Alex, Approximately

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Alex, Approximately Page 28

by Jenn Bennett


  “I don’t know,” he says, rubbing a gentle hand over my cheek. “But you are.”

  • • •

  The following day, I decide I am finished letting Porter simmer. No more games. This whole thing has spun so far out of control. I am just . . . done.

  At eight in the morning, I text Porter and tell him I want to meet and talk. He suggests the surf shop. He says his family is at the beach, watching Lana surf, and he is there alone opening the shop. It hurts my heart that he’s not out there with them, but I don’t say that, of course. Our texting is all very civil. And meeting in a public place sounds like a reasonable plan.

  It takes me a little while to stoke up my courage. I cruise down Gold Avenue. Circle the boardwalk parking lots. Idle for a minute watching the fog-covered top of the Bumblebee Lifts. Speed down the alley to make sure Mr. Roth’s van isn’t parked out back.

  Since I’m unsure where our relationship stands, I decide to park Baby in front of the shop, like a lot of the other scooters do along the boardwalk storefronts. No special privileges: I can walk through the entrance like any other Mary, Jane, or Sue.

  Ignoring the compelling scent of the first churros being fried that morning, I spy movement in the shop and wait for Porter to let me inside. Surf wax wafts when the door swings open. But it’s the sight of his handsome face that makes my throat tighten painfully.

  “Hi,” I say stoically.

  “Hi,” he answers gruffly.

  I stand there for a second, and then he gestures for me to come inside. When I do, that big white fluffy cat I saw on the roof with Don Gato tries to sneak in the door with me. He shoos it away with his foot and says, “Scram.”

  He locks the door behind me before glancing at his red surf watch, changing his mind, and unlocking it again. “One minute until nine,” he explains. “Time to open.”

  “Oh,” I say. Doesn’t really look like there’s a line of people itching to get inside, so I guess we still have plenty of privacy. Then again, I don’t know when his family’s coming back. Better make this quick.

  Ooaf. Why am I so nervous?

  Porter looks in turns hopeful and worried and wary. He shoves his hands into his pockets and heads toward the back of the shop. I follow. When he gets to the counter, he walks around it and faces me like I’m a customer.

  Okay, then.

  “So . . . ,” he says. “You mentioned that you were ready to talk.”

  Nodding, I reach inside my pocket and pull out the shark tooth. I’ve already removed my keys. I set it down on the counter and slide it toward him. “You gave this to me on the condition that I be more honest and open with you because you need to trust me. However, I’ve clearly done something that has hurt you, and must assume that I have broken your trust. Therefore, I am returning your tooth, and dissolving our . . . whatever it is we are—”

  “Bailey—”

  “Please let me finish. My mom’s a lawyer. I know how important verbal contracts are.”

  “Dammit, Bailey.”

  The shop door opens behind me. Great. Can’t people wait five stinking minutes for Mr. Zog’s Sex Wax? I mean, come on.

  Just when I’m ready to move aside and let Porter deal with the customer walking up behind me, Porter’s expression transforms into something very close to rage. And it’s at this exact moment that I recognize the pattern I’m hearing on the wooden floor. It’s not the sound of someone walking: it’s the sound of someone limping.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Porter shouts.

  I swing around, heart pounding, and see Davy heading toward me. He looks much rougher than the last time I saw him at Fast Mike’s motorcycle garage, which is saying a lot. He’s not only wearing a shirt, miracle of miracles, he’s wearing a sand-colored trench coat, and it looks like he’s still on at least one crutch, partially hidden behind the coat.

  “Hello, cowgirl,” he says in an emotionless, lazy voice that sounds like it got flattened by an eighteen-wheeler. He’s high as hell—on what, I don’t know. But his eyes are just as dead as his words, and his head’s moving a little funny, bobbing and weaving.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement from Porter.

  “Nuh-uh.” Davy lifts his crutch and points it in Porter’s direction.

  Only, it’s not a crutch. It’s the shotgun from the bonfire.

  I freeze. So does Porter; he was in the middle of bounding over the counter.

