Girl Out of Water

by Laura Silverman

  And I fall asleep, not to Eric’s voice, but to the crackling roar of the water.

  Four

  It only takes three days of helping out around the house for me to decide I never want kids. Ever. Unless I’m a millionaire and can pay other people to take care of them. But even then, I’m pretty skeptical about the whole thing. I don’t know how Aunt Jackie does it. I have a lot of endurance, but after less than seventy-two hours, I’m ready to drop.

  One of Aunt Jackie’s friends had a lead for construction work on the new city hall, and Dad jumped at the opportunity to bring in some money while we’re here, which is great and all, but that leaves me stuck alone with all the kids trying to keep the house standing.

  Emery is pretty easy to handle because she spends 95 percent of her time in her room and online. Every now and then she comes out, phone in hand, and settles next to me on the couch. I wish I could offer to take her to her friends’ houses or the movies, but I don’t have a license, and even if I did have a license, I don’t have access to a car, and even if I did have a license and access to a car, part of me thinks I’d pile all three kids in the backseat and head straight for Santa Cruz.

  It’s the boys who are out of control. I’m trying to be patient. I really am. My chest gets tight when I think about all my cousins have been through. They only have one living parent, and she’s currently in the hospital. Sure, the worst is over. Aunt Jackie has a long road of recovery ahead of her, but she’ll be okay. But that doesn’t make what could have happened any less scary. I want to be sensitive, but it’s hard to be sensitive—to stay sensitive—when living under the same roof as Parker and Nash.

  I’m not sure if all kids have this much energy or if I just hit the familial jackpot. Sometimes I get a break when they play one of their multiplayer games on the Xbox, but most of the day, they trail me around the house with a never-ending chant of, “We’re bored. We’re bored. We’re bored.”

  This was never a problem in Santa Cruz because there’s an ocean, and nine-year-old boys can boogie board and fly kites and throw seashells at one another to their hearts’ content.

  But Nebraska doesn’t have an ocean.

  It has yellow grass and central AC.

  Everyone is particularly on edge today because Aunt Jackie is having her second surgery. After that she’ll be in recovery at the hospital for a while before she can come home. Since Emery still seems so nervous, Dad and I decided it was best I stay home with all the kids, so he’s at the hospital alone with Aunt Jackie. Emery has spent most of the morning on the living room couch with us, instead of in her room like usual. Of course, she’s still silent and glued to her phone, but it’s nice to all be in the same physical space.

  The boys are on a sugar high (probably because their genius cousin made them waffles and ice cream for breakfast), and they won’t stop begging me to take them to the park. “Please, please, please,” they chorus.

  I hate it when they speak in unison. It’s obnoxiously twin-y of them. I put down my phone, where I’d been days deep into my friends’ Instagram feeds. “You guys,” I say, “I would love to take you to the park, or anywhere for that matter, but you know I don’t have a car.”

  “But that’s the thing,” Nash says. He’s standing in front of me, jumping from one foot to the other. I don’t know why he’s jumping from one foot to the other, but if it’s using up some of that extra energy, then I’m all for it. “We don’t need a car. The park is really close. We can skateboard there.”

  Skateboard there? Really?

  None of my friends back home skateboard. There’s a divide, I guess. The surfers spend all their time on the beach, while the skaters bum around in a littered skate park after school and smoke cigarettes. I wouldn’t call skateboarding a sport so much as an excuse to be a burden on society. But with no ocean, surfing isn’t an option.

  “I don’t know guys,” I say. All I really want to do today is sit at home, watch the Big Wave Awards on ESPN2, and maybe text with Eric since I ended up sleeping through 99 percent of our last conversation. I don’t know where things stand with us. Aside from that one text message he sent, we haven’t talked about the kiss. I’m worried the distance will not only ruin what we started but also weaken our friendship. Ocean water erodes a lot back home, dissolves paint and rusts metal, but it can’t chip away at relationships. Distance, however… Well, I’m worried that’s a stronger force.

