Girl Out of Water

by Laura Silverman

  “Right,” Lincoln says. “And they’re the same sport, so—”

  “No, they’re not; surfing is much more difficult.”

  Lincoln grins. “Okay, sure. You’ve got this. Totally.”

  “Totally,” the twins echo, laughing even more.

  “All right, all right.” Lincoln raises his hand, and the boys quiet. “Sorry to offend, surfer girl. I’m sure you’ll wow us all. Please, go ahead.”

  After giving Lincoln a healthy dose of my evil stare, which seems to have zero effect on him, I grab the board. It feels foreign in my grip. The top surface is rough, grittier than my surfboard. I could probably grate a block of cheese on it if it weren’t for all the dirt. It’s also about a third of the length and less than half the weight, making me wonder how stable it is. How can this plank of wood carry Lincoln’s bulk or even mine?

  I waver. Maybe this’ll be a bit more difficult than anticipated. But I can’t back down now—not after rejecting help, not with my cousins and Lincoln watching me.

  Taking a short breath, I drop the skateboard onto the ground. I go to take a surfing stance, feet perpendicular to the board, knees locked slightly inward, but realize that might be wrong for skating. I glance around the park, taking in the postures and feet placements of everyone around me. Front foot parallel to the board and back foot perpendicular. Right. Can’t be too difficult. I cautiously step onto the board. It wobbles back and forth, and I know my mask of confidence must slip for a second because Lincoln says, “Easy there, surfer girl. Sure you don’t want some help?”

  I lift my hands into the air, as if to showcase my incredible athletic dexterity. “I’m fine. It’s fine.” My ankles feel locked. The board wobbles again, but I refuse to show my hesitation a second time. “See? Everything’s fine.”

  “Sure. Great,” Lincoln says. “Now why don’t you try the actual skating part?”

  “I was getting there.”

  “Want a push?” Nash asks, rushing forward with arms outstretched.

  “No!” I shout—just in time to keep his hands from launching me forward and most likely to the ground. “Absolutely not. No pushing.” And then I mutter, “I should probably be wearing a helmet…”

  “Excellent idea!” Lincoln calls. Apparently supersonic hearing is also one of his many talents. He pops off his own helmet and throws it to me. I reach forward, stumbling off the skateboard, and grab it with clumsy hands. I do not stumble. I do not have clumsy hands. Nebraska is obviously poisoning my coordination skills with its oppressive heat.

  The helmet is too big for me, but not wearing it would set a bad example for those kids I’m supposed to be keeping alive. “Right.” I reposition myself on the board once more and gather a breath. “How hard can this be?”

  Slowly, I remove my right foot from the skateboard, plant it on the ground, and then kick off. I almost lose my balance, but somehow manage to bring my right foot back onto the board and ride for all of two seconds across the pavement. My heart is racing. I don’t know why it’s racing. I’m three inches off the ground and moving at a speed of approximately half a mile an hour, but it’s racing all the same.

  I grab the board, walk over to my audience, and drop the board on the ground. “See? Not that bad. Am I done now?”

  “No, no, no,” Lincoln says. “That was not skating. That was inching. At a maximum it was scooting. But definitely not skating.”

  At this point, all I really want to do is shove the board in Lincoln’s face and say I don’t give a damn about skating or inching or fucking scooting. But I don’t aspire to spend my summer with taunting cousins, which will inevitably happen if I give up now. Plus, I’ve never exactly been one to back down from a challenge, even a challenge as pointless as this.

  “Fine,” I say. “What would you consider a respectable amount of movement to prove this sport is mind-numbingly easy?”

  “Hmm.” Lincoln rubs his chin in mock thought. He turns to my cousins and bends slightly so he can look them in the eyes. “I don’t know. What do you guys think?”

  All three of them debate back and forth while I stand there, hands on my hips and sweat dripping down my neck. Finally, they deign to speak directly to me, telling me I need to skate the length of the back fence of the skate park. The distance is short enough, about a hundred feet, but it looks like a marathon compared to my last tiny stunt.

