Wavehouse Page 5

  Nervous sweat gathered in my armpits and a prickly tension worked its way up the back of my neck. I was short of breath for no good reason. “I’m not ready,” I moaned. “This is seriously activating intense Shy-Person-Type-B symptoms.”

  “Ah yes,” Myra smiled and rolled her eyes, “your highly

  scientific mode of categorizing the various kinds of shyness.”

  “Um, hello? Look at me over here.”

  Myra looked at me. She got it. Finally. “Oh. Wow. I guess you really are in a state.”

  “I need to rid the world of The Surfing Siren. So how do I delete it?”

  “Only the person who posts the videos can delete them.”

  “In other words, Sara has to take it down?”

  “Unless you know her password, yes.”

  “Well, this friggin’ sucks.” My mortification rapidly switched to fury. My mother, who had started this whole disaster, was the only one who could now shut it down.

  “I think you need Secretspot, ASAP,” Myra suggested. “Are you working today?”

  “Not till noon. You?”

  “They don’t need me at the senior center till one.” Myra rose from the bench, smoothed her skirt, and hiked the halter straps of her forties-style sundress. “I need to change into a more Secretspotty outfit.”

  “No kidding.” A vision of Myra in her flouncy, bouncy vintage sundress and platform sandals stumbling down the beach momentarily entertained me.

  “Hey. No fashion jabs from you, Miss Monotone. I’ll meet you at our corner in fifteen.”

  Chapter Seven

  In the late summer—sometime between sixth and seventh grade—Myra and I had discovered an abandoned trail five miles out of town. We’d been walking along Shadmoor Avenue, a semi-private street off the main drag, when we spotted a rusted, collapsed fence among the brambles and weeds. Behind the fence was the tantalizing hint of a path. Curious, we clambered over fallen limbs and rocks, pushing prickly leaves aside and side-stepping poison ivy. We followed the path until it ended at a steep incline. All of a sudden, the sky opened up, the land fell away, and there was the sparkling, crystal blue ocean. Cliffs, like wrinkled paper bags, dropped fifty feet down to a stretch of sandy beach punctuated with massive, surf-smoothed boulders. Best of all, a well-worn gully eroded by rainwater wound its way down, in a natural path, to the cove below.

  This land, restricted from development, had been deeded to the town decades earlier, and was rarely visited except by deer hunters in late autumn. One house, however, had been built here before the development was restricted—a modern beach place, all glass and steel beams, that nestled on the edge of the cliff like a resting bird.

  The house, despite its new look, had long been the subject of rumor in town. Old ladies, standing in supermarket lines, whispered of “that abandoned monstrosity in the woods”; fishermen, drinking beers after long afternoons on the water, swore they’d seen ghosts fly from its windows; kids of all ages told exaggerated stories about child murders, buried bodies, drug rings, and witches. Other rumors made mention of secret cameras hidden in trees, vicious watchdogs, and a caretaker with a gun. The house, hidden behind a wrought-iron gate, was inaccessible unless you were a scrawny kid who could squeeze between the bars and had some kind of death wish. As far as I knew, no one had ever been up for that challenge.

  The facts were far less entertaining than the rumors. The house belonged to some face-lifted movie star from the seventies who was rarely there. A Ms. Ramelle, who spent most of her time in Switzerland or Sweden, I wasn’t quite sure which.

  From our cliff-side perspective that day, the house looked deserted, and as interesting as it was to see this object of rumor and intrigue for the first time, it was the ocean that really got me stoked. The wind was coming from the north and the swell from the southeast, the combination of which created some juicy head-high waves. And not a single surfer was on any of them. If I had had my surfboard with me that first day, those beauties would have been all mine to play with.

  We went home that day with woodsy war wounds—Myra got a gazillion burrs stuck in her gravity-defying hair and I seemed to have attracted every mosquito in a ten-mile radius. We returned the next day and began clearing the neglected path. Coated with bug spray and covered head to toe in old gardening clothes, we armed ourselves with hedge clippers and whacked our way toward the ocean. After an exhausting week of daily effort—with blisters calloused from relentless cutting, knees stiff from crouching, and backs wrenched from twisting—we finally broke through to the shore. We then strategically camouflaged the path’s entrance at Shadmoor Avenue with a jumble of big branches and creeping vines.

