by Jenn Bennett
So no, I can’t eat.
But I have to. I’m starving, and this is silly. I’m not going to be one of those girls who goes all woobly-woo over a boy and picks at her food. It’s Porter Roth, for Pete’s sake. We’re practically archenemies. Look at our stupid compatibility quiz—didn’t we fail that? Or did we? I can’t remember now. All I remember is how cute and earnest he looked, talking about phytoplankton and ocean currents, and how the tiny hairs on his leg tickled when the chairlift rocked.
I feel feverish, just thinking about it again now, God help me.
But then, maybe he didn’t even mean it. He might have only been teasing me. Was he only teasing me? A fresh wave of panic washes over my chest.
No, no, no. This cannot be happening is all I can think, my mind gleaming with terror.
I cannot like Porter Roth.
“Bailey?”
“Huh? No, I love it. Seriously. It’s delicious,” I answer my dad, trying to sound normal as I pick up my spoon. “I had a weird day, is all.”
I push Porter out of my mind. Eat my soup. Concentrate on watching seagulls soaring around the shore. Then I hear my dad tell Wanda in a salacious voice, “She had a date today.”
“O-oh,” Wanda says, mouth curving into a smile.
“Dad, jeez.”
“Well, you didn’t tell me how it went. What was his name? Patrick?”
“If you must know, it went like this,” I say, giving a thumbs-down sign and blowing a big, fat raspberry. “Turns out your daughter gets a failing grade in relationship chemistry, because, funny thing, but Patrick is gay.”
Wanda makes a pained face. “And he didn’t tell you before?”
“Not his fault,” I say. “I guess I just made some wrong assumptions.”
Dad grits his teeth and looks several shades of uncomfortable. He has no idea what to tell me. “Oh, honey. I’m . . . sorry?”
I shake my head. “Like you always say, never assume.”
“Makes an ass out of ‘me’ and ‘u,’ ” he finishes, quoting one of his favorite goofy word games. After a moment, he loosens up and drapes an arm around my back. “I’m truly sorry, kiddo. It wasn’t meant to be, but don’t let it get you down. This town is lousy with cute boys.”
Wanda smiles to herself.
“Gee, Dad. I can’t believe you just said that in front of your girlfriend,” I say in a stage whisper, letting my head fall on his shoulder.
“Me either,” he admits, rubbing my back. “Being a parent is weird.”
Wanda wipes her mouth with a napkin, nodding her head. “So true. My baby is two years older than you, Bailey. And he’s just gone through a crazy breakup.”
“Wait, you have a son?”
She nods. “Been divorced for five years. He’s nineteen. Went to a year of community college, and now he’s taking summer classes at your dad’s alma mater, Cal Poly. Electrical engineering. He’s a smart kid.”
As she’s telling me more about her son, I dig into my stew, wondering if I’ll ever meet this guy. What if my dad remarries? Will I have a stepbrother? That’s bizarre to think about. Then again, Wanda seems pretty cool, and the way she’s talking about Anthony—that’s her son—you’d think he was the most awesome guy on the planet. Besides, my dad’s like me: He doesn’t make rash decisions. I can’t picture him rushing headlong into another marriage, not like Mom—who still hasn’t called, just for the record. Not that I’m counting the days or anything, crying my eyes out for her like a ten-year-old kid who’s been shipped off to summer camp and misses Mommy.
But still. One call? One e-mail?
If she thinks I’m calling first, she can think again. I’m not supposed to be the adult here.
When I’m done eating, I get up from the table and grab my phone out of my purse, which is stashed in the seat of Baby; I drove and met Dad and Wanda here. On my way back to the table, I notice that some of the distant surfers have stripped out of their wet suits. They’ve stuck their boards in the sand, propped them up like gravestones, and are trudging to the posole truck. My pulse leaps as I scan the three boys for Porter’s face. I don’t find it, but I do spot someone else limping across the beach: Davy.
Crud.
I don’t really want to see him again, especially not while I’m with my dad. Unfortunately, no matter how low I duck as I sit back down next to my father, it’s not low enough to escape his hazy gaze.
