by Lisa Freeman
“Hi. I’m Lisa H.,” said the one with the overbite and checkered Karenina bikini.
Up close, she looked amazing. Her nose was a cute little button and her body was perfect. She had put on round, red-tinted sunglasses that edged down her face.
“I’m Lisa Y.,” said the other one.
I tried not to make a face as Lisa Y.’s raspy voice pounded past me. What were the odds of both of them being named Lisa? I couldn’t tell if they were putting me on.
“Do you have a match?” Lisa H. asked. I flicked open my lighter without a second thought, and she cupped her hands around mine to shield the flame. Her skin was soft and smelled like rose water.
After she took a deep inhale and blew the smoke directly in my face, she said, “So who are you?”
My dad named me after his favorite singer, Haunani Kahalewai, but there was no way these two haole beasts would ever be able to pronounce my full name, no matter how carefully I said it. So I told them, “Nani.”
That meant “beautiful” in Hawaiian.
I took a deep breath and waited. There was a long silence. Then Lisa Y. asked, “Where you from?”
Kaimuki was too complicated so I simplified it and told them, “Honolulu.”
“Cool,” they said and walked away.
I waited until the Lisas were back at State before I dipped my hand under my towel and pulled out my M&Ms. My heart was still pounding.
I remembered Annie laughing as she gave me her jacket and told me about all the surfers she had kissed. She had sewn a puka shell on for each guy. But she warned me with a stern voice that, just the same, the most important rule was:
Never marry a surfer.
“They’re no good for that,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
There were lots of reasons: surfers smoked too much pot and were oversexed. They were lazy and generally only worked when they needed plane fare to Bali or Australia or somewhere else in the world that had big waves.
Annie put a small plastic container in my hands. It was the diaphragm she’d used only once because she was on the pill. She said she thought it would probably fit me and suggested I keep it handy. It seemed that surfers like girls who looked sweet and young. I always hated my cute looks, but I guess they were finally going to work for me.
“Whatever you do,” Annie warned, “don’t let them know you’re only fifteen. If you get asked your age, tell them you’re a sophomore.”
That suited me just fine. I didn’t want them to know I skipped a grade anyway. My reputation for being smart shouldn’t follow me to the mainland. Being smart was like the opposite of being popular. Besides, the only reason I skipped first grade was a scam anyway. After naptime one afternoon, I told my kindergarten teacher Miss Meli some stuff I memorized. I used to eavesdrop on the customers at my dad’s bar. I just sort of blurted out: Earth Day was April 22; Spiro Agnew’s middle name was Theodore and before he was vice president he was governor of Maryland; Thomas Jefferson’s face is on the nickel; Diamond Head in Hawaiian means “tuna forehead”; and Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune are the four planets in our solar system with gas in them. Poor Miss Meli had to sit down when I told her that napalm was made out of gasoline, soap, and aluminum and that it was (I spelled it for her) h-y-d-r-o-p-h-o-b-i-c, which meant it didn’t stick to water. A short time after that I found myself in second grade.
Annie’s image drifted away as I put my head down on my towel and sunk into the warm afternoon sand. The sound of small waves reminded me of the Kahala Gardens where I dreamt of getting married. The dream was perfect: I was becoming Mrs. Gerry Lopez at the wedding of the century. I wore a satin lace gown and the setting sun was making the sky an orange color. There was this big spread of sushi like the rich Japanese girls from Punahou had at their weddings and the entertainment came from The Danny Kaleikini Show. After the ceremony I would be known as Mrs. Pipeline, wife of the cutest surfer in the world. We would honeymoon at the Kahala Hilton, make out on the tiny couches in the elevators, drink champagne from etched crystal glasses, and sleep in crisp white sheets with double orchid vanda leis all around us. Gerry would buy me diamonds as big as gumballs and Annie Iopa would tell me, “That guy is okay.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The DMZ
After ten days in LA, I could almost tolerate the murky cold ocean in Santa Monica. Thanks to The Turtles, I was learning how to navigate the rip tides and avoid the troublesome ditches. All I had to do was dodge the kids zipping across the wet sand on plywood skim boards and force myself to swim twice a day. The Turtles were very nice. They kept an eye on me and taught me everything I needed to know about their ocean.
