Wavehouse

by Kaltman, Alice;

  “Yeah. It was kinda weird. Mumble, mumble, Myra this, mumble, mumble, Myra that…”

  Myra smiled at him. “Jimmy got his grandmother to give him my number so he could call me.” Myra Berkowitz; the only sixteen-year-old in every Kendall’s Watch senior citizen’s address book. “I told him we were in a cold war, but I asked him to give me a lift here today anyway. I had to see you do this.”

  I gave Myra a knowing look. “Funny how things work out, eh?”

  “Very funny.” Myra cast a quick glance at Jimmy then nodded back at me. “Anyhow, I knew you probably still hated my guts so I tried to stay out of sight.”

  “But then I messed up when I yelled your name, so Myra ran over to shut me up.” Jimmy gave Myra a flirtatious nudge. She smiled at him, and he grinned back. There was definite chemistry.

  “No worries, Jimmy,” I said.

  “When I saw you out there in the water just standing there I couldn’t help myself,” Myra said. “I guess I outed you when I screamed Surfing Siren.”

  “Myra, you can’t go to Paris,” I started crying again. “You just can’t.”

  “Well, who knows,” Myra sighed. “Judith is being all cagey about whether they even want me there or not. As usual, my needs take a back seat—like the way-back-rear-of-the-bus back seat.”

  “Do you want to go?” I asked. “I mean, I know I’m saying you can’t go, but if it’s what you really want to do, you know I’ll understand. Sort of.”

  Myra tilted her head and placed her index finger thoughtfully to her cheek. “Pros? Paris and all things Parisian. Cons? Losing out on the last two years of high school with my best friend in a town I love, where I can do all sorts of vitally important things for the community, and—” she did a cagey chin nod towards unsuspecting Jimmy, “—maybe where I have some kind of ‘future.’”

  “Well, just so you know, whatever happens, I totally support you,” I said.

  “Besides, I have my own underwater Parisian Wavehouse to live in,” she said. “At least, on paper. Which I snarkily never thanked you for.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “But if I stick around, you have to promise me that you’ll go into the city with me at least a few times next year and expand your horizons. Enough with this myopic beach town routine.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I promise. We can go to MoMa.”

  “Moe who?” Jimmy asked.

  “MoMa,” I said. “It’s a place, not a person. It’s short for the Museum of Modern Art.”

  “That’s my girl,” Myra sighed and we hugged like full-

  frontal Siamese twins until Craig’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “Attention, everyone. Results are in.”

  I squeezed Myra’s hand and forced myself to look over to the judges table. Chris was staring straight at me. He looked sorry and ashamed. But about what? About what he had done to me? Or because I hadn’t even placed?

  “Third place goes to Leah Gruenbaum, second to Deanna Adams, and the winner of the Girls Ages 15 to 18, who gets a nice prize of five hundred dollars and then qualifies at the end of today to win an additional $4,500 for Best Surfer Overall is the beautiful—”

  ‘Beautiful,’ that didn’t bode well for me.

  “—incredible Ada Louise Huxtable, better known as the Surfing Siren, but best now known as Anna Marie Dugan from Kendall’s Watch!”

  The crowd went crazy; little kids clawed at my legs like frantic puppies. I was stunned, relieved, and stupefied. Kiara hadn’t even placed. I was happy—that is until Chris rose from the judges table and started to work his way toward me.

  “Myra, I have to leave now,” I said. “I don’t want to see him.”

  She glanced at Chris, now off the podium and making his way across the sand. “Oh yeah. Him. Yikes.”

  “But you can’t leave,” Jimmy said. “What about the big prize?”

  Chris was stopped in his tracks, I noticed, barnacled by the leftover groms who hadn’t already attached themselves to me.

  “Anna,” Myra said calmly. “You can do this. You need to do this.”

  I knew she was right. If I wanted to stay butterfly-esque, I had to practice flying around with confidence. No fluttering straight back into my claustrophobic cocoon, I vowed not to let Chris or anyone else send me back there. It was a tall order, but at least I could try.

  “Okay, but I may need you to do that thing they talk about in sports,” I said.

  “What do either of us know about sports, other than this one?”

