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  I shook my head and looked at those toes as they burrowed deep.

  “Well, do yourself a favor, stranger,” she hissed in my ear, her breath hot and tinged with peppermint. “Stay the hell out of my way out there.” Kiara walked away, the rash guard cape billowing behind her.

  I shrugged.

  The other girls stared at me. My face got hot; everything from my neck down felt like rubber. Then the whispering began. I caught dribs and drabs—

  “Oh my god. That hair…”

  “She’s so, so, skinny…”

  “Like a boy…”

  “And what’s with those baggy board shorts…?”

  One girl came over. “Hi,” she said cheerily. “I’m Deanna.”

  “Um…ah…hi,” I replied. Good girl, I thought. Keep it up. Ada Louise can manage polite conversation, even if it’s a stretch for Anna.

  “And you are…?”

  “Oh, um, yeah,” I stammered like a fool. “Sorry. I’m Ada. Ada Louise.”

  Deanna narrowed her eyes, and I felt a jolt up my spine. Was my cover blown? She looked at me for a second longer and then said, “Oh, never mind. I thought you were someone else.”

  “Heh-heh-heh.” I laughed like a nervous imbecile.

  Deanna stared at me like I was a total freak-geek. “Well, good luck, Ada Louise. See you out there.”

  She returned to the group. Thankfully, off my scent. The starting bell for our heat could not come soon enough. Waiting was excruciating. I wanted to get in the water and start paddling as soon as possible. Only problem was I might end up paddling my way to China, the contest be damned.

  “Yo! Hey! Welcome everyone,” a voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “Let’s hear it for the 7th Annual Montauk Junior Surf Tournament!”

  The crowd cheered, hooted, whistled, and clapped. Craig Wynn—an old-time surfer with bronzed, leathery skin, and stringy blond-gray hair—held the mike. Craig knew me well, and I worried that if he spotted me, there was a risk he would shout out my name with his typical exuberant enthusiasm. I shuffled my way to the back of the pack and hunched low.

  “Well, the waves might not be perfect, but I know you groms are gonna still have fun out there!” he hollered. There were more cheers and barely controlled pandemonium. Craig continued, “Before we get started, I want to introduce you to this year’s judges. First, coming to us from Gilgo Beach, the owner of Patsy’s Pizzeria and Board Shop, a guy who provides those GB surfers with all that is necessary, the former Men’s East Coast Amateur Longboard Champ, Patsy

  Romano!”

  A beefy guy mounted the stage and waved at the audience. More cheering and clapping. I kept my head low as Craig introduced two more people, the freckle-faced woman from registration, and another briny, craggy-looking older man. Then Craig added, “And now, for the moment you’ve all been waiting for. I know you’re all going to be super amped when I bring our guest judge up here. Soon to take his place among the greats, with chops as radical as Slater, Curren, and Machado. What a beast this dude is. And what a nice guy. Give a big shout-out for…” I lifted my head just as Craig shouted, “…Kevin Morrisey!”

  No Ceekay, no Chris. Even though I knew it wouldn’t be him, my heart sank because I realized suddenly that in fact I did want to see him again after all.

  The crowd cheered. Kevin competed in the Professional

  Men’s circuit as one of the top ten surfers in the world. Not only that, but he was a homegrown hero—local surf royalty—living in a fancy Easton beach house worth gazillions of dollars. Even out-of-the-loop me knew who he was.

  “And now for today’s program,” Craig continued once the frenzy died down. “This year we’re gonna switch it up and let the big kids go first. So all you groms under the age of fifteen can chillax. Go play. But keep an ear out for your age group call. And don’t eat too many of those brownies so generously donated by the Montauk Women’s League, you hear me? Last thing we need is a bunch of belly-achin’ surfers.”

  The younger kids dispersed, leaving the rest of us waiting by the water. I stole a glance over at the boys and spotted Jimmy. He gave me a wink. Maybe I should’ve registered as Adam, rather than Ada, and paddled out with the guys. I probably could’ve pulled it off since everyone seemed to think I looked more like a boy than a girl.

