I struggled into the wetsuit, muttering curses as I fought the unforgiving neoprene. But as soon as my bare fingers touched the water, I was happy to have it. The water was almost unbearably cold. I dove in and came up sputtering; it felt like my head had been encased in ice, and my teeth were already chattering.
How on earth do people stand this? I wondered as I hopped on my board and started paddling out.
I sat shivering for ten minutes before a rideable set finally came in. I paddled hard to catch the first wave, pushing up to standing as soon as the board caught and lifted below me.
I let out a whoop as the wave swept me along, bringing me racing toward shore. I’d timed it perfectly: my board tore along just below the crest. I cut out before it broke, chasing foam over the top before settling my board onto the wave’s back.
I was grinning like a crazy person as I paddled back out to wait for another wave. Sure, the water was icy, it took forever to get here, and the neoprene was chafing the hell out of me.
But in spite of all that, I was happy—truly happy—for the first time since I’d left home.
I caught another dozen waves, each better than the last. I understood immediately why surfers discussed Ocean Beach with reverence and more than a little fear in their voices. My breath caught each time a wave picked me up, it was like being lifted by a giant hand that was debating whether to carry or crush me. I’d surfed some unruly breaks before, but this was a whole different beast.
A couple hours in, I decided the next wave would be my last. The tips of my fingers were wrinkled and blue, my toes numb despite the neoprene booties. Surfing an unfamiliar break when I was tired and cold would be a mistake; that’s when people got in trouble.
I caught the next wave, a perfect left. As I was coasting down the front of it, knees slightly bent, arms out to the side, I saw movement in my peripheral vision. Frowning, I tilted my head: another surfer was approaching at warp speed.
He yelped and tried to pull out, but it was too late. A lurch as our boards collided, and I was sent flying.
I somersaulted through water churning with sand and foam, immediately losing all sense of which way was up. My lungs strained as my body finally stilled. This was exactly how most surfers drowned: they ended up swimming for what they thought was the surface, and ended up on the ocean floor instead. And then their air ran out.
The important thing was not to panic: my dad had drilled that into me from day one. So I waited, the roar of water abnormally loud in my ears. After a few long beats, my hands floated up. I kicked in that direction, following them.
I surfaced just in time to see another huge wave bearing down on me.
Sucking in a deep breath, I dove back down, letting myself get spun around again. After kicking to the surface a second time, I found myself caught in a trough, the gap between waves. I gulped in another breath and swirled back into the spin cycle.
I could feel myself weakening; fighting the waves consumed too much energy. My head throbbed from the cold, and my ears burned. Please let this be the last one, I prayed. Waves usually came in sets of three, but that wasn’t a hard and fast rule. I couldn’t do this for much longer.
Of course, I could stop fighting, I suddenly realized. Just let go. There were worse ways to die. Drowning would be relatively quick and painless.
For a moment, I saw my parents as clearly as if they were standing right in front of me. Their arms on each other’s shoulders, the sun setting behind them. They smiled and reached for me . . .
No, I thought. They’d never forgive me.
Weakly, I kicked back to the surface.
The incoming wave was much smaller, and gentle enough to ride in. Enormously relieved, I floated on my back, letting it carry me toward shore.
Abruptly, someone grabbed me by the armpits and started dragging me through the breakers.
“Hey! What—” I struggled against my attacker. “Let go of me!”
“I got you,” he gasped. “Just hang on.”
He dumped me unceremoniously on the edge of the beach. I lunged to my feet and whirled around. “What are you doing?”
“Saving you.” The guy’s hands were on his knees, his back heaving as he tried to catch his breath. “Man, that was close.”
“Saving me? You nearly killed me! What the hell were you thinking, dropping in on my wave?”
“Dropping in?”
“Yes, you moron.” I resisted the urge to throttle him. Dropping in on a wave was pretty much the worst offense a surfer could commit. Once you caught a wave, it was yours and yours alone. Sharing waves was too dangerous, because you could crash into each other—the way that we had. “Don’t you know anything?”
He straightened, and the tirade caught in my throat.
It was the guy from the dance, the one with the Sergeant Pepper tie.
He stared back at me, looking equally perplexed. “You.”
“Yeah, it’s me,” I grumbled, still miffed.
“So you’re a surfer girl?” A slow smile broke across his face. “Cool.”
I tried not to notice how the wetsuit stretched across his broad shoulders, and nipped tightly around his waist. With water dripping from his curls, he looked even better than he had in the jacket and tie. Snap out of it, I reminded myself. He was cute, but he’d almost gotten us both killed. “And you’re what, a gremmy?”
“What’s a gremmy?” he asked. A smile still danced across his lips, like he found me wildly entertaining. Which only annoyed me more.
“A rookie,” I snapped. “Someone who doesn’t know better.”
At least he had the good grace to look embarrassed as he shrugged. “I’ve only had a few weeks of surf camp, so I guess I am a gremmy.” He ran a hand through his wet curls. “Sorry I ran into you.”
“Well, you should be.” As I squeezed the excess water out of my hair, my hands encountered knots gritted with sand. I probably looked like a drowned kitten. “Aren’t there easier breaks to learn on?” I turned to scan for my board, spotting it being tossed by the breakers twenty feet away.