  “You know, run, run—”

  Jimmy chimed in. “Run interference; is that what you mean?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Like, if Chris gets too close to me, you have to stop him.”

  “It’s a long story,” Myra told the perplexed Jimmy. “I’ll tell you later. That is, if it’s okay with Anna.”

  I shrugged. “Later is later. Right now, all I want is my money and my glory. But I don’t want to talk to him. I may be able to tolerate other people—yay, yay, finally, hooray—but him? No way.”

  Chris had managed to extract himself from the groms and had a path toward us that was free and clear.

  “Myra, now. Please,” I said. Even though I had sea water cooling my skin, I could feel the prickle of nervous sweat begin to form on the back of my neck and under my arms.

  Myra grabbed Jimmy’s elbow. “Come on, Jimmy. Let’s go do gushy.” She dragged Jimmy over to Chris and started babbling. “OMG, I can’t believe it! You’re Ceekay! I am, like, a total fan! You were so awesome in that contest at, um, ah—” I saw her elbow Jimmy in the ribs to join in. Poor but lucky Jimmy, I thought. He has a whole lot of Myra Berkowitz-style fun ahead of him.

  “The Billabong Invitational in J-bay,” Jimmy added. “Outstanding, man.”

  “Yeah, yeah, that one,” Myra chirped. She was doing such a great airhead imitation, I almost believed it myself. “You really kicked butt. You can say that in surfing, right? Kick butt? That’s okay?”

  Chris couldn’t get a word in edgewise. He tried to get a peek at me but Myra was running perfect interference, expertly putting her cabbage hat in his line of view.

  Craig came back on the loudspeaker. “Okay, so let’s have those shredding girls up on stage right now to get their awards! Leah, Deanna, Ada. Or Anna—or should I say the Surfing Siren?”

  Deanna appeared at my side and took my hand. “Come on, whoever you are. Let’s go get our moola.”

  We walked to the podium and with every step forward I felt lighter. When we turned to face the crowd, I waited for sheer panic to overwhelm me, but other than some expected heart flutters, I was surprisingly fine. Deanna grabbed Leah’s hand with her free one and together we lifted our arms up in a triumvirate of victory. The crowd cheered. I looked back to Myra, Chris, and Jimmy. Chris was leaving. I could see him making his way up the beach toward the parking lot.

  Myra shook her head, her brow creasing in concern. She got it. While I might’ve been deliriously happy about my newfound comfort with performing, being betrayed by my first true love was something I might never recover from.

  A half hour later, Craig made an announcement that “Ceekay was unfortunately called away for the rest of the afternoon, so the judges will have to proceed without him.”

  Called away by Inga Ward, no doubt, I thought. I hadn’t a clue where my feelings about him would ultimately land. But I knew for sure that I was whole without him—more me than I’d ever been before, and it felt amazing.

  I swallowed the cry that bubbled up. Surfers, families, friends, sand, ocean, and an incredible sky. I opened my arms wide and tipped my head back with my eyes closed. I took it all in and was better than fine.

  “What are you doing?” asked Myra.

  “I’m connecting,” I said.

  “Don’t get all hippy-dippy on me now, you hear?” she warne
d, gently slapping one of my outstretched arms. “Surfer cool, I can take, but hippy-dippy, that I don’t do.”

  “Oh Myra. You really have to take more chances,” I joked. “You’re like a scared little hermit crab, staying in its too-small shell.”

  “Ha, ha. Very funny.” She grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back, giggling.

  “Ouch,” I cried in mock pain. “You don’t know your own strength! Lifting all those library books has really paid off, eh?”

  Myra and I stuck around for the rest of the afternoon and watched the other heats. Jimmy rocked the Boys Ages 15 to 18 longboard division, scoring second place by walking his toes to the nose of his board at least five times.

  All afternoon, I shook people’s hands, made small talk, and smiled until my cheeks hurt. It was a chore, and I was not very smooth. I made a gazillion faux pas. Social grace would have its own learning curve, but I was finally up to the task.

