Cinderella in the Surf

by Syms, Carly

  "They've been telling me to go back since it happened and I haven't listened to anyone. I know what I have to do. I can't let her get away with what she said." I toss the stick into the flames and listen to it crackle as it burns.

  "You're sure?"

  I shake my head. "I don't know. Maybe I'm not ready, but it feels like it's time. And even if it's the wrong thing to do, then I'll just find out surfing was only good for me when it was us."

  Walker nods and smiles. "Good," he says. "Good. You should do this."

  I take a deep breath and watch the last end of the stick burn and fade into nothing.

  I feel a chill run down my spine as I realize it doesn't exist anymore. Here one second, gone the next.

  Like so many things.

  "What now?" he asks.

  I look down the beach toward our bungalow, one of the hundreds of tiny lights littering the shoreline, but of course I can't pick ours out among all the others.

  It doesn't matter, though, because tucked neatly under one of these lights, resting comfortably behind some storage bins and probably propped up against one of the stilts, is my old surfboard.

  My beautiful red and pink board, so much a part of me for the last decade that I'm surprised I've managed to function this long without it, is waiting for me.

  I stand up from the log and dust off the back of my white shorts. "I have to go."

  "Wait," Walker says, getting to his feet. "I'll go with you."

  "No." I'm already several steps away. "I have to do it myself."

  He nods and grins. "Then get out of here," he says, and my eyes flicker over to the fire I started. He follows my gaze. "Don't worry about that. I'm a southern guy. I'll put out the flames."

  I smile and turn and run from this spot so close to the canoe, so close to where it all happened, and to the bungalow, where I'll finally find my long-lost love.

  Again.

  It's not until I'm home with the door shut tightly behind me that I realize Walker and I never talked about what happened at Hilo's the other night.

  And how it hadn't been weird at all.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  By the time I got back to the bungalow last night, I'd realized taking the board out into the ocean probably wasn't my best move. It was late, almost midnight, and I'd be completely alone.

  Maybe that's how it's going to be when I get back in the water, but I'm thinking being by myself is better with daylight on my side.

  I'm ready to surf again, but I'm pretty sure I'm not ready to be stupid about it.

  But before collapsing into bed, I logged onto the website for the Invitational's smaller tune-up competition and registered myself. Maybe I'll get back on my board today and realize I can never surf again without Alex, but you know what? At least now I'll be able to say I tried.

  But I don't think that's going to be a problem.

  It's like what I told Walker when I first met him: I love surfing and I certainly love Alex, but I don't need the two of them to be together to feel passionate about either one.

  I can love them all the same, with or without each other.

  It's just going to take a little time to get it all right.

  The small competition is today, this afternoon, just a few beaches over.

  No better time to prove I've still got it, right?

  Daylight streams in through the sheer white curtains hanging over my windows, and I know I'm ready to get out there and do this.

  I dress in my old bikini and wetsuit and wander into the kitchen.

  Mom's standing over the kitchen counter, pink mug of coffee in hand, staring aimlessly out the window. She spins around and jumps when I walk in.

  "Oh!" she exclaims when she sees me, her empty hand fluttering over her heart. "Rachel, you scared me!" She looks at me -- really looks -- for the first time, her eyebrows shoot up and she sets the mug on the table with an unsteady hand.

  "Are you...?" she trails off.

  I nod, and it's hard not to smile. "Yeah," I say. "I'm going back."

  "In time for the Invitational?"

  "It's something I've wanted my whole life," I say with a shrug. "Alex and I were always working toward it. I can't sit it out."

  "Well, finally! This calls for a celebration." She opens the fridge and begins rummaging around. "What do you want? Eggs? Bacon? Waffles? Heck, I can make them all."

  "Maybe later," I say. "I've got a lot to do."

  Mom nods and smiles, then goes back to her coffee. I'm left to stand here for a second, stunned by what I see in her eyes, like she really couldn't be happier that I've finally made this decision, and it fills me with even more confidence that this is what I'm supposed to be doing.

  "Your board's exactly where you left it," she says, turning back to the window.

  I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and jog down the wooden back stairs to the sand below. My board is tucked away under the house, behind piles of storage boxes and beach toys that someone in my family had decided they needed to use sometime after I'd quit surfing.

  As I pick my way through all the unorganized stuff, the weight of just how long it's been since I've surfed slams into me. This is the first time I can really see it, laid out right in front of me, no away to get around it or pretend it's only been a little while.

  My brother Seth's tennis rackets, long forgotten after he lost his first match in straight sets, lay on top of a gray plastic bin holding holiday decorations. My dad's running shoes that he hasn't worn since he sprained his ankle a month ago. Mom's old cooking equipment that she replaced when the kitchen was remodeled a few weeks back.

  All tangible reminders of how long I've been kept from the ocean.

  Or how long I've been keeping myself from it.

  But that all gets pushed aside now as I poke my way through the junk and find my surfboard.

  Air rushes into me as I stand here, rooted in place, staring at the oh-so-familiar but somehow still foreign pink and red swirls on the white board.

