Wavehouse Page 4

  When I got close, I told her, “I don’t feel well.” But I was thinking, How could you do this?

  “I knew it. You’re cold,” she said. “If you want your wetsuit, it’s under the blue towel.”

  “I’m not cold. I just don’t feel well.” And it’s your fault.

  “Since when?” asked Sara, concerned. “You were fine when we got here.”

  “Since a minute ago. You stay. I saw Phil Agnew ride one in a couple of minutes ago. He can drop me off at home.”

  “Is this about that Stella scout, Anna?”

  I shook my head. “No. I just feel crappy, that’s all.”

  “But you’re psyched about the scout, right?”

  The other surfers all bobbed around on their boards, grinning. I felt like yelling, Don’t you idiots have some waves to catch? In my wildest dreams, I had plenty of snarky comebacks, witty retorts, and the occasional major reaming. In real life, I muttered, “Sara, can we talk about this later, please?”

  “I guess,” she sighed. “Go on. When you get home drink tons of water. Flush whatever this mystery ailment is out of your system. But I still need you at the store by noon.”

  How generous, I thought, as I made my way toward shore. I don’t know if it was fear or adrenaline fueling my mad dash over slippery rocks up the beach to the parking lot, but I nearly tackled Phil Agnew as he opened the door of his landscaping pickup.

  “Phil, can you drive me home?” I panted.

  “Sure, Anna. Anytime.” He looked at me curiously. “Everything okay?”

  “Fine. Fine. Just fine,” I jabbered as I angled my board in the back of his truck.

  “Something happen with your mother?” Phil asked as I clambered into the passenger seat.

  “No, nothing,” I said. I wasn’t exactly lying. Nothing had happened, yet. But knowing my mother, it was just a matter of time.

  Chapter Five

  If my mother hadn’t been such a romantic, and my grandparents hadn’t been such fervent Catholics, I would probably never have existed. The case in point being my one-night stand of a father. Okay, that’s harsh. Let’s call him my one-week stand of a father. Grandpa and Gramma had been so relieved that Sara hadn’t flunked out of high school that they treated her to an incredible graduation present—an all-expenses paid trip to Maui.

  I was the souvenir she brought home for them.

  In my mind, I referred to my father as CSD, or Clueless Sperm Donor, a guy I had never met—supposedly a beast of a surfer who had lured my gullible eighteen-year-old mother with a false name and a bogus background story. CSD led her to believe that he was a local Hawaiian with traditional roots, but on the last day of my mother’s visit, he completely disappeared, leaving her with nothing—nothing, that is, except me. In typical Sara fashion, she clung to the fantasy that she would find him, that he would love us and that we would all live happily ever after. Sara spent two years searching for him before giving up, though she still clung to a photo of him, which she kept in the top drawer of her bureau under her thongs and bikini briefs. Throughout my childhood, I would frequently find her curled up in bed, after she’d been dumped or disappointed by some loser, a bottle of bourbon on her side table, a shot glass held precariously in one hand, and the thumb-smudged photo of CSD in the other.

  “Come ‘ere,” Sara would slur, when she saw me in my flannel nightie by the door. I’d run to the bed, climb under the covers, and nuzzle against her side, warm and scented with coconut body wash.

  “Look.” She’d show me the photo. “Your Daddy. Isn’t he hot?”

  Clueless Sperm Donor stood in profile, under the shade of a palm tree with a trucker cap pulled low and aviator shades covering his eyes, his smile so wide that his teeth shone like a slash of light across his face. It was hard to tell if he was an ogre or a god; still, I knew what Sara needed me to say: “He’s the handsomest man in the whole wide world.” For some reason, which to this day I still don’t understand, my endorsement made Sara feel better.

  I would stay there until Sara fell asleep, then slip out from under the covers, toss all her wadded up tissues in the trash, and carry the shot glass and bourbon into the kitchen. Climbing up onto my Tiny Tots step stool, I would pour the remaining bourbon down the drain and rinse the shot glass. Then, finally, I would go back to my own bed and drift away.