  It was our own private seaside paradise and we named it Secretspot. Not very original, but we liked it well enough and went there as often as we could. Before long we had accumulated a list of Secretspot essentials: books for reading (Myra), books for drawing (me), surf paraphernalia (me), sunbathing supplies (Myra). The waves were all mine, with only the shrieking gulls to distract me. Myra would settle inside the sun-warmed nook of her favorite rock—one with a smooth dip in the center—and read her latest trillion-page Russian epic.

  The serenity of Secretspot was exactly what I needed after the double whammy of the Stella scout and The Surfing Siren. After Myra left, I tossed sketchpad, pencils, sunscreen, towel, and surf wax into my backpack, downed a quick glass of OJ, and pocketed a handful of almonds. Grabbing my surfboard, I attached it to the rack on the side of my mountain bike. It was an awkward way to carry a board, but without a driver’s license, it was the only way to get around. Hoisting my backpack over my shoulders, I took off to meet Myra, who waited for me at the corner of Emerson and Main. Myra’s bike was a real clunker, a rusty, old three-speed with a wire basket hanging off the front that she had decorated with plastic flowers. Inside the basket was the huge denim bag Myra took everywhere.

  “Yo, Wicked Witch of the West.” I slowed my pace to stop next to Myra.

  “Greetings, Glenda.” Myra waved at me with hexing, witchy hands. It was two miles to the hidden entrance on Shadmoor Avenue; Myra coasted next to me and asked, “So, do you want to talk more about this YouTube, surf-scout stuff, or what?”

  “Not really.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Okay. Here’s the deal: I don’t want to be a professional surfer even if it gets me out of this stupid town. Surfers are boring, generally speaking. All they do is talk about waves, waves, and more waves, and I prefer to spend as little time around them as possible.” My voice had quickly become high-pitched and mildly hysterical.

  “Sorry. Let’s just forget about the whole thing.” Myra reached over and patted my hand, causing a near collision with my surfboard when her wheel wobbled. “Hey, I know something that will take your mind off the whole professional surf thing, at least for a day.”

  Uh-oh, I thought. Myra always roped me into her various social, political, and environmental causes. I didn’t mind—it made me feel good to help; I just wasn’t as committed as she was. And “helping her” usually involved trying to persuade people to donate money. We routinely had doors slammed in our faces and our phone calls disconnected—in short, rudeness galore. And it always required salesmanship, with no Shell Shop storeroom to hide in. But Myra was my best friend, so I tried to suck it up and at least give whatever scheme she proposed a half-hearted try.

  “Who are we saving this week?” I asked.

  “Not who, what,” she said. “I’m organizing a beach clean-up for the Kendall’s Community Action Group. The storm we had last weekend left all sorts of plastic ribbons and other garbage all over the beach just waiting to strangle some poor unsuspecting seagulls or plovers.”

  “Okay. Just tell me what to do, boss,” I sighed.

  “Cool. I’ll think of something. Dates to be determined. I’ll keep ya posted.”

  At the Secretspot
entrance, I held Myra’s bike and stood lookout for passing cars while Myra pushed aside our camouflaging branches and brambles. We rode single file down the path to the cliff-side clearing, where we leaned the bikes against our “Pee-Pee Rock,”—behind which, when nature called, we did our business. It was a dicey climb down to the beach and Myra didn’t have the surest of feet, so I hoisted her ridiculous bag over one shoulder and gave her my other arm for support.

  “What do you have in this bag?” I asked. “It weighs a ton.”

  “War and Peace and the latest Princeton Review Guide to America’s Top Colleges.”

  “Myra, eleventh grade hasn’t even started yet! It’s summer time, and we’re kids—we’re supposed to be chilling. Can’t you give this college thing a rest, at least until after Labor Day?”

  “Actually, reading about colleges is restful. I like to imagine myself walking past beautiful ivy-covered nineteenth-century buildings, and sitting in seminars with brilliant professors doling out literary tidbits. These are very soothing images.” Myra sighed wistfully.

  “You’re even weirder than me.”

  “Perhaps, but not likely.”