“Look who it is, little miss thing,” he says in a rough voice. “Cowgirl. You work with Porter at the Cave.”
I raise my hand a couple of inches off the table in a weak wave and lift my chin.
“Davy,” he says, pointing at his chest, which is, as always, naked—even when the other two surfers are clothed. He’s shivering. Put a damn shirt on, dude. “Porter’s friend, remember?”
“Hey,” I say, because it would be weird not to. But why did he have to mention Porter?
“Is that your Vespa?” he asks. “Sweet ride. Looks legit. Has it been restored?”
Wanda sits up straighter and speaks up before I can answer. “What are you doing out here, Mr. Truand?”
“Oh, hello, Officer Mendoza,” Davy says, seemingly unfazed by her presence. “Didn’t recognize you out of uniform.”
“It’s Sergeant Mendoza, and I can still arrest your ass, no matter what I’m wearing.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, smiling like an insurance salesman.
Two older girls in bikini bottoms and T-shirts get up from a nearby table to throw away their trash, and Davy’s friends start hitting on them in the worst way possible. All I hear is “ass for days” and “bury my face down there” and I want to either die or punch them all in the junk. The girls flip them off and after a short but brutal exchange, his friends give up and head to the posole truck like it’s no big deal. Just another few minutes in their day.
Now that the circus is over, Davy seems to remember he was talking to me.
“So anyways, cowgirl, you’re still invited. Remember?” He holds up a finger to his lips and winks at me. It takes me a second to realize that he’s talking about the bonfire. I guess. Who really can tell when it comes to this idiot. I don’t respond, and he doesn’t notice. He and his buds are already distracted by the next thing—another car, this time full of more dudes. They race to go meet them. Thank God. I’m totally embarrassed to be on the same beach as these morons. They’re bringing society down by several pegs, just breathing the same air as us.
“Go far, far away, please,” I mutter.
“You know him?” Wanda asks, suddenly very concerned in a cop sort of way.
Now my dad’s concerned too—in a father sort of way.
“No, no,” I say, waving my hand. “He knows someone I work with.”
“Porter Roth?” Dad says. “I thought he was a security guard, not a beach bum.”
Guess that’s where I picked up that phrase. “He is. I mean, he’s not,” I say. Oh, crap. I don’t want my dad associating the two of them together. “Porter’s not like Davy. I don’t even know if they’re really friends anymore. I ran into Davy on the boardwalk and he started calling me cowgirl because I was buying a scarf, and then he invited me to hang out, but that didn’t mean I was going or anything—”
“Whoa,” Dad says. “Slow down.”
“Davy seems like such a dirtbag, ugh.”
Wanda seems satisfied by my answer. “Stay away from him, Bailey. I mean that. He’s trouble. Every time I bust him, he gets off on a technicality. But he’s barely keeping his head above water. I’m talking serious narcotics—not weed or alcohol. He needs help, but his parents don’t care enough to give it to him.”
Jesus. I think about the vintage clothing store and that weird conversation I witnessed—how mad Porter was catching Davy coming out of the shop.
“But Porter isn’t . . . ,” I say, and wish I hadn’t mentioned his name before I can even finish.
“Porter’s okay,” she says, and I hope she doesn’t notice
how relieved I am. “At least, I think he is. The Roth family’s been through a lot, but they’re good people. Still, you’d be better off staying away from that crowd. If Porter’s hanging around with Davy, I’d advise you to steer clear and save yourself some grief.” She says this last part more to Dad than me, and he gives her a little nod, like yeah, he understands. Message received.
Death by association. Porter Roth has now got a big red mark against him in my dad’s book. I’m not sure what that means for me, because I don’t even know what’s going on between me and Porter. But if I did want something to be going on, hypothetically, does that mean it’s impossible now?
I do know one thing: telling my dad about the bonfire is out of the question. Because chances that Wanda knows about this little Saturday night hootenanny are pretty good, and he might ask her about it. Problem is, I really want to go now. Grace asked me, and I don’t want to back out. Besides, Porter might be there . . .