  I push away the thought and concentrate on the kids. Parker and Nash have upped their puppy dog eyes game from JV to varsity, and even Emery is glancing up with interest. I guess I could text Eric from the park and watch the awards later…

  “I should ask your mom first.”

  “But she’s in surgery,” Parker says with a quiet, yet surprisingly commanding, voice. “Our mom is in surgery.”

  “Don’t try to manipulate me,” I say.

  “We’re not trying to manipulate you,” Nash, who for some godforsaken reason is now doing jumping jacks, says. “We’re just giving you the facts.”

  “It could be fun,” Emery chimes in. “Some of my friends are there.”

  If the park has caught her interest, then maybe we should go. It’d be good to put her mind on something besides Aunt Jackie, and despite my best (okay, moderate) efforts, I haven’t served as a very good distraction. “You think?” I ask her.

  She gives me one of those small smiles and nods.

  The park isn’t a terrible idea. It might even be a good one. Three days indoors is unheard of for me. The last time this happened, I had the flu, and Dad caught me sneaking out to the beach with my surfboard when I still had a hundred-degree temperature.

  I bite my lip, quickly weighing the situation in my head. Nothing too catastrophic can happen, and I’ll text Dad where we are. It’ll be good to give them something to think about other than the whole Mom-on-an-operating-table thing, so I nod and say, “Okay. Let’s go to the park.”

  • • •

  In reality, the “close” park is a brutal two-mile journey. Parker and Nash have their skateboards to ride, and Emery has her bike. I have a choice of Emery’s Rollerblades that I can barely squeeze my feet into, the boys’ bicycles where my knees bump against the handlebars, or walking. I choose walking.

  On the way, we pass rows of plain, two-story houses, complete with white picket fences and trimmed lawns. It’s an older neighborhood, with suburban cookie cutter homes, so different from Santa Cruz, where one house is an ancient bungalow like ours and the next is a multimillion-dollar mansion. The streets are relatively empty, save for the occasional car that slows to an impossibly safe speed before passing us. As we travel, the houses become more spaced apart, and grander trees appear, their leaves dark green despite the crisp summer heat.

  After a few more minutes, Parker announces, “We’re here!”

  Thank god. I’m dripping in sweat, even dressed in athletic shorts and a loose tank top. Sweating never bothered me in Santa Cruz since the moisture constantly mingled with ocean water, but here there’s no avoiding the volume of my own perspiration.

  I glance at the park, one hand shading my eyes against the bright sun. I’m not sure what I was expecting—something smaller, I guess—but a gravel lot is filled with a few dozen cars, and behind it stretches an expanse of grass and trees so great I can’t begin to see the end of it. At the entrance stands a giant wooden sign with etched white lettering reading Holly Commons. A wide and winding concrete path cuts through the grass, allowing easy access through the park, which must be at least a few square miles.

  “Okay, see you guys later,” Emery says, leaning forward against her handlebars to bike off.

  “Hold on there.” I step forward, blocking her bike. “Where are you going?”

  She looks confused before saying, “Oh, right. Sorry. I usually hang out with my friends at the courts. Is that okay?”

  “The court
s?”

  “The basketball courts.” She dismounts from her bike and walks toward a map posted behind Plexiglas under the park sign. “See?” She points. “We’re here. Down this path, a left here, a left there, and a right, and there you go. Right next to the lake.”

  A lake?

  I’m a bit nervous to let Emery go off alone, but when I was her age I spent hours at the beach without direct parental supervision. And seeing her friends will be the best distraction from her mom’s surgery. “Okay,” I say. “But text me when you get there, and if you don’t, I will come find you, and I will embarrass you.”

  She smiles, a full smile this time, which crinkles the soft skin around her green eyes. “Promise,” she says, then climbs back onto her bike and heads down the tree-lined path.

  “Okay guys.” I turn back to Parker and Nash. “To the skate park. Lead the way.”

