Alex, Approximately

by Jenn Bennett

  The crowd on the sand dune explodes into applause and whistles, and I clap along, too. Mrs. Roth rotates her hand in the air, egging them on. “That little peanut is going to win it all,” she tells everyone around us, and some of them high-five her.

  She’s so proud. Everyone’s smiling. It’s all exciting, but now I’m watching Porter, because he’s paddled out just a little farther, and that makes my stomach drop.

  Mr. Roth comes bounding up the sand dune, eyes on the water. How long has it been since Porter’s surfed like this? I’m suddenly nervous. If he crashes, or whatever it’s called, I don’t want him to do it in front of me and be embarrassed later. I can’t handle that. I want to look away, maybe make some excuse, like I got sick from the doughnut and had to leave. I can hear about it later.

  Then he pops up on his board.

  Too late. Can’t look away now.

  His wave is bigger than Lana’s. His stance is different from Lana’s. He rides the board up the curling water, up, up, up . . . (please don’t fall!) and at the top, he’s— Holy Mother of Sheep, he’s flying up in the air, board and body! Impossibly, on a dime, he turns the board one hundred and eighty degrees, sharply. Then he rides the wave right back down, smooth as glass, white foam kicking out from the tail of his board like the train of a wedding dress.

  “YES!” Mr. Roth bellows, holding up his arm.

  The crowd behind me shouts along with Mrs. Roth.

  It’s happening so fast. That was just one move, and though Porter doesn’t take the board up in the air again, he’s already made turn number two (crouching low at base of wave, wait, wait . . . rides up again), and whoosh! Turn three! Now he’s riding back down, still going, arms out for balance, like fins.

  Lana’s style was fast and quick, full of spunk; Porter is slower and his moves are grander. Poetic. Beautiful. He’s cutting through the water as if he’s painting a picture with his body.

  I didn’t know surfing looked like this.

  I didn’t know Porter could do this.

  He makes the last turn at the end of the wave, a baby turn, because there isn’t much wave left to ride, and then neatly comes to a stop where the sand rises toward the beach, the wave washing all around him, as if the ocean found him shipwrecked and is delivering him safely to shore.

  The crowd roars.

  I crush my doughnut in my hand. “Holy shit,” I say in amazement, then apologize, then say it again several times, but no one is listening or cares.

  Mr. Roth turns around, grins at the crowd—grins!—and kisses his wife before running down the other side of the dune to greet his son. Mrs. Roth picks me up in a bear hug. For a woman who isn’t an athlete, she sure is strong. When she puts me back down, she cups my face in her hands and, shockingly, kisses me straight on the lips. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I knew you could get him out here.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” I say, flushing with excitement and a little embarrassment.

  “Oh baby, yes you did,” she says, her eyes shining. “He hasn’t surfed like that since the shark.”

  • • •

  Porter surfs nearly a dozen more big waves. He screws up once, falling off his board pretty hard trying to pull an aerial “alley-oop.” Mrs. Roth blames the wipeout on the wind. But otherwise, he’s pretty much a demon. He and Lana engage in a friendly sibling competition, and it’s awesome. After a couple of hours, word has spread, and a hundred people or so line the beach. My throat goes hoarse from cheering.

  When it seems as though they’re slowing down—both the waves and the surfers—Mrs. Roth tells her husband to call her “babies” back to shore soon. She doesn’t want Porter overdoing it and injuring himself. Mr. Roth grunts and seems dismissive, but he slowly makes his way back down the dune. I guess Lana was right when she said her mom wears the pants in their family.

  Someone taps me on the shoulder. “How are they doing?”

  I turn around to find Grace, dressed in a magenta jacket and oversize gold sunglasses. Her mouth is arrow-straight, matching the tense line of her shoulders. She is not a happy camper.

  “Grace,” Mrs. Roth says cheerfully. “You should have come earlier. Porter was on fire.”

  Grace smiles at her, and it’s almost genuine. “Is that so? I’m sorry I missed it. Took me a bit to find out where they were surfing.”

