Cinderella in the Surf

by Syms, Carly

  "I want to be a painter," he says. "No, screw that. I am a painter. It's just not what Mr. And Mrs. Heart Surgeon want for their firstborn."

  "You...what?"

  "Yeah," he says. "I like to paint. Not houses or schools or pizza joints on the beach. Art. Real stuff, like Pollock or Calder."

  I'm not about to tell him I'm not sure who Calder is.

  "So why don't you?" I ask as he kneels on the floor of the boat in front of the tarp.

  A small smile crosses his face. "I do," he says. "In secret. Back home, Grandpa let me use his garage for my work. Out here, I've got to keep it somewhere." He pulls the cover away and I see it's hiding an easel and a big black toolbox.

  He reaches into the bag he'd been carrying when we first got on the boat and slides out two large canvases and passes one to me.

  "I finished this one a couple nights ago," he says, and I'm too busy staring at the bright colors in front of me to notice the blush filling his cheeks as I examine his work. "It's not the best thing I've ever done, but you asked and it's here, so --"

  "This is so cool!" I exclaim, not caring that I've just interrupted him. "I wish I could make something like this."

  He snaps his head up and looks at me. "You mean, you don't think a five-year-old could do it?"

  "Maybe, but that'd be a crazy talented kindergartener. This is incredible."

  Walker shakes his head. "I don't get it. Why doesn't everyone see it the way you do?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "That's what they always said anytime I talked about my paintings. My parents think it's baby crap. Whenever it comes up, they refer to it as my 'coloring.' If they're in a good mood, it's 'fingerpainting' instead." He takes a breath. "I don't know. It's just weird to hear someone say they like it."

  I stare at him. "How could someone say anything bad about this?"

  He shrugs. "Like I said, I'm not planning on going to med school or law school or, hell, I don't even wanna be an accountant. I want to paint. I'm goin' to college, just not for what they want."

  "And so that's how you ended up here? So you could paint?"

  "Something like that. My parents think I should be working so I understand how nice it is to actually have money when I'm a starving artist after graduation."

  "Is it working?"

  He snorts. "What, like I really need to figure out that I like money? If anything, the time it forces me away from doing what I want to be doing only makes me want to paint more."

  "Then do it," I tell him. "If you don't want to work for your uncle and you're doing okay for money, why not quit? It's just summer."

  He bites down on his lower lip before slipping a toothpick out of his bag. "I'm not a quitter."

  "You quit smoking," I point out, even though his words slice through me.

  He mentions quitting with such disgust that it makes me wonder what he really thinks about the decision I've made to stop surfing, but there isn't enough time for me to dwell on it now.

  Walker gives me a small half-smile. "So I did."

  "But this is different, I get that."

  "Yeah." He gets to his feet and brushes his hands together. "So I paint. Thanks for listenin'."

  I smile and pass him the canvas. "What's that one?" I ask, pointing to the one he hasn't shown me.

  "Oh." He looks down, and quickly tucks it back into the bag, but not before I catch sight of vibrant red and orange paint. "Nothing."

  I raise my eyebrows, but say nothing. He's already shared so much with me tonight. I don't need to push for more.

  "Hey," he says then, glancing over at our fishing poles. The line attached to mine is tight and wiggling around.

  "Did I --"

  "I think you caught a fish!" he exclaims happily, and we both hurry over to the rods.

  "What do I do?" I ask, surprised at how excited I am about catching a fish.

  "Here, grab on," he says, lifting the rod out of its holder and passing it to me. "Now slowly, slowly, start reeling it in. Careful, you don't want to snap the line."

  "As long as I don't hook you again."

  "A lot harder to do that now."

  "What do you think I caught?"

  "Could be anything."

  "A shark?"

  He laughs. "You ready to remake Jaws?"

  "Maybe tomorrow."

  The line starts to tug back a little, and I suddenly feel like I'm about to lose the pole overboard again, but this time with a cute little fish (I'm totally picturing Flounder from The Little Mermaid) swimming around forever with that disgusting hook stuck in its mouth.

  "Walker, I'm gonna -- "

  "I see it," he says, and he's suddenly behind me, arms wrapped around me, hands over mine, helping me reel the fish in faster. "Okay, slide out of the way," he tells me, and I do, and by the time I look over at him again, my very first fish is dangling from the line in his hands.

  "Ew," I say.

  It's a small, reddish white fish flopping around in the air.

  Walker laughs. "Not impressed?"

  "What is it?"

  "Looks like a Pacific ocean perch."

  "How do you know?"

  "My papa taught me about identifying fish when he taught me how to do all this," he says, then launches into an explanation of what makes a Pacific ocean perch unique, and about halfway through, I realize I'm not listening anymore, but instead just watching him and how excited he is to talk about this.

  "Can we throw him back?" I finally ask when he's done.

  Walker raises his eyebrows. "You don't want to keep him?"

  "And do what with it?" I wrinkle my nose.

  "Cook it up for dinner?"

  I stare at the fish, who's pretty much not moving at all anymore, and I'm starting to get a little concerned. "Yeah, I don't think I could eat him after watching him die right in front of me."

  Walker grins and tosses the fish into the bucket he filled with saltwater. "I thought you might say that. But hang on, we need a picture of you with your first catch."

  He rummages through his bag and pulls out his cell phone, then directs me to go over and pick it up. I grab the line and hold it up while he snaps a picture, then quickly return the little guy to his bucket before I accidentally hurt him worse.

  Walker stashes his phone, frees the fish and tosses him back overboard so he can enjoy the rest of his life at sea.

  "Not bad," he says to me, reeling in his own line.

  "You get something?"

  He shakes his head. "Nah, I thought we might head back now."