  Ten minutes later, after we follow a lengthy trail that’s actually kind of beautiful with the surrounding trees and flowers and Snow-Fucking-White chitter-chatter of birds, the wooded path opens up into a giant, ungainly slab of concrete. Benches, rails, and what I think are called quarter pipes and half-pipes are interspersed throughout the park, and more than a dozen skaters ride around, trying out tricks, shouting, and being altogether way too loud. Immediately I yearn for the crashing of waves that drowns out all other sound—or at least the relative quiet of the wooded area we just left.

  “You wanna come watch us?” Nash asks, eagerly scanning the park.

  “I’m going to watch from over there.” I point at a metal bench that looks out of the way from most of the action. “I’ll come closer later. You guys have fun.” I want to join them, but all the unfamiliar noises and people bombard my system. Adjusting to an unfamiliar yet quiet house was one thing. Adjusting to this cacophony is entirely different. My chest feels tight, my breathing short.

  I need to sit; I need space.

  “Okay!” They seem just as happy to go off without me.

  I settle down onto the long, flat bench, wishing I’d brought something to read, maybe a Detective Dana novel, this old, cheesy series circa the 1970s about a female police officer who quits the corrupt force to start her own private agency. The books are absurdly plotted, and I can only find the tattered paperbacks on eBay and in old bookstores, but for whatever reason, I love reading them. I never get sick of tagging along as Detective Dana solves each ludicrous case.

  Back home, I never get the urge to read outside. Tess is the one who does that, racing through novels while tanning. It feels wrong to have the sun burning my neck and wind cutting through my hair without a surfboard beneath my feet.

  Without my friends by my side.

  I pull out my phone and send off a few texts, including one to Eric, but they’re all probably too busy surfing to respond. I guess I can’t blame them. What’s better: a friend thousands of miles away or a barrel wave?

  I scroll through my Instagram feed, soaking up pictures of sand, surf, and my friends. I notice a new haircut, a new bathing suit, a new tourist they’re hanging out with. Each picture makes my pulse race and my stomach clench. I’ve been in Nebraska less than a week, but already my friends’ lives are moving on without me. How long will it take for me to disappear from their feeds and then their thoughts entirely?

  I put my phone down and close my eyes. The sun continues to beat steadily, lulling me into a warm haze. In my half-asleep state, I find myself focusing on the sounds around me. The scrape of wheels against concrete. Shouts and jeers. The hard crack of landing a jump. Every time I start to drift off, these sounds yank me awake, because they remind me this is not home.

  • • •

  “Hey.”

  The voice is smooth and deep. Definitely not one of my cousins.

  I pry open my eyes and then immediately close them when assaulted by the piercing midday light. Why didn’t I bring sunglasses with me? Did I think Nebraska wouldn’t have a sun? I raise my hand to shield my eyes, cracking them just enough to see a black guy about my age standing in front of me.

  “Hey,” he says again, smiling. Why is he smiling?

  “Hi…” I respond, still groggy from dozing off. Did one of my cousins break something? Do I owe someone money for ruined property? I rub my eyes and focus on the person speaking to me.

  He’s tall and wearing jean shorts and a sleeveless flannel shirt. And he only has one arm. His right arm is dark and muscled, and his left—just isn’t there. It ends about six inches below his shoulder in a smooth, rounded nub.

  “I’m Lincoln,” he says and offers me his right hand, because he doesn’t have a left one, or because people shake with their right hands. One or the other, or both I guess.

  I train my eyes away from what isn’t there and lean forward to shake his hand. “Anise,” I say.

  “My parents aren’t weird or anything.”

  “What?” My gaze keeps flicking back to his missing arm. I wish someone would squirt me with a fucking spray bottle or something.

  “You know, naming me Lincoln and living in Nebraska. We aren’t from Nebraska.”

  I give him a blank look. I have no idea what he’s talking about; maybe it’s impossible to think in this apocalyptic summer heat. “Huh?”

  “You know, Lincoln, Nebraska? The capital?”

  Now that he says it, the name sounds familiar. I think Detective Dana solved a murder there. “Right,” I say. “Sorry. I’m not from around here. I’m visiting from Santa Cruz.”