  “You could have called me,” Mrs. Roth says absently, only halfway paying attention.

  Grace aims two bladelike eyes on me. “It’s fine. I texted Porter and he was more than happy to let me know.”

  Oh, God. “Grace,” I whisper. “I totally forgot to text you back.”

  “No big deal. I’m not exciting enough, I suppose,” she says, and walks away.

  My heart sinks. The Artful Dodger in me whispers to let Grace go, but another part of my brain is panicking. I get Mrs. Roth’s attention. “Sorry, but I need to talk to Grace.”

  Mrs. Roth makes a shooing motion. “Go on, baby. They’re just about done. I’ll send Porter to find you after he’s back to shore.”

  Quickly, I follow Grace away from the small crowd on the beach, down the sand dune, calling her name. She stops near a rock with a clump of yellow lupine scrub growing out of it. My throat is tight, and I can’t look her in the eyes. She’s so agitated, I can almost feel the emotion radiating off her like heat from a furnace. And she’s never been upset at me. Ever.

  “Why do you want to talk to me now?” Grace says. “You didn’t bother to answer my texts this morning.”

  “I’m sorry!” I blurt out. “I was going to text you back, but—”

  “I called two times”—she angrily claps along with her words to drive her point home—“after the texts. It went straight to voice mail.”

  I wince. My fingers itch to dive into my pocket and check my abandoned phone, but I resist. “It’s just—”

  “Easy to forget about your friend when your boyfriend is suddenly back in the picture. When he was moping, you had all the time in the world for me. But the second he calls, you throw me away faster than yesterday’s news.”

  Shame and regret roll through me. “That’s not true. I just got distracted. I didn’t throw you away.”

  “Well, that’s what it feels like. Don’t think I haven’t been here before with other friends. The second they fall for someone, they forget all about me. Well, I’ll tell you what, Bailey Rydell. I’m tired of being the placeholder. If you don’t want a real friendship with me, then find someone else who doesn’t mind being disposable.”

  I don’t know what to say. Don’t know how to make this better. I’m a surfer, wiping out and drowning under one of those monster waves. Only, I don’t think I’m skilled enough to get back up again.

  After a long, awkward silence I say, “I’m not good at this.”

  “At what?”

  “Being close to people.” I gesture at her, then me. “I screw it up. A lot. It’s easier for me to avoid things than deal with confrontation.”

  “That’s your excuse?” she says.

  “It’s not an excuse. It’s the truth.”

  Why did I do this? If I could wind the clock back to this morning, I’d text her back and everything would be fine. Whether I actively or passively avoided Grace’s texts, forgot them on purpose or unintentionally, none of it matters. I failed her. And maybe in doing so, I failed myself a little too.

  I don’t want to lose Grace. Somehow, while Porter barged in my front door, she sneaked in the back. I try the only thing I have left: the truth.

  “You’re right,” I tell her, words tumbling out. “I took you for granted. I forgot about you this morning because I assumed that you’d always be there, because you always are. I can count on you, because you’re dependable. And I’m not. I wish . . . I wish you could count on me like I can count on you. I want to be more like you. You’re not a placeholder for me, Grace.”

  She doesn’t say anything, but I can hear her breathing pick up.

  “I guess I told myself
you wouldn’t miss me,” I say, picking at the yellow lupine shrub. “That’s how I justified it.”

  “Well, I did miss you. You picked a fine day not to show. Because I really could have used a shoulder today,” she says, still somewhat upset, but now moving into another emotion I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s hard to decode people when they’re wearing big sunglasses and their arms are crossed over their chest.

  A wind whips through my hair. I wait until it passes, then ask, “Did something happen?”

  “Yes, something happened,” she complains. But now I can hear the distress in her voice, and when she lifts her sunglasses to rest them atop her head, I see it mirrored in her eyes. “Taran’s not coming back. He’s staying in India for the rest of the summer. Maybe for good.”

  “Oh, God. Grace.” My chest constricts painfully.

