor said definitely no stairs. So don’t you dare tell her I took this little cliff walk.”

  “Sara,” I moaned. “Don’t push it. Especially with Gramma and Grandpa.”

  “No worries. Up there on boring Toilsome Lane, I’ll be good as gold. Looks like I’m on a cot in the dining room.”

  “Next to Gramma’s china cabinet?”

  “Yep. Should be really interesting. I may have to break into her schnapps stash. I’ll let you have some, if you want.”

  How motherly. “I’m staying at Myra’s till Sunday,” I lied.

  “Grandpa told me that you and Myra had a falling out?”

  “We did. But we made up.” I lied on top of my lie.

  “What went down between the two of you anyway?”

  My mother was actually asking about something to do with my life, so I thought I should throw her one true bone. “Myra’s the one who posted that YouTube video of me.”

  “Wow,” Sara cried. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Who would’ve thought? Your friend Myra Berkowitz, a crafty little operator. That’s impressive.”

  Not the response I wanted, but I should’ve seen it coming. Now I wanted the true bone back. “No, it’s not impressive. It was mean and devious.”

  “Oh, come on, Anna, that’s a bit harsh.”

  “Listen, you may live in a world of crafty operators, but I like my friends straightforward and honest.” But here I was, also lying. The opposite of straightforward and honest. I’m such a hypocrite, I thought.

  “Whatever. I’m glad you made up with her, especially now that you and Ceekay are history. You need friends in broken-

  heart times like these.”

  I thought I hated Chris, but when Sara mentioned him my heart ended up in my gut. “Yeah,” I sighed. “I guess.”

  “And you probably need more of a mother, too,” Sara said softly.

  “That might be nice,” I replied, even more softly.

  “So, I was watching you out there,” Sara began. “When you start getting nervous, you tend to let up on your back foot. Don’t do that. Dig in deeper with the back foot and take your shoulders back, too. Otherwise you get too much momentum and lose the sweet spot. You have a tendency, when you’re spooked, to ride it a hair too far forward.”

  Was this what “more of a mother” meant? Surf tips? My heart, which had returned to its rightful chest position, was again slipping southward. “Whatever.” I shrugged.

  Then, miraculously, Sara turned it around. “Anna,” she said, eyes watery, sad, and serious. “Don’t let your demons get the best of you. Don’t be like me that way.”

  “Sara—”

  “But you? You have it all, but you just don’t see it.”

  I looked down at my feet.

  “Stop holding back,” she pleaded. “Just go for it, okay?”

  I didn’t know what to say. I suddenly wanted to tell her everything about my plan, but I worried about creating

  expectations that I might not be able to meet. And if Sara knew, and if I screwed up in Montauk a second time, I wouldn’t be able to face her. I would have to go live under a rock in Japan.

  “I gotta get back out there,” I said. “Meghan will need me in the shop soon.”

  I turned back toward the waves when what I really wanted to do was climb up the cliff and carry my mother home.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  From the outside, I watched my determined mother make her way up the cliff. I had to smile. Sara rocked those crutches like they were sports equipment, racing along the rocks like a speedster.

  For the next hour, I focused on surfing, blocking everything else out, and letting the currents guide my moves and the swells direct me. We did okay together, me and my wave friends. I prayed they wouldn’t let me down the next day at the tournament.

  That night I went back to my own humble home, knowing Sara was up at Toilsome—already driving my grandparents crazy, no doubt. I gobbled a quick bowl of cereal with milk that was on the cusp of curdle, and scrubbed the bowl clean. Next I attacked the crusty remains of eggs, grease, and other unknown substances that had turned to cement on a pile of dishes in the sink. Once the kitchen was clear, I set up my makeover supplies. I had quite an evening beauty project ahead of me.

  I couldn’t take the chance of being recognized as either Anna Dugan or the Surfing Siren at the tournament. I didn’t want to be Anna, in case I crashed and burned and reports of my failure made their way via the Eastern Long Island surf community gossip mill to Kendall’s; and I didn’t want to be recognized as the Surfing Siren because I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about my cyberspace alter-ego and all her public notoriety. If I aced the contest—which is what I intended to do—I would return home in a blaze of glory, but I preferred it to be a very private fire.

  To that end, I needed to look as different as possible. I snipped my hair, trying to achieve a sporty kind of shag, but ended up with a just-released-from-the-insane-asylum crew cut. And it only got worse. Dying my hair wasn’t something I should ever have attempted in the privacy of my own home. But what did the hair-and-makeup-challenged me know? I now know that going from black to blonde is not what hair stylists refer to as “a single process.” It took four attempts to manage a weird mustardy shade. I almost died when I gazed in the mirror. I looked like an emaciated ghoul released from the House of Horrors. My hair stood up in tufts like mildewed wheat, and my seriously burned scalp felt like it was on fire. “Different” was an understatement.

