by C. J. Valles
I nod wearily.
“Well, then I am older than you. I’m a senior.”
“In high school?” I retort.
He smiles and nods noncommittally as I follow him inside. For all I know, he could be some weirdo who enjoys taking advantage of naïve girls. If he is, though, he sure picked the wrong girl, seeing as I’m bitter, hardened, and more than a little suspicious. Maybe someday I’ll be able to let my guard down, but today isn’t that day—and definitely not with some stranger, no matter how perfect looking he is. When we get to the counter, I take a yogurt from the case. Setting it in front of the register, I turn and laugh at the absurdity of the situation.
“You’re buying me a yogurt, and I don’t even know your name.”
He orders a coffee from the woman at the register, who smiles, blushes, and seems generally mesmerized by him. I guess I should be drooling over him, too, but I can’t marshal the necessary enthusiasm. As soon as I sit down at the closest table, he extends his hand.
“I’m Alex.”
Embarrassed by his formality, I reach out tentatively and take his hand. A jolt of electricity courses through me.
“Wren,” I say, pulling back and rubbing my hand.
The sensation wasn’t unpleasant. More like unsettling. My heart is still beating a little too fast, and I look away, refusing to read anything into the buzzing in my veins. I’m not about to believe that a little static electricity is destiny of some kind. Picking up my spoon, I take a few bites of my yogurt. When I look back at him, I’m very careful not to draw anything from behind his eyes.
“You have a beautiful name,” he says.
“Thanks. … No offense, Alex. But why are you being so nice to me?”
“Must there be a motive for everything?” he asks curiously.
I study him, noticing for the first time how formal his articulation is.
“Yes.”
“All right, then. I saw you in the airport and thought you were very beautiful. I decided it was fate and that I should follow you, as we could be soulmates.”
I’m too stunned to laugh or breathe for several seconds. It really scares me that he just said essentially what I was thinking—about destiny or fate—from a few seconds earlier. Then it occurs to me he’s either crazy or cruel … or a little of both. Not a good combination. Slowly, I put the plastic spoon into the yogurt container.
“Wow. Is this what you do with your good looks? Hunt around for vulnerable-looking girls to toy with? Watch their faces as you profess undying love?”
“You find me attractive?” he asks with the same intense curiosity.
Who wouldn’t? I think to myself. Then my face goes red, and I feel even angrier.
“Actually, I think you have major issues.”
“Perhaps I was too forward. You have misjudged me, I assure you.”
Without digging through his thoughts, I can’t say for sure, but I’m not willing to try. I look down.
“I doubt it. Thanks for the yogurt.”
Getting up, I turn and walk out, disturbed that someone would go out of his way to mess with a complete stranger for kicks. Who’s that cruel? Or he’s just crazy. The third possibility, that I misjudged him, doesn’t seem as likely.
It doesn’t matter, though. I can’t afford to risk more pain when the person closest to me in the world wished I would just disappear from her life.
14: In Your Eyes
I wasn’t looking for an improvement when I decided to move back to Southern California. My choice was purely for survival. During the walk back to my dad’s house, I accept that all I have to do now is survive. Not be happy. Just survive and try to act normal. Things might look better someday. I might trust my heart to someone. But for now, it’s better that I don’t let anyone in, and that includes strangers with questionable motives.
For better or worse, I am starting over—again—and I’m doing it alone.
This makes me think of my little brother. Despite what I think of Jessica, I truly hope that Benjamin never has to question his parents’ love. Because from experience, I know it forces you to question whether anyone else can love you. By the time I get back to my dad’s house, there’s an enormous black sedan parked at the curb. My dad must have bought it after the divorce—and his promotion, which, funny, happened around the same time. Like the stranger that I am, I walk to the door and knock since I don’t have a key. Several seconds pass before the door swings open.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hello, dear.”