  After depositing Myra and her stuff on the beach, I scrambled back up the path for my surfboard. Then I covered my skin with gobs of sunscreen and tossed the tube to Myra. Myra was always trying to get tanned, but she had skin that instantly went from pale and freckly to fried. You would think someone as evolved and as sensible as Myra would let go of the bronzed, beach babe fantasy; but some part of Myra hankered after a fabulous rock star tan, so every summer she pushed the envelope and got at least one wicked burn.

  “Hey, paleface. Don’t skimp on the ’screen. I can’t be friends with a lobster,” I said.

  “Yes, Mother. Whatever you say, Mother.” Myra reluctantly started to smear and I nodded my approval. She was wearing an old-fashioned polka-dot two-piece; the bottom sat snugly beneath her ribs, and the top cascaded in a pile of ruffles over her chest. She looked fantastic—like a glam movie star from the forties.

  “You look hot,” I said admiringly. “If only Jimmy Flannigan could see you now.”

  “Ha. Ha. Jimmy Flannigan is probably just like all the other guys in town—they only pay attention to you if you have long blonde hair and a surfboard under your arm, and they prefer to play Candy Crush than read a book, do Jell-O shots, and get trashed on a regular basis.”

  I shrugged. “Jimmy is usually pretty nice—to me, anyway. In a totally friend-to-friend kind of a way.”

  “Well, he clearly won’t ever be interested in me, so maybe you should try for more than friend-to-friend.”

  “Ew! No! When I look at Jimmy, I see him as he was in kindergarten, with his shoes untied and his nose all crusty. He used to sit in the corner and eat paste.”

  Jimmy might be out of the running for me, but I had had my fair share of crushes on local boys. Unfortunately—or fortunately—inherent stupidity tended to pour forth after they opened their mouths, at which point my secret passion would fizzle.

  “Paste, huh?” Myra raised a ginger brow in skeptical amusement. “Well, as fascinating as this conversation is, I’ve got War and Peace to read, so go on. Surf. Rip, curl, shred, whatever it is you do out there.”

  Finally, board waxed and on the water, I lay on my belly and waited. Usually, I intuitively sensed when and how to join an oncoming swell; knowing where to be had always been second nature, but today something was off. Ever since I learned of the YouTube video, I’d felt paranoid, convinced that I was being watched. Now, I imagined not just one videographer, but crowds with cameras; I imagined writers critiquing my “style” in surf magazines, and felt my heart pound in my chest. Other surfers might find this kind of attention exciting, but it made me want to hurl. I knew that I wanted more than Kendall’s Watch could offer—if not now, then eventually. Maybe Myra was right. Maybe someday I could live somewhere else like Los Angeles or Manhattan and do something cool and artsy, where I wouldn’t feel like the only shy person in town. But was a professional surf career the only route out of my small town life?

  A beautiful head-high wave rose toward me, promising to break in a clean and brisk left-heading line. I barely made the drop, taking off so late that I had to cruise straight down the face like a wild child sledding down a rutted hill. Eventually I got my footing, bent my knees and carved up the center to finish in a nice position inside the curl. Completely respectable, but not up to my normal standards—worrying seemed to be getting in my way.

  On the beach, Myra seemed completely enthralled by her epic. The few times I tried to get her attention, she barely noticed. By the end of the hour, War and Peace was splayed open on her stomach, and a sunbonnet that resembled a head of wilted lettuce covered her face. It made me happy to know that Myra was relaxing. Usually if Myra wasn’t thinking, she was doing. And doing everything—working at the library and the senior center; organizing campaigns for her favorite

  environmental causes while simultaneously taking care of ninety percent of Kendall’s Watch old folks. Taking care of me.

  In a couple of years, Myra would be off to college—who knew where I would be after high school?—which meant that we only had a short time left to be with each other constantly, in our best-friend, totally dependent way. If I left on a surf tour now, I could potentially spend months away from Kendall’s. Myra would have to fend off high school sharks alone—the assholes who made fun of her and disrespected her brains—while I might have to fend off real sharks in Tahitian waters. I was suddenly struck by a fabulous idea, and, excited, paddled back in.