The Jetty, I discovered, was just a boogie board beach with no real surfers and a lot less pressure. Even though the beaches were less than a mile apart, the waves broke smaller there than they did at State. It was easy to drop into the little curls, get some speed, and pull out. I bodysurfed, but once in a while I’d just crouch under the waves. It felt like ice cream pouring over my head. My breath got shallow and when I popped up, I’d gasp for air. I had to remember that making sounds in the water was against Annie’s rules.
I wish I could have brought my records and turntable to the beach. The weekdays would’ve been a lot less lonely if I could have stuck my headphones on and disappeared into the music of Loggins & Messina, Procol Harem, Leon Russell, and The Moody Blues. I loved The Moody Blues. They played at The Shell once and hung out at my dad’s bar. Dad’s bar was famous in Honolulu. Everyone from Elvis, Elizabeth Taylor, Don Knotts, and Connie Stevens went there when they visited the island. They all loved the Java Jones ’cause it wasn’t a tourist joint. It was the real deal. It had authentic tiki poles, a lava rock waterfall, fire dancers, and huge saltwater aquariums with hundreds of fish I personally named. But what it was most known for was its strong drinks and great music. Kui Lee and Tommy Sands got their starts there. So did the new singing duo Cecilio and Kapono. Dad said they were going to be big.
Every night, I sat at the end of the bar with my Legends of Hawaii coloring book listening for new facts to impress Miss Meli. Drunk people talk a lot. From the sailors and marines, I heard about the Viet Cong, air reconnaissance, draft resisters, Canada, Ho Chi Minh, the 17th parallel, and the demilitarized zones, also known as the DMZ.
State had a DMZ of its own. From a distance, I could see the boundary between the surfing side and the homosexual side of the beach. It was the first time the visible line of demarcation separating State Beach into two halves was clear to me. There was a zone about five feet wide that was clearly the DMZ because no one sat there. It looked like there were more than a hundred gay guys on the far side of it lying out on the beach. Surfers were notorious for hating gay men. It didn’t matter what coast, continent, or island I was on, it was always the same. They called them mahus and thought they were the scum of the earth. I liked gay guys. Dad said gays and Funny Kines had a special magic. Funny Kines was the pidgin phrase for gay girls. Mom thought pidgin was for barbarians. Anyway, I think gays are a gift from Pele to balance the planet, but no way would I ever, ever actually say that out loud.
I was so busy looking at two muscle men rubbing oil on each other I didn’t notice her shadow until it fell over me, blocking the sun. The Wild Card Girl was standing above me. She was twirling her long curly hair and her fingertips were pink from taking the shells off pistachio nuts. I only know that because she tossed one at me to get my attention. Her sunburned shoulders were even pinker than her fingertips. She sat on the end of my towel without asking. She was covered in freckles. I’d never seen so many before. She had them on her arms, her back, even on her pierced ears with giant hoops. But I liked her plum-colored bikini.
The Wild Card Girl wore too much jewelry for the beach. She had mood rings on every finger, bracelets crawling up her forearm, and at least four necklaces that were all twisted up from wearing them in the ocean.
“You’re Nani, right?” she asked. I nodded.
/> “I’m Mary Jo Stevens. Leo,” she said.
That explained why she was so bossy and territorial. It also meant she’d do anything to get her ego stroked.
“What sign are you?”
“Virgo.”
“Can I have a sip?” she asked as she reached over and grabbed Dad’s thermos. She twisted it open and chugged. Her face went bright red and she shook her head from side to side. Her brown gnome-like eyes got bigger and bigger. It was first time since my dad had his heart attack that I laughed.
“Vodka?” she asked.
I smiled and nodded again. She probably thought I was a party girl, which was fine with me. It would work in my favor. She didn’t need to know I’d never had a drink in my life.
“Can I have more?” Mary Jo asked.
She took another chug. The more she drank, the happier she got. She leaned across my towel and offered me some pistachios. I don’t like the pink kind, but refusing them, and a Leo, would have been a mistake for sure.