  “No problem,” I say, because if I say no problem it will be no problem, right? “But after this, no more challenges. My skating career will be over. Understood?” I direct this question at my cousins, and they nod in agreement.

  I grab the skateboard once more, wishing that it were about four feet longer and in the ocean, and walk over to the far corner of the skate park. Two sides of a chain-link fence corner me in. Setting the board down on the ground, I once again balance myself and then kick off, a little less cautiously this time.

  Okay, a lot less cautiously. I kick off so hard that I only manage to keep my “balance” for about three terrifying seconds until I crash to the ground, my arms bracing my fall and chafing hard against the rough cement.

  “Shit!” I curse, clutching both arms to my chest to quell the stinging. I sit in a huddle on the ground, trying to breathe out the pain. “Shit, shit, shit,” I repeat.

  I hear the twins laughing, which is very inappropriate considering their cousin is on the ground bleeding. At least, I think I’m bleeding. There’s no way I can feel this level of pain without some quantity of blood. Unless I’m mistaking pain for unadulterated embarrassment. Lincoln walks toward me, looming over me, his form blocking the sun so he looks like an absurdly tall version of one of those Victorian silhouettes.

  “You okay down there?” he asks.

  “Excellent,” I mutter.

  He offers me his hand, but I ignore it, proudly lifting myself off the ground despite the protests of my throbbing arms. I inspect them and find only a few drops of blood. It’s mostly rubbed-raw skin. I pick out a couple grains of gravel and flick them to the ground, knowing I’ll need to pour rubbing alcohol on later. Years of surfing injuries have taught me it’s better to be safe than sorry when it comes to infections.

  “You know,” Lincoln says. “I hate to insult an injured party, but I did try to warn you it’s harder than it looks.”

  “Warn me? You goaded me into doing this, which is like the opposite of warning me.”

  “I thought you’d enjoy it. You know, once you get past the bleeding and bruising. Well, you never get past the bleeding and bruising, but you get really good at ignoring it.”

  “I have no idea why you’d think I’d enjoy skating,” I say. “Surfing is ten times more interesting and difficult. Not many people can literally ride on water. Anyone can slap some wheels to a piece of wood and ride it.”

  “Umm, actually though, you couldn’t,” Lincoln says.

  “It was my first time! You can’t—I can’t—” Frustration rips through me. I’ve been forced away from my friends, my ocean, my board, and dropped in the middle of the country with no warning. I’ve been torn from comfort and stability, thrown out to sea without a buoy. I hate feeling powerless. I hate it, and I’m over it.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Lincoln says right as I’m ready to boil over. He clasps a hand onto my shoulder and leans toward me. “How about a chance at redemption?”

  “Redemption?” I ask.

  Lincoln steps back onto his own board and rides in those tidy half circles in front of me. “Sure, redemption. If you think skateboarding is so easy, I’ll give you a week to prove it.”

  I eye him with suspicion. “And how exactly do I prove it?”

  “One week from now, we meet back here for a little competition. If I win, you admit skateboarding is just as difficult as surfing. And if you win—”

  “You give me a hundred bucks.”

  Lincoln smiles. “That�
��s a pretty uneven bet.”

  “How long have you been skating?”

  “Seven years.”

  “Seven years. One week.” I narrow my eyes. “Sounds pretty even to me.”

  His eyes flicker with something, and I flush with warmth. “Fine,” he says. “Deal.”

  Still smiling, he holds out his hand. We shake on the bet.

  Six

  Dinner is quiet tonight. We sit around the table, picking over reheated shepherd’s pie, the least impressive dish in Dad’s culinary repertoire, and all the less appetizing in its days-old form.

  The embarrassment I feel from earlier today is unprecedented and unsettling. The memory of my cousins and Lincoln laughing at me hurts worse than the scrapes on my arms. Because the only thing worse than failing is failing while someone watches. I’ve always been a natural at sports, and not only surfing. I’ve played beach volleyball with friends, rowed crew for a year, and I even do yoga with Dad sometimes. Why should skateboarding be any different?