I smile crookedly. I guess dear is better than Wrennie. My father has always had a penchant for out-dated nicknames. He reaches out and hugs me awkwardly. This is not new. Thomas Sullivan has never been a hugger. And now that I’m standing in front of him, I actually can’t see how he and my mom were ever married. It just doesn’t make sense. With dark hair, sharp features, and olive green eyes that match mine, my dad is handsome. He’s also slick and charming, while mom had—until a week ago—always been so warm and loving. … My stomach clenches, and I stop, pushing aside any thoughts of her.
“Thanks for getting my car back,” I smile.
He nods.
“Jessica says she ran into traffic picking you up from the airport?”
Yeah, that or she was getting her nails done, I don’t say.
“It wasn’t too long,” I lie.
“Wrennie!” Jessica chirps in a scolding tone. “Where have you been? When your father got home, I had no idea where you had run off to! You have to tell me the next time you’re going to leave like that.”
“I do?” I ask with more surprise than sarcasm.
My father loosens his tie—and that’s when I realize that he was at the office on a Saturday. Again, no surprise there. When he walks over and picks up Benjamin, the look of pure adoration on my dad’s face makes me squirm. Clearly both he and my mom wanted some type of do-over after me. Jessica’s cell phone rings again, and I take the opportunity to walk over and pat Benjamin on the head before going to “my” room.
When I get there, I try to figure out how I’m going to make some space in the middle of Jessica’s obvious shopping addiction. Suddenly, I remember standing in my new room in Portland after my first day of school. I cried that day, more from general angst than anything else, and right now crying seems logical, but I’m too numb. Plus, I figure it’s better to stay busy instead of wallowing in self-righteous pity, so I start unpacking and try to avoid thinking about the fact that I’m starting a new school on Monday morning.
After finding a package of unopened sheets in the closet, I make the bed. Later, after an awkward “family” dinner with my dad and Jessica, I return to the guest bedroom and lie in bed. I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I open my eyes, it’s light out, and I’m disoriented enough to wonder if I’m back in Portland. I look around at the white and bubblegum-pink striped walls with a sinking feeling. For several seconds, I listen for signs of life around me, but the house is silent. I’m relieved that I don’t have to face anyone first thing in the morning. Getting out of bed, I grab a pair of jeans and a shirt before walking into the guest bathroom. I haven’t had my own bathroom since Topanga, but somehow it doesn’t make me feel any better to have one now.
Looking in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. My skin looks gray under the harsh light, and my eyes are dull. I force a smile to my lips, but it looks wrong, so I stop. I brush my teeth and take a quick shower. After I get dressed, I go back into the bedroom and pick up the “spare” laptop my dad gave me last night. Flipping it open, I press the power button. When the computer boots up, I open the Web browser to bring up directions to the coast. It’s pretty much a straight shot on Crown Valley Parkway to Coast Highway, which cuts down on the chances of me getting lost. I grab the set of car keys my dad gave me for the Mustang and make sure to take my wallet. In the kitchen, I find a note on the counter.
Wrennie,
Let’s do lunch.
Dad
I fold the p
iece of paper and put it in my pocket before searching around the cupboards for some breakfast. After I’ve gulped down a bowl of cereal and the only milk available—nonfat—I wash my dishes and return to the spare bedroom for a sweatshirt in case it’s cool on the beach. When I open the front door, I feel a shock of adrenaline at the sight of my Mustang. I smile. It really was a nice gesture. And I guess the guy my dad sold it to got sick of the sticky clutch.
Unlocking and opening the car door, I’m hit by a waft of sour orange juice, an enduring odor that’s never quite come out. The familiarity of sitting down in the driver’s seat causes a simultaneous jolt of elation and nerves. Depressing the clutch, I place my foot on the brake and turn the key in the ignition. The resulting sound of the car revving to life is so loud that I jump and my foot pops up from the clutch, which immediately stalls the engine. With a sigh, I push the clutch all the way to the floor again and rest my foot on the brake. I turn the key in the ignition again.