  “In keeping with tradition, ladies first. So that means Girls Ages 15 to 18, you’re on! First five in the water will be—” Craig listed five names, none of which was mine.

  I was bummed because the sooner I got in the water the better I thought I would feel. The waiting was pure agony. I watched the first heat line up at the water’s edge, Deanna among them. Kiara and a cluster of remaining girls sat down together a fair distance from me. Good, I thought. Do me a favor and stay away.

  A bullhorn sounded and the girls ran into the surf, jumped on their boards and shoved off. Deanna led the way. She was a fast, strong paddler—a great asset in surfing, as it means you can sometimes catch waves that other people can’t, just by virtue of getting there quicker. The other four girls weren’t too shabby either. But the first set of waves would demonstrate who could actually surf.

  Turned out they all could surf—Deanna, particularly well. She made the unpredictable barely there waves seem like even sheets of shiny ice, riding the meager humps with the grace of a figure skater. Deanna had a really clean cutback—super graceful overall. It was cool to watch. I even forgot that I was there to compete. It was only when the bullhorn went off and their heat was over that my heart palpitations and sense of dread returned.

  The next heat included Kiara, and this time I was grateful not to be called. I wanted to see how she surfed.

  When the bullhorn went off, Kiara wasted no time—she was out there in seconds, faster even than Deanna. I watched her shifting position over and over again, crowding out the other girls as she tried to read the oncoming set. It was as if a kid stood patiently in line, waiting for an ice cream cone and just as it was about to be handed to the kid, someone else ran up from behind and snatched the ice cream. That was how Kiara surfed—greedily paddling around the other surfers, positioning herself further outside, away from the shoreline, and stealing waves.

  The line between ‘Wave Hog’—someone who doesn’t share waves—and ‘Snake’—someone who steals them—was not always clear. Some might consider her surfing merely

  aggressive, but I thought it selfish. I had to admit, however, that she was outrageously fab once she caught a wave. Kiara

  surfed like a well-oiled machine, precise and determined, with not a move out of place. There was no way I could win against this chick. No way.

  “Don’t you just want to shoot her?”

  I turned to my side. There was Deanna, looking bedraggled, tired, and soggy.

  “Kiara’s such a friggin’ snake,” Deanna continued, staring out at the water. “And she gets away with it every time.”

  Deanna trash-talking Kiara put me at ease. “Why?” I asked.

  “Because, let’s face it, she’s the best surfer, even if she has the worst manners. My father says surf etiquette has gone to hell in a handbasket, even at these competitions.”

  “Hell in a handbasket,” I giggled. “That sounds like something my grandfather would say. In fact, it is something my grandfather says. That and ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist.’”

  “What about ‘Okie dokey, Pokey’? My father says that all the time. I mean, hello. Pokey? What am I? Gumby’s horse?”

  We laughed, and for a second I forgot about Kiara.

  Deanna stared out at the break. “Ugh. Here she goes again.”

  I looked, too. Kiara was acing it, carving all over the place, without a glitch. She rode the wave as far as possible, squeezing out a few more yards in the ankle-high end-slop, like a ballerina on toe shoes, skittering off stage after her star turn as the Swan Queen.

>   “You’re our last hope,” Deanna said. She stared at me with a super serious expression.

  I sank further into my sandy trough, bowed my head, and grabbed my knees. Could I please just disappear now?

  “Don’t worry,” Deanna said softly. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  I know who you are, Surfing Siren,” Deanna stated matter

  of factly. “I’ve watched you on YouTube, like, a hundred times.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, in the most unconvincing, jittery-sounding voice ever to be heard on planet Earth.

  “All the other girls are too nervous about their own heats to pay close attention.”

  My cover was so obviously and totally blown. “Why didn’t you tell them the truth?” I whispered.

  She shrugged. “I dunno. I could tell you didn’t want people to know. I mean, sorry, but nobody does that,” she pointed to my head, “without good reason. Everyone’s got secrets. It’s not my place to expose yours.”