  Slow, silent tears roll down her cheeks. “We’ve been together for a year. We were going to attend the same college. This isn’t how life is supposed to work.”

  Tentatively, I reach for her, not sure if she’ll accept me. But there’s not even a heartbeat of hesitation, and she’s throwing her arms around me, crying softly as she clings. Her sunglasses fall off her head and land in the sand.

  “I’m sorry,” I choke out, surprised to find that I’m crying along with her. “For everything.”

  My old therapist warned me that avoidance is a dysfunctional way to interact with people you care about, but now I’m starting to understand what he meant when he said it could hurt them, too. Maybe it’s time I figure out a better way to deal with my problems. Maybe Artful Dodger isn’t working so well for me anymore.

  “I’ve never been alone with a man before, even with my dress on.

  With my dress off, it’s most unusual.”

  —Audrey Hepburn, Roman Holiday (1953)

  23

  * * *

  In the middle of July, Porter and I have another day off together. He tells me we can do whatever I want with it, that he’s my genie and will grant me one wish. I tell him that I don’t want to see another soul for an entire afternoon. I have something I’m ready to share.

  He picks me up in the camper van at noon, two hours after my standing breakfast date with Grace.

  “Where are we going?” I say, folding down the visor to block the sun as I hop into the passenger side. I’m wearing my white vintage Annette Funicello shorts and the leopard sunglasses Wanda and Dad brought me back from San Francisco. My Lana Turner ’do looks especially perfect.

  Porter glances at my sandals (they’re the ones he likes), and then my shorts (which he continues to stare at while he talks to me). “You have two choices, beach or woods. The woods have a stream, which is cool, but the beach has an arch made of rock, which is likewise cool. God, those shorts are hot.”

  “Thank you. No people at either location?”

  “If we see anyone, I will act crazy and chase them off with a stick. But no, these places are both usually deserted.”

  After some thought, which included taking deep-woods insects into consideration, there’s really no choice for the purpose I have in mind, so I gather my gumption and say, “Take me to the beach.”

  The drive is about fifteen minutes. He has to squeeze through a narrow, rocky road through the woods to get to the beach, pine branches brushing against the top of the van. But when we emerge from the trees, it’s glorious: sand, gray pebbles, tide pools, and rising up from the edge of the shore, an arch of mudstone rock. It’s covered with birds and barnacles and the waves crash through it.

  The beach is small.

  The beach isn’t sexy.

  The beach is ours.

  Porter parks the van near the woods. He slides open the side door, and we take off our shoes and toss them in the back. I see he’s got his board and wet suit neatly stowed; he’s been surfing almost every day.

  We splash around in the tide pools for a while. They’re teeming with starfish, which I’ve only ever seen dried on a shelf in a souvenir store. He points out some other critters, but I have more than coastal California wonders on my mind. “Hey, where’s the nude beach?”

  “What?”

  “There’s supposed to be a nude beach in Coronado Cove.”

  Porter laughs. “It’s up by the Beacon Resort. It’s not even fifty feet wide. There’s privacy fencing on both sides. You can’t see inside, nor would you want to, I promise.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a swingers’ club for retirees. Our parents are too young to get in.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes way. Ask Wanda. They get busted for violating after-hours noise ordinances with all their swingers’ drinking parties. That’s why they had to put up the fencing. People complained.”

  “Gross.”

  “You say that now, but when you’re eighty and just want to get nude and be served a fruity umbrella drink on the beach by another eighty-year-old nude person, you’ll be thankful it’s here.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  He squints at me. “Why are you asking me about this?”

  I shrug. “Just curious.”

  “About getting naked on a beach?”

  I don’t say anything.

  His eyes go big. “Holy shit, that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?” He points at me and shakes his head. “Something’s not adding up here. This isn’t you. Now, me, I’m a fan of all things naked. And if you asked me to strip right now, I will. I’m not ashamed. I spent the first few years of my life on this planet naked in the ocean.”

  I believe that. I really do.