  “Hey, Myra!” I yelled, scrambling up the beach. “I just thought of something.” Shaking my head like a wet dog, I sprayed Myra’s feet with sea spray.

  “Hey!” Myra sat up, shocked by the rude awakening. “That wasn’t funny,” she said—giggling, of course.

  “What if you came with me?”

  “Came with you where?”

  “Wherever I have to go to be a professional surfer—at least until you go to college. You could be my…my…”

  “Trainer?” Myra interjected sarcastically.

  “Well, not exactly.”

  “What? Your groupie? Your personal slave? No way.”

  “Maybe you could do some high-brow intellectual study of surf culture and stick it into your college applications?”

  Myra crinkled her nose and shook her head. “I don’t think so. Plus, ‘intellectual’ and ‘surf culture’ don’t usually go together, as you yourself have pointed out numerous times.”

  “I know,” I groaned. “It’s just—”

  “Get real, Anna. There wouldn’t be anything for me to do. Besides, no one’s gonna pay for me to follow you around and do nothing.”

  She was right, as usual. Kneeling in the sand, I felt suddenly dizzy—not spinning-in-a-circle-over-and-over-again dizzy, but weird floating-outside-my-body-type dizzy—the same feeling I had had when Jimmy told me about the Stella scout.

  “Anna, are you okay?” Myra asked. “You look like you swallowed rat poison or something.”

  Get it together, Dugan. “Hmm, rat poison. That sounds yummy. Got any on you?” At least I could still make jokes—even if they were rather lame.

  “Sorry, no,” Myra smirked. “I left my stash at home. All I have is a bottle of lighter fluid. Want a swig?”

  We both giggled. No more needed to be said. Myra gathered her bag and I hoisted my board and backpack, and together we clambered up to Pee-Pee Rock. We cycled back to town singing kiddie songs at the top of our lungs—it was something we often did, when we needed cheering up, or when we had tired of discussing heavy issues. It always amazed me what a rousing rendition of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” could do to lift our spirits.

  Chapter Eight

  At Myra’s house, we showered and changed into dry clothes. Daniel and Judith Berkowitz were in their upsta
irs office—I could hear them talking about boat rides down the Nile or camel trips in India. They were travel writers, which would be great if you’re the ones doing the traveling, but sort of sucky if you’re their kid. Before Myra moved to Kendall’s, she had spent a lot of time alone in the Berkowitzes’ Manhattan apartment with a sullen Australian au pair named Gertie. According to Myra, Gertie cried all day and ate some yucky meat spread out of a jar with her fingers.

  “Don’t all get up at once!” Myra yelled up the stairs.

  “We won’t,” Judith hollered back. “Is Anna with you?”

  An actual Daniel or Judith sighting was rare—when in town they spent most of their time upstairs scribbling away. Myra liked to joke that she benefitted from a parenting style of “benign neglect.” I wasn’t all that sure that this was a benefit, and worried that Myra would really need her parents some day; and, when she did, they would be off in Mexico climbing ancient ruins or testing chocolates in Switzerland—or, even worse, they would just be so immersed in their upstairs office work that they wouldn’t even notice she needed them.

  “Hey, Mrs. B.,” I called.

  “Morning, sweetie!” Judith shouted back. “Help yourself to some bagels. Sheila sent the weekly provisions from Zabar’s.”

  There were certain urban habits the Berkowitz family

  couldn’t shake, one being weekly bagels, lox, and cream cheese from their favorite Upper West Side market. Myra’s Aunt Sheila, a professor of gender archeology at Columbia—whatever the hell that was—faithfully sent a bagel box that arrived via special delivery every Thursday morning. Judith had declared the bagels from Kendall’s Pastry Pantry “an abomination, baked not boiled, with the consistency and taste of Wonder bread.” After eating my first Zabar’s poppy-with-nova-and-a-schmear, I completely agreed with her.

  First, however, I needed to rinse off. Secretspot needed to be kept a secret, and, heading out to the Shell Shop, I couldn’t risk Sara suspecting me of surfing somewhere she didn’t know about—and Sara could smell salt water a mile away. I scrubbed myself vigorously with a loofah sponge, shampooed three times, wrapped my surf gear deep in a towel, and meticulously wiped my surfboard dry.