But. (Why is there always a but?)
There’s one person I haven’t considered in any of this mess. Alex. Maybe I should ask his opinion. Or at least make an attempt to tell him what’s going on. After all, he’s probably just been carrying on, being his usual awesome self, while I’ve been spending the day wronging him left and right all over town, because I’m a horrible, horrible person. Doesn’t he deserve a say-so in any of this?
LUMIÈRE FILM FANATICS COMMUNITY
PRIVATE MESSAGES>ALEX>NEW!
@alex: That horoscope prediction you gave me kind of came true in a weird way.
@mink: It did?
@alex: I followed your advice and it worked out. I took a risk and had one of the best days I’ve had in a long time. You were right. It’s good to open yourself up to new things.
@mink: It’s funny you say that, because I was going to ask your advice about whether or not I should do something. (This isn’t about flying out there, by the way. Just so we’re clear. Not saying it won’t happen, but it’s on hold for the moment.)
@alex: My advice is YES. Do it.
@mink: You don’t even know what it is yet.
@alex: And I didn’t know what your horoscope meant, but it worked out. Take a chance, Mink. You helped me; now I’m helping you. Whatever it is you’re thinking about doing, my advice is to just do it. What’s the worst that can happen?
“Nobody ever lies about being lonely.”
—Montgomery Clift, From Here to Eternity (1953)
13
* * *
I don’t work with Porter on my next shift. In fact, I’m not scheduled to work with him again until Saturday—not that I’ve obsessively checked the schedule. But the level of disappointment that hits me when I pick up my till and see Mr. Pangborn’s white hair instead of Porter’s tangle of curls is so crushing, I have to give myself a mental shake. Why am I getting so worked up over a boy? This isn’t like me. At all.
“We’re still on for tonight?” Grace says when Pangborn is escorting us to the Hotbox, merrily whistling what I think is a Paul Simon song. When I hesitate too long, she grabs my orange vest. “Don’t you bail on me, Bailey Rydell.”
“I’m not,” I say, laughing as I push her away. “It’s just complicated. I might need to fib a little to my dad about who we’re hanging out with, so when you pick me up, don’t mention any surfers.”
She wrinkles up her face, and then gives me a whatever look. “Eight o’clock.”
“Eight. I’ll be ready, promise.”
Pangborn does a little shuffling dance outside the ticketing booth door, one hand on his stomach, singing about some guy named Julio down by the school yard. “Yaa da-da-da-da!”
Grace grins. “That must be some fine chronic you got your hands on this morning.”
“Nature’s medicine, my dear,” he corrects, making a quieting signal with his hand as he glances around—probably looking for Cavadini. “Never know who’s listening around here.”
A terrible thought crosses my mind. “You guys don’t have sound on the security cameras, do you?” All the things Porter claims Grace tells him about me . . . what if he’s been listening in on our conversations inside the Hotbox?
“Sound?” Pangborn chuckles. “We barely have sight. No, there’s no sound.”
Sweet baby Jesus. I sigh in relief.
“Why?” he asks.
“Uh . . . I just wondered if you guys were listening in while we gossiped in the Hotbox,” I say, trying to cover up as best I can—and doing a crap job of it.
He chuckles. “No, nothing like that. We can’t hear unless you call us, so gossip away. The system’s old. Hasn’t been upgraded in a decade, in fact. They’re going to have to spend money soon. The offsite company that monitors the alarm system went out of business two weeks ago. Now if anything goes wrong in the middle of the night, all we can do is call the local police.”
“Just call Bailey,” Grace says. “She’ll chase down criminals and jump them.”
I bump her shoulder. “Shut it, Grace Achebe, or I’ll start counting change as slow as Michelle.”
“Noooo!” She waves her hand at Pangborn. “Hey, you gonna let us in any time soon? Not all of us have the luxury of your natural medication to make the day pass by faster.”
The old security guard smiles goofily and knocks on the door, announcing, “Team Grailey reporting for duty, boys. Open up. I seem to have misplaced my key again. . . .”
