Wavehouse

by Kaltman, Alice;

  “Rusty Meyers,” I shook my head. “What a complete a-hole.”

  “Anyway, I kinda lost it that night.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I punched him in the jaw,” Chris looked down. “The dude was bleeding. It was bad.”

  “Ah,” I said. So it hadn’t been a shaving nick on Rusty’s pointy hipster chin after all.

  “I haven’t lost it with anyone like that in a long time. I’ve been in control of what you call my ‘anger management issues.’”

  “I guess he sort of deserved it,” I said.

  Chris shook his head. “No. Punching anyone—even a total asshole—is never the answer. But after that, I did what I really needed to do. I fired him.”

  “Good,” I said. “I hope he rots in unemployment hell.”

  “I couldn’t stay in the same house with that douche, but I couldn’t leave knowing you would be coming back in the morning. I managed to stay awake in the van until about 5 a.m. before passing out. Slept right through the emergency alarm I had set on my phone for six, and woke up at half past nine. When I got to the beach, you were already gone.”

  Way gone, I thought. Then I remembered the worst of it all—the pictures. “What about the photographs Rusty took of us?” I cried. Please have an explanation for this too, I thought. So maybe I can stop hating you as much as I love you, and go back to just plain loving you.

  “I had no idea he was taking photos or movies, of you, of us. He was so slick, he hid all that stuff away whenever I was at the house.”

  “Why should I believe you?” I sighed.

  “Belly Flop, for real, I never knew how messed up Meyers

  was. I knew he was scouting someone in Kendall’s, but I didn’t know it was you until our dinner at Brinestellar’s when you told me about what he was pulling with your mother. I didn’t have to be a genius to figure out that she was his pipeline to you. When you showed up at Secretspot that first morning, Rusty didn’t need to go searching anymore. You came right to him.”

  “So where are the photos?”

  “No worries. I took care of that.”

  “How?”

  “That morning, after falling asleep in the van, I found Rusty at his laptop and saw what was on the screen.”

  “Us?” I cringed.

  He nodded. “Very much, um, us.”

  “Oh crap,” I moaned.

  “It’s okay. I caught him before he sent anything off. I grabbed the laptop and threw it on the floor. Totally trashed it. Electronic crap flying all over the place. Then I found his cameras. Stamped on those suckers. Have the sore ankle to prove it,” He held up a bandaged ankle.

  “Ouch,” I sighed.

  “So totally worth it. I swore to that asshole that if any photos of you, or you and me together, ever surfaced, I would sue his ass for millions, and make his name mud.”

  “So I don’t have to—” I started.

  “Don’t have to do what?”

  I was about to say I didn’t have to sue anyone, but decided that could be my little secret. A tame one, in the grand scheme of things, I thought.

  We sat there for a moment, neither of us talking. “You could’ve told me that you were judging the tournament.”

  “Actually, it was last minute. Kevin called me at the crack of dawn to cover for him. I figured, why not? You weren’t talking to me, but I hadn’t given up hope, yet. I wanted to stick around here for a while longer, so I figured I could handle a pit stop at the contest, help a bro out.” He reached over and mussed my hair. “And then, there you were at the tournament trying to hide your killer moves under that freaky do.”

  “You left early,” I said, moving closer to him. “Craig is probably wicked pissed off.”

  He smiled his snaggle-toothed grin. “Nah. I told him my choice for ‘Overall’ before I left. Cast my most important vote. Like I said, ‘Best in Show.’” He leaned toward me and we kissed.

  I tried not to worry that I might still taste like peanut butter. But if I did, I think he liked it.

  Chapter Forty

  Chris and I had a whole lot of making up to do and the long front seat of his van was the perfect place to stay for a spell. Eventually, we headed to Toilsome Lane. I wasn’t sure yet if I would invite him in. Having my family meet Chris might be too intense, too much too soon. It could cause a riptide of feelings that would sweep me into some way-too-emotional sea.

  When we pulled into the driveway, I had decided. “Why don’t you come in?”

  “Okay,” Chris said tentatively.