  “Saw you riding around in the parking lot earlier,” Davy says to me. “Thought maybe you were coming over to apologize. But you drove right past me.”

  Shit! How could I have not noticed Davy’s big yellow truck?

  “Put the gun down, Davy,” Porter says in a casual voice that sounds a little forced. “Come on, man. That’s insane. Where did you even get that thing? If someone saw you walking around with that, you could end up in jail. Don’t be stupid.”

  “Who’s going to see me?”

  “Anyone who walks in here,” Porter says. “Dude, we’re open. My folks are on their way back from the beach. They just called. They’ll be here in two minutes. And you know Mr. Kramer comes in here every morning. He’ll call the cops, man.”

  Davy thinks about this a second and waves the gun toward me.

  Breathe, I tell myself.

  “Cowgirl here can go lock the door. I want a private conversation, just the three of us. I’ve got a beef with the two of you. An apology is owed, and maybe a little cash out of the register while you’re at it. Payback for pain and misery suffered. What you did to my knee.”

  I don’t move.

  “My parents are just down the street,” Porter repeats, this time sounding angry.

  Davy shrugs. “Guess you better hurry with the register, then. Go lock the door, cowgirl.”

  I flick a glance at Porter. He’s breathing heavy. I can’t read his face all that well, but what I do know is that he’s absolutely miserable and conflicted. Funny thing is, for the first time in forever, I’m not. I’m scared and worried, yes. And I hate the sight of that goddamn gun with an unholy passion I can’t measure.

  But I am not afraid of Davy.

  I am furious.

  I just don’t know what to do about him.

  Eyes guarded, I plod to the front door and lock it. The windows are enormous; I can see his reflection in the glass, so I watch him the entire way there. Watch him watching Porter, because that’s where he’s pointing the shotgun now. And why wouldn’t he? Porter’s the one who kicked his ass. Porter’s the one who nearly jumped the counter. Porter’s an athlete, nothing but muscle. Even a rational, sober person would consider Porter the bigger threat.

  Davy’s not sober.

  I take my time strolling back to them, and I think about my dad’s warnings about oversteering, and about how I exploded in the Hotbox—twice. I think about all my Artful Dodger skills and how they’re partly inherited from my CPA dad, and his love of details and numbers, and partly inherited from my attorney mom, and her love of finding loopholes. I think about how my dad said I’m going to be okay because I’m willing to try to get better.

  But mainly I think about that day last month when those two punks tried to steal the Maltese falcon from the Cave. They underestimated me too.

  Davy gives me a brief look, enough to see that I’m approaching but giving him a wide berth, head down. “Locked up tight?”

  “Yep,” I say.

  “All right,” he says, pointing the shotgun at Porter. “Register. Empty it.”

  Lowest of lows. Robbing your best friend’s family. I know Porter’s thinking it, but he says nothing. His jaw is tight as he presses a few buttons on the computer screen. “Haven’t started it up yet,” he explains. “Can’t open the drawer until the program’s running. Hold on a sec.”

  Bullshit. He must have put the drawer in himself, so the computer’s on. He probably has a key to the drawer. But Davy’s too stoned to realize this, so he waits. And while he does, Porter’s eyes dart toward mine. And in that
beautiful, singular moment, I know we’re both linked up.

  Trust is a golden gift, and this time, I’m not wasting it.

  I shift my focus to Davy. The counter is in front of him, and behind him is a rack with some short, squat bodyboards on it—a third the size of a surfboard, but “way lamer,” as Porter once joked.

  I wait. Come on, Porter. Give me an opening.

  As if he’s read my mind, he suddenly says, “Oh, lookie here. The computer is finally waking up, Davy.”

  Davy’s head turns toward Porter.

  I step back, slip around, and slide one of the bodyboards off the stand. As I do, it makes a sound. Crap! It’s also a lot lighter than I hoped. Oh, well. Too late now, because Davy’s turning around, cognizant that I’m closer than he expected. I don’t have a choice.

  Right as his gaze connects with mine, I grip the board in both hands, rear back, and smack him in the side of the face.

  He cries out as his head whips sideways. His step falters, and he stumbles.

