The Tribes of Palos Verdes

by Joy Nicholson

  “Please fall off!” I yell.

  But Jim comes out, ducking, pulling her quickly away.

  The water is bursting and boiling, coming apart at its seams, but I am beginning to breathe again. Struggling, I swim toward the beach.

  I retch a little when I climb out and hide from the surfers who watch.

  Skeezer comes over, trying to help me up, but I fling his hand off my shoulder.

  “It’s okay, Medina,” he says. “Don’t cry.”

  I pretend the tears are seawater—I wipe them off with my hand.

  “I’m fine,” I say, running for the stairs. “I just wanted to go for a swim.”

  * * *

  The next day there’s a pack of boys I hardly know from the north side of Palos Verdes. They’re gathered, whispering, on the cliff. Weird Jack Wenger follows me. He has glinting braces and hairy legs. While I wait for Adrian, he circles and circles like a shark, then moves in, asking me to go to Gull Cove with him.

  “I have a boyfriend now,” I say.

  He turns to his friends and laughs. “Medina Mason has a boyfriend.”

  The other boys whisper, “He’s a Val.”

  Jack comes toward me. “I heard all about your mother taking her clothes off. I guess it runs in the family.”

  He knocks me to my knees, opening the Velcro fly of his trunks, pulling my head close. “Do it, you crazy girl.”

  “Don’t go too far, man,” Jamie Weatherby says. “Jim Mason’s our friend. She’s his sister.”

  Jack lets off, and I head-butt him hard in the groin. As he goes down I run.

  “Jesus, what took you so long?” I ask Adrian, when he finally pulls up on the curb. I climb into his car in my wet suit, unzipping it while I climb in, shaking water all over the seat.

  “You look good in black,” he says.

  All the guys are looking at us talking, shaking their heads grimly.

  “What’s with those guys?” Adrian asks, adjusting his sunglasses.

  “I think one of them likes me.”

  “You’re gonna get me killed.” Adrian smiles, turning the key in the ignition.

  “What would you do if I kissed another guy?”

  “Why?”

  “Just asking.”

  I look at his hands opening and closing. “If you want to go with another guy,” he says, “then get out of my car right now.”

  I tell him, “I don’t really want to. I just wanted to see what you would say.”

  “Don’t play games like a little fifteen-year-old.”

  I pick up a cigarette, trying not to smile, but I can’t help it.

  * * *

  I smile all through dinner as my brother gets angrier. He’s been inside all day, cleaning the house, too embarrassed to come out and face the guys.

  Neither of us talks to my mother. She stomps off into her room.

  “You have to stay in and help me take care of Mom now,” he says. “We’ve got to stick together.”

  I tell him I couldn’t stand to be locked up all day with her, and he shouldn’t either. I tell him he isn’t her husband, even though she treats him like he is.

  His eyes narrow. “You’d just rather be with that Val,” he says, suddenly merciless, pinning my head against the wall. “You don’t care about anyone but him.”

  I look at him and say, “At least I go out. I don’t clean toilets for Mama.”

  When he punches, I fight back. My mother comes from her room, separating us with her hand. She slaps me in the face, hard, and says, “Get out of my house, girl.”

  * * *

  Adrian’s fumbling around in the ashtray for a joint, lighting it, putting it in my mouth, then in his. I ask him why he likes me, because I’m not even pretty.

  “You’re not pretty,” he says, drawing on the joint, “but you’re beautiful.”

  Later when we’re stoned, he tells me again how beautiful I am, how he can’t stop looking at me. I shrink back in the velour seats and laugh.

  “I’m like a man, and men aren’t beautiful.”

  “You are, man,” he answers. “You’re like the most beautiful man I’ve ever known.”

  At midnight, he tries to start the car. I grab the keys and throw them out the window, admitting the truth.

  “I’m sure my mother locked the doors. If I go home I’ll have to sleep in the yard in a sleeping bag,” I say, flushing, not looking at him.

  He holds me close, tells me it’s okay, we can sleep in the Mustang tonight.

  “I’ve never slept in a boy’s car before.”