  After we finish eating, Dad and the kids head to their rooms for the night. Instead of doing the same, I go outside for some fresh air. The temperature drops fast here, and the shorts and tank I sweltered in this afternoon now leave me with prickled skin. Parker and Nash’s skateboards sit in the yard, stationary yet somehow more menacing than approaching ten-foot swells. I can’t believe I agreed to that bet. Why on earth would I do something so senseless? I guess I could get out of it by avoiding the skate park for the rest of summer, but the park is the only form of entertainment that doesn’t require a car and makes all three of my cousins happy.

  And there’s no way I’m going back there to face the mortification of defeat. So—

  I have to learn to skate.

  And I can’t do that without practicing.

  I grab one of the boards from the grass and throw it onto the concrete driveway. It clatters to the ground, a raw echo in the still night. The quiet of the suburbs makes my skin crawl. Every rustle and whistle can be heard without the crashing of the waves to smooth the world out. I still haven’t adjusted to life without the privacy of white noise, still haven’t slept well in this thunderous silence.

  I sigh and step cautiously onto the board, willing my body to adjust to this new equilibrium. But my body refuses. Everything about this feels unnatural, from the wheels threatening to roll without my permission to wearing shoes instead of standing barefoot, naked toes digging against waxed grit.

  I should go inside, curl up on the old corduroy recliner, and message with Eric while watching ESPN2. If I can’t be in Santa Cruz, I might as well live vicariously through surfing marathons and incessant communication with my friends. But I haven’t talked to Eric for days. On my phone, I find more online pictures of him than texts from him. He messaged me daily at first, asking about my day, but with nothing really new to tell him, my answers back have become shorter and more sporadic.

  I should focus on the now. What I can do in Nebraska. I’ve never backed down from a challenge, and I’m not making an exception for Lincoln’s.

  So I lock my jaw, place one foot down on the concrete, and push off. Slowly. I don’t want a repeat incident of earlier. The board scoots down the driveway about a foot, then wobbles, then stills. How can this possibly compare to the thrill of a solid frontside floater or the overwhelming ecstasy of my first aerial?

  It can’t.

  But if I want to beat Lincoln, I’m going to have to do a lot better. I step off the board, pull out my phone, and YouTube binge basics. If I can get good enough, maybe I’ll knock that ever-present smile from his smug, attractive face.

  • • •

  “Yes, yes, fuck!” I stumble off the board and almost twist my ankle. Again.

  Two hours of practice. My thighs burn. Sweat drips down the nape of my neck. But I like it, the feel of exertion. Plus, I can now ride the entire length of the driveway without stumbling. But I can’t ollie, which according to YouTubers, is the simplest trick in a skater’s repertoire. If I can’t master the simplest trick, I definitely can’t beat Lincoln. I pick up the skateboard and slam it back onto the ground for no other reason than the satisfaction of that piercing clatter.

  I step up and position both my feet perpendicularly to the board, left foot resting above the raised edge at the end. I go over the three simple steps:

  1. Jump with the board by slamming my back foot down on the back lip.

  2. Slide my front foot up.

  3. Land.

  Now if only my feet would agree with my thoughts.

  “You can do this, Anise. You can do this,” I mutter. “No hesitation.”

  I take a quick breath and then jump. My left foot comes down hard against the board, and it pops up into the air with me, then miraculously, we land as one. The adrenaline I’ve been missing since I left California rushes through me. I did it. I ollied. A shitty ollie, but still—if a tree falls in the forest, and it was a shitty tree, the tree still fell, right?

  I’m about to try it again when I hear the front door open behind me. Dad, in striped pajama pants and a gray T-shirt, walks outside. “You should really be wearing a helmet,” he says, settling down on the lawn in one of his yoga poses.

  “I know,” I say. “But the kids’ helmets are too small, and it’s not like I wear one when I’m surfing.”