CHAPTER SIX
Baja Banquet
Mary Jo leaned in a little and adjusted her bikini so no tan lines showed. A beach conversation with a girl like this was a lot like surfing. You needed patience and had to get to the right spot at exactly the right moment before you took off.
“I like the puka shells in your hoops,” she said.
“They’re from Pipeline,” I replied matter-of-factly.
“Bonsai?” she confirmed.
I got a twinge of satisfaction knowing Mary Jo was trying to impress me with her simple haole understanding of Pipeline, the greatest surfing spot on Earth. The way she said Bonsai was so touristy I almost started to laugh. Mary Jo leaned closer. I could smell Prell shampoo and Coppertone. I had her all lined up. Slowly, I pulled a Polaroid Annie gave me out of my suede tote bag and put it in Mary Jo’s hands. It was of Gerry Lopez standing with Jeff Hakman, the haole local.
“This was when they were at Punahou, a fancy private school back home,” I said.
Mary Jo stared at the two famous surfers.
“They don’t get along anymore,” I said.
Then I waited, watching Mary Jo. You see, I knew Gerry Lopez and Jeff were both Scorpios. They were way too intense to be friends. That sign is the most dangerous one in the zodiac. It always has its tail curved up, ready to strike.
I could tell Mary Jo was really impressed but trying to act cool. She handed the picture back to me and watched as I casually tossed it into my purse. I offered her one of my Lark 100s and lit it with Annie Iopa’s Zippo lighter, the one made of abalone and silver. Mary Jo was blown away but continued to sit still and be quiet. She scanned down the beach for the lineup and stared at their hazy contours. She dabbed on a little lip gloss and then offered it to me. It was strawberry flavored and had melted from the heat—yuck. But like the pistachios, I had to accept it.
“Can you keep a secret?” Mary Jo whispered, looking around.
Secret was my middle name. Virgos love secrets. Secrets are doorways to power and keeping them is the best way to prove loyalty to a Leo. If I could get Mary Jo to trust me, anything was possible.
I raised my eyebrows, knowing this would encourage her to continue. Mary Jo looked like a lopsided rocket about to launch. She took my little finger into hers and made me swear I would never tell anyone what she was about to say. I swore. It was cute, making a pinkie oath with this chick. We sat face to face, cross-legged, like we were going to have a staring contest. I didn’t question why she wanted to tell me a secret; I just listened to her talk.
“My brother Ray took me on a dawn patrol to Country Line the day before he shipped out to ’Nam,” she said. “I had just gotten my braces off but had to wear a headgear. It was so disgusting. That’s why I never left the back of the van and that’s why I know what I know.”
I waited with anticipation. Leos love to be center stage, and Mary Jo looked like she was enjoying every moment. Like a lioness that had been starved for years and was finally getting a piece of meat. She gave me a wicked glance and continued, “Not long ago, Roxanne West, a.k.a. Rox or Rocks, the one with the gigantic jugs, get it, Rocks? Anyway, her and Claire Carlson, her copilot, you know, the one with the straight, long, blonde hair, the one who wears turquoise all the time? Anyway, they had so-so status at State until The Baja Banquet.”
So, Miss Macadamia was Rox and Lemon Verbena was Claire. The fact that they were once “wannabes” was important insider information. Mary Jo stared harder into my eyes, blinking maybe once or twice. I had to look respectful as she went on. I, too, tried not to blink, knowing that was a sign of weakness.
“It all began when a Category 5 hurricane hit Cabo San Lucas. There were these really high surf warnings and every guy with a board waited for Baja to get totaled. The next morning, County Line was a full-on zoo before the sun even came up. Rox and Claire had a primo parking spot so every hottie in the water could see them.”
I knew the funny thing about being a surf groupie was no one could know you were one. So, I had to ask Mary Jo, “How did they just hang out?”
Mary Jo purposefully rolled her eyes and started shooting off information like her mouth was a machine gun and every word was a bullet.
“Rox and Claire turned themselves into these, like, weather forecasters. They could tell you anything about tide changes, barometer readings, and all kinds of weather stuff. That’s how they got on all the beaches.”