  I smiled at her. “Thanks, Deanna.”

  “Don’t thank me, just win this thing, and hope I come in at least third. I’ve got an ego, too.” She stared back out at Kiara. “It’s just not as big as some others out there.”

  Kiara glided back to shore on her tummy without a care in the world, chin resting in her hands, knees bent and ankles crossed in the air. The other competitors followed—paddling and struggling behind her like defeated lemmings.

  Deanna kissed me on the cheek. “Merde,” she said. “That’s French for ‘shit,’ but actually it means good luck.” She stood and ran toward the returning girls, giving Kiara a brief pat on the back before kissing and hugging the others.

  And then it was time. Time for doom. Craig called, “Now the last, but not least, five girls: Amy Adler, Corey Beacon, Eliza Carlson, Leah Gruenbaum, and Ada Louise Huxtable.”

  The horn went off, and the other girls dashed in. For a second I was frozen in fear—paralyzed. It was a disastrous déjà vu, with no Sara to push me in. Sara, jilted and duped, had tried to save me when I had needed saving, and my stupidity had left her with broken bones and a broken heart. I have to do this for her, too, I thought, not just Grandpa, or Deanna. Somehow I willed myself to move.

  I don’t remember the paddle out, if it was easy, hard, cold, or choppy. Once outside I was no longer shaking like a scared little rodent, but I wasn’t exactly Miss Super-Chill either. The other girls paddled a few yards to either side of me and glared at me with a mix of fear and curiosity, as if I was a creature from another world. At least there were only four of them. Eight eyes total, as opposed to who knew how many on the shore.

  The first wave set came toward us and there was a sudden frenzy of paddling and positioning. A girl to my right was set up best for the first wave, and everyone deferred to her. She caught the wave and rode it respectfully but without much grit. The second wave went to another decent surfer, and the third wave was mine.

  I’d like to be able to say that I aced it; that I was one with the wave; that it was the beginning of a happy ending. But no—I messed up royally, and not because I was taking risks, but because my nerves were getting the best of me. Short of falling off my board, it was one of the lamest rides I had ever taken. I paddled tentatively, almost missing the take-off, and when I finally felt a bit of juice in the wave beneath me, I hesitated and stayed on my belly for a second too long. When I finally tried to get to my feet, it required extra effort and momentum. So instead of popping up, I sloughed up, one foot before the other, with a split second of both knees on the board. By the time I was standing, I was too far back, nowhere near the power spot of the wave. Humiliating, to say the least; a total loser ride, if ever there was one.

  If I had a tail, it would’ve been tucked between my legs on the paddle back out. The two remaining surfers shook their heads at me and laughed as I re-positioned myself for the next set. Another set was already building and I was in a good position to take the first wave—my chance at redemption. You can do this, Anna, I said to myself. You have to do this. I paddled more aggressively this time, certain I would nail it, but one of the other girls weaved her way there first, and took the wave. As she glided past me, she called, “You’re out of your league. Watch and learn!” She was the best of the bunch so far, but still not all that hot. Watch and learn? That pissed me off to the max.

  I finally found a rhythm, disjointed as it was, and managed to catch a bunch of waves. But I had no idea how my surfing measured up to the competition. This second taste of public surfing left me with no sense of myself other than a deep-seated certainty of total lameness. Talk about inadequacy—I felt like a robot with loose wires, disconnected

  and all over the place. If competitive surfing was always this way, I never wanted to do it ever again. When the bullhorn went off and we all made our way to shore, I figured I had blown it, that it was time for me to pack up and leave.

  I had started to do just that when Deanna ran up to me.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Leaving. I sucked.” I hesitated, before adding, “Right?”

  “Well, you weren’t up to Siren standards, but you didn’t suck. That last right you caught was brilliant. I love that little flick of the wrist thing you do.”

  “Really?” I had no idea. Truly.

  She looked at me oddly. “Um, yeah. Really.”