  I heard a knock at the door while I was cleaning up. I went to see who it was and then remembered my new look. Rummaging around in the hall closet, I found an old Yankees cap one of Sara’s former flames had given her a couple of summers ago. I glanced i
n the mirror next to the closet and moaned. When Sara wore the cap, her long black ponytail was thrust through the space above the snaps, swinging in back all femme and come hither, but I looked like a plucked chicken with a saucepan lid on their head. Stick me in an oven and grab a fork.

  Before opening the door, I called, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me.”

  My heart dropped. Myra. I wanted desperately to let her in, hug her, and apologize for being so mean, but then I remembered it was Myra who had started this whole thing by keeping secrets.

  “What do you want?” I asked, trying to sound as cool as possible.

  “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You know, after the accident.”

  “I’m fine. You can leave now,” I said, waiting for her to walk away. She didn’t leave. “I said you can leave now.”

  “Come on, Anna.” She was using the sensible Myra tone. “Let me in.”

  “I’m busy,” I lied. I might’ve been acting like a baby, but I didn’t really care. I wasn’t ready to talk to her and that was that. “Now please, just go home already!” I pulled down the shade and left her in the dark.

  The next morning, I rode to the train station and got on the five forty-five westbound train with my bike and board. Fortunately, it was an empty train and the conductor was fine with me and my various modes of transportation.

  Two short stops later, I was in Montauk. I rode my bike to the center of town, then headed left on the Montauk Highway up to Ditch Plains Road, where I assumed the tournament would be. If I had any doubts, there were signs pasted on

  every telephone pole I passed: This way to the 7th Annual Montauk Junior Surf Tournament, and MJST next right. I followed the signs in an agitated daze, trying to psych myself up.

  Just pretend you’re out there on your own. The other surfers are buoys. Tune out any shit that comes your way…

  Imagine all the people on the beach are animals, not humans. A nice big pack of friendly dogs, chimpanzees, baby bunnies…

  Think of Grandpa. Sara. Gramma. This is for them…

  BEEEEEEP! The sound of a car horn almost sent me careening into the bushes on the side of the road.

  “Hey, watch where you’re riding!” a girl’s voice yelled out the window as a shiny station wagon sped past with at least five brand-new surfboards stacked upon its roof. I watched them make a sharp, dirt-blasting turn into the Ditch Plains parking lot a few yards ahead.

  Oh great, I thought. My competition. Can’t I just turn my bike in the other direction and head back to Toilsome Lane, skitter upstairs, get under the covers with Woof Woof and Fluffy, and stay there for the rest of my life?

  Taking a deep breath, I righted my bike and continued on, making my own less splashy and dramatic entrance. The lot was filled with kids carrying surfboards, parents schlepping rainbow-striped umbrellas, and a bunch of teenage volunteers directing people to the sign-in table. All the volunteers wore white tee shirts with an awesome graphic of a girl surfer ripping down the face of a curling wave on the front, and MONTAUK JUNIORS RULE across the back. Sara would love one of those, I thought. Note to self—if you win, you’ll buy her one as a souvenir.

  As I locked my bike, I heard giggling behind me. Turning around, I noticed two girls whispering to each other and staring in my direction. They were probably twelve years old max, harmless and silly. But their giggling and staring made me feel like I was barely a tween myself. It was as if they were Kiara and her nasty sidekick all over again.

  Two deep breaths later, I realized the girls weren’t even looking at me. They were looking at a toddler who had pulled his bathing suit down and waddled with the suit around his ankles. It was legitimately funny, and even I, in my panicked state, managed a few weak chuckles.

  At the registration table, a rag-tag line of surf kids shuffled impatiently from foot to foot, waiting to sign in. They were mostly around three feet tall and between the ages of eight and eleven. Not a very intimidating bunch.

  You can do this, Anna, I said to myself, I know you can. As I stood waiting my turn, I tried to keep my head down, avoiding eye contact with everyone and anyone. In one peek, I noticed the judges table together with a line of four chairs under a canopy, set up with the best view of the surf break. I imagined them sitting there, taking stock of my surfing from the shore. Writing notes, giving me scores. Giving me hives.

  “Hi. Name, please?” asked the woman checking off names, taking tournament fees, and handing out jerseys. I raised my eyes. I couldn’t be entirely sure, but I thought it was the same freckly woman with the friendly smile who had taken my name that horrible morning seven summers earlier. A little older, and heavier maybe, but still a nice person, not a threat.

  “Um…ah…Ada Louise Huxtable,” I muttered, gazing somewhere in the vicinity of my belly button. It was the name of the author of the Frank Lloyd Wright book that Myra had given me last Christmas, a gift meant to inspire me toward bigger and better things. I felt a lurch in my gut as I said the name. There I was, trying something bigger and better for the first time in my life and my best friend wasn’t with me. It was easy to be mad at her while I was mired in my Kendall’s funk. Here at the contest, not so easy.