  It looks so out of place here, propped up with all the other abandoned junk.

  Because it isn't junk and it definitely isn't abandoned.

  Not anymore.

  And maybe not ever again.

  I reach out to touch it, and finally, finally, my hands close around the cool fiberglass, the board feeling like it melts right into my fingertips.

  There's nothing wrong about this right now.

  I pull the board out from the corner its wedged in, working a little harder to get it free from some stubborn cardboard boxes.

  I carry it out from under the house and tuck it under my right arm.

  After I'm out in the driveway, I strap the board to the roof of my small, silver two-door and jump into the driver's seat.

  The tune-up competition is happening at a beach right down the street, but I'm already pushing my luck with time and I definitely don't feel like lugging the board the whole way there while trying to walk normally on the hot dry sand.

  It doesn't take too long for me to find a parking spot. I'm out of the car with the board off the roof and on the sand all in minutes.

  "Well look what the cat dragged in."

  Anna White is sitting behind the small registration table under what I'm pretty sure is just a rain umbrella strapped to the back of her chair, giving off a little shade, while she checks in names and hands out numbers, knitting a few rows between contestants.

  I crack a smile. "You know I can't stay away."

  Anna raises an eyebrow. "I see that now, but I had my doubts. Your name didn't get added to my sheet until this morning. And I've been watchin' for it for weeks."

  I give a little half-shrug and try to think of the quickest thing I can say to steer this conversation into safer waters. I like Anna, but I'm not up for four thousand discussions today about how I finally got my act together and back into surfing.

  "Must have been a glitch," I finally say.

  Anna sort of nods, then quickly gathers up the papers I need. One
signature here, and another there, and I've got the numbers to pin to the front of my wetsuit before I hit the surf and I'm walking off to a quiet part of the beach to take a deep breath.

  I set the board down, then dig around in the small tote bag I always have with me when I surf. My hands finally close around my old stick of wax and I begin rubbing it up and down the board's smooth surface to make sure it isn't too slippery when I get out there on the ocean.

  I stroke the wax over the board in long, even motions, taking my time, not like I'm used to doing. I want to savor this moment. And as I rub the sticky stuff onto the surface, I feel a little more tension release from my shoulders.

  Everything's just a little bit more okay right now than it was just an hour ago.

  It's all gonna be okay.

  "Shoulda known, shoulda known."

  I look up but I don't have to to know who's talking. Sure enough, Ahe's standing in front of me, a big grin lighting up his plump face.

  "Don't even say it."

  "I won't, I won't," he tells me, but he doesn't have to -- his smile tells the whole story. "But it's good to see you back out here, hoaloha."

  "Yeah," I say. "We'll see how it feels, though."

  "That's the thing about doing what you love. It might hurt sometimes, but it never feels wrong."

  I look up at him and crack a smile. "You're wise beyond your years, Ahe."

  "When you go out?"

  I put the wax down and pull the sheet Anna gave me out of my bag. We're still six weeks away from the Invitational, so I guess I shouldn't be too surprised that there aren't that many people signed up. Most of the big names probably haven't even flown into town yet. Only three heats today, with three girls each, and I'm right in the middle.

  All in all, that makes nine of us ready to hit the waves today.

  Nine?

  I feel a small smile flicker across my face. That's nothing. I've surfed in much bigger competitions than this -- and won.

  "Second," I say, then I give the sheet another look and hold it up to show him. "Piper Monaghan isn't on here."

  He shakes his head. "I saw her in town down at the market when I was on my way over here. Not in a wetsuit."

  "Too good to need a tune-up?" I say, my voice dripping with snark.

  Ahe doesn't take the bait. "Would you be surfing in one of these if Alex was still here?"

  I purse my lips. "Fair."

  "The other surfers aren't always the enemy."

  "This one is," I mutter under my breath, as the first three girls walk into the water with their surfboards.

  In the International Invitational, each heat will get thirty minutes to ride as many waves as they can, racking up as many scores as possible to make up their total score. During this competition, though, we've only got fifteen minutes to make our mark.

  It's not a lot of time, but I'm ready to make the most of it.

  "You gonna do your tricks?" Ahe asks.

  I shrug as I watch the other girls paddle out to sea. "I guess I'll see how I feel when I'm out there."

  "Good luck, kid," he says, ruffling my hair, which I immediately start pulling back into a ponytail. "Everyone I know is rooting for you."

  My mind immediately turns to Alex's family, and I'm pretty sure the whole town doesn't want to see me win, but I push the thought out of my mind. There's nothing I can do about them anyway.

  The fifteen minutes for the girls in front of me fly by, and before I know it, the PA system is announcing the contestants in the second heat should report to the water's edge and wait for the judges' go-ahead.

  The walk down the beach is slow and steady, but I can't shake the idea that it feels more like a funeral procession than a happy return to the waves.

  "Surfers ready?" one of the men waiting for us at the shoreline asks, and I nod without looking at anyone else. "Good luck. Head out!"

  My fifteen minutes start now.

