Making Waves

by Nicole Leigh Shepherd

  “What was that?” Zoe appears next to me.

  “I’m not exactly sure,” I say, feeling like my feet are stuck in cement.

  “Did he say anything about Michigan?”

  “Not a thing,” I stare at the empty doorway.

  “That’s weird. So what are you going to do?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Zoe sniggers.

  “What?” I ask, wondering what about this could possibly be funny.

  “I was just thinking …”

  “Yeah?”

  “Wait until he meets your brothers.”

  Chapter Six

  Four one two. Roger, the scanner screams the next morning.

  I’m flying down the Pacific Coast Highway in my dad’s stuffy patrol car en route to the country club. Since I agreed to meet Lilly at the Sunset Snack Bar an hour earlier than Zoe’s reporting time, I had to forego Zoe’s mom’s offer to drive me and beg my dad for a lift. I suspect that this won’t be the last time I have to ask him to take me.

  Roger.

  My legs stick to the black leather seat as the air conditioning blows full blast, loosening blonde hairs from my high ponytail. If the Lysol scent trailing from the backseat is an indicator of whatever happened last night, it must have been a rough one.

  “So tell me again why I’m driving you twenty minutes out of the way to this ridiculous beach club when you could have easily worked at the swim club around the corner from our house?” My dad rests one hand across the steering wheel while pressing keys on the mounted dashboard computer with the other.

  “Only if you tell me why you have to drive me everywhere in this ridiculous police car.” I sigh, watching the palm trees fly past the window. “I just love making a grand entrance everywhere I go.”

  Wern. Wern. Wern. Wern.

  “Oh my God, Dad! Shut off the siren!” I scream at my dad, who’s grinning like Kobe Bryant hanging from a rim. Then I slide down in my seat so no one can spot me.

  He flicks the switch. “You used to love that siren.”

  “Maybe when I was five.” I let out a sigh. “But now not so much.”

  “Someone is drinking the Beachwood Country Club Kool-Aid.” The brim of his police hat casts a shadow over his navy eyes.

  “First off, no I’m not. And in case you haven’t noticed where I’ve been heading with my book bag every morning for the past year, I’ve kind of been attending B-Dub with all the same girls from the club. So it’s not exactly new territory.” I stretch out my legs against my new lifeguard bag resting on the floor. I’m still so relieved that my knee doesn’t feel super stiff when I move it.

  The scanner cuts in again and we pause. Blue nineteen-ninety three. Suspect known. Five. Six. Forty one.

  My nervousness gets the best of me and I sit on my left leg. “But seriously, working at BCC is an opportunity of a lifetime. I wouldn’t get the chance to work the beach at my age anywhere else.”

  Then again, I also wouldn’t have had a super strange encounter with Brody anywhere else … but there’s no need for my dad to know about that.

  “Don’t sit on your leg when you’re in a moving vehicle.” He points to me with his right hand, totally ignoring what I just said. “If we were involved in an MVA at this speed …” He points to his dashboard. “You would lose that leg.”

  I roll my eyes. What are the chances of a moving vehicle accident with a cop driving? I unravel my leg and bump my knee on the rifle rack.

  Ouch.

  “It’s not like you minded when Robby was a lifeguard at the same beach,” I add.

  “That’s entirely different. The beach was public at the time. You know as well as I do Robby was hired by the county, not by some elitist private club.”

  Copy. Ten. Four.

  My father lets out a deep breath. “I just can’t stand these private country clubs, especially Beachwood. Coming in and wrecking the beach environment just so these people can be pampered with restaurants and bars and saunas. What ever happened to going to the beach with a surfboard and nothing else? Just being with your friends and hanging ten. That’s what I did in my day.”

  I let out a sigh. Here we go.

  Ten. Alpha. Zeta. Beta.

  “And then they think they own the beach because they pay tens of thousands of dollars?” my dad continues. “Don’t they realize that California beaches are public? My father patrolled these beaches during World War II. They belong to all of us.”