  The shotgun swings around wildly and clips me in the shoulder. I grab it and try to wrestle it out of his hand. It suddenly breaks free, and I fly backward with the gun—but that’s because Porter has hurdled over the counter.

  Porter slams Davy to the floor as my back hits the rack of bodyboards, knocking them over. I scramble to stay on my feet and hold on to the shotgun, but fail.

  I fall on my face.

  “Porter!” I’m swimming in a sea of foam bodyboards. The boys are struggling on the floor, and all I can see is Porter’s arm pounding like a piston and Davy’s trench coat flapping and tangling around his legs.

  And then—

  A loud whimper.

  Heart knocking against my rib cage, I shove the bodyboards aside and jump to my feet.

  Porter is lying on the floor.

  Davy is below him, facedown. One cheek is turned against the wood. One eye blinking away tears.

  “I’m sorry,” Davy says hoarsely.

  “Me too,” Porter says, pinning Davy’s arms to the floor. “I tried, man. Someone else is going to have to save you now.”

  Porter looks up at me and nods. I set the gun on the floor and kick it out of the way. Then I dig my phone out of my pocket and dial 911.

  “Uh, yeah,” I say into the phone, out of breath, swallowing hard. “I’m at Penny Boards Surf Shop on the boardwalk. There’s been an attempted armed robbery. We’re okay. But you need to send someone to come arrest the guy. And you also need to call Sergeant Wanda Mendoza immediately and tell her to come to the scene right now.”

  “I may go back to hating you. It was more fun.”

  —Cary Grant, North by Northwest (1959)

  27

  * * *

  Turns out, Davy’s shotgun was stolen. He also had a hella bunch of heroin and other narcotics in his coat. Wanda says since he’s a month from turning eighteen and he’s been arrested before, he might be tried as an adult and serve some time in prison. Right now, he’s being detoxed in a jail cell. Wanda says his attorney will try to persuade the judge to put him a state-run rehab facility for a couple of weeks while he awaits trial. No guarantee that will happen, though.

  I get all this information the day after the events in the surf shop, so I relay it by text to Porter and let him know. We haven’t really had any time to talk, what with all the chaos. His family showed up a few minutes after the cops and were understandably freaked. Mr. Roth was so angry at Davy, he had to be restrained until Mrs. Roth could talk him down. Wanda called my dad, who immediately left work and rushed over to the surf shop to make sure I was okay. It was a whole fiasco.

  By the time we’d given statements and everyone cleared out, Porter had to go to work at the Cave, so I followed my dad home. It wasn’t until he was ordering us lunch that I realized Porter had, at some point when I wasn’t paying attention, slipped the shark tooth back into my pocket. I got a text from him a few minutes later.

  All it said was: We’re not done talking.

  The next day after dinner, out of the blue, my dad asks to see my old map of the boardwalk. I’d almost thrown it away in a fit when Alex blew me off weeks ago. I have to dig it out from my desk drawer in my bedroom. Dad spreads it out on the patio table near our redwood tree and studies it, nodding slowly.

  “What?” I say.

  Dad sits back in his chair and smiles at me. “You know, you’re tenacious and stubborn. You got that from your mom. It’s what makes her a great lawyer. I love tenacious women. That’s what attracted me to Wanda. It’s what makes her a good cop.”

  I give him the side eye. Where’s he going with this?

  “However, this tenacity thing also has its downside, because it’s all forward movement with blinders on. Like a horse, you know?” He holds his hands up on either side of his eyes. “You plow ahead, and you make a lot of progress that other people wouldn’t make, but you can’t see what’s happening on either side of the road. You have blind spots. You ignore things that are right next to you. Your mom did that all the time.”

  “Is that why you got divorced?”

  He thinks about this for a long moment. “It was one reason. But this isn’t about your mom and me. I’m talking about you. And your blind spots. Don’t be too tenacious. Sometimes you’ve got to stop and look around.”

  “Why don’t you ever just come out and tell me what you’re trying to say, Master Yoda?”