  “Don’t worry. Contrary to what you may have heard, my grandfather doesn’t really bite, and my mother, though heartbroken and devastated, is in a cast and a sling and is so weak she couldn’t spit at you, even if she wanted to.”

  “Well, that’s reassuring,” he sighed.

  “Just kidding. Come on. Meet my folks,” I said.

  He followed me inside. It was the usual scene—Grandpa watching TV in the living room and Gramma clanking pots and pans in the kitchen. Sara’s inflated air mattress was set up in the corner of the dining room. I took Chris’s hand and led him to Grandpa first.

  “Hey Tom-Tom,” I called to the back of his head.

  “What the fuck do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy?” Grandpa snarled.

  “Turn around, you rude old bastard,” I said.

  Grandpa pulled the lever on the side of his La-Z-boy, sat upright and swiveled around. “Jesus Christ, Mother Mary of God. What the hell did you do to your hair?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  Grandpa scowled, looking over at Chris. “Who’s this?” he asked suspiciously.

  I took a big swallow. “Grandpa, I would like you to meet Christopher Kahimbe. Christopher, this is my grandfather, Thomas Dugan.”

  Chris stepped forward and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Dugan.”

  Grandpa looked at me and I mouthed, It’s okay. So Grandpa stood up stiffly and shook Chris’s hand.

  “Nice to meet you too, Christopher,” he said—almost nicely. Then he turned to me, “Hey, Bobby Tellings just called here. Said you left him a message. What’s up with that?”

  Yikes, I thought. Cover-up, come to me quick! “Um, ah, I was just calling to see if he had an extra longboard for me to borrow. I think the waves are gonna get small again this week and I want something I can fool around with.”

  “You’re surfing again?” Grandpa said. “Since when?”

  I looked at Chris and sneaked a wink. “Since a couple of days ago. I’ll tell you all about it when we’re all together. You, me, Gramma, Sara.”

  Grandpa looked at me with his you’re-up-to-something stare, but I did my best deadpan-back-at-you in return.

  “Believe me, Tom-Tom, it’s nothing to get your knickers in a twist over.”

  Eventually he gave up and yelled, “Lorraine, come in here. We have a visitor.”

  Gramma weaved her way from the kitchen. I cringed in preparation for her response to my freak show makeover.

  “Oh Anna Marie,” she sighed. “Your hair! How stylish! You look just like Twiggy!”

  You never get what you expect, Anna Marie Dugan, I said to myself. A very good thing to remember. “Um, thanks, Gramma. I’d like you to meet my friend.”

  Chris smiled at Gramma and shook her hand gently. “My name is Christopher. But you can call me Chris, if you want to.”

  “I think I’ll stick with Christopher. I’ve always admired that name. In fact, my brother’s youngest child from his first marriage married a man and they—”

  “Hey, Chris, you wanna stay for dinner?” Grandpa interrupted. “We’ve got enough food, right Lorraine?”

  “Oh yes, we’ve got plenty.” Gramma nodded.

  “Sure,” Chris smiled. “That would be awesome.”
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  “Don’t get too used to it,” Grandpa warned. “Come have a seat. I’m watching a very interesting show. It’s about the Wright Brothers. You know who the Wright Brothers were, don’t you?”

  “Sure, of course. Orville and Wilbur. I learned all about them when I was a kid,” Chris answered. He walked over to the couch and sat upright on the edge like a good soldier.

  “You’re not much more than a kid now, mister.” Grandpa shot Chris a look and saved a little extra to shoot at me. “Both of you. Just. Kids. And don’t you forget it.”

  “Come, Anna Marie,” Gramma said. “Give me a hand in the kitchen.”

  “Where’s Sara?” I asked.

  “Upstairs,” Gramma sighed. “She just wouldn’t sit still. She’s refusing to sleep down here on the cot. Insisted on climbing those stairs all by herself. I almost fainted just watching her. And with your grandfather yelling at her the whole time? It was very upsetting.”

  Let the games begin. I thought of my soon-to-come announcement. $5,000!

  “I have no idea how she plans on getting back down for dinner,” Gramma added.

  “I’ll go get her,” I said.