  In the mornings, I would wake up to the glorious smell of pancakes. Sara would be in the kitchen, hair pulled up in a high pony, face scrubbed clean. Usually she’d be wearing the ruffled floral apron my Gramma had made her—a silly thing Sara rarely wore, as she rarely cooked; it was, however, after nights like those that she always made me pancakes.

  “Hey, sleepyhead,” she’d say. “A new day is dawning. I hope you’re hungry.”

  And so the cycle continued. Within weeks, Sara had set her sights on a new target, and little-kid me went hunting with her—seeking replacement spouses, father figures, and knights on white horses. Together we would plan for family life with countless men. The problem was that none of our guys seemed to have the same plan—some just wanted Sara without the kid; others just wanted a good time before they returned to their real lives.

  By the time I was thirteen, Sara and I both came to the same conclusion, though we never spoke about it. I was a liability. It wasn’t cool to bring me along on dates, or talk about “my adorable daughter” fifteen minutes after the guy bought Sara a drink. Her game plan had to change—better not to bring me; or, better still, not to mention me at all.

  The distance between us grew even more when I hit puberty and Sara’s unabashed passion freaked me out. Now we shared very little. Except surfing—surfing we would always share.

  But I had never counted on sharing my surfing with the entire world through the internet.

  Phil dropped me off at the postage-stamp-sized cottage I sometimes hesitated to call “home.” Our house, built in the 1960s to provide summer workers with temporary housing, had paper-thin walls, unreliable plumbing, a leaky roof, and an ancient boiler that worked in fits and starts. Most of the other worker-cottages in the neighborhood had long since been torn down and replaced by larger, fancier homes. Repairs had been done here and there as we could afford them, but for the most part the cottage remained a nostalgic testament to shoddy construction.

  Waving goodbye to Phil, I made my way through the overgrown front yard and wrenched open the warped front door. Without bothering to rinse off, I headed straight to the ancient computer my mother and I shared. I wasn’t a big internet person, and got restless staring at any kind of screen for too long. I seldom watched TV other than with Grandpa—who didn’t do a whole lot of anything else these days. I wasn’t on Facebook or Twitter, or any other social networking site, although I probably should’ve been, because shy people tend to do well in cyber-realms—no talking, just typing; you can pretend to be someone you’re not; make friends with other social misfits by clicking a few sends. But still, it all seemed too weird to me. I preferred to see people in the flesh even if I didn’t always want to talk to them.

  I had heard of YouTube, of course. Every now and then, I had even watched videos of cute babies gurgling at soap bubbles, and dopey tween girls harnessing their inner-pop stars, singing embarrassingly off-key about inane things like their jeans or the days of the week. My best friend and pop-culture advisor sent me the links and insisted that I watch them. Now, in desperate need of her sage advice, I dialed her cell phone.

  “Hey, wassup?” Myra Berkowitz said. Myra—formerly of New York City, but now a resident of Kendall’s Watch, was one of the few people I couldn’t do without. “My mother posted a video of me surfing on YouTube, and now there’s some professional scout dude stalking me. I’ve gotta take this thing off the internet now. Like, before immediately!”

  “Wait a second, slow down,” Myra interjected. “A surf video?”

  “On YouTube. I
need you to get over here pronto and help me get rid of it before I break the computer. Accidentally or on purpose. I’m not sure yet which it will be.”

  “Okay. Hold on. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

  While I waited for Myra, I changed out of my soggy surf gear and threw on my standard summer outfit—cotton undies, stretchy bra (no underwire required for my tiny ta ta’s) dry board shorts, and plain black tank.

  Always true to her word, my pal Myra arrived on time.

  Chapter Six

  Hey, I’m here,” Myra called through the screen door.

  “Come in,” I hollered, as Myra breezed inside, the screen door slapping shut behind her. “I’m just sitting here staring at the blank computer screen, hoping this is all just a bad dream.”

  “Okay. Deep breaths. Scooch over.” Myra squeezed next to me on the wooden bench.