  The first few steps into the water with my board tucked under my arm are easy; I've made this walk before since Alex died.

  It's when I get in up to my waist and need to lay the board down and paddle out to the lineup that I start to feel butterflies.

  And not the pretty, happy, wonderful kind, either.

  These are angry butterflies, butterflies that feel like they're equipped with little tiny knives all stabbing at my stomach to get out.

  I'm holding the board flat on the surface of the gently-bobbing water, feeling it lap against my skin. It rises up nearly to my chest then falls back down as the water moves freely.

  My hands shake as I try to will myself to get on the board.

  I've done this so many times before without even thinking about it, and now, I'm freezing up when it really matters.

  My breathing is short and labored, and I think my palms are clammy, or maybe it's just the ocean washing over them. It's hard to tell.

  I swallow hard, trying to push back all the icky feelings that want to take over me. It's just surfing, it's just surfing, it's just surfing.

  I repeat it over and over until I'm stomach-down on the surfboard and paddling out to sea.

  Beads of sweat pop up on my hairline and the nausea's not going away just because I'm paddling.

  It feels like the opposite; each scoop of the water brings more and more sweat, and I press my eyes shut and try to ignore it all and get out to the lineup, and the next thing I know, I'm completely submerged in the ocean.

  I tumble through the water and fight to break the surface. My hands claw frantically, and I open my mouth to scream, and water rushes in and pours down my throat, and this must be what drowning feels like.

  I give another strong kick with my legs and my head bursts through the water and into the sunlight. I reach around to grab hold of the surfboard for support and spit out as much water as possible so I can suck in some much-needed air.

  I'm breathing heavily, trying to calm down, and watch as the two other girls in my heat glide across the beautiful waves with ease.

  That's not going to be me.

  Not today.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I swing my dented old car into the parking lot of Willie's Market to run in for some more fruits and vegetables. Mom had asked me before I left if I'd forgotten to give her the rest of the stuff I picked up at the market the other day, and it feels so weird, so not right at all, to be here.

  The old me, the me in the days of Alex, never would've stopped off at the small grocery store in town after a surfing competition.

  Then again, the old me never would have freaked so badly paddling out and have to come back to shore without ever catching a wave.

  So here I am. This is the way my life is now.

  I slam the car door behind me and half-stomp, half-walk into Willie's. I'm in the back of the store by the produce when I see her.

  It's all I can do not to sprint and jump behind the tall display of potatoes and onions in the middle of the aisle and duck as my heart leaps up into my throat, thumping wildly the whole time.

  I think back to the last time I saw her, dressed in all black, a hat partially shading her face. I remember waiting on the long line to tell her how sorry I was that her son died, that I was the last person to see him alive, and the stiff handshake she gave me without looking at me.

  She didn't give me a hug.

  She didn't speak to me, either.

  She hasn't since I told her what happened.

  Seeing her now sends a wave of bile coursing through my stomach. The look on her face that day, the way she wouldn't meet my eyes as I spoke -- none of it felt right then, and it definitely isn't any better now.

  For some, time will never heal their wounds.

  I'm not sure what to think as I watch her pick over a shelf of broccoli. It's like I'm intruding on her life and I shouldn't be, even though she was once a huge part of mine.

  I don't know what to do, either.

  Am I supposed to walk right up to her and say, 'Hey Mrs. Perry, long time no see. Ho
w's it all hangin' since your son was killed when he was with me?'

  That doesn't seem exactly right.

  Am I supposed to bring up Alex at all?

  Somehow, I can't imagine talking to her without saying something about him, but what is there to say? 'What have you done with his bedroom since he died?'

  Or, 'That's a nice head of broccoli you picked out there. Alex hated broccoli.'

  That doesn't really seem like the place to start, either.

  So I do nothing.

  It's fitting, really. Exactly how I've been going through my days lately.

  I choose to stay in the same state of motionless apathy I've been in since it happened.

  But it's like when you're four and playing hide-and-seek and you think that if you can't see them, they can't see you, either.

  So I'm not thinking about what's going to happen if Alex's mom spots me staring at her with a carrot in my hand before I figure out how to handle this.

  And that kinda sucks, because it's exactly what happens next.

  I'm watching it in slow motion, as if time shuts down in Willie's, and it feels like we're all at its mercy.

  Her eyes react first.

  I watch, my gaze glued to hers, as whatever life is left in them seeps out. The small bit of light flickers, then fades to dark. Her cheeks follow, sagging slightly, and then her mouth opens and forms a tiny 'o' like it's acting on its own without any input from her brain.

  Alex's mom ages twenty years right in front of me.

  And she isn't the woman I used to know.

  I watch as she reaches out and grabs onto the edge of the vegetable display as if she's going to tumble to the ground without it there to hold her up.

  Her eyes, sunken and hollow, don't leave mine, but I know she would give anything to look away.

  I would, if I was her.

  Somehow, despite the dull ache that now lives forever in me, the endless nights that I've spent waiting for and watching the sun rise, the millions and millions of tears that have poured out of me, I'm not the one who hurts the worst.