  “Dad, I know you don’t like BCC. But it’s a nice job and my friends are all there.”

  He holds out his hand. “You think? It doesn’t bother you how these stuck-up snobs only want certain kinds of people around them?”

  I stare out the window again, fuming.

  “Did you know you can’t even become a member of the club unless you’re sponsored by another member? It’s not just good enough to have money. Oh no. You have to be one of the chosen few. Who the hell do these people think they are? I’m glad the protestors are pushing the city to do something about all of this crazy privatization. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Uh, Dad, you’re a police officer. You work the protests. You’re not really supposed to have an opinion.”

  My dad grunts. “I just can’t stand it that these people think they can buy anything for the right price. We didn’t bring you up like that.”

  “Yeah Dad, I know. But—”

  “It’s great that you always try to see the best in everyone, Abby, but you’ll learn that people who think they can buy whatever they want are trouble.”

  “Dad, it’s …”

  “Sometimes I wonder if … if your mother and I should have agreed to send you to Beachwood Academy in the first place.”

  I roll my eyes. My mother and father have questioned their decision to send me to B-Dub since the day they signed the paperwork. “These people that you’re talking about are my friends. You’ve met Zoe. Is she like that?”

  “One person doesn’t change anything.” My dad doesn’t move his eyes from the road.

  “Fine. Then think of all the amazing things I’ve gotten to do because I go to Beachwood, like, say, the Desert Invitational softball tournament and the gorgeous ring ceremony they held at the club in honor of our basketball championship.”

  My dad groans. “Yeah, that was great. They took you to the club during the school year. Seems a little incestuous to me.”

  “Dad, come on. How about the Colorado River retreat and being part of mock trial and the Greek Club? Robby, Alex, and Frankie didn’t get to do any of that.”

  “Exactly. And your brothers turned out just fine.” My dad glances at me suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. “Robby is a respected police officer, Alex is attending the academy, and Frankie is thinking about a career in landscape design. All publicly educated.”

  “I don’t know, Dad. Maybe you’re drinking some Kool-Aid of your own.”

  California license plate. Eight. Six. Alpha. Beta. Nine. Four.

  Roger.

  While my dad is distracted, I forge on. “The beach club is just like the academy. Just another amazing opportunity to prepare me for my future. Like, did you know that BCC offers a college scholarship to the winner of their annual intra-squad competition?”

  “And let me guess, you’re planning on competing?”

  “Yup.”

  My dad squeezes the steering wheel. “What’s wrong with community college? Your brothers loved their experiences at Los Angeles County College.”

  “What’s wrong with me doing something different? I’m not my brothers, Dad.” I repeat what I’ve said for years. “You know it’s—”

  Nine. Thirteen. Pacific Coast Highway. Five. Six. One.

  “Been my dream to play a sport at a four-year school since I threw my first softball.”

  “There’s no doubt that you’re developing into a phenomenal athlete, Abby. But don’t get your hopes up about that scholarship.”

  “Whatever.” I drum my fingers on th
e cool glass separating the backseat from the front.

  “All I’m saying is BCC is a tight-knit group. They’ll probably give that scholarship to one of their own.”

  Zoe’s words replay in my mind: You’re the first non–club member to ever man a lifeguard chair here. You should be so proud. An image of the plaque with the winning names pops up in my head.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. My dad’s fingers fly across the keyboard. “I’ve done a lot of work in this county over the years, Abigail. I have a lot of experience dealing with all sorts of people.”

  “I already told you, Dad. My friends aren’t like that.” I ignore Lexi’s angry face flashing before my eyes.

  “I just don’t want to see you end up disappointed. That’s all.”

  The police car seems a bit stuffier than normal today. I roll down the window and breathe in the fresh salty air.

  “The air is on,” he says. “Taxpayer money.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “See what I mean? One year at Beachwood and you’ve already forgotten the value of a dollar.”

  My dad turns off the Pacific Coast Highway and into the entrance to the club. He pulls behind a cherry-red Porsche and a sleek silver Ferrari in the valet line. Protestors armed with Free the Beach and Stop Building on Our Beach signs surround the entrance.