  “But you?” He squints at me. “What’s this all about?”

  Hesitating, I chew the inside of my mouth. “You remember when we were making out that night in the museum?”

  “Like every waking minute of my day,” he says with a slow smile.

  I chuckle. “Me too,” I admit before refocusing. “You remember when you started to touch my stomach, and I stopped you?”

  His smile fades. “Yeah. I’ve been wondering when you were going to tell me about that.”

  “I think I’m ready now.”

  He nods several times. “Cool. I’m glad.”

  Of course, now that I’ve said this, fear overtakes me. I hesitate, gritting my teeth. “Thing is, I need to show you, not tell you. I think this is one of the reasons I’ve hated beaches for so long . . . the bikini issue. So I think I should just do this, you know?” I’m not sure if I’m talking to him or myself, but it doesn’t matter. “Yeah. I’m going to do it.”

  He looks confused.

  “I’m about to get naked on this beach,” I tell him.

  “Oh, shit,” he says, looking truly stunned. “Okay. Um, all right. Yeah, okay.”

  “But I’ve never been naked on a beach with anyone, so this is weird for me.”

  He points at me and grins. “Not a problem. Would you like some company? I’m fond of being naked. It’s easier when the playing field’s even.”

  I consider his proposition. “Yeah, okay. That actually would make it easier.”

  “I just want you to know that there are so many jokes I could make right now,” he says.

  We both laugh, me a little nervously, and then decide upon a strip-poker method to the clothing removal. Porter volunteers to go first. He scans the beach to make sure we’re still alone, and without further ado, peels off his T-shirt. Nice, but it’s not really fair, because (A) I’ve seen it before, and (B) he’s not really exposing anything he can’t expose in public. He signals for me to go next.

  Carefully considering all my options (I’m smartly wearing good matching undergarments), I take off my shorts. He’s surprised. He also can’t take his eyes off me. I like that . . . I think. I haven’t decided yet. I just tell myself that it’s the same amount of fabric as wearing a bathing suit, so what’s the difference?

  “You play dirty, Rydell,” he says, unbuttoning his shorts. Before I can open my mouth to argue, he’s in nothing but a pa
ir of olive-colored boxer shorts.

  Whew. He’s got great legs.

  Okay, my turn again, as he helpfully reminds me with get on with it hand gestures. Guess it’s the shirt, I think as I pull it over my head and toss it to the sand. A bra is the same amount of fabric as a bathing suit, and it’s a good bra. I hear him suck in a quick breath, so I think that’s good? My boobs aren’t great, but they aren’t bad, either, and—

  His fingers trace the bottom of my scar. “Is this it? This is what I felt?”

  I look down at my ribs and cover his hand, pressing it against my stomach. Then I uncover them and we look together. It’s bright and sunny, and we’re both halfway naked. And if there’s anyone I feel safe with . . . if there’s anyone I trust, oddly enough, it’s Porter.

  “Yes, this is it,” I say.

  He looks at it. Glances at my face. Waits.

  “That’s where the bullet went in,” I tell him, fingering the puckered ridge of scarring that’s never completely healed right. I turn to the side and show him my back. “Here’s where it exited.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Greg Grumbacher. That’s where he shot me.”

  “You told me . . . I mean, I thought he shot your mom?”

  I shake my head slowly. “My mom wasn’t supposed to be home. He followed me home that day because his plan was to kill me. He had a note to leave with my body. His reasoning was that my mom took away his kid in the divorce, so he was taking away hers.”

  Porter stares at me.

  “Mom lunged for the gun, so he missed most of my vital organs. I bled a lot. They had to sew up some stuff. My lung collapsed. I was in the hospital for a couple of weeks.”

  His shoulders sag. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “You’re the first person I’ve told. My classmates heard, but my mom put me in another school after it happened. Anyway, there you go. Told you I was screwed up,” I say, giving him a small smile.

  He curls his hand around my waist, rubbing from the front scar to the back. “Thank you for telling me. For showing me.”