Wavehouse Page 9

  The ocean had a bite; the chill, a residue from two days of rain, rain, and more rain. I paddled like a maniac to prevent my body from freezing and stiffening, duck-diving through the oncoming set, and screaming as my head resurfaced between waves with an ice-cream headache. Once beyond the break, I sat on my board, rubbing my goose-pimpled arms. Sometimes this sport seemed really insane. Then I looked south towards the horizon, where the ocean sparkled like a celebration, and the sky was so perfectly clear that you had to join the party. Surfing, once again, made total sense.

  When the next set rolled toward me, I was ready. The first wave looked nice, but the one behind it was the set wave, which meant it was the biggest and the best. I paddled up the crest of the first wave and slid down the back in a stomach-

  rolling glide. Making my way toward the peak of the set wave, I sat back on my board, spun it around and positioned myself to take off. After a few more easy paddles, I pushed down on the board with my hands so I could lift and hinge my hips, bend my knees, and land my feet in an easy crouch. I carved big loose swoops up and down the face of the wave like I was drawing a series of smiles. My arms did their own dance, billowing at my sides to provide balance; my knees flexed and straightened, maintaining both rhythm and position. A tension-free ride—just what the doctor had ordered.

  The next fifteen minutes were pure surf bliss—no thoughts of surf scouts, crowds, or stupid internet sites. I played differently on each wave I took; on some, I flew high up on the top edge, skimming along in a perfect floater, before planting down into the meat of the wave for the rest of the ride. On others, I bee-lined quickly down the face, did a huge bottom turn and shifted back up and over the top before closing out in a big bucket of spray and foam. I played with my feet, walking in a circle on my board. Normally surfers did fancy footwork only on longboards, not shortboard shredders like mine, but I didn’t care. I would try anything at least once, and fell off as many waves as I made. I considered it part of my learning curve, and my frequent falls kept me humble.

  It was after a particularly spectacular belly flop that I saw him. I was repositioning my body on my board—trying to undo a potentially crotch-rotting wedgie—when I noticed another surfer bobbing a few yards out. He must’ve been there for a while, sitting on his board like Neptune surveying his ocean domain—and here I was clowning around!

  It was the super surfer from Chompers—the mystery man with the bronze skin and lion-like mane who’d paddled off into the horizon. And now here he was on my private turf, in my hidden oasis, and I didn’t like it one bit.

  I felt paralyzed, and lay on my board like a piece of driftwood—without life or movement.

  But he’d seen me, and there was no easy way to smoothly disappear.

  “Yo, hey, hello!” he called, waving his arm like a pit stop mechanic trying to flag down a NASCAR gone rogue.

  Immediately, I started paddling toward the shore.

  “Where are you going?” he hollered as my scared and sorry butt high-tailed it back to the beach.

  Where was I going? I was a coward, and paddling away from Secretspot felt like the ultimate self-betrayal. But I couldn’t stop myself; I was shaking, and my whole body felt like it had been zapped by electric volts.

  With my board slipping out from under one shaky arm, I stumbled to the sand, gasping for breath.

  Get it together, Dugan. This is Secretspot. This is your spot. You can’t be chased away.

  But no one was chasing me away. I was banishing myself—me and my stupid shyness.

  Chapter Twelve

  I got to The Shell Shop earlier than Sara—nothing like an aborted surf session to make one punctual.

  “Wow,” Sara exclaimed when she came in the door and found me sitting on the floor, sorting children’s Sponge Bob yellow flip-flops into their respective small, medium, and large bins. “You beat me.”

  I shrugged. “I couldn’t get back to sleep. Figured I’d try and do something useful.”

  Sara came over and sat beside me on the floor. “Do you remember when you were five years old and obsessed with the color yellow?”

  “Vaguely,” I said.

  “All the other little girls wanted pink. You wanted yellow. Yellow shoes, yellow clothes, yellow toys, and yellow food.”

  That, I remembered. Mac and cheese, eggs, butterscotch, and lemonade.

  “You said that yellow was the color of the sun,” Sara said.