  “Because I’m trying to raise you to think for yourself, young Jedi. I can offer advice, but you’ve got to do the work. The whole goal of parenting is for you to become an independent young woman and come up with your own answers. Not for me to provide them for you.”

  “It sounds like you read that in a parenting book.”

  He holds back a smile. “Maybe I did.”

  “What a dork,” I tease. “Okay, what’s your advice, then? Lay it on me.”

  “Have you told Porter that you were talking to Alex before you moved out here?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Maybe you should. People can sense when you’re holding things back from them. I knew your mom was cheating on me with Nate for months before she told me. I had no proof, but I could sense something was wrong.”

  I’m so floored by this, I don’t know what to say. Dad has never talked much about Nate—or that he knew Mom was cheating with Nate. It makes me uncomfortable. What’s weird is that he’s so blasé. But it’s sort of weirder that we can talk about this together now. And wait just one stinking second—

  “I wasn’t cheating on Porter with Alex,” I tell him. “Or cheating on Alex with Porter.”

  “What you actually did or didn’t do doesn’t matter,” Dad says. “It’s the secrecy that eats away at you. Just tell Porter. And maybe be honest with Alex while you’re at it. You’ll feel better, I promise.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I mutter.

  “Like I said, it’s not my job to do the work for you.” He folds up the map in neat squares. “But my advice, dearest daughter, is that you settle up your boy problems in order, one at a time.”

  • • •

  It takes me an entire day to think about everything Dad said, but I think I finally see the logic. Alex was a big part of my daily life for a long time. And, sure, he blew me off. But I should have told him I’d moved across the country. Maybe if I tell him now, he won’t even care anymore, especially now that I’ve broken the ice about Porter in that last heart-to-heart messaging we had. I guess I won’t know until I try.

  @mink: Hey. Me again. Are you still out there?

  His reply comes two hours later:

  @alex: I’m here. What’s up?

  @mink: Since we were being all super honest in our last talk, I thought I’d do some more bean spilling. This one is a little bigger. Are you ready?

  @alex: Should I be sitting? *is afraid*

  @mink: Probably.

  @alex: Sitting.

  @mink: Okay, so here’s the deal. I’m in town, living with my dad, a
nd have been here for a while. Sorry I didn’t say anything. Long story, but I was worried it might be weird, and I have a tendency to avoid confrontation. But better late than never? I was wondering if you wanted to get together and have lunch. Anyways . . . this is getting awkward, so I’ll shut up. I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry I never said anything about being here, and I thought maybe I could apologize in person, since we’re both in the same town and used to be friends. (And hopefully still are?) What do you say?

  I wait and wait and wait for his reply. This is a mistake. I should probably delete my message. If he hasn’t read it yet, I might still be able to . . .

  @alex: What about your boyfriend?

  @mink: This would be a nonromantic lunch. I’m sorry, nothing’s changed since our last conversation. I’m still not over him.

  @alex: Why don’t we go with our original plan? Meet me Sunday night on the beach under the California flag, half an hour before the film festival’s showing of North by Northwest.

  Oh, crap. I wasn’t prepared for that! I tear my room apart searching for the film festival guide that Patrick gave me and look up the schedule for the free films they’re showing on the beach. North by Northwest doesn’t start until nine p.m. It will be dark by then. Should I meet a strange boy after dark? That doesn’t seem advisable. Then again, it’s a public place, and when I browse the film guide, there are photos from last year; all the concessions areas appear well lit. Surely the flag is somewhere around there.

  Should I do this? The Artful Dodger definitely would not. But am I that person anymore?

  @mink: Okay. I’ll meet you there.

  That’s one boy problem taken care of. Now for the next. This one seems harder. I shoot off a quick text.

  Me: Hey, you busy? I was hoping we could meet somewhere and talk. I’m willing to do the quid pro quo thing now. You win.

  Porter: Actually, I’m sort of booked until after Sunday. How about after that?

  Me: Okay, it’s a deal. Will text you then.

  Actually, I’m relieved. North by Northwest is on Sunday, so that gives me time to meet Alex and mend things with him before I talk to Porter. Who knew two boys could be so much trouble?

 

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