“I usually go to Linda Mar, down the coast,” he confessed, surveying the waves ruefully. “But I thought I was ready for this.”
“You’re lucky we didn’t both drown,” I scoffed.
“I know. Let me make it up to you,” he offered. “With breakfast. My treat.”
I weighed the offer; it wasn’t like I had anywhere else to be, and I was starving. Plus the thought of climbing back on a series of buses for the long ride back to the Rochesters was too depressing for words.
“Fine,” I said. “Breakfast.”
Twenty minutes later, we were ensconced at a table in a Denny’s a few blocks away. I’d changed back into my clothes, and was uncomfortably aware of the fine layer of sand covering me. There were no showers at Ocean Beach, or palm trees to hang out under while the sun baked you dry. Still, I reminded myself, it had been a pretty good morning. As I perused the sticky menu, my stomach growled.
“I’m Daniel, by the way.”
“Janie.”
He reached a hand across the table, and I shook it awkwardly. Did kids really shake hands here? It seemed so weird.
“So you just started at Hamill?” he asked.
“Yup. I’m five days into my sentence,” I said.
He laughed. “That bad?”
“Worse,” I muttered. The waitress finally came over, and I ordered a grand slam with a side of extra bacon. His eyebrows arched up. “What?” I asked.
“Nothing. It’s just nice to meet a girl who actually eats. Most Hamill girls count lattes as food.” He crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward. “So I’m guessing you grew up surfing?”
“Pretty much. I was doing it every day, up until a few weeks ago.”
“I’m jealous,” he said. “How do you like it here so far
?”
“I hate it,” I admitted. “It’s cold, and school sucks, and I have to wear a uniform that makes me look like a ten-year-old.”
He laughed again. “Don’t hold back. Tell me how you really feel.”
I felt a flush spread across my cheeks. “Sorry. I just miss home.”
“I get that,” he said sympathetically. “So why’d you move?”
The lump climbed back into my throat. Don’t you dare cry, I admonished myself. “My parents died.”
His face fell. “Oh, crap. God, I’m really sorry, Janie.”
The pity in his eyes was almost too much to bear. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you feel sorry for me. People have been giving me that look since the accident, and I hate it.”
“Okay,” he said gravely. “Do you prefer this look?” As he drew back from the table, his eyebrows shot up, and his mouth gaped open in mock horror. “Better?”
He looked so ridiculous, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Not really.”
“How about this, then?” He cupped his chin in one hand and wrinkled his forehead.
“Worse. Much worse.”
“Well, I give up.” He threw his hands up in mock surrender. “I could go Blue Steel on you, but it would render you completely powerless.”
“Really.” I rolled my eyes. “And that works on all the girls?”
“Some,” he said, flashing a cocky grin.
“I’ll bet,” I mumbled. Daniel seemed nice enough, but it was hard to trust a guy who was so attractive. He was probably a player, like Tommy Oliver.
Our food arrived, and we both dug in. I was mopping up the last of the eggs with my toast when I caught him watching me. “What?”
“Nothing. It’s just . . . do you think you could teach me?”
“To surf?”
“Yeah.”
“What about surf camp?” I teased.
“I’m guessing you know more than they do.”
“What do I get for it?” I asked, emboldened.
Daniel looked amused. “What do you want?”
A real date, I thought before catching myself. “A ride home. I had to take three buses to get here.”
“Done,” he said solemnly, reaching across the table with his hand again.
I stared at it, then shook my head. “Lesson one. Surfers don’t shake hands.”
“They don’t?”
“Never,” I said gravely. “Makes you look like a true gremmy.”
“Man.” He sat back in his seat. “Clearly I have so much to learn.”
“Stick with me, little grasshopper. I’ll make a surfer of you yet.”
Daniel pulled up to the Rochesters’ front door. We both sat for a minute, staring up at the house.
“Georgina lives here, right?” he finally said.
“You know her?” I asked, startled.
“Oh, yeah,” he said with an odd laugh. “Everyone knows Georgie.”
“Knows her how?” I asked, not liking his tone.
“Never mind.” Avoiding my eyes, he added, “See you tomorrow, right? Bright and early?”
“Yeah, tomorrow,” I mumbled, already getting out of the car. I retrieved my surfboard from the hatch and carried it to the foreboding entrance, then propped it against the side of the house. There had to be a better place to keep it than my bedroom, especially now that it was covered in sand. The garage, maybe?
I was debating what to do with it when the front door flew open. Marion glared at me, her face livid with rage.
“Where were you?” she demanded, drawing out each syllable.
“Surfing,” I said, taken aback. “What’s wrong—”
“Janie!” Richard appeared at her shoulder. “Oh, thank God. We were so worried.”
“Worried?” I said, confused. “Why?”
“Get inside,” Marion hissed. “I will not discuss this in public.”
I glanced back over my shoulder, thinking, Public? There’s no one in sight. But I shuffled into the house. Marion slammed the door and then spat, “You snuck out of the house like a criminal.” She eyed the board. “Were you at the beach?”