  At the end of the day when I scored the “Best Overall Surfer” and got that extra $4,500 bucks, I should’ve been jumping for joy. Sure, I was happy. I loved it when Jimmy and a few of the other guys lifted me up on their shoulders and paraded me down the beach to the shoreline, then tossed me back in the water. But I couldn’t help remembering Chris’s joke about me winning “Best in Show,” and all the other moments we’d shared.

  I had another ache in my heart as well. And this one was even bigger. I wished more than anything that Sara could’ve been there to see me compete. How stoked my kick-ass mother would’ve been seeing me charge those waves. Moms and dads all over the beach were celebrating their surfer kids. Now that the break was clear of competitors, some of the parents were out in the water, catching end-of-day glass-off waves themselves. Sure, I’d won the tournament. I had the trophy and the checks. But, as the saying went, “The best surfer out there is the one having the most fun.” I would’ve had a lot more fun if Sara had been there then, strutting her stuff, artfully tossing her gorgeous hair, and rightfully taking credit—or at least some credit—for my success. I missed her more than ever and couldn’t wait to get home and tell her all about it.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Myra and I squeezed into the cab of Jimmy’s truck for the drive back to Kendall’s Watch. I had my trophy and two checks totaling $5,000 in my backpack. I stared out the windshield at the passing dunes while Jimmy and Myra chatted. At one point, I noticed with a smile that Jimmy had slipped his hand off the steering wheel to rest on Myra’s knee.

  I was exhausted, jazzed, and jittery. I felt as if I had lived a thousand lives in twenty-four hours. Forehead resting on the window, I worried about Grandpa. Five thousand dollars was a hefty chunk of change, but I wasn’t sure how much Grandpa’s surgery would cost. I also worried about Rusty’s photos of Chris and me kissing at Secretspot being made public. I imagined headlines on every tabloid sold at the checkout of every grocery store across America: “Ceekay’s New Hook-up Revealed: Kendall’s Watch The Surfing Siren Anna Dugan,” and “Ceekay and Anna Dugan Getting Hot and Heavy at Secret Kendall’s Watch Break” or “What Will Inga Think?” And underneath that really embarrassing shot: “Hey, Where’s Ceekay’s Other Hand?”

  I refused to let anyone—not Rusty, not Chris, not People-

  friggin’ Magazine—make a fool of me. I had to turn this around.

  Jimmy pulled into a parking space in front of The Shell Shop.

  “Where do you want us to drop your board?” asked Myra. “My house? Your house? Up at Toilsome?”

  “Take it to your house. I want to surprise my grandparents and my mom—in a big-ass way.”

  “Got it, boss,” Myra giggled.

  As I walked to the shop, Myra leaned out the window and called, “But Miss Uber Surfer, Social Butterfly? That hair of yours? We have, like, major remedial work ahead of us. Be prepared.”

  Meghan was busy unpacking the new shipment of Kendall’s Watch tees. The shirts looked great, the logo perfectly placed.

  “Hey, Meghan,” I said.

  She saw my hair and gasped.

  “Don’t ask,” I commanded with a stop sign hand. “Thanks, though, for getting started on those tees.”

  “No problem,” she replied. “I was thinking that instead of displaying them here, we could trade spots with the towels. That way people would see them right away and we wouldn’t get that, you know, crowding thing happening so close to the Shellys?”

  The girl had it down. “Meghan. Don’t ask. Just do.”

  She got to work shifting and sorting while I thumbed through the local phonebook, looking for the listing for Robert Tellings, Esquire. Bob was the only lawyer in town, or at least the only one I knew. I figured he might be able to help me with this photo debacle—it seemed like the kind of situation that required a lawyer. I didn’t exactly know what it meant to sue someone, but somehow I thought that was what I should do. Sue Rusty and maybe Chris too.

  I got Bob’s answering machine. “Hey Bob,” I said. “It’s Anna. Anna Dugan. I think I need your advice. For something, um, about law. You know, legal advice. Not surf advice. Even though I’m sure you give good surf advice, too. So, like, if you could call me back at the shop, that would be awesome. Thanks.”

  I hung the phone up and sighed. Suddenly I was wicked tired. Showing up for oneself really took a toll on the old stamina.