  In some ways, Myra had changed radically over the past seven years—for one, she no longer wore party dresses to the beach. Now, Myra, with her wild red hair, favored vintage clothing and environmental causes; by tenth grade, her baby fat had found its way to all the right places. My grandmother said Myra reminded her of Rita Hayworth—that she’d been blessed with a “Va-va-voom” figure; then, looking at my skinny, curveless body, Gramma shook her head in resigned disappointment.

  I’ll never forget that October day in fifth grade, when Myra first walked through the door of my classroom and stood in front of the blackboard, grinning from ear to ear while Mrs. McMurty introduced her. Most kids would’ve seemed at least mildly uncomfortable with a bunch of new classmates scrutinizing them. Myra Berkowitz, on the other hand, looked as relaxed and confident as a professional opera singer practicing scales.

  “Class, Myra is brand new to Kendall’s Watch. I’d like you all to give her a warm welcome. Now, all together…”

  Mrs. McMurty was the only one who chanted “Welcome to Kendall’s Watch, Myra,” because the rest of us were awestruck, staring at Myra in silent confusion.

  I had to admit, she did look kind of strange. Myra was wearing a lavender pantsuit, a pink shirt, and a bright red scarf tied in a bow at the collar; a daisy stuck jauntily out of her lapel. A glittery headband pushed her Brillo-pad hair back from her forehead, but, beyond the band, her crazy curls sprang out all over the place as if she’d stuck her finger in an electrical socket. She wore purple Converse—before they were cool. To top off her eccentric appearance, Myra carried a mini-briefcase instead of a backpack, a habit that lasted until ninth grade when she bought herself a giant shoulder bag.

  Pantsuited, briefcase-wielding Myra Berkowitz seemed unfazed by the lack of a hearty welcome. “Hello, classmates. Hello, Mrs. McMurty,” she cried. Then, spotting me, she added, “Oh wow! Hello, Anna the Artist!”

  “Who’s she talking about?” hissed Patrick Corrigan, who sat across from me. Patrick’s face resembled that of a pug dog, and, when he was nasty, it got even more squished and ugly. “You’re not an artist. You’re just weird.”

  Pam Quinn, Larissa Smythe, Jack Rogan—the other kids in our group—giggled. They weren’t as jerky as Patrick, but they weren’t exactly friendly either. I stared down at the top of my desk, heat flooding my cheeks, and sat on my hands, waiting for them to get distracted by someone or something else.

  While I was busy staring at the fake wood grain—pretending to decipher the scratched messages left by former desk inhabitants—there was a commotion. “Aw, come on. Do I have to?” Patrick whined; then, a scraping of chair legs against linoleum, and a “Thank you, Mrs. McMurty. This seat is perfect,” from Myra.

  Looking up, I realized that Patrick had been banished to a single desk at the rear of the classroom, and Myra now sat in his seat—smiling at me just like she had that day at the beach: open, ready, and totally happy to see me.

  “Okay, let’s turn this sucker on,” said Myra. She pressed the switch for the computer and slowly the old thing cranked to life.

  “YouTube is one word, right?” I asked.

  “Yeah. One word.”

  I typed it in the browser and the site appeared. “So, how do I find myself?”

  “Just type in your name here.” Myra touched a search bar on the screen with one polished pink fingernail.

  Following her suggestions, I laboriously typed ‘Anna Dugan.’ “Nothing.”

  “Try just ‘Anna.’”

  A column of still images appeared—mostly of scantily clad women, babies, and pets. But none of me. “Wait.” It suddenly occurred to me. “Jimmy called it something else. The Surfing Siren.”

  “Jimmy?” Myra raised an eyebrow.

  “Jimmy Flannigan. You know, from school. He just graduated.”

  “Oh yeah. Him.” Myra remembered. “He’s okay. Kinda cute, actually. Like a modern day Jimmy Stewart but with bigger ears.”

  Myra was not usually interested in any kids—male or female—from Kendall’s. “Don’t tell me you’re hot for Jimmy? You guys have about as much in common as, I dunno, a sea bass and an orangutan.”

  “Wait a minute. Who’s the fish and who’s the primate?”

  We were getting distracted, which was not uncommon with Myra, whose brain was so multi-faceted that random comments I made often got analyzed with smarty-pants scrutiny.