  “Attention, lovely Surfer Girls Ages 15 to 18,” Craig’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “I couldn’t be more impressed. Even those of you who aren’t going to move on in tomorrow’s final round were totally awesome. Let’s hear it for these girls!”

  The crowds cheered.

  “Our four finalists,” Craig continued, “are Deanna Adams, Kiara Callahan, Leah Gruenbaum, and Ada Louise Huxtable!”

  No way! I thought. Every man, woman, and child roared. Deanna giggled. “See? Now we’re up against each other, Ada Louise Huxtable. May the best surfer win.” She gave me a quick squeeze and ran off to a man who must’ve been her father. I watched him lift her up and swing her around as if she were five years old, his expression bursting with pride and joy. Deanna had this great dad, and I had a smudgy image of some loser standing under a palm tree in Oahu. To each her own.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  I wasn’t out of the running—at least not yet—but still I left Ditch Plains Beach as quickly as I could. The last thing I wanted was to hang around and watch more surfing. Now I had a whole day and night to kill, to try and keep myself calm, and quash my growing feelings of crippling self-doubt.

  There were no early trains from Kendall’s to Montauk the following morning, so I was stuck in Montauk, whether I liked it or not. I spent the entire afternoon trying to convince one motel manager after another to rent underage, unsupervised me a room for the night. Finally, at 5 p.m., the owner of a tacky motel down by the fishing docks agreed to rent me a tiny mildewed, non-air-conditioned room behind the pool generator for a “fair rate”— if I paid cash. His idea of a fair rate and mine were two different things, but I had no choice and no place else to go. I forked over two hundred dollars, leaving me five to get through the following day.

  I took my remaining five dollars to the Montauk Market and bought myself a day-old loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, a bag of carrots, and two green bananas. In the motel room, I made myself a pasty sandwich and ate it as slowly as I could. After I was done, I had nothing to do. I didn’t want to go outside and risk being seen. Deanna might not be the only person who recognized me. I took out my sketchbook, hopeful that drawing would calm my nerves, but found myself blocked. Every stroke I made on the page I judged as harshly as a Marine drill sergeant might assess a new recruit.

  Time for everyone’s favorite brand of mindlessness, I thought, as I turned on the TV. I was good for about two hours, semi-absorbed in an old
Bette Davis movie where she goes blind at the end. I cried but took some comfort in the fact that her character’s fate was worse than mine. I flipped randomly through the channels and almost lost it when I saw him. Chris careened down the face of a killer wave; then, in a flash, he pixilated into twenty-five mini-versions of himself in a variety of psychedelic colors. The screen then shifted to a very tight, round female butt wearing the skimpiest bikini bottom this side of the equator. The butt—and the body it was attached to—walked away, getting smaller and smaller, but wiggling and jiggling in a way that would have given Grandpa the major coronary he was trying to avoid.

  “When you want to stay cool but kill it, use Ocean Breeze. She’ll love it,” cooed the sexy voiceover. Then, in a flash, Chris was back, his face filling the screen, smiling at the camera like a pig in shit. Whether the smile was for the bikini bottom or the killer wave, I couldn’t tell. And while I wasn’t blind like Bette, I still wasn’t sure if Chris’s snaggle-toothed grin, live or on the TV, was the beginning or the end of me.

  I slept deeply in that mildewed, non-air-conditioned room, which surprised me given that I had been as upset, confused, worried, and nervous as any one person had a right to be. The clock radio woke me at half-past six, and I shot out of bed like a bullet, desperately wanting this day to be over already. I prepared a few peanut butter sandwiches to take to the tournament, and gobbled one before I left. Then I packed up all my gear and left my hellhole of a room.

  Riding my bike toward Ditch Plains, I could hear the waves, and smell the salt spray in the air. I got there early,

  before most of the other contestants. The waves were clean—six- to eight-foot beauties in the early windless morning. By mid-morning an eastern breeze would give them a bit more texture and size. My surfer’s heart couldn’t help but sing.