She pronounced it the way you’d say, “crack house” or “brothel.”
“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” I muttered. “I thought I’d be back before everyone woke up.”
“You thought wrong,” she said coldly.
“Yeah, sure. Sorry,” I repeated, trying to quell a sudden surge of anger. I’d barely even seen Marion this week, aside from passing her in the halls. She’d been taking breakfast in her room, and every night the Rochesters were at some society function. Before today she hadn’t shown any interest in how I spent my time, so what was the big deal with going surfing? Still, to appease her I said, “I guess I should give you my cell number for next time, huh?”
“Next time?” Marion repeated, her nostrils flaring.
“It’s okay, Janie.” Richard stepped forward, as if trying to physically shield me from Marion’s wrath. “I know you’re still adjusting to how we do things around here.”
I bit back a retort; no one had even told me what the rules were, so how was I supposed to avoid breaking them? Instead, I said, “I’m a little tired. Is it okay if I go to my room?”
“Your room?” Marion glared at me, then turned to her husband. “I am done, Richard. Do you hear me? Done. You deal with her.” She spun and stormed off down the hall.
I stared after her, flabbergasted. My parents had been considered strict, in that I actually had a curfew. But even the few times I’d gotten in trouble, Mom and Dad had never reacted like this. I felt sick. Marion clearly hated me, and I had no clue why. The lump in my throat returned. Why was everyone so awful here?
Richard offered me a faint smile. “We were supposed to head up to Napa this morning,” he said. “Marion is a little put out because we had to wait for you to get back.”
“Napa?” I said dumbly.
Richard nodded. “There’s a fundraiser tonight, and the whole family is expected to attend. You included,” he added pointedly.
My heart sank; I was supposed to go surfing with Daniel tomorrow. “I can just stay here. I have a lot of homework to catch up on anyway—”
Richard was already shaking his head. “We leave in a half hour. Be sure to pack something semi-formal. The dress from last night will be fine, if it’s still clean. If not, I’ll have Georgie lend you one.”
He strode off, apparently concluding that the conversation was over.
I stood there, stunned. Why on earth did they want me to go with them? Marion couldn’t stand being in the same room with me. And now we were supposed to spend the rest of the weekend together?
I dragged myself upstairs to my room. Seeing the door ajar, I frowned; I distinctly remembered closing it when I left.
Entering, my jaw dropped.
Everything had been dragged into the center of the bedroom. Boxes had been opened; clothing and personal items spilled out the tops. My jaw clenched at the thought of someone going through my things. Had Marion done this? Or Georgina? But why? I couldn’t imagine that my third grade swimming medal would interest them.
Something propped up on my bed caught my attention. Bessie, the doll I’d slept with when I was little, lay on top of the pillows. Her skirts were pulled up over her head.
What the hell?
I picked her up and smoothed her clothing. Turning her over, I gasped.
There were two gaping holes where Bessie’s blue eyes used to be, surrounded by jagged red marker lines. It looked like she was weeping blood.
A noise behind me.
I whipped around: Nicholas was hovering on the threshold, a guilty expression on his face.
“I’m sorry,” he said with a hitch
in his voice. “Eliza made me do it.”
“I said I was sorry,” Nicholas pleaded. “I’ll have Daddy get you another doll. I promise.”
We were sitting in the back of the Town Car, with Bob at the wheel. He kept casting concerned glances back at Nicholas’s tear-streaked face. Alma sat on his other side, her jaw set in a tight line. I wondered if she understood what we were talking about; she didn’t seem to speak much English. Georgina had opted to go to Napa with one of her friends, and Richard and Marion were driving separately in their Tesla. Which made this the car equivalent of the kids’ table.
It also made me wonder why they’d bothered waiting for me in the first place.
But Marion’s unwarranted fit about me going surfing had fallen to a distant second place; right now, I was determined to find out why Nicholas had disfigured Bessie. Remembering her face, I shuddered. I didn’t have a lot of experience with grieving kids (other than myself, of course). Still, ripping out a doll’s eyes didn’t seem like normal behavior.
“I don’t want another doll,” I told him gently. “I just want to know what happened.”
“Eliza made me do it,” Nicholas insisted again, his lower lip quivering. “I told her I didn’t want to, but she said if I didn’t, she’d do something worse. Much worse.”
It was hard to argue with a kid who was convinced that his dead twin sister was still ordering him around. I had to try, though. “Nicholas, I know it was probably pretty upsetting, finding out that I was coming to live with you. If you’re worried about getting less attention from your parents—”
“No!” he interrupted. “I was so excited. And you actually play with me, like I was hoping you would.” His eyes slid toward Alma as he added in a whisper, “No one else plays with me.”
Nicholas’s tone was heart wrenching. Maybe he was acting out because he wanted me to spend even more time with him; as far as I could tell, no one else bothered. Even now, when he was crying, Alma ignored him. She leaned back against the upholstery, eyes closed. I wasn’t sure if she was his official nanny, but still; she’d known him since birth. She should be chastising me for upsetting him, not pretending she wasn’t even in the car with us. Based on what I’d seen, it was hard to believe that she’d served as a second mother to Richard and my dad.
Unearthly Things Page 6