  “Take your pick,” I said. “You can be the fish or the monkey. I don’t really care. And yes, Jimmy is nice and sort of cute, but can we please focus on this YouTube thing?”

  “Okay, okay. Sorry,” she said. “So, type in…I’m sorry. What was it again?”

  “The Surfing Siren.”

  “Cool name. So mythological,” said Myra.

  “So not cool,” I muttered, “but here goes.” I typed it in, and there it was—a still of me getting air on the lip of a pretty cool wave. “Ugh. I am going to die here and now.”

  “Come on. Let’s watch it.”

  “Myra—”

  “Come on,” she persisted

  “I’m scared to.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve never seen myself surf. What if I can’t stand how I look?”

  “Oh come on, you’re amazing.” Myra didn’t surf, but she liked to watch me and she’d seen me surf hundreds of times.

  I stared at the computer screen, paralyzed. “Maybe I’m an okay surfer,” I admitted grudgingly. “But you know how self-conscious I am. This could totally undo me.”

  “What if you’re as great as everyone seems to think? Maybe you need to watch yourself to really know.”

  “I’ll just see all the flaws, I know it. No. I can’t watch it. You watch it. Tell me what you think.” I got up, averted my gaze from the screen, and began nervously pacing.

  “All right,” Myra said. “Okay. Here goes.”

  My heart pounded as I heard music swell out of the tinny speaker. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s an added soundtrack. Sounds like a cello. Maybe Bach?”

  “You’re kidding.” Me surfing to classical music? I couldn’t imagine it.

  “Shhh! I’m trying to watch.”

  It was excruciating waiting, and I shifted impatiently from foot to foot as I listened to the music, interrupted by the occasional gasp from Myra. After a long two minutes, or thereabouts, all fell silent.

  “So?” I demanded.

  “Wow,” Myra sighed.

  “Wow, what?”

  “Wow, what do you think? It’s incredible, you’re incredible.”

  “Oh shit,” I cried. I imagined people—those I knew, and those I didn’t, hovering around computer screens and smartphones everywhere, all of them watching me surf. The Surfing Siren? I knew that was supposed to be a complimentary moniker, but it made me think of the other kind of siren—a loudly blasting alarm crying “STOP!”

  “This sucks,” I moaned. “We have to get rid of the video before anyone else sees it. Wh
o knows how many have already watched it.”

  “You can find out how many. Look, it’s listed right here.”

  Sitting down next to her, I looked at the number in bold next to the title: 500 views and it had only been posted for a few days. “Just shoot me now,” I groaned.

  “Anna, this could be a good thing.”

  “Impossible.” I shook my head.

  “Anna,” Myra insisted, using her annoying school-marmy voice. “If this is what got that Stella scout to come to Kendall’s to see you, this is great. If he recommends you for a spot on a professional women’s surfing tour—or even better, takes you on as a client—you could make gobs of money. And you could use that money for college, maybe even art school.”

  Now that the summer was winding down, and eleventh grade would start in just over a month, Myra was laser-focused on “Life after Kendall’s.” She talked nonstop about colleges, professions, and dream apartments in fabulous cities. All of it seemed so far away, and—for me at least—far out of reach.

  I stared at the computer screen. “You’ve got my life all figured out for me, haven’t you, Miss Guidance Counselor?” I swiveled my butt around on the bench and wedged my hands between my knees to keep both from shaking.

  “It’s no secret that my major fantasy is for me to go to Brown, with you down the hill at the Rhode Island School of Design.”

  College was Myra’s primary obsession: where she might go, how she would get in, what she would write her essays about, and how she would prep for the SATs. Myra adored academics and loved almost every subject, with the exception of P.E. I tolerated high school, more or less, and was a

  decent student. Every subject, other than art—which consisted mostly of independent study—I found seriously dull. I managed to get above-average grades, which was better than most of the other kids. But was I college material? I wasn’t sure. And art school? Wasn’t that where messed-up kids with stretched earlobes and self-drawn tattoos went to school, did drugs, and wore lots of black eye shadow? No way. Not my scene. That sounded more scary than cool.