by Edie Claire
His voice trailed off, and he was silent for a moment. His expression had become troubled.
"What is it?" I asked. "You remember something bad?"
He huffed out a breath. "Not yet. No. But I have this feeling that something… happened to her. To both of us. I just can’t remember what."
I swallowed. The darkness in his expression troubled me. "Do you think she’s still alive?" I asked tentatively.
His eyes narrowed in concentration. "No," he said finally. "I don’t think she is."
We walked in silence a while longer, both of us struggling, perhaps, to understand the bizarre dynamic he was operating in. If his mother was alive, where was she? If he could find her again, would she be able to see or hear him like I could? And an even grimmer thought: if she was dead, why wasn’t she here, with him, now?
He appeared not to want to discuss it. And I had no idea what to say.
"Look over there," he said at last, changing the subject. "This is 'Ehukai beach. And that is the Banzai Pipeline."
I looked. We were not far from where I had laid out my beach mat yesterday, but with Zane's guidance, I took in the vista with more educated eyes. Giant waves rolled in off the ocean regularly here, just as they did a little farther north on Sunset Beach. But the way they rolled in at this particular spot was different. Wave after wave swelled, stood up vertically, then began to peel over at the top—creating a colossal water tunnel that spread sideways along the length of the wave for several seconds before, with the same graceful sweeping motion, it collapsed in on itself in a violent froth of white foam.
I had seen such water tunnels before, when a tall wave spilled over just right; but at this spot it kept happening, over and over again. Not only that, but these waves were so large that the tunnels they created were tall enough for a person to stand up in.
The surfers were doing just that. "Look!" Zane said excitedly, pointing. "See that guy? That’s Ezekiel. He rocks."
I watched with mingled awe and horror as the surfer, dwarfed in size by the massive swell coming on next, skated fearlessly over its crest to dip down, turn, and slip inside the curl at just the right moment, then zip along the tube’s length at a speed that kept him ahead of the massive structure’s inevitable collapse. At one point I lost sight of him behind the churning wall of white, but amazingly, he popped up again from its ruins—still upright on his board, still moving, and still in control.
"Wow," was the only comment I could muster.
"Pretty sweet, huh? Not just anyone can do that, by the way. Only the best can handle the pipe on a day like this."
I believed him, as the next surfer I watched screwed up his timing and got caught with the heavy wall of water crashing on top of him, knocking him into the froth and sending his board flying high up into the air. The surfer was fine, however—popping up within seconds to reclaim his board, which had been stalled in its escape by some kind of leash.
"This looks really dangerous," I said stupidly.
"Most deadly surf spot in the world," Zane answered nonchalantly. "The waves may be high but the water underneath is pretty shallow, and you can get banged up bad if you hit the reef or a lava spire. Bust your head without a helmet, and you’re a goner." He took a couple steps toward the water.
"So where’s your helmet?"
He looked over his shoulder and winked at me. "Being dead does have its perks."
It did not occur to me to wonder, until I watched him run full bore into the water—his lean legs moving through the swells without causing so much as a ripple—exactly how a ghost could surf.
I found out. But I was glad the other surfers didn’t, because if they realized that pretty much every time one of them caught a wave, there was a teenage ghost surfer with no regard for personal space totally hijacking their board, they might have been too freaked out for safety.
Watching Zane in action was hysterical. He simply couldn’t get enough. He would start out with one surfer, ride through the tube, disappear, and then reappear with another at the crest of the next wave. I had to hand it to him—even with the ability to cheat all the laws of physics, what he was doing couldn’t be easy. His position in space seemed to be affected by nothing other than his mind, so staying on the board required—if not physical prowess—no small amount of concentration and sheer athletic instinct. He could sense where the board was going to go, how fast, and which way the surfer would turn. He wasn’t perfect by any means—more than once I laughed out loud as the board took a turn he missed, leaving him skating off into oblivion, suspended by nothing, or in one case, absently flying off through the tunnel’s back wall. But what sport it was, he clearly enjoyed, sharing as no other human could the charge that each surfer felt during those exhilarating, solitary seconds when they were totally encased within the aqua-white walls of water.
"Did you see that one?" he asked excitedly, appearing next to me quite suddenly after his co-rider had wiped out in spectacular fashion, being kicked a good body’s length straight up in the air, upside-down.
"Is he all right?"
"He’s fine. Came up laughing, actually. But what a stupid move! I told him he shouldn’t take off there—it was never going to work, he was too far inside."
"Let me guess. He didn’t take your advice."
Zane’s eyes twinkled. "They never do. Idiots."
I noticed that his curls were dripping.
"How do you do that?" I asked, curiosity at last overwhelming me. "How do you look wet when the water never touches you? And where do the different outfits come from?"
He smirked. "Mind over no matter. I look however I want to look. Cool, huh? Check that out!" He pointed upwards in the direction of a fluffy white cloud, but I saw nothing noteworthy.
"What?" I asked, looking back at him and answering my own question. He was now dressed, head to toe, in a spotless Air Force pilot’s uniform.
"Think Dad would approve?" he asked smugly.
