by Jenn Bennett
“Dad, this is Mr. and Mrs. Roth, and Porter and his sister, Lana.”
My dad extends his hand and greets the Roths, and Wanda already knows them, so they’re saying hello to her, too. And then Porter steps forward and faces my dad. I’m suddenly nervous. My dad’s never really met any boys who were interested in me, and he’s definitely never met any boys whom he specifically forbid me to see . . . and I specifically went behind his back and saw anyway. And though, in my eyes, Porter has never looked more handsome, dressed up in a black suit and tie, he’s still sporting that mane of unruly curls that kisses the tops of his shoulders and all that scruff on his jaw. On Mr. Roth, tattoos peek out around the collar of his shirt on his neck. So no, the Roths aren’t exactly prim and proper. If my mom were standing here doing the judging, she would be looking down her nose. I mentally cross my fingers and hope my dad won’t be that way.
After an uncomfortable pause, Dad says, “You’re the boy from work who recovered my daughter’s scooter when it was stolen.”
My heart stops.
“Yes, sir,” Porter answers after a long moment, not blinking. Defensive. Bullish.
My dad sticks his hand out. “Thank you for that,” he says, pumping Porter’s arm heartily, using his other hand to cover Porter’s in one of those extra-good handshakes—making it seem as if Porter saved my life and not a measly bike.
My heart starts again.
“Yes, sir,” Porter says, this time visibly relieved. “Not a problem.”
That was it? No snotty comments about the hickeys? No accusations? No fifty questions or awkwardness? God, I couldn’t love my dad more than I do right now. I don’t deserve him.
“You really didn’t get a look at who stole it, huh?” Wanda says, narrowing her eyes at Porter. “Because I’d really like to know if you have any information.”
Crap.
“Uh . . .” Porter scratches the back of his head.
Lana smacks her gum. “What do you mean? It was—”
“Shut it, Lana,” Porter mumbles.
Wanda turns her narrowed eyes on me now. “I remember someone eyeing your scooter at the posole truck a few days before it got jacked.”
Oh, crud. She really doesn’t miss anything, does she? Guess that’s why she’s a cop.
Mr. Roth puts a hand up. “Sergeant Mendoza, Porter and I have had a long talk about this, and I think we all want the same thing. Hell, we probably want it even more than you do.” Mr. Roth suspiciously eyes my dad, who is probably the only person here who hasn’t put two and two together that Davy is the one who stole my scooter—or maybe he has. I can’t tell. Regardless, Mr. Roth clears his throat and says, “What with my kid getting pummeled that day, driving out to Timbuktu to get her bike back.”
Too much information in front of my dad, ugh.
“I wouldn’t say ‘pummeled,’ ” Porter argues good-humoredly. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”
Mr. Roth ignores him and continues. “What I’m trying to say is that no one wants to punish that joker more than I do. But Porter handled things the best way he knew how at the time, and I support that.”
“Hey, I got a kid,” Wanda says. “And off the record, I don’t disagree with you. But that ‘joker’ is still out there, and mark my words, he’s going to strike again. Next time, you may not be so lucky. He may hurt himself or someone else.”
Mr. Roth nods. “I hear you loud and clear. I worry about it all the time. In fact, I saw him hobbling around on the boardwalk last week and it was all I could do not to put him in the hospital again.”
A knot in my gut tightens. Last I’d heard, Porter had found out through the rumor mill that Davy had been laid up at home for the last couple of weeks due to Porter reinjuring his knee during the fight at Fast Mike’s garage. Guess he’s back on his feet again.
Wanda points a finger around our group. “Make me a promise, all of you. Next time Davy Truand does anything, or even starts to do anything, you call nine-one-one and tell them to send me. Let’s not meet again at another funeral, okay?”
• • •
After the service, my dad doesn’t give me any grief about Porter. He doesn’t even give me any grief about Davy being the one who stole my scooter. So when we’re alone, I just tell him that I’m sorry I kept it all from him, and I explain why I did, and that I won’t do it again. Ever, ever, ever.
“It hurts me that you felt the need to lie, Mink,” he says.