  Freckle Face wrote my name, or rather Ada’s name down, then said, “That’ll be twenty dollars, please.”

  I dug my crumpled twenty dollar bill out of my pocket and gave it to her. She told me the basic rules and then asked, “First time in the tournament?”

  I nodded.

  “I assume you’re competing in Girls Ages 15 to 18?”

  “Yes,” I managed to say, in spite of wanting to shuffle away and take a seat under the Nature Conservancy table.

  The woman reached into a bin by her side and pulled out a bright red jersey and handed it to me. “Well, here’s something fiery to help keep that competitive edge burning. You’ll need it with those girls. Good luck, sweetheart.”

  Establish eye contact, I told myself. It won’t kill you. I looked at the woman and managed to smile back. “Thanks,” I bleated, sounding like a lamb about to be slaughtered.

  Wandering to the beach, I spotted a familiar face—Jimmy Flannigan. Clueless Jimmy. He’d had no idea that he had been a major topic of discussion lately—and a source of conflict. But today was all about surfing: not Myra, not romance—hers or mine. Nothing but waves.

  “Hey, Jimmy,” I said as I walked up to him.

  He turned and gasped. “Anna! What did you do to your hair?”

  “Shh!” I whispered. “I don’t want to attract attention. I needed a change. That’s all.”

  He stared at the top of my head as if I had grown horns. Lots of little, itchy yellow horns.

  “What’s wrong?” I challenged.

  Jimmy finally closed his mouth. “Oh, nothing. I just didn’t expect you here.”

  “Do me a favor, just for today, call me Ada,” I said. “For luck. Don’t ask questions.”

  Jimmy shrugged. “Sure. Whatever, Ada.”

  “And don’t dare mention the Surfing Siren or I will break both your legs so badly, you’ll never surf again,” I whispered with as serious a look as I could muster.

  “Whoa,” his eyes got wide. “Okay…so you’re competing?”

  “I guess,” I shrugged.

  “Awesome!” he shouted.

  “Quiet, Flannigan.” I poked him in the ribs. “I’m trying to keep a low profile, remember?”

  “With that hairdo?” Jimmy rolled his eyes.

  “Whatever. Hey, have all the judges arrived yet?”

  “All the local ones are here,” he said. “But Ceekay isn’t here yet. My guess is they’ll announce him last minute and he’ll make some splashy cool entrance.”

  “Ceekay won’t be judging,” I said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know. Believe me.”

 
“Bummer. Ceekay is, like, it. But hey, look out there. This is gonna be a challenge. Those waves look like crap,” said Jimmy.

  I looked out at the break for the first time. Jimmy was right. Knee-high peaks, maybe waist-high at best, total mush piles with about as much power as a baby’s wind-up toy. Small, weak waves were harder to catch than any others—it required a whole different level of skill to stay on them and do enough tricks to score points. I excelled on the big waves, the killers that few others would consider surfing. This small stuff? I might be out of my element. I started deep breathing, which I had heard was supposed to stave off panic.

  “You okay?” Jimmy looked at me as if I was a fragile old lady who might need help crossing the street.

  “Fine,” I exhaled. “Just fine.”

  The reggae music playing on the sound system ended and a voice announced. “Attention competitors, friends, and families. We’ve finished up registration so please make your way to the beach for our opening ceremonies. The 7th Annual Montauk Junior Surf Tournament will begin in ten minutes. Cowabunga!”

  “Come on Ann—I mean, Ada,” said Jimmy. “Let’s go.”

  We weaved our way through the crowd to the beach. Once there, we separated into age and gender groups, which sucked because Jimmy’s optimistic chatter was a nice distraction that kept me from getting too jittery. Reluctantly, I gave Jimmy a quick wave and found my group—fourteen tall, tan, muscular beach babes. And me.

  It came as no surprise that she was there. Kiara, my long-ago nemesis. She was impossible to miss, standing in the center of the pack like a queen bee. In my mind’s eye I had imagined her the way I’d last seen her: twelve years old and a catty little whiner. I had done a good job of preparing myself for that imagined version. But this Kiara was a whole other beast; she wore her jersey draped down her back with the sleeves tied around her neck like Wonder Woman’s cape. This Kiara had broad swimmer’s shoulders, washboard abs, muscle-bound arms, and long legs that shouted, “Hey, look at us! We run ten miles every day, just for the fun of it!”

  Kiara gave me a quizzical look. Uh-oh, I thought. If she blows my cover, I’m toast. Kiara sauntered over and examined me from my sweat-beaded forehead to my sand-clutching toes. “Do I know you?” she asked in a voice dripping with superiority.