  I point to a protestor with long straggly hair. “Look Dad, it’s Paul from down the street.”

  As my dad turns to face me, his leather belt squeaks. He ignores my comment about Paul. “I know you’re excited about all this.” He motions toward the club’s imposing entranceway. “Just be careful.”

  “I will,” I say before hesitantly climbing out.

  As I walk toward the entrance, feeling like a bit of a scab, protestors yell and shake their signs.

  “Beaches are gifts from God. They can’t be bought!” a woman yells.

  A guy in faded board shorts holds a sign that says, I used to surf here.

  “Me too,” I whisper.

  Then I step in front of the club entranceway. The doorman opens the double wooden doors for me to walk through.

  And I do.

  Chapter Seven

  I tie on my stiff apron and take in the sights and sounds of the club as I walk over to the Sunset Snack Bar (surreptitiously, of course—I can’t risk running into Brody and having him mess up my first official day of snack bar duty). I stare through the small opening in the ivory-and-blue tiled wall behind the counter and can just make out chefs preparing dishes—mostly yogurt and granola from the looks of it—for their early morning clientele.

  Directly in front of me, I see Lilly talking to a woman seated on a stool. The woman stares at a chalkboard menu hung above the kitchen window. She’s dressed in a white flowing skirt, bathing suit top, and strappy leather sandals. Her black hair is cropped into a short, straight bob.

  That seems pretty normal …. I don’t see what my dad was talking about, saying that things here are so different from the way they are at our local swim club. Sure, the food is a teensy bit nicer, but that’s not a big deal.

  When Lilly sees me, she nods ever so slightly without breaking her conversation. She doesn’t speak to me directly until the woman tells her that she needs a second to decide on her order.

  “Good morning, uh …” she says to me, straightening up some printed menus. She looks at me searchingly, as if she knows that she’s supposed to remember my name but she still can’t come up with it.

  “I’m Abby,” I say. “Abby Berkeley …” My voice heightens toward the end of that last part, so that it sounds more like a question than a statement. “Zoe’s friend …” I fiddle with the bottom of my starched apron.

  “Right, of course.” She smiles tightly. “You can put your bag there.” She points to an open spot underneath the counter.

  “Thanks so much for allowing me this opportunity,” I say, shoving my lifeguard bag in the space she indicated. I search for something to say. “I really appreciate your delaying my start date so that I could concentrate on my lifeguard orientation.”

  Lilly takes out a cloth from the front of her apron and wipes down the marble counter. “Of course. Now the easiest way for me to train you is for you to just watch what I do. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to stop me. Sound good?” Lilly doesn’t wait for my response.

  I stiffen, wondering if this is what the entire summer will be like, when I catch sight of a guy manning the bar adjacent to our counter. He’s dressed in a navy collared shirt with “BCC” embroidered on his left breast pocket. His eyes meet mine and I give him a little wave. He smirks and I realize how silly I must look, standing there in my apron with what I’m sure is a confused expression on my face. I quickly look away and force myself to pay attention to Lilly. “How long have you been working here?” I ask her.

  “Since it opened,” she says, ferociously rubbing a towel over what appears to be an oil stain on one of the stool cushions.

  “Wow. That must have been a long time, probably right when I stopped coming to the beach as a kid.” I expect her to ask why I stopped coming, but the question doesn’t seem to cross her mind.

  Confused, I locate a towel of my own and attempt to help her with the cleaning, but she shakes her head, affirming that my help isn’t necessary.

  “Who worked the snack bar last year?” I ask, desperate to keep the conversation going.

  “Oh.” Lilly stops cleaning, seemingly resigning herself to the reality of the stain. She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Jason did.” She glances at the guy who I’d been eyeing just moments ago. “He’s been with us for a few years now. But there was another girl too. Hmm … her name escapes me.” Lilly taps her chin with her finger. “Was it Ann? Jennifer? I can’t remember.”