My eyes rolled. "That is so unfair. So I suppose you’re really short and ugly, too?"
He smirked again. "Can’t change the basics. Just the wrapper."
"Glad to hear it."
Whoops. Too much?
He smiled, but didn’t comment. "So," he said finally, having changed in a blink back into his wet suit. "Are you sold? Are you going to sign up for that surfing lesson with your parents?"
I shuddered. "Hardly."
"Why not?"
"Because I can’t swim."
I said it casually enough, as I had trained myself to do. People tended to make less of a big deal out of it then. It was better to throw it out there when it didn’t matter than wait until it did.
I had forgotten, for the moment, that it had mattered last night. The sight of Zane’s face, frozen in shock, reminded me.
"You… can’t swim? Like… at all?"
"Nope," I said lightly, trying hard to think of another subject.
"But you were—" He had turned pale, which for a suntanned ghost was probably a feat. "You were out in the ocean up to—"
"Yeah, I know. Can we not talk about it anymore?"
His voice dropped to a disturbing murmur. "I could have gotten you killed."
I turned to face him. "There’s nothing for you to feel guilty about. How could you know? The decision was mine, and I did what I had to do. Everything turned out fine, so let’s just forget it, okay?"
He still looked miserable.
"Here I was," he said darkly, "thinking I’d finally found something useful I could do with my… life." The word was uncharacteristically bitter. "When all I really did, instead of saving a person, was nearly take out two."
"That’s not true," I protested.
"Of course it is!" he argued. "Can you imagine how I felt, seeing that little girl come out of that door, watching her wander off toward the beach, knowing there was nothing that I could do to stop her? Hey, everybody! Look at me! I can walk through walls, I can stay underwater all day without breathing, I can surf the
pipe 66 waves in a row… but lift a 25-pound kid out of the ocean before she drowns herself in front of my eyes? No!"
He looked away from me, his expression tortured.
"If you hadn’t done exactly what you did," I said firmly, catching his eyes again, "that little girl would be dead right now. You can’t regret what happened."
His expression softened a bit, but his voice was still ragged. "I’m really sorry, Kali."
"What did I just say?!" I shouted, forgetting altogether that I was standing on a public beach yelling into empty space.
A long pause followed. Then slowly, ruefully, Zane’s mouth twisted into a smile. "Something about how awesome I look catching a wave, and how desperately you want to watch me rip this next set?"
I grinned back at him. "Yeah. Something like that."
Chapter 6
I tried to resist. Really, I did. I knew it would only get me into trouble later. But I was so used to sharing everything guy related with Tara and Kylee, it felt like lying not to mention Zane at all. So, I caved.
Hung out with a hot surfer on the pipe this morning!
That was all it took. It was evening in Wyoming, Kylee’s current boyfriend was out of town with his family for break, and Tara’s family never went anywhere. They were both probably bored out of their minds.
Tara’s response was typical.
That’s the deadliest surf spot on the planet! Is he a pro? Won any contests? Tell me his name; I’ll look him up!
Ditto for Kylee.
SO COOOLLLL!!! Whatd you do? Can u chat online?!
I answered Tara first, because her question intrigued me. If Zane could only remember a little more about himself—she probably could find out the rest. Particularly if his mother was famous. But I would have to be careful. It would be more than a little awkward to tell her I was talking to a guy and then ask her to find out when and where he died.
No, he’s just an amateur. But he’s good! We did lunch. Later, getting a tour from officer’s son. Keep you posted!
Answering Kylee was easier. Names and places of origin were not the kind of details she cared about.
Nope, vacation strictly low tech. Watched him surf, did lunch. Later, island tour with officer’s son. BTW—surfer has curly blond hair. :D
I grinned to myself, even as I made a mental note not to let Zane anywhere near my phone. Kylee not only loved blond guys, she had a serious thing about curls. I could hear her shrieking all the way across the Pacific.
I pocketed the phone, checked myself briefly in the mirror, and headed out of the bedroom. I didn’t know when I would see Zane next. After lunch I told him I needed a shower and he had dutifully disappeared, saying something about how he would "rip a few at Log Cabins." After having been with him all morning (and a good part of the night), you might think I would want some alone time. I would have thought so, too. Yet when a quick scan of the condo, deck, and backyard showed no signs of him, I felt oddly disappointed.
"What did you do for lunch?" my mother asked, looking up from her stack of real estate information.
I had to think a moment before answering. In reality I had packed myself a picnic and let Zane lead me to Sunset Point, where I learned more than I had ever wanted to know about shortboards, longboards, beach breaks, reef breaks, northwest swells, tow-ins, and seriously wicked lefts. (To be fair, Zane also learned more than he ever wanted to know about fouettés, battements, rond verses, and arabesques—the last of which, to my supreme amusement, he eventually managed to do on a moving shortboard.) His enthusiasm for everything to do with surfing was contagious, and despite my fear of being anywhere near the actual water myself, I had enjoyed the outing enormously. Never mind that we accomplished next to nothing when it came to addressing his problem; something about picnicking on a beach in perfect weather made both of us forget he had one.