  The ‘me’ sitting next to her now felt very unsunny. Mr. Intruder, a.k.a. Chompers Lunatic, had totally spoiled my mood; he’d taken my waves as well as my sunny disposition.

  “Remember that guy Ivan? The shortboarder from Brazil?”

  “Sort of,” I sighed. There always seemed to be some guy associated with Sara’s nostalgia.

  “He bought you that adorable stuffed sunflower.”

  “Sorry Sara,” I said. “But that thing was weird. Who wants to play with giant fake foliage?”

  “Well, you’re sure in a snitty mood.”

  “Sorry, but Ivan’s goofy, floppy sunflower gift was just a yellow ploy to get on your good side. He didn’t give a fig for me.”

  She stood up. “He was on my good side—for a while, anyway. Besides, it was the gesture that counted.”

  The rest of the day was an uneventful blur of tourists buying things and asking stupid questions. I almost lost it when two little groms arrived with a pile of flyers for the Montauk Junior Surf Tournament.

  “Hey, ma’am?” a scruffy-haired blonde pipsqueak asked. “Would it be okay if we put one of these up in your window?”

  Sara was in the back room, so I was safe. “Um, no,” I said. “We don’t put posters in our window. Sorry, kids.”

  “Really?” The little dude frowned.

  “Please?” His buddy, a freckled redhead, still cute in his layer of baby fat, looked as if the world had ended. “All the other shops did it—even the bakery.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to wreck their perfect record. “Oh, all right. Put it over there.” I pointed to a spot behind the sun hat display, where it wouldn’t constantly remind me of my past, present, and future failures.

  Sales were brisk the rest of the day. No little kids had any tantrums or spilled ice cream on the beach towels, and no one tried to return anything they’d broken. Still, I stumbled around The Shell Shop in a dark mood, and couldn’t stop thinking about the invasion of Secretspot.

  At five, Sara offered to let me leave early.

  “You look like someone died, Anna,” she said. “Go home, or go surfing. Just do something to change your mood, please.”

  “Oh, that reminds me, would it be okay if I stayed at Myra’s for the next few nights? Her parents are going to Paris and I want to keep her company.”

  “Paris, eh? Lucky them,” Sara said with a bit of snark. “Wish I could take off and go to Paris.” She’d never really warmed to the Berkowitzes, even though they’d lived in Kendall’s Watch for almost seven years and their daughter was my best friend. Sara was like a lot of born and bred locals who never truly accepted outsiders. It didn’t matter if they were from third world countries looking for a better life or from the city looking for a beachier life; unless you went back three generations you were suspect.

  “It’s for work, Sara. They need to go for their jobs. So, anyway, is it okay if I stay with Myra?”

  “Sure. Whatever. See you here tomorrow.”

  I left the shop and climbed on my bike. Before going to Myra’s, however, there was one thing I needed to do first.

  I sat on the shore in my rash guard and board shorts, my surfboard waxed and ready, looking out at a Secretspot wave awash in the golden evening light. I knew he’d be out there and on it. And sure enough, so he was—he was a surf addict, after all, just like me.

  He was good. Damn good. I wasn’t sure if his stellar surfing chops ma
de matters worse, or better. All I knew was this was Secretspot. My spot.

  Paddling out toward him, I thought about screaming incoherently, like some kind of surf-lunatic—perhaps that would scare him away; but I couldn’t muster a sound—my voice was zip-locked deep in my throat, and I was about as scary as a dead leaf. As I approached, he smiled and waved, sitting casually on his surfboard as if he had been born to it.

  “Welcome back,” he said. “That was a great belly flop you did this morning.” He looked vaguely familiar, but he wasn’t from Kendall’s; perhaps he was from Montauk or further up the island. His smile was even nicer up close—a mouthful of crooked, perfectly white teeth set in skin like melted milk chocolate. Wild hair, like golden seaweed, curled, chaotic, to his shoulders, and green eyes glinted, almond-shaped, on either side of a broad, flat nose.