And that makes me cry all over again.
And because he’s the nicest guy in the world, he just holds me until I’m all dried out. And when I’m no longer in danger of drowning the entire cemetery in my misery, à la Alice in Wonderland, he straightens me up and lets me go home with Porter for the rest of the afternoon.
The Roths live in an old house a block away from the beach on the outskirts of town in a neighborhood that probably was halfway nice ten years ago. Now it’s starting to get a little run-down, and half the homes have FOR SALE signs in the sandy yards. Their clapboard fence is sagging, the cedar paneling is starting to buckle, and the brutal ocean wind has beaten up the wind chimes that line the gutters. But when I walk inside, it smells like surf wax and wood, and it’s stuffed from ceiling to floor with trophies and driftwood and dried starfish and family photos and a bright red Hawaiian hibiscus tablecloth on the kitchen table.
“I’m starving,” Lana says. “Funerals make me hungry.”
“Me too,” Mrs. Roth says. “We need comfort food. P&P?”
“What’s P&P?” I ask.
“Popcorn and peanuts,” Porter informs me.
She looks around for approval, and everyone nods. I guess this is a Roth family tradition. Sounds a little strange, but I’m on a winning streak with food around this town, so who am I to argue? And when she pops the popcorn in a giant pan on the stove with real kernels, it smells so good, I actually salivate.
While she’s salting the popcorn, Porter goes to his room and changes out of his suit, and I help Mrs. Roth dig out bowls in the kitchen. It’s weird being alone with her, and I secretly wish Porter would hurry up. Now that he’s not here as a buffer, I feel like an actor shooting a scene who’s blanking on all her lines. What am I supposed to be saying? Maybe I need cue cards.
“How’s your mom feel about you being out here in California?” she asks out of the blue.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I haven’t heard from her.”
“Are you not close?”
I shrug. “I thought so. This is the first time I’ve been away from h-home.” Man. Seriously? I can’t cry again. Funerals are the worst. I swipe away tears before they have a chance to fall, and shake it off.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Mrs. Roth says in a kind voice. “I didn’t mean to dredge up bad stuff.”
“It’s just that she hasn’t even e-mailed or texted. I’ve been gone for weeks. You’d think she’d want to know if I’m okay. I could be dead, and she wouldn’t even know.”
“Have you tried calling her?”
I shake my head.
“Does your dad talk to her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe you should ask him. At least talk to him about it. She could be going through something in her marriage or at work—you never know. She might need to hear from you first. Sometimes parents aren’t very good at being grown-ups.”
She pats my shoulder, and it reminds me of Pangborn.
We head to a sofa in the den under a giant wooden surfboard suspended from exposed rafters; the board is engraved in pretty cursive with the word PENNYWISE. I sit in the middle of Porter and Lana, holding a big plastic bowl of popcorn with just the right amount of salt and roasted peanuts. The peanuts are heavy and fall to the bottom of the bowl, so we’re forced to constantly shake it up and hunt for them, making the popcorn spill all over our laps, which they argue is half the fun. The Roths sit nearby in a pair of recliners, though Mr. Roth’s recliner looks like it was manufactured in 1979.
“It’s his favorite chair, Bailey, and he won’t give it up,” Mrs. Roth says, stretching her arm out to touch Mr. Roth’s face. “Don’t look at it too long or it will grow legs and walk out of here.”
Lana giggles. Mr. Roth just grunts and almost smiles. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him kiss his wife’s hand before she takes it away.
While eating our feast, we watch The Big Lebowski, which is sort of bizarre, because Alex was trying to get me to watch this a couple of months ago. And the Roths have it on DVD, so they are all amazed I’ve never seen it. Turns out, it’s really good. And what’s even better, in addition to Porter preparing me for the sound of gunshots in the movie—so I won’t be caught off guard—and quoting lines along with the actors, which makes me smile despite the dreary events of the day, is when he leans close and whispers into my ear, “You belong here with me.”
And for that moment, I believe that I do.
“I’m not who you think I am.”