  “Meghan, I’m gonna go in back and do an inventory check. Call me if you need me.” I was planning on taking a little nap on the pile of beach towels stacked in the corner. But worker bee Meghan was in high gear and I would have felt like a slacker telling her the truth.

  I was starving. I fished out the last soggy peanut butter sandwich from the bottom of my backpack, scarfed it down and then dosed fitfully on my makeshift bed for the next half hour or so. At around four, I was woken by the Shell Bell jingle-jangle. I could hear the murmur of Meghan’s enthusiastic sales pitch, but not her words. Then the storeroom door opened.

  “Anna?” Meghan said tentatively.

  “Yeah?”

  “He was just here and said not to wake you, but he left something for you.” Meghan held out a copy of the Kendall’s Kalendar.

  “Who?”

  “Ceekay,” she sighed. Seemed everybody but me was a major fan.

  “What the hey?” I took the Kalendar. It had been folded intentionally to the TV listings. One item was circled in red marker. I read within the scarlet loop a few times before it registered. I needed to be absolutely certain, so I asked Meghan—who, like Myra, knew more about these things than I did—“Meghan? What does this R mean?”

  She looked at the paper. “Repeat. Means the show was a repeat.”

  Live with Larry. But not live. Repeated. Repeated with Larry. That’s when I noticed something else written boldly in the margin of the page:

  917.555.9531. Don’t lose it this time, please.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Ididn’t need to call; I just needed to look out the window. Chris was waiting in front of the shop in his funky VW surf van. He got out as I approached and ran around to the passenger side to open the door. Man, was he pouring on the charm. I hesitated—still not exactly sure, still with many questions.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

  “Whatever,” I said and got in. Chris raced around to his side and then there we were in the car, together again.

  “So,” he said, nervous hands getting lost in snaggy curls.

  “So,” I said.

  Our gazes darted around the car like ping pong balls colliding every few seconds, before I broke the awkward silence. “So, no Inga?”

  “Nope. No clue where that ego on stilts is now, and I couldn’t care less. That Live with Larry show you watched originally aired over six months ago. A lightbulb went off in my dense brain after you banished me from your store and from your life.”<
br />
  “Lightbulb?”

  “You said, ‘Fly off to Fiji. Go have fun in the sun. The waves are really sweet this time of year.’ I remembered I had said something like that on Live with Larry.”

  “Wish you’d remembered sooner.”

  “I did, but you wouldn’t let me anywhere near you.”

  “True,” I sighed.

  He shook his head. “What a disaster that dumb talk show was. When Inga said ‘I can’t let this one out of my sight,’ it was the final straw. She was a controlling, nasty piece of work. After filming was done, I broke up with her there in the hallway at 30 Rock.”

  “So really, really no Inga?” I asked.

  “Really, really no Inga,” Chris nodded. “It suddenly dawned on me that you saw that stupid show. They replay it all the time. God knows why. I think it’s ’cause Clooney comes on after us, and there’s always an audience for Clooney.”

  I nodded. Even I knew who George Clooney was. So even I had to agree.

  “So I’ve spent the last hour racing around this town trying to find a newspaper with TV listings. Finally nabbed one off a guy sitting in that sandwich shop at the corner. He thought I was insane when I offered him twenty bucks for it.”

  “You are sort of crazy,” I joked.

  Chris smiled. “Yes I am. In more ways than one, thanks to you.”

  He leaned in to kiss me. But I edged away.

  “Wait a second. You still stood me up. I came to Secretspot the morning after we, we almost, well, you know. And you weren’t there.”

  “I fell asleep in the van, parked around the far side of the house under a carport. I knew Rusty was up at the house and I didn’t want him anywhere near you. I should’ve told you sooner about Rusty being my manager, but I chickened out. Things were so great for us; I didn’t want to spoil it. I planned on telling you, but I never got up the nerve. I was a selfish idiot.”

  “Not your finest moment,” I agreed. “That was low.”

  “I know. That night I finally had the balls to call Rusty on all the stupid stuff he’d been doing ‘on my behalf’—the other shady crap he was up to besides stalking you and cheating on your mother. I couldn’t let it go on.”