  “Thank you, Anna Marie. I don’t know what we would do without you.” Gramma scurried back to her burning beans.

  Sara was sitting on my bed, her casted leg raised with Fluffy supporting her foot. Woof Woof was wedged behind her lower back. “Hey you,” she said without looking up. “This one is really cool, but what’s the deal with the funky roof?” She was examining the loose Wavehouse sketches I’d left behind. I should have been upset—my privacy being invaded and all—but I wasn’t. Sara called my drawing “cool,” and that mattered much more. I looked over her shoulder.

  “The roof is curled like a radical lip, but it’s open so you can still see all around,” I said.

  “Maybe you’ll design me a real house one day,” Sara said, as she paged through my drawings, shuffling and examining them like they were treasure maps.

  “Um, sure. Yeah. If you want me to.” I shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant about the fact that my mother, of all people, was talking about me doing something besides surfing one day. I noticed a pile of used tissues on the floor and something small, silver and shiny—the ring. Residue of Rusty. Sara hadn’t let go of that asshole entirely, at least not yet.

  I also noticed, peeking out from under a copy of Surfer

  Magazine, the photo of Clueless Sperm Donor—the non-magic talisman, the who-knows-why image of a guy she barely knew, but clung to in her loneliest moments. The photo that I too sometimes looked at for clues about love, life, men—the works.

  But for now everything was good, or at least better than it had been. Tonight was only a night for good news. “Come downstairs,” I said.

  For the first time she looked directly at me. Sara had obviously been crying, but her face was less swollen, and her bruises were healing. “Holy shit, Anna. Your hair.” She started to laugh, which made me happy, even if it was at my expense.

  “I know, I know. Come on, let’s go downstairs. I have some really good news.”

  “Well, fuck knows we could all use some good news. But those stairs are a bitch. I may need a little help.”

  I offered her my hand just as her phone went off. Alanis Morissette’s “You Oughta Know,” one of Sara’s favorite break-up selections. She lifted the phone off the pom-pom quilt and smiled when she saw who was calling.

  “Steve Mezzi,” she sighed, as she shifted her hips and turned her back on me getting ready for a breathy, flirty phone call. Maybe to arrange a revenge hook-up with the poor unsuspecting schmo, to make herself feel better about Rusty. Like that was gonna work. Like that ever worked.

  I turned to leave the room.

  “Whoa, Blondie,” she cried. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  I turned back—her phone was off; tossed on the bed, and she was smiling at me with both arms wide open. She’d screened a guy call! For me? Maybe. If so, another first. Or maybe it was because she still needed my help getting downstairs.

  But I like to think it was just for the me-ness of me.

  Chapter Forty-One

  You call him good news?” Sara shot daggers at Chris with her steely glare. As far as she was concerned, he was a heart-breaking demon, the disciple of Rusty Meyers, another bad boy who needed to be obliterated.

  Chris stood and smiled when he saw us, but his polite manners did little to reassure my lioness mom. Sara was ready to pounce. It was a good thing that I still had my arm tight around her waist, having just stumbled Siamese-twin style with her down the stairs. We’d nearly face-planted because Sara refused to take it slow.

  I squeezed her tighter. “Don’t freak, Sara. He’s a good guy.”

  “Fat chance.” She glared at Chris as if she wanted to bite his head off. “Once a cheater, always a cheater.”

  Poor Chris looked terrified. No doubt he’d already been given a thorough interrogation by Grandpa while I’d been upstairs. Now he had the wrath of Sara to contend with.

  “Come on,” I coaxed her. “Sit down. I’ll explain everything.”

  “What. Ever,” Sara wiggled out of my grip. “I’ll get to the damn couch myself.” She grabbed her crutches from beside the bannister and swiftly maneuvered around Grandpa’s massive chair, past the bulky coffee table to the far end of the couch. Like a gymnast, she vaulted up and over so she could sit as far from Chris as possible. She tossed her crutches to the floor, and clunked her cast down on the coffee table to form a barrier between them. “You’re not winning any brownie points standing there, dude,” she grunted at Chris without looking at him. “Sit down already.”