  I recline on the seat, stretching toward him.

  “Also, I’ve never had sex before,” I say, looking down. “At least not really.”

  He sits very straight, stiff like a wax statue, all of a sudden flushing red.

  “You’re not a virgin, Medina. You don’t have to pretend.”

  “It doesn’t count if you don’t like the person,” I say.

  All he says is, “Goodnight.”

  Twenty minutes later I’m almost asleep, warm under Adrian’s coat, lulled by the soft sway of the waves. I feel his hand on my neck and lean toward him, stretching my body over the seats. His hand moves across my face, pushing the jacket aside, touching my shoulder. I bite his finger softly and then suck on it until he moans.

  “Do you like me more than the rest of the girls?”

  “Yes,” he says. “I like you more than Tina, Joan, Mary, Darcy, and Constance.” Then he laughs, low and teasing.

  It isn’t easy to lie back in a car, even in the comfortable velour backseat of the Mustang. We slip our hands into each other’s clothes, sweaty, breathing hard, fogging the windows with heat. I move against his hand, swaying to the sound of the water for twenty liquid minutes, faster and faster, until it happens.

  “That was so cool,” he says. “You should have seen your face.”

  I laugh, and tell him I have seen my face. “I’ve looked in a mirror while I’m doing it to myself.”

  He stares at me, raising an eyebrow, then lets his breath out slowly. “There’s no one like you,” he says, pulling me roughly on top of him.

  We wake at dawn, to the sound of firetrucks whirring and zooming past. We peek out sleepily and then fall back in the seats. A policeman taps on the window at six thirty.

  “All right, Miss Mason, move along now,” he says, surveying the car with his flashlight.

  Adrian starts the car, cute, blinking like a frog in the raw morning light.

  My brother is waiting in my room, eyes red and swollen. I crouch low in case he punches. Instead he smiles at me. “I’ve been up all night. I thought you ran away for good with that Val.”

  “I’m sorry about last night, Jim,” I say, wrapping him in a blanket. “I shouldn’t have said that about the toilets.”

  He waves his hand as if clearing the air between us and tells me to forget about it. He tries to snap me with the blanket, and misses.

  “So are you gonna come surfing with me, or are you gonna lie around all morning like a troll?” he says, connecting.

  * * *

  Jim and I are surfing close to the rocks when he falls, hitting his head on the reef. I jump off my board and swim to him fast. The salt water is red with his blood.

  “How come I always fall now?” he says, face very white, flicking blood from his hand into the waves.

  “Everyone wipes out, Jim. It’s no big deal.”

  He swishes the water, watching drops of blood mingle with the tide and slowly float away.

  “You never wipe out,” he says. “You’re better than me now.”

  He giggles strangely, says maybe he’s more like our mother, a freak.

  I’m careful not to insult her, not wanting another fight. “I thought I was the freak. Isn’t that what everybody says?”

  When he doesn’t answer, or even look at me, I splash him gently. He watches the dots of silver water arc upward, flinching when they hit him in the face. Then he shakes his head, as if waking
up from a heavy sleep.

  “I’ll tell you a secret.” His eyes suddenly focus on me, deep green, violent. “You’re the strong one, Medina.” He laughs again, a deep belly laugh, as if he’d just told a funny joke.

  Then he tells me everyone knows it, especially our mother.

  As we take the next wave to the beach he rides close to me, rubbing his face with salt water to clean it.

  The rest of the day at the beach he is mellow, cool to me. I sit right by his side and talk to him. He takes three black pills, swallows them, deliberately looking at me. Then he tells me again how sorry he is about last night.

  “I get so mad. Sometimes I wish everyone would just die.”

  I look at him, scared. He continues talking.

  “And being around all these perfect P.V. people makes it worse.” He gestures to the pretty girls sitting in a ring on the beach.

  “Forget them, we’re our own tribe, just me and you. They don’t understand anything about us.”

  My brother relaxes a bit, even smiles. “I think about that a lot—about sticking with your tribe until you die.” He puts his head against my shoulder, yawning. His eyes are peaceful. Then he closes them.