"I made a sandwich," I answered noncommittally. "Did you find us a house yet?"
"No, we’re still learning about the different neighborhoods around Honolulu—and the schools. But we found an agent who’ll be taking us out tomorrow to look at what’s available." She leaned back in her chair and ran a hand absently through her short, dark curls. "Sure would be nice if we could just stay here, wouldn’t it?"
I cast a glance out our giant picture windows with a sigh, imagining myself in cyber school. Laptop on the deck in the morning; beach in the afternoon. "Sure would," I agreed.
She glanced at her watch. "Your dad was hoping to get home before Matt got here, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to make it. You ready to go?"
I nodded. You would think that two people who waited forever to have a baby would be overprotective of their only child; thank God my parents were not. True, they hadn’t let me drive at thirteen like some of the other kids in Cheyenne, I was subject to certain dating rules, and if they ever caught me with an illegal substance—not likely—they would ground me for the rest of my natural life. But otherwise, I had always been pretty independent. My dad once cracked that I needed to be self sufficient because they were so old when they had me they didn’t know how long they would last.
"Are we supposed to be out over dinner?" I asked, wishing now that I had asked a few more questions about this setup with the mysterious Matt. I knew from my father’s latest conversation with his father that he was seventeen; a junior; had a perfect driving record; was into football, wrestling, and water polo; and wanted to go to the Air Force Academy. Such was the only information my father had deemed necessary.
"All your dad said was that you needed to be home by eight. You should take some money just in case… here." My mother grabbed her wallet off the counter and handed me some bills. Despite my father's old fashioned ideas about chivalry, she had always believed in girls paying their own way.
The sound of a car door slamming out front reached both our ears, and my mother’s eyes caught mine. "If you want out of this early, send me a text," she said conspiratorially. "I’ll call you with some excuse."
I smiled. "Thanks, Mom."
She went off towards the front door, and I stepped over to look out the back windows again. There was no one in sight. I felt another twinge of disappointment, until I turned around to see Zane’s face about three inches from my own. I jumped a foot.
"Sorry about that," he chuckled, stepping back. "You moved a little quicker than I expected."
He had changed clothes again, this time favoring a deep green muscle shirt and cargo shorts. He surveyed my own outfit, a backless Hawaiian beach dress I had picked up in Haleiwa our first day here, with obvious displeasure. "You’re not really going out on a blind date, are you?"
I suppressed a grin. "It’s not a date. He’s just giving me a tour. And he’s only doing it because his dad’s making him."
Zane’s frown deepened. "What do you really know about this guy, anyway?"
I swallowed, trying hard to hide my amusement. The whole overprotectiveness thing, if that’s what this was, was new to me. Girls were supposed to be offended by it for some reason, but I couldn’t see why. I thought it was kind of cute.
"Would you be serious?" I said with a smile. "We’re not going clubbing in Waikiki. We’re going for a drive around the island in broad daylight."
"That’s what he’ll say while he’s deciding whether he’s interested," Zane continued, his voice edgy. "Once he gets interested, it’ll be for dinner. Then, there will be some great local landmark or other that you just have to see, and of course, this whatever-it-is will be at its best at sunset…"
"Will you stop?" I interrupted, still smiling. "Where are you getting all this?"
"My mind," he said flatly. "Because if I were going out with you in that dress, that’s exactly what I would do."
I stared at him a moment.
I had no response to that.
"Kali?" my mom called out from the hall. Clearly, the guy in question had made his way up the steps to the front door. I could hear a deep voice in the background in addition to her own.
"Thanks for the… compliment," I whispered. "But there’s nothing to worry about, really. I happen to be a very good judge of character. If at any point I get the slightest inkling that he’s a serial killer, I promise to ditch him and call home. Satisfied?"
"I’ll check him out for you."
Footsteps started down the hall.
"You will not!" I hissed. "You promised. No interference!"
He raised one eyebrow, then disappeared.
"Kali, this is Matt," my mother explained, stepping out into the great room and gesturing for her guest to follow. She caught my eye as she said it, her unspoken message clear. Not bad, eh?
I turned my gaze on the newcomer. He was a little over six feet tall; not fat, but heavily muscled; with deeply tanned skin and short-cropped, wavy brown hair. His neck was on the thick side, but he had the kind of honest looking, down-home baby face that softened the effect. The instant my eyes met his piercing light blue ones, I could read his thoughts as clearly as I could my own mother’s.
Wow, that’s a relief. She’s not ugly!
I couldn’t help but laugh. I was, after all, thinking pretty much the same thing.
"Hi, Matt," I introduced myself casually. "Sorry you got roped into this. But I am looking forward to seeing Oahu—so thanks."
He smiled back, revealing both perfect teeth and undisguised relief at my candor. It got me into trouble with girls sometimes, but guys always seemed to appreciate it. It didn’t make them want to date me, of course—they preferred the silly, simpering type for that—but they appreciated it.
After a minimum of polite small talk, my mother excused herself to return to her paperwork, and Matt and I headed for the door.