  “Yes, well, when you’re surfing I don’t have to worry about you cracking your head on concrete.”

  I grab the skateboard and sit down next to him. “Okay, point made. But I’m pretty sure forcing my head into a child-sized helmet would be just as harmful. Lots of skull squishing.”

  “True.” Dad readjusts his pose, stretching his legs out in front of him and arching his feet back so his toes point toward the moon. I copy him, relishing how the stretch unwinds my sore muscles. “I guess we’ll have to risk it then. There are worse things in the world than finding my daughter’s pretty brains splattered all over the driveway.”

  “You’ve always been such a sweet talker, Dad.”

  We continue to stretch in silence, the night air cooling my overheated body. I think of home, of the evenings spent on the beach with Dad, performing this exact routine, except tonight dry grass tickles my skin instead of damp sand. We’ve always been in sync like this, always shared so much with each other. For a second I’m tempted to tell him about my mom’s postcard and the note I left behind, warn him that at any moment our human hurricane could disrupt this relative peace. But I quell the idea.

  I hate hiding things from Dad, but I don’t want to talk about her. Besides, even though he tries to hide it from me, I know he gets upset when he thinks about her. How could he not? The first decade or so he was as forgiving as humanly possible. Sometimes they’d even “get back together” when she’d come into town. But he hit his breaking point around the sixth time she ditched us, so he now welcomes her with all the consideration and distance of a hotel concierge.

  After a few minutes, Dad speaks again. “If you’re serious about skating, we’ll get you a helmet. Maybe a board of your own too.”

  I turn to him. “I’m not serious about skating.”

  “Okay, but you did just skate for two hours straight.”

  “It’s not… I just…”

  “You miss surfing?” Dad asks.

  “That’s probably the understatement of the century—of the millennium, actually.”

  It’s not only surfing. I miss everything. My friends. My home. My ocean. But I don’t tell Dad that. He already knows it. No point in making him feel worse.

  “I’m sorry,” Dad says. “I didn’t mean to uproot you. Being here’s—”

  “—the right thing to do. I get it, Dad. I do. Family helps family, and I’m happy to be here. Well, not happy, but you know. It’s the last summer before Marie leaves for college, before Cassie leaves for boot camp, and I just really wanted to s
pend it with them.”

  “I know,” he says, then brings up his knees and hugs them to his chest. “You could apply to colleges all over the country. You don’t have to stay in Santa Cruz when you graduate.”

  “Trying to get rid of me?” I smile, but the corners of my mouth feel rigid. I hate when Dad brings up college. I hate when he tries to nudge me out of the nest. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to stay in Santa Cruz. In fact, wanting to leave is absurd. Why would I want to abandon everything and everyone I love? Being here less than a month has already made the details of home slip away. Is it the bottom or top kitchen drawer that gets stuck when you open it? Five or six steps up to our boardwalk? If I leave for college, vanish for so many months, these details will continue to fade until my memory of home disappears entirely.

  Dad sighs. He leans into me, bumping my shoulder. “You know I’m not trying to get rid of you, Anise. I love you. But I want you to consider your options. There’s a lot of world out there.”

  “But why leave when I’m already living in the best part of it?”

  Dad glances at me, like he wants to push this further, push me further. But before he gets the chance, I stand and head toward the house. “Taking a shower and going to bed,” I call out. “Night, Dad.”

  He probably says night back, but I’m inside before I have a chance to hear it.

  • • •

  Two days later I’m sitting at the kitchen counter and chowing down on a giant bowl of Cap’n Lucky Puffs. I’ve been spending almost every free moment under the oppressive sun, trying to learn how to ride a damn skateboard, so my appetite is back to its usual ferocity. I’m midbite when Dad walks into the room. My shoulders tense. We haven’t talked much since he brought up college, and I’m hoping time has erased the issue from his mind. Most parents would be thrilled their kids don’t want to move away for school. Why does my parent want me gone?