  I imagine what my dad would say to that. Probably something like, “See, I told you that people like us don’t matter to them.” But then I push the thought out of my mind just as quickly as it came. Lilly works the snack bar. She is someone like us. Whatever that means.

  “Excuse me. What do you think of the asparagus and goat cheese omelette?” The woman seated at the stool interrupts us, tucking a poker-straight chunk of hair behind her ear.

  “It’s divine, Stacey,” Lilly answers, her monotone voice replaced with a peppy professional pitch.

  “Then, the omelette it is …” Stacey says, dragging out her voice like she’s moaning. She says the word omelette with a French accent.

  I watch Lilly relay the order to two guys with gleaming white chef hats. Clangs, sizzles, and pops immediately follow.

  “Could you add a mimosa to that too?” Stacey asks, waving over the bartender who Lilly’d previously identified as Jason.

  “Sure!” he says, pretending to tip an imaginary hat toward her. “It’ll just be one moment.” I watch him as he assembles the ingredients with the practiced ease of a pro. First, he pours in some champagne. Then some orange juice. The drink fizzes. It looks like he’s about to hand the glass over to Stacey when all of a sudden he thinks better of it. He grabs a bottle of hot sauce from a nearby condiment tray and, glancing definitively in my direction, mimes as if he’s about to pour a few drops in.

  My stomach drops and I wave both arms around like a maniac, mouthing, “Don’t do it!” I flip back to Stacey before I can see whether Jason has listened to me, scared that she saw what he was about to do. Fortunately, she’s pulled out an iPad, seemingly out of thin air, and appears to be reading. Lilly, meanwhile, is conversing with one of the chefs. I turn back to Jason. He’s placed a white napkin in front of Stacey. He sets the drink down, grinning at me as he does so.

  I look at the drink, frantic. Then I search for the bottle of hot sauce with my eyes. I find it back on the condiment tray, unopened.

  Phew.

  Jason winks at me as he returns to his spot at the bar. Mr. Murphy, Zoe’s dad, has appeared at the bar stool in front of him. He nods at me in recognition and takes out his BlackBerry.

  Ding
, he rings the service bell. Ding. Ding. Clearly, he’s impatient.

  “A little help, please,” says a voice. I turn around to find Lilly standing there with a dish balanced on each hand. Her eyes narrow, making her seem more like the evil hag from Snow White than a graduate of The Golden Girls.

  “Sorry about that,” I say in a rush.

  I grab the plates from her, even though she’d previously told me just to observe, and take them to the only table that’s not yet been served. I say a silent prayer of thanks that only a handful of tables are occupied. It’s still a bit early for people to be dining.

  I place the plates down and am surprised to discover two girls who can’t be more than ten staring up at me. Now the orders—one French toast and one chocolate chip pancakes—make more sense. The girls are dressed in Lilly Pulitzer sundresses and are drinking iced tea. If I’d glanced at them quickly, I would have definitely pegged them for thirty-something ladies who lunch.

  “Thank you,” one of them mouths before sticking a giant bite of French toast in her mouth. She struggles to swallow it, getting syrup on her face and in her bright red hair.

  Now she looks more like a nine-year old.

  Her friend’s eyes widen in horror. She strains to regain their collective composure. “Could you put this on our account please?” she asks, flipping her blonde hair.

  “Uh, okay,” I stammer.

  I walk back to find Jason shaking his head.

  “Those girls asked if their order could be placed on their account,” I say to Lilly.

  “Okay,” she replies without inflection. I can’t tell if the look on her face is expectant or ambivalent.

  I rush to fill the silence, worried that I may have already made a mistake. “But they didn’t give me a card or anything.”

  “Yes, that’s fine,” says Lilly, ringing up what appears to be Stacey’s order.

  “So … um, how do the members pay?”

  Lilly looks at me directly. “You really have a lot of questions, don’t you?” Once again Lilly doesn’t wait for my response. “Every member has an account number. You look up their name in the system and charge it to their account. That way we don’t have to bother the members with trivial things like exchanging money or credit cards.”