—John Boyega, Star Wars: Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
22
* * *
I don’t really know how long it takes for people to start feeling normal again after someone dies. But I think I expected Porter to bounce back faster because he’s so confident. I have to remind myself that he’s already emotionally scarred, and that some of his cockiness is just for show. So when I see him sinking into what I fear is depression after Pangborn’s funeral, I wonder if I should say or do something to help him. I just don’t know what, exactly.
He tells me he’ll be okay, that he just needs time to get over it. When I ask if he wants to grab something to eat after work, he says he might be too tired. He does look tired. He apologizes a lot. That doesn’t seem like him—at all, frankly.
Dad tells me not to push him too hard. I’m not exactly a pushy kind of person. But after what seems like an endless stretch of Porter’s melancholy, I’m starting to wonder if I need to start nudging. But Grace echoes my dad’s advice, telling me to give Porter some space. And what’s even weirder is that for once, I’m the one who doesn’t want to be alone. I guess Grace can sense this, or something, because she’s been asking me to hang out a lot. Our prework breakfast dates at the Pancake Shack are now becoming routine. A definite bright spot of my day. It’s helped to get my mind off Pangborn—and stopped me from worrying so much about Porter. Sort of. It doesn’t soothe the funny ache in my heart when I think about him dealing with all of this on his own. I wish he’d let me help. I wish he’d talk to me. At this point, I’d give my right pinky toe for one of our good, old-fashioned arguments. Can you miss someone you see almost every day?
A couple of weeks after Pangborn’s funeral, at six forty-five a.m., I’m awakened by a series of buzzes. It’s my phone. Who’s texting me this early? My first reaction is panic, because, let’s face it, life has been a shit sandwich lately.
Porter: Wake up.
Porter: Waaaake uuuuup.
Porter: How late do you sleep, anyway? You need an alarm clock. (I’d like to be that alarm clock, actually.) (God, please don’t let your dad pick up your phone.)
Porter: Come on, sleepyhead. If you don’t wake up soon, I’m leaving without you.
I type a quick reply: What’s going on?
Porter: Good surfing, that’s what.
Me: You mean, surfing for you?
Porter: That was the idea. So, are you coming to watch me surf?
Me: Try and stop me.
I’m so excited, I throw off the covers and leap out of bed. Okay, so maybe this isn’t a romantic invitation, because a few more texts tell me where I’ll be meeting his family, but I don’t care. I’m just relieved that he sounds cheerful. My only problem is Grace, my breakfast date this morning. She’s already up, and when I text her to ask for a rain check, she asks if she can tag along. When I don’t answer right away, two more texts follow—
Grace: Pretty please?
Grace: I really need a chin-wag.
Me: ???
Grace: A chat. Girl talk. Yeah?
Normally, I’d say sure, but I haven’t spent time with Porter since the Big Lebowski viewing after the funeral. What if he doesn’t want a big audience? I consider the best way to handle it as I get dressed, but my mind keeps wandering to Porter.
When I head out, the fog hasn’t cleared. The place I’m meeting the Roths is a spot a couple of miles north of town, just up the beach from the Bone Garden. It’s pretty out here, all wild and pebble-strewn. And though it’s not crowded like the beach at the boardwalk, I’m surprised to see anyone at all this early in the morning. Apparently, it’s a popular surf spot, because a dozen other vans are parked along the road and several other onlookers gather, including a couple of people walking along the beach with their dogs as the waves roll and crash.
Clearly, this wasn’t a private affair. I even see Sharonda, the president of Brightsea’s drama club, who Grace introduced me to at the bonfire party. For a moment, I remember Grace, and tell myself I need to text her back, but Mrs. Roth waves me down, and she’s brought doughnuts. I don’t want to be rude, and she’s in a great mood, so I put Grace out of my mind for the time being and silence my phone.
While I make small talk with Mrs. Roth, I catch sight of the rest of the family. Mr. Roth is in training mode, unloading a board with Lana, and barking commands. But I’m having trouble paying attention to anything but Porter. If there are any traces of melancholy left on him, he’s packed them away. It’s a new day, and I can see the change in the way he walks across the sand, the way he holds his head high. He’s ready to move on.