After we’re situated and on a roll, Grace turns off her mic and says, “Why were you asking Pangborn all that stuff about listening in on our gossip?”
“It’s nothing, really,” I say, but she’s not letting it go. “I was just worried that Porter might be hearing our conversations.”
“Why?”
“Because of some things he said a couple of days ago. It’s nothing. Stupid, really. He knows I have a sweet tooth—”
“I told him that.”
“Yeah, that’s what he said.”
“He’s been asking about you lately. Quite a bit, in fact.”
“He has?”
“Uh-huh.” She glances at me from the corner of her eye.
“Like what about?”
She shrugs. “Just things. He’s curious. That’s his personality.”
“Like a cat, huh?” So this is nothing out of the ordinary. She doesn’t offer anything more, so I say, “Well, anyway. That’s all there is. He was just teasing me with these muffin things on the Bees, and—”
I feel rather than see Grace’s head swing in my direction. “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?”
“Oh my God, Grace. My ear holes. I didn’t know you could be so loud.” We still have a line, so I plaster a fake smile on my face and pass tickets through the tiny hole in the window. “That actually hurt my eardrums.”
“But that’s what you said, right? You said you were on the lifts with Porter? Why were you on the lifts with Porter?”
“It’s a long story.”
“We’ve got six hours.”
I sigh. Between customers, I give her the short version of the story. I don’t tell her about my ongoing hunt for Alex, because that seems too personal—I just tell her that I met Patrick and didn’t realize I was barking up the wrong tree.
“Patrick Killian?”
I sigh. How small is this town, anyway?
“He should have told you,” she says.
“I should have picked up on it.”
Grace shakes her head. “I still say he should have made it clearer. No way both of you got signals crossed. Shame on him.”
“I don’t know about that,” I say, but I appreciate her show of support.
She gives me the hurry-up signal.
I keep going with my story, leaving out most of the details, especially any details with secret feelings and legs touching. “He was just trying to cheer me up,” I say, when I tell her about Porter and the Bees. “It was no big deal.”
“Hmm,” is all she says.
“What does that mean?”
“It mea
ns, that’s all very interesting.”
“Why?”
Four quick raps on the Hotbox door. I startle. Grace squeals. Four knocks only means one person. My nerves go crazy as Grace opens the door.
“Ladies,” Porter says.
“Why, speak of the bloody devil,” Grace says, giving me a smile that is so wicked, I can hardly believe it’s on her sweet little face. I immediately regret I told her anything and try to signal back with my eyes: IF YOU GIVE AWAY ANYTHING, I WILL STRANGLE YOU IN YOUR SLEEP.
Porter glances at her, then me. I catch his gaze and try to look away, but it’s like honey. I’m stuck. I can feel my insides melting and my heart trying to outrun a horde of zombies. I can’t seem to inhale enough air. Stupid Hotbox. It’s sweltering. I feel physically ill and fear I’m going to pass out.
“Hey,” he says in a soft voice.
“Hey,” I say back.
Somewhere in the distance, I hear a light tap-tap-tapping.
“Bailey.” I really like it when he says my name. God, how silly is that?
“Yep,” I answer.
“Customers.”
Dammit. I manage not to say that aloud, but I do, however, spin around on my stool too fast and bang my skinned-up knee—which still hasn’t completely healed—and yelp. The pain helps to break whatever crazy hoodoo spell Porter’s got over me. Until something warm touches my hand.
I glance down. Porter’s trying to hand me a folded-up tissue. My knee’s bleeding again. I mutter, “Thanks,” and press it against the newly opened scab while juggling the ticket window one-handed.
“You going to the bonfire tonight?” Porter says. He’s talking to Grace, not me.
“Yep. I’m taking Bailey, if she doesn’t lose her leg before the end of our shift. You never know in the Hotbox. It’s a war zone in here. Better get out while you can.”
“I’m getting, I’m getting,” he says, pretending to be grumpy. Do I detect a jovial tone in his voice? Is he happy I’m going to the bonfire, or is that just my imagination? “Guess I’ll see you both tonight, unless someone needs an ambulance first.”