Keeping all the force of my left foot on the clutch, I reach over and shift left and up into first. The clutch is like glue, but first gear doesn’t grind, which is a good sign. On the other hand, I’ll reserve judgment until I see what happens when I have to go in reverse. Concentrating like I’m about to disarm a bomb, I slowly begin lifting my foot off the clutch as I press the gas with my right foot. The car lurches forward.
Not long ago, I was really good at this, I remind myself. Hitting the clutch again to keep the car from stalling, I step on the brake and start over. Slowly my left foot becomes reacquainted with the clutch, and when I’m confident that I’m not going to stall again, I drive to the end of the cul-de-sac and take a right toward Crown Valley Parkway. I turn again, and it only takes a few minutes before I reach the highway.
Traffic is light. I pass a gated community and then the hospital where my parents took me after my near drowning, mostly for scrapes and bruises. Within a few more minutes, I’ve passed my destination—on purpose as I continue to the sign for Aliso Beach and turn right into the parking lot. I’m actually amazed by how well I remember it from my trips as a kid. Pulling into a parking space, I scowl when I forget to depress the clutch, and the engine stalls again. I pull up on the E-brake and get out.
It’s not quite beach season yet, and the parking lot is empty. Everything looks darker than it should thanks to the clouds overhead, and it’s cooler than yesterday. I’m glad I brought my sweater. In a few hours, though, I probably won’t need it. I walk through the parking lot and cross a wide expanse of grass before reaching the concrete path along Aliso Creek, which is chocolate-colored and slow-moving right now. I follow the path, stopping just before the tunnel beneath Coast Highway. Dark and dank, the passageway sends a rush of fear through me. I inhale and hold my breath against the smell of slime and beach ripeness as I step into the darkness. My heart beating rapidly, I walk quickly until I’ve reached the other side.
I pass the playground where I played as a kid and glance toward the main parking lot for signs of life. A couple of cars, that’s it. I continue along the sidewalk and see a few people out on the old fishing pier. I keep going until I reach the end of the lot where I slip off my shoes before stepping into the sand.
I walk to the very end of the beach, which is bordered by a rocky outcropping and high bluffs. Looking up toward the highest point of the hillside, I see several enormous mansions, all with an unparalleled view of the coastline. I remember one of them in particular. It’s Mediterranean-style like my dad’s house, only ten times bigger. When I was a kid, I asked my dad if it was a hotel, and he laughed and said it was where very rich people lived. I find it ironic that he now lives as close to Laguna Beach as he could possibly afford.
Climbing over the rocks to a more secluded stretch of beach, I debate. I want to get to West Street Beach, which is across another set of rocks, but the tide is coming in, and judging from the patterns in the sand, the spot where I’m standing is going to be covered in water at high tide, meaning I’d have to swim back. Considering this is only about a mile from where I nearly drowned as a kid, I’m not about to try it. With a sigh, I drop my shoes in the sand and plunk down. Toward the horizon, the water is smooth and silver, like molten steel. Closer in, the waves are choppy, but nowhere near as chaotic as Oregon’s coastline. It actually seems like a different planet than Oregon.
Thinking of the day I spent at Cannon Beach with my friends, I look down. The memory feels ancient and withered to me now. Actually, almost everything that happened to me in Portland feels disjointed and mottled, while specific memories—like the fight with my mom—are crystal clear. I figure that’s what sadness does. It discolors your memories until eventually you don’t miss the things you’ve lost.
I wanted to call Ashley yesterday when I landed in Orange County, but something stopped me. Maybe it was the fact that I left, like a coward, without telling anyone. My decision was so sudden. But what could I have told my friends? That I read my mom’s thoughts, and they weren’t good? Or that I had a fight with her and just decided to leave? The first option sounds plain crazy, and the second doesn’t sound rational, either. I mean, everyone gets into fights with their parents right? How would I have explained how bad it was, or how some things can’t be undone?
I’ve set myself adrift with very little to come back to even if I tried. It feels like part of me has faded away, and I’m left with the shell of my life. What really bothers me, though, is that I feel like there’s something I’m forgetting—and that if I just remember it, somehow everything will be okay again.