Very clever, I thought as Mary Jo took a breath and rattled on.
“The only other girls on the beach were from Topanga. They stink of patchouli and dress like gypsies. They’ve got hippie parents who let them grow and sell pot. And peyote buttons by the milk bottle. Surfers love them.”
That’s one hell of a way to earn an allowance, I thought. My dad grew pot, but it was off-limits to me. I only started smoking cigarettes the day after he died. Screw it, I had thought. Mary Jo continued on with the story. “Ray wedged his van into the spot next to Rox and Claire by taking the front fender off the car behind him. To this day, Rox and Claire still don’t know I was in the back of his van. Claire was, ya know, going for one of the foxy born-again twins, Shawn McBride.”
Mary Jo took another long gulp of the Daddy-tini and paused. “McBride,” she said emphatically, “you know, Nixon’s number one backer? You know what I’m talking about?”
Mary Jo must have thought we didn’t get the news in Hawaii. She looked at me like maybe I didn’t know who the president was. Duh. The first thing my mom did when we got to our new house was register her Republican ass at the post office so she could vote for Dick in November. Mary Jo lifted her arms and stretched up to the sky and yawned. It was as though she was remembering for the first time exactly what happened.
“It was 6:39 a.m. and just a regular two-to three-foot morning. Nothing special about the surf until these lines started swelling on the horizon. You know, big waves don’t ever appear on cue, but these babies were sneaking in just below the skyline. Surfers in the takeoff zone couldn’t see them coming. I could hardly believe it. These waves were going to be, like, triple over-headers with a thirteen foot drop.”
I knew calling in a motherload at a hot surf spot was like becoming Miss America. For a girl, it meant instant fame.
I had to ask, “How did they get everyone’s attention?”
Mary Jo made a sweeping gesture with her arm, waving and shaking her head. She was truly the most dramatic Leo I had ever met.
“They couldn’t at first,” she said. “The guys in the takeoff zone were too far out. The lines were coming in so fast Rox and Claire had to do something radical. And what they did turned them into legends. It was Rox who came up with the plan: to do a full-on, doubleheader flash. She was already kind of historical for her boobs, but because she had a good girl reputation, like, none of the guys had actually seen them. That meant a quick flash was their duty. But Claire was chicken. You know, she went to Corpus Christi, that Catholic school in Pacific Palisades? And she was so
scared that her mom would find out. Rox finally asked her, ‘What’s the worst thing that could happen? You never play paddle tennis at the Bel-Air Bay Club again?’”
Mary Jo stopped and ate a couple pistachios, carefully removing each from its shell. I mean, untangling a ball of yarn would have been easier than figuring out how long it was gonna take for her to spill exactly what happened. Mary Jo was like an old Hawaiian storyteller. She took her time to recreate each moment with specific details that only she knew about. Stuff like the fact that Claire was drinking a strawberry Slimfast and that they always liked to perch under the sign on Tongo Street, in the same spot so the guys would recognize them. And that they blasted Humble Pie like it was their theme band so everyone on PCH could hear it.
“Rox was, like, going crazy trying to convince Claire to flash. She jumped up and down, clenched her fists, bit her lip she was so angry. Finally, out of nowhere, she farted.”
Mary Jo started laughing and slapped her thigh. She pushed her elbow into my side, and I knew that was my cue to start laughing, too. As I did, I thought about that rule: it’s better to die than to fart. Mary Jo was still laughing as she said, “Rox gave Claire that look. You know that ‘it wasn’t me’ look? And the next thing she says, Rox that is, ‘On the count of three … ready … one, two, two and a half …’ Somehow Rox farting gave Claire the edge she needed. Claire couldn’t wait another second and blurted out, ‘Three!’”
“What happened next?” I asked.
Mary Jo was laughing so hard she could barely talk.
“So they stood there topless. It was silent, like they were standing over an open grave. All I heard was whitewash below and a dog barking down the beach. They were pointing toward the oncoming line of waves, waiting for someone to notice them. They started to panic, and that’s when I covered my eyes.”