  Pushing myself up to a sitting position, I asked, trying to quell my nervous stammer, “How…ah…did you get here?”

  His grin widened. “Nice to meet you too.”

  “Could you…just”—the zipper jammed, the words pooled in my mouth—“please, answer the question.” Zipper opened, finally!

  “I’m staying up there.” He pointed towards the Ramelle house. “I looked down this morning, saw you catch these killers and couldn’t resist.”

  Steady, Anna. Don’t let those washboard abs throw you. “Are you related to Ms. Ramelle or something?” I asked.

  “Nah. Just a friend of a friend, I guess.”

  I didn’t know where to rest my eyes. His face was too appealing, and his smile seemed genuinely kind. And the body—well, let’s just say it was a good thing I was sitting down on my board, or I might have gone all girly and weak in the knees; a stereotype that I wanted nothing to do with. To keep myself steady, I focused on his left ear. A small gold hoop hugged his earlobe.

  “Something wrong, Belly Flop?” he asked.

  “Um, no. I mean yes…” I stumbled. All over the friggin’ map. “I mean, yes. Yes, something’s very wrong. This is my spot, and I don’t share it. So you can paddle back in now.”

  Super Surfer just sat there, smiling at me. It was awesome and totally cringe-worthy at the same time. A hunky guy staring at me? Talking to me? Once again, I fought the urge to paddle away as fast as I possibly could.

  “Stop grinning!” I finally blurted out. “I told you to go! What are you, crazy?”

  In four graceful paddles he was at my side. “Yep. That’s me, crazy. But you can call me Chris.”

  Looking straight into his sparkling, green eyes, I told him firmly, “I don’t want you here, Chris.”

  He stared back a moment, his smile gone, before he began: “You really don’t know—”

  “Actually,” I interrupted. “I really do know. This is my spot. Mine alone.” Phew. Words were finally coming out smoothly.

  He smiled again and shrugged. “No worries, Belly Flop. Just let me catch one of the next set and I’m out of your life forever.”

  I caved. “One, but that’s it. And please stop calling me that.”

  “Aw, come on. You know I’m just yankin’ your chain. That belly flop was pretty cool, but the waves you made this morning? Even more spectacular.”

  I was speechless. Was this a compliment? I didn’t know how to respond so I just clammed up in my usual shy idiot style.

  As we turned our boards to face the horizon, I could feel him staring at me. I felt horribly exposed and full of fatal flaws: monkey arms, eyes too close together, unimpressive chest, the list goes on and on—the basic boringness of me. Thankfully, the next set came on schedule, offering me an escape from his scrutiny. “This one’s yours. Go for it,” I said. “Nice meeting you. Leave now, please.”

  Chris turned and popped up effortlessly. He threw a lot of spray and the hump of his wave prevented me from seeing the bulk of his ride, but I had to hand it to him—his take-off had been stellar.

  I waited for my turn, letting the next two waves go by and choosing the last wave of the set. Angling my board, I tried to ignore Chris who now stood on shore, watching me. I was self-conscious about everything—the way I looked, the way I surfed, the way I was who I was. I was convinced that his sudden appearance would throw me off. No question, I would make a complete and utter fool of myself.

  But as soon as the wave and I connected, all was good—I didn’t mess up, I didn’t choke. I rode the wave with confidence and connection, added a few tricky moves, some backside slashes, but mostly kept it clean. Then, I cut back up and over the wave before it closed out.

  The idea of an audience—no, to be honest, the idea of him—gave me an extra edge. I was showing off for the first time in my life, and it felt kinda good.

  But by the time I’d paddled back out and turned toward shore, Chris was gone. The sun was setting, and I had time for only a few more rides. My purpose had been to warn him off and in this I had been successful—he was gone. So why did I still feel grumpy? I should’ve been glad to have Secretspot back to myself, but I wasn’t. You don’t miss him, I told myself. The first of many lies.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When I arrived at Myra’s house, she was sitting in the kitchen with her laptop. A sketchpad and a set of pens and pencils sat beside her.