  “Ah, Cali life. I’m going to hike the Pacific Crest Trail next year.” When he smiles again, I notice a particularly dimply dimple on his right cheek. I have a weird urge to reach out and touch it. But that’s probably just the heat again. “What brings you to this fine state?” he asks.

  “Umm, family stuff,” I say. And right then I realize I’ve been asleep for who knows how long, and there are three little people I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on. “Shit.” I rise to my feet and step around Lincoln to scan the skate park. I find relief before my heart launches into full-on racing mode. Parker and Nash are at a set of low rails, trying to jump and skid on them. Thank God I made them wear helmets. I slip my phone out of my pocket and find a message from Emery:

  Btw tell me when you want to leave and I’ll meet you at the entrance :)

  No messages from Dad. My stomach tightens. What if Aunt Jackie’s surgery isn’t going well? He would text, right? Would he have the time? I quickly send off a message, and within seconds he texts back: so far so good, still in surgery.

  “Everything okay?” Lincoln asks.

  I whip back around to find that I’m very close to Lincoln and Lincoln’s dimple. I have to look up to meet his dark eyes behind his chunky, black-framed glasses. Since I’m five ten, it’s rare for me to ever have to look up at anyone. For a second, I think of Eric and our perfectly level eyes and our perfectly level lips. “Fine.” My face flushes, and I take a step back. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

  He smiles. Again. “Don’t worry,” he says. “You were only sleeping for like ten minutes tops.”

  This statement sets off all kinds of alarms. “Were you watching me sleep?”

  “No!” He looks away for a second, clearing his throat. “I was just aware that you…aware of you…and your eyes were closed.” He stops again, takes a breath, and seems to regain his confidence. “I wasn’t watching you sleep. I’ve only seen Parker and Nash here with their mom, so I noticed you were new. I noticed you. I didn’t watch you. Very big difference.”

  “Very,” I agree.

  Two guys skate past us. “Yo, Lincoln!”

  Lincoln turns and salutes them. He calls out, “Jason, remember to look where you’re skating. We don’t want another Wildcat incident!”

  “Roger that!” one of the guys calls back.

  “Anyway.” Lincoln turns to face me again.
“What was I saying?”

  “Something about not being a creepy stalker who watches people sleep.”

  “Right. Definitely not a stalker.” He runs a hand over his close-cropped hair. “You have cool eyes by the way. Very green. Like seaweed.”

  “Really not helping your not-a-creepy-stalker campaign,” I say. And yet, I’m flattered. I think.

  “Right,” he says. “Fair point.”

  Another voice calls out from behind us. “Hey! Lincoln! Come show me that varial again!”

  Lincoln doesn’t turn around this time. Instead he cocks his head back and yells. “One sec!” Then he steps toward me and turns so we’re standing next to each other and facing the action of the skate park. His right arm brushes against mine, and even though he’s a stranger, the touch feels oddly comfortable. “That’s my younger brother,” he says, pointing at the guy who just called out; he’s dressed in head-to-toe black with chunky silver chains looped through his pants.

  And he’s white.

  Like white, white. Like whiter than me at the end of winter when my wet suit hasn’t come off in months.

  “Um, cool,” I say.

  Lincoln must sense what I’m thinking because he says, “We’re both adopted. And our dad’s Vietnamese. Makes for very interesting Christmas cards.” Before I have a chance to comment, he jumps on the skateboard resting by his feet and kicks off toward his brother, calling out, “I’ll see you later, Anise,” as he rides away.

  “Right. See you, Lincoln.”

  I lie down on the bench, intent on falling back asleep, but as I close my eyes a warm buzzing in my mind keeps me wide awake.

  • • •

  The twins are skateboarding zombies as we wait for Emery at the entrance to the park. They trail back and forth across the concrete path, their heads dipping in exhaustion. Honestly I’m surprised they’re still standing. After resting on the sidelines for another half hour, I went and joined them at the rails, cheering them on as they attempted to ride the full length without falling. The task looked markedly less impressive than surfing, but it was still fun to watch my cousins slowly accomplish their goal as the hot sun pressed overhead. Obsessive athleticism must run in the family.