I hate this feeling. I resent it for giving me hope based on absolutely nothing. It’s like the dreams I used to have. The ones after my car accident, or even worse, the ones after my parents had started fighting all the time. In the dreams, everything would seem all right. Then, when I woke up, the happiness would feel so real for a few seconds before it all came crashing down, leaving me feeling worse than before.
Looking back at how I felt just before we got to Portland—how dark everything had seemed—I really had no reason to expect that my perspective on life would get better, but it did. For the first time in a long time, I had a group of friends and I was happy. Now, like the months before we moved to Portland, I can’t see a path through the darkness. There must be one, but I’m blind to it. I lie back in the sand and listen to the water. The sound of the waves crashing and rolling back out to sea is soothing, and eventually I close my eyes. A slight breeze ripples over me, and then the lightest touch of fingers brushing my cheek causes my eyes snap open. I sit up, my heart hammering in my chest.
I look around at the empty beach and shiver. It was my imagination.
Standing up, I dust off my jeans and start back toward the parking lot, disappointed that I couldn’t make it to West Street. Just before I reach the parking lot, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see a text from my dad. I frown. It feels weird—him having anything to do with my daily life. I text him back that I’ll be home soon.
Home. The word just doesn’t sound right anymore.
I’m almost to the playground when my nose crinkles at the smell of cigarette smoke. Stepping onto the path back to the tunnel, I glance over and see two guys perched on the swings. They’re both wearing ball caps pulled low over their faces. The skinnier one leans over to grab something, and I see a bunch of empty beer cans strewn between them. Pulling up the hood of my sweatshirt, I start walking faster, aware of an eerily familiar sense of panic. I’ve almost reached the darkness when I hear someone call out.
“Hey! Wait up!”
I look back and see the bigger of the two guys lurching to his feet and waving at me. My pulse spikes. I don’t care if it’s broad daylight. I’m not going to get caught alone with them. I launch into a dead sprint, feeling like there’s a pack of wolves at my heels. Reaching the other side of the tunnel, I cut across the grass and shove my hand into my pocket for the car keys. Gripping them, I run faster. Only when I reach the concrete do I turn to see
whether I’m being followed.
My heart leaps when I see someone moving fast toward me. Not slowing, I sprint the rest of the way to my car. It takes me two tries, but I finally get my hand steady enough to jam the key into the lock and get the car door open. As soon as I’m in, I slam the door and lock it before turning the key in the ignition. I growl in frustration when I forget about the clutch.
Slamming my foot down on the pedal, I turn the key again. This time the engine revs, and I release the E-brake before grinding the gear toward reverse and pressing the gas all the way to the floor. The engine roars like a wounded lion before sputtering and going dead. I look down at the gearshift and realize that the car didn’t go all the way into reverse.
The sound of metal clinking on my window causes my eyes to flicker to the side. I turn and see an unshaven man in his late-twenties leaning down next to my window, still tapping a set of keys on the glass. He’s breathing heavily and leering like he just won some contest.
“Engine trouble?” he asks slyly.
I look over and watch as his friend arrives at my passenger-side window. The skinnier of the two grins and tips his ball cap before setting the case of beer on the roof of my car.
“Look, I’m going to call the cops if you guys don’t take off right now,” I yell through the glass as loudly as I can, holding up my phone.
The guy standing at my window smiles an ugly smile.
“Go ahead.”
The way he just said that makes a shiver run up my spine. I look down at my phone, and my stomach drops. No Service. Not even Emergency Service. Is that even possible? It’s not like I’m on a freaking polar ice cap! My stomach tightens when the guy at my window calls over to his friend.
“Hey, Eric? We’ve got nowhere to be, right?”
His friend laughs and moves around to the hood of my car. He opens another beer and offers me a mock toast before sitting down like he’s going to spend the day there. Desperately, I look around, hoping a car will pull into the lot and force these two miscreants to take off. I try the key in the ignition, and the man outside my window laughs when the engine sputters.