  “What’s this?” I asked, picking up the sketchpad.

  “Surprise! You’re going to design the flyer for the Kendall’s Watch Community Action Group’s Beach Clean Up.”

  “Myra, you know I don’t like people to see my drawings.”

  “Please, please, pretty please? It can be anonymous. Nobody needs to know that you did it. You have to help me out! The one Mrs. Kettle did was so horrible that I can’t possibly use it. She messed up the time and the meeting place. She drew a picture of a pile of garbage with a seagull standing on top, only it looks like a pile of shit topped with a three-

  cornered hat.”

  “Ouch,” I said. “That’s harsh.”

  “Here.” She thrust a pink flyer at me. “See for yourself.”

  “Oh wow. That’s supposed to be a seagull?”

  Myra nodded.

  “Okay. I’ll do it, but I won’t draw a Wavehouse.”

  “That’s cool. Maybe just some killer seashells and other oceany stuff; the creatures and plants we’re trying to protect. Something we can scan and email and also print and post. You can lose Mrs. Kettle’s garbage theme.”

  “Don’t worry. No trash in my work.”

  “Yay!” Myra beamed. “I’ll order a pizza while you get started.”

  We kept working even after the pizza arrived, eating while drawing and keyboard clicking. At one point Myra said, “So, the committee is thinking of setting up an information table at the contest.”

  “What contest?” I asked.

  “Oh, you know,” Myra tried to sound super casual. “The 7th Annual Montauk Junior Surf Tournament.”

  I looked down at the mermaid tail I was drawing. “Good for you. Have fun there.”

  “We were thinking that we might sponsor one of the contestants.”

  I knew where this was leading. Putting my pizza slice and pen down, I looked directly at Myra. “No way. Sorry. Wish I could, but you know I can’t.”

  “How do you know if you don’t even try?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.” Myra snapped the top of her laptop closed and crossed her arms. “Seriously.”

  “Because entering that tournament when I was ten was the most traumatic experience of my life!”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh come on. You were ten! You’re almost seventeen now.”

  “Myra, every time I imagine surfing in front of an audience, I fall to pieces inside. I feel like a combination of Jell-O and ice. On top of that, I start sweating and I want to puke. Does that sound like fun to you?”

  “All right, whatever.” Myra frowned.<
br />
  “I’m helping you out with this flyer. Isn’t that enough?”

  “I guess,” Myra shrugged. I was sorry to disappoint her, but there was no way I was going to enter that stupid tournament. No freakin’ way.

  “Hey, how about you ask Jimmy?” I suggested. “He’s a decent surfer, and I’ll bet he’s gonna compete in the longboard division.”

  Myra’s eyes lit up. “That’s a concept!”

  “Good excuse for you to contact him.”

  “Like, call him?”

  “Nah. Just go over to the motel and ask him in person.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Come on, Myra. You’re always asking people for things. It’s your forte.”

  “No, no, no,” she shook her moppy head vigorously. “I never ask dudes for things. I’m fine with old biddies and young mothers. But hot guys my own age? Brrrr…”

  “Ha! Methinks I detect some Shy-Person-Type-B symptoms…”

  “It’s my one and only area of shyness. Your aversion to surfing in front of an audience is called performance anxiety, by the way.”

  “I know what it’s called,” I said. “Can we change the subject now, please?”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “You’re right, I’m not.” Myra resumed clicking away on her keyboard, and I returned to my drawing. We sat in stony silence for what seemed an eternity. We didn’t always agree, but this sudden surge of surfing challenges—the YouTube video, the Stella scout, and the stupid Montauk tournament—was causing way too many snarky exchanges between us. And then there was Paris. Who could forget Paris?

  After I couldn’t stand it anymore, I broke the deadlock. “Anyway, if you want, I’ll go with you to ask Jimmy. Like I said, he’s a cool guy.”

  “Okay,” she smiled. “Thanks.”

  We worked for a few more minutes, before I said, “Speaking of guys, there was a surfer at Secretspot this morning and again tonight.”