  Chris opened his mouth as if to say something, but chose not to. Instead, he wisely did as Sara directed. The poor guy looked more upright and stiff on the couch than if he’d remained standing.

  “Enough already,” Grandpa barked once Chris was seated. “Anna, tell us what’s going on.”

  “Just a sec. I want everybody here. Gramma,” I hollered. “Can you join us? I need to tell you all something.”

  “In a minute, Anna Marie,” Gramma’s sing-songy voice called back from the kitchen. “I’m just about to sear the top of the peach pie.”

  Knowing Gramma, one minute meant ten minutes and I couldn’t risk subjecting Chris to more of Sara’s dart-ray stares or Grandpa’s intrusive questions. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed Gramma just as she was about to stab the top of the pie. “Gramma. I need you now. The searing can wait.” Once again, I had my arm around a waist, this time escorting Gramma to the living room where a very uncomfortable silence had descended.

  Chris stood again as soon as Gramma appeared.

  “Oh my,” Gramma tittered and smiled. “What a gentleman.”

  Chris would have to move closer to Sara if Gramma was to have a seat, but it looked like Sara wasn’t going to accommodate anyone.

  “Geezus, Sara,” snapped Grandpa. “Move your damn leg. Your poor ma’s been on her feet in the kitchen since 3 p.m.”

  Sara groaned and lifted her cast so Chris could sit between one Dugan woman who thought he was a slime-bucket and another who thought he was Cary Grant.

  I began pacing in front of them all, at a loss for how to start.

  “Come on,” Grandpa growled. “Just spit it out. Whatever it is.”

  “No offense, sir,” Chris said softly. I was stunned to finally hear his voice. Pleasantly stunned. “But give her some time. She’s got some really cool stuff to tell you.” He looked at me and nodded, “Go on, Belly Flop.”

  “Belly Flop?” Sara shrieked. “What kind of a dumb ass thing is that to call my kid?”

  “Sara,” Gramma hissed. “Don’t be rude to our guest!”

  “Could everyone just shut up?” Grandpa yelled. “You’re the ones giving me that heart attack everyone’s so
scared I’m gonna get!”

  I had to do something before all hell broke loose, and it would have to be show rather than tell. I raced to the hallway, got my backpack, and dashed back. Opening my pack, I pulled out the trophy and placed it on the coffee table next to Sara’s foot. Then I took out the two checks and handed one to Grandpa and one to Gramma.

  Sara grabbed the trophy and examined the inscription at the same time Gramma and Grandpa read the endorsements on the checks. For the first time I could remember in my entire life, they all said exactly the same thing at exactly the same time.

  “Holy shit!”

  Yes, even Gramma.

  Then there was silence again, but this time it was loaded with excitement. My family looked at me, their eyes jazzed, but confused. Sara was the first to speak.

  “You won the tournament? This weekend?”

  I nodded.

  “How did I not know this?”

  “I wasn’t sure I could go through with it and if I bailed I wouldn’t have been able to stand disappointing you, yet again.”

  “Oh Anna…” Sara sighed.

  Grandpa cleared his throat. “So let me get this straight. You got out there and surfed in front of all those people?”

  I nodded again.

  “In Montauk?” he asked.

  “Uh-huh,” I shrugged.

  “And you didn’t freak out?” Sara asked.

  “Well, I kinda freaked out. But I worked through it. I had to.”

  Sara looked confused. “Whaddya mean, you had to?”

  “I had to for you. For all of you. You’re my…my…heroes.” Suddenly I started to cry. Like, really cry. Even more gushy than at the beach with Myra. Happy tears, relieved tears, historically pent-up tears; tears making up for lost time; tears that had been too proud to show their vulnerable little wet selves before.

  “Oh baby,” Sara sighed. She put the trophy down and held her arms out to me. “Shove over,” she barked at Chris. “Make room for Belly Flop.”

  I made my way around the coffee table to hug my mother. Now there were four of us squeezed on the couch like sardines. I rested my head on Sara’s shoulder and bawled like a baby as she patted my spiky-haired head. No one said a word, for a change.