He’s donned a sleeveless black-and-aqua wet suit, and it’s clinging in all the right places. Standing next to Mrs. Roth, I’m afraid to look too closely all at once, but hot damn. I catch his eyes once when his mom’s busy chatting with Sharonda, who is apparently friends with Lana. I can’t wink, so I just look him up and down and mouth, Wow. He gives me a spectacular grin in return. He’s so cocky; the boy knows how good he looks. I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop smiling, and he loves the attention. He could build sand castles on the beach and never even surf one wave for all I care. Mission accomplished.
After that exchange, his focus shifts. I notice the moment it happens. He’s stretching, both him and Lana, legs and arms, normal stretches and some weird jumping. They’re both super limber. And the entire time, his eyes are on the water. He’s calculating the big waves. Timing them, or something. He checks his watch occasionally, but mostly he’s watching the water and checking the sky. He’s very intense. I like him this way.
There’s some sort of surfing etiquette I don’t understand, but I can tell Porter and Lana are waiting their turn. And I can also tell that the other surfers aren’t very good, and some of them are giving up and clearing out. After a minute, Mr. Roth gives his wife a head signal.
“Okay, girls,” she says to me and Sharonda.“We’re going up there.”
“Up there” is a short hike up a massive sand dune that gives us a great view of the ocean. From here, we can see the waves rolling in much more clearly and all the other surfers who are either surfing on the smaller waves closer to shore (not impressive), or trying to ride the bigger waves farther out and not lasting very long. The ocean is eating them alive. Now I’m a little worried.
“They’re not surfing those, are they?” I ask. The big waves looked smaller and flatter from the beach.
“You bet your sweet patootie they are,” she says, all fierce mom pride. And from the looks of the crowd gathering behind us to watch, she isn’t the only one interested in the show.
I hope this is a shark-free zone.
Lana’s in yellow and black, and she goes first. She lies flat on her board and paddles out, and that takes longer than you’d think. Porter gives her some distance, but he’s paddling now too. The farther out they go, the scarier it gets. They sometimes disappear under the smaller rolling waves, like speed bumps in a road, then reappear on the other side.
“Have you seen
them surf before?” I ask Sharonda, taking a bite of doughnut. I hate to break it to Mrs. Roth, but this is no churro or vanilla moon muffin.
“Yeah, I live down the road, so I see Lana surf a couple of times a week. Sometimes I go watch events, if they aren’t too far. I once rode down to Huntington Beach with the Roths. Remember that?”
“Sure do, honey,” Mrs. Roth says, watching the water.
“What about Porter?” I ask.
Sharonda nods. “I’ve been watching Porter compete locally since he was, like, thirteen. He used to have hair down to here,” she says, putting her hand halfway down her back. “Nothing but curls. All the girls in our class had a crush on him.”
Mrs. Roth sticks out her bottom lip, looking sentimental. “He was such a sweet boy. My little grommet.”
“Oh, and we’ll be watching all of Lana’s surfing heats together on TV,” Sharonda says excitedly, reaching around me to tap Mrs. Roth’s arm. “Maybe we can have viewing parties?”
This surprises me. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that Lana will be that professional. Now that I know her, she just seems like a good-natured kid who chews a lot of gum and drools when she falls asleep on the couch, which is what happened that afternoon at their house.
Lana and Porter are both floating on their boards, bobbing in the rolling waves. I’m not sure what they’re waiting for, but everyone is tense. Before I can ask what’s happening, Lana’s yellow-and-black suit pops onto her board. She’s standing, crouched on her board, and cutting through a massive wave I didn’t even realize was there.
There she goes!
She’s like a beautiful black-and-yellow bee, zipping through the water, making tight zigzag motions that seem to go on forever. I can’t believe she can ride the wave for so long. It’s crazy. How is this possible? Seems like it goes against nature.
“Yeah, Lana,” Mrs. Roth calls out to the ocean, clapping in time with all of Lana’s zigzagging. “Go, baby, go!”
By the time Lana finishes, she’s so far on the other side of the dune, it’s going to take her five minutes to walk back to us. No wonder these kids are in shape. This surfing gig is exhausting.