  When he wakes up, we have a long sandfight, and then we go surfing again. In the water I ask him about the pills.

  “They’re trippy,” he says evasively. “They make you feel really good.”

  “Can I have one then?”

  He tells me no, they’re only good if you need them. “You don’t need them, Medina, you never fall.”

  I want to ask him more details, but I’m afraid it will spoil the good mood between us. Instead I tease him, pointing to a blond girl in a white bikini.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather hang out with a nice girl like her?”

  “I’m tired of plastic girls,” Jim says, looking at Cindy Spink as she walks past. “You don’t know how tired.”

  * * *

  The next day Jim and I practice swimming from one end of the pool to the other without taking a breath. He dives deep under the water when our mother calls to him through the window.

  “Pretend you don’t hear her,” he whispers, motioning me out of the pool.

  We go to my room and I blast the music really loud, getting ready for a surf session. We dance around to punk rock, getting amped before running out my sliding glass door, racing each other to the cliff stairs. But when we get there, I see Adrian’s car parked at the cliffs. I smile nervously and wave to him. Jim shakes his head.

  “It’s never gonna be like it used to, is it?” Then he walks off. When I run after him, he tells me to go away, surf with my new boyfriend, see if he cares. But it’s easy to see he’s glad that I won’t.

  At Pratt Point, he doesn’t go in the water. He throws rocks at it instead.

  * * *

  The waves are unbelievable today, another storm from Mexico. I run to my brother’s room, excited. A heavy camping-sleeping bag is tied over the curtain rods, held in place with duct tape. It is so dark that at first I don’t see him. Then I hear him rustle in the bed, a lump under the army blankets on the far side.

  “I’m not hungry, Mom.”

  “It’s me, stupid,” I say. “Get up. The bay’s huge, you’ve got to get up.”

  “Go away,” he whispers. “I can’t get up. I feel terrible.”

  “I’m not lying,” I say. “It’s seven feet!”

  He rubs his head as if he has a terrible fever, his eyes are closed, and he is rocking. “Do you have any pot?” he asks.

  My mother comes in from the hall. “Don’t ever give him any pot, Medina.”

  My brother groans. “Would the two of you shut the fuck up!”

  “Jim,” my mother says, “don’t you dare talk to me like that.” Then she turns to me. “Don’t talk to your brother about the waves.”

  These are the biggest waves I’ve ever seen. A few guys are paddling out in the water, crowds of girls watch from the shore. Skeezer, sitting on dry land, looks at my board, laughs, and says I’m crazy. Ted slaps me on the back and says, “Go!” Everyone is watching me as I look at the huge walls of water. I head for the rocks, trying to smile.

  Storm oceans are thicker, heavier, weighted with churning sand. The waves, deep ocean swells, are arctic cold in some spots, suddenly warm in others.

  Waiting for a lull, I start to paddle out, aiming for the horizon. Seaweed thrashes around my ankles. The sun is half-hidden, orange, dull.

  The set starts before I’m ready. The water level suddenly changes, rising upward, growing taller, wider, impossibly vast. The ocean surges backward as if sucking in its breath, pulling everything toward its core. Trying to avoid being sucked in too soon, I aim the nose of my board to the right, only half in control. As I paddle frantically, a guy drops in too early, falling through the air, screaming into the wind. The wave pulls itself up like a mountain being born; it crests, then begins to fold, hissing. Broiling spray hits my face from six yards away.

  At the break line, the guys are lined up, tense and focused. A few smile, watching me struggle toward them. Most don’t even notice. As I approach, heart beating fast, Charlie Becker motions for me to line up next to him. “I see you’ve improved your paddling skills,” he calls out, winking at me. Then he tells me I can take his turn, but I better get ready, it’s coming up fast.

  The view from the backside of a wave is surreal. Surfers drop off the edge of the world, free-falling into space. As I watch them go, Charlie tells me not to be scared. “I’m not too scared,” I say, shivering.

  “Good,” he says gravely, eyes twinkling. “Because this one’s for you.” He gives my board a shove, calls to the guys that this is my wave.

  “Noooooooo,” I scream, dropping in, suddenly weightless, headed for the bottom, nose first. The wave begins to fold in on itself as I careen to the side, ducking down, wind whistling in my ears. Then I’m inside a long, blue cavern. It’s eerily soundless except for the noise of my board cutting through a thick wall of rushing liquid. The wave gets softer as it unfolds, looser, slower, more forgiving. I relax, letting the shape of the wave guide me across the bay. Just before it ends, I look at the people on the shore. Even though I know Skeezer’s watching, I can’t help it. I do a little dance, shaking my butt, moving my arms up and down like a disco queen.

  When I paddle out again, my teeth are chattering, arms numb, face frozen. An older guy nicknamed Teacher, because he wears glasses, paddles up beside me.

  “Excellent,” he says, slapping my back so hard it knocks the wind out of me.

  * * *

  Later, I burst through the door. Jim is on the couch, eating Count Chocula frosted cereal from the box with his hands. He is shaking, like he’s cold, and looking at the cartoons on the television.

  “Come on, Medina, narrate,” he says.

  Instead I tell him about the huge waves, how everyone saw, how I only fell twice.

  “It was so rad,” I say, “like taking off on a 747 plane.”

  “Please shut up and narrate,” he says, face tense, eyes closed.

  When I do the cartoon sound effects, Jim starts to laugh.

  “Bugs is waiting under a bush, he clobbers Elmer with a pail. Elmer’s head turns into a pail, it pops back into shape…”

  “I love that,” he says, standing up. “I always feel better when you do that.”

  “That’s all folks,” I say, imitating Elmer Fudd, trying to smile.

  He laughs and leaves the house, slamming the door behind him.

  “Let him go,” I tell my mother as she follows. “Please.”

  * * *

  All night I hear the storm waves crash against the side of the cliff below the house, bigger and bigger. Jim comes in at midnight, walking unsteadily down the hall, trying to tiptoe over the loud spots on the floor. My mother stays in her room eating chips from a bag. I hear the pop and the pug dog wiggling. The waves rise ever higher, crashing without mercy against the rocks, until no one can sleep. We all m
eet in the kitchen at two.

  “Don’t talk about the waves,” my mother says to me. “Don’t say anything.”

  Jim stares at me intensely, laughing, his pupils alert black dots. His skin is waxy and moist, his hands trembling.

  Excitedly he says, “I heard you kicked ass out there today, girl. I heard even Skeezer wouldn’t go out. Congratufuckinglations.”

  “Don’t say a word,” my mother says, standing up quickly, slamming the refrigerator door shut. A jar of mayonnaise shatters on the floor.

  “Did you almost die?” Jim says.

  I smile at him; I don’t say a word.

  “I’m going out surfing with you tomorrow,” he says. “I feel so good.”

  Tide

  At dawn the storm is over. Everything slows to a dead stop.

  The water under my house shimmers like blood and glitter.

  A few Bayboys laze on the cliffs, sitting dumbly on their boards, smoking burning joints and bickering. Seagulls cruise overhead, confused, not knowing where to land. A local news crew arrives.

  “Red tide is a natural occurrence, a surge of tiny one-celled sea organisms called phytoplankton, which can unexpectedly proliferate and spread over a large area…”

  The television broadcast goes on all morning, as reporters try to explain to the bewildered citizens what has overtaken their shores. The red glow in the water is due to an invasive microscopic plant, probably washed in by the storm. Each liter of sea water contains millions.

  The tide itself is not harmful to humans, but it is deadly to fish, eating up oxygen in the water, so fish literally drown.

  “The only possible danger to human health comes from rotting fish,” a newscaster warns. “Citizens should avoid all areas near the water.”

  * * *

  They shut down the tennis club on the second day.

  Closed until further notice, by order of the U.S. Health Department due to the red tide. We will inform members by telephone of all changes in status.

  Sincere apologies,

  The management.

  * * *

  Everyone has his own view of the red tide. Especially people with an ocean view.