  I glance down at my watch; it feels like we've only been out here on the water for maybe thirty minutes or so, but it's actually been closer to three hours.

  "Probably a good idea," I say reluctantly.

  Walker runs around the small boat, making sure everything is in order before he begins piloting us back to the harbor at Western where he docks.

  We travel back in silence, which is fine by me because it's an easy quiet, and the roar of the engine slicing through the waves makes it impossible to hear anyway.

  Walker maneuvers the boat alongside the pier we left from.

  "Don't you have to bring it into the harbor?" I ask.

  He nods. "Yeah, but that takes a lot of work. Figured I'd let you out first."

  "You don't have to."

  "It's easier this way," he says, and I try to keep the disappointment I'm feeling from showing up on my face. I'm not so sure I'm ready to leave him yet today.

  But Walker's adamant about being a gentleman and not making me do any extra boating chores, so I thank him for the day and climb out of the boat.

  "Hey," he says, when I've taken two steps down the pier. "Rach, wait."

  I turn slowly, and then he's right in front of me, and his lips are pressed down onto mine.

  It's a drawn out kiss as we explore each other, and when it ends, he's smiling at me.

  "What, you think I'm letting you walk away from me without a kiss?"

  I smile as the
tingle from his words spreads through my body. I brush another light kiss against his lips.

  "Better not," I tell him. Another kiss. "I'll see you later?"

  He nods, a silly, cheesy grin plastered across his face. "Of course."

  And as I walk home, totally and completely blissed out from this perfect day that hasn't even involved surfing, I realize there's more to life -- and more to my life -- than just being on my board.

  I'm okay without surfing -- happy even, with an undeniable spring in my step.

  And that isn't something I ever expected.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  "Oh, whoa."

  I smile. Walker's reaction when he climbs up onto our rooftop patio is the same as everyone else's when they check out the view for the first time.

  "Rach, what the heck? You live here?"

  "The house might be small, but the patio kind of makes up for it."

  "No kidding." He walks over to the railing and stares out over the ocean. "You can hear the waves."

  "Yeah, it's nice sometimes."

  He nods. "Probably not so nice lately."

  "It's getting better."

  After he'd docked his boat at Western, Walker called to see what I was up to, and a lie to make my life seem more glamorous and mysterious hadn't materialized fast enough.

  So now he's here.

  He'd shown up with a bag from Willie's -- spaghetti, pasta sauce, and veggies, and announced he was hungry.

  "Ready to cook?" he asks, and I nod, so we head downstairs to the kitchen.

  My parents are nowhere to be found.

  I dig out a pot for the noodles and a cutting board for the vegetables.

  "That's all I need," Walker says, taking them out of my hands. "You go sit down."

  "What? We haven't even started yet."

  He grins. "I'll cook. You relax."

  I know better than to argue with him, so I slide into one of the bar stools in front of the island and watch Walker go to work.

  "I didn't know you could cook," I say as he fills the pot with water and sprinkles it with a dash of salt.

  "One of my many hidden talents."

  "An artist and a chef. Did Papa teach you that, too?"

  "No, this is all Nana's fault. When I was done fishing with Papa, she'd grab me and pull me into the kitchen. Always said she planned on teaching her granddaughters their way around a kitchen but never had any, so I was the next best thing."

  I laugh. "At least you're well-rounded."

  "I don't know if that's what I'd call it."

  He lines up several different vegetables on the cutting board and begins chopping, and I watch him effortlessly work the knife so that the onions and garlic are perfectly minced.

  "How do you do that? Every time I try to chop an onion, I cry or the pieces come out looking like I fed them through a wood chipper."

  "It's all in the wrist," he jokes. "I'll teach you someday." He pulls a frying pan off the rack hanging from the ceiling and pours in the olive oil, garlic and onions.

  It starts sizzling almost immediately, and soon the delicious scent of sauteed veggies fills the bungalow's tiny main floor, and it's not long before the water starts boiling on the stove.

  "Almost ready," Walker says after a few minutes of careful stirring. "Got plates?"

  I slide off the bar stool and dig out some plates, napkins and silverware, laying them neatly on the counter next to the stove. He shuts off the burners, drains the spaghetti and turns his back to me until he's finished serving everything up.

  "You want to eat outside?" I ask him, and he grins and nods.

  "Perfect."

  We get everything loaded onto a tray, and I grab a bottle of wine and two glasses out of the fridge before we head back up to the roof.

  "Got dark out," Walker comments when I push the door open and we step onto the patio.

  The wine is poured and we're settled into our seats when Walker lifts his glass in a toast.

  "Thanks," he says, "for making me feel like I'm not a loser for wanting to paint."

  I smile and clink my glass against his, and we dig into the spaghetti with pasta and veggies.

  "Shoulda made some garlic bread," he says after a few bites. "I didn't even think of it at the store."

  "It's great anyway."

  He's about to respond when the first drops of rain fall from the sky and splash down on the table. I look up and water lands in my eye.

  "It's raining," I say at the same time Walker asks, "Is that rain?"

  I jump back from the table and start gathering the plates to bring them inside.

  And that's when I feel his arms around my waist.

  "Hey," he whispers in my ear. "Relax."

  I spin around, and Walker is just inches from my face. "Everything's getting wet!"

  "So? It's not going to get ruined. C'mere."

  He takes my hand and leads me over to the edge of the balcony.

  It's late in the afternoon, and the day has turned gray, the storm clouds rolling in over the ocean, the horizon blurry as the mist comes up off the waves.

  "I can't remember the last time it rained."

  Walker spins me around to face him and pulls my face closer to his. He kisses me once, then twice.

  Drops are hitting my hair, my clothes, even my eyelashes, but I don't mind even as the rain comes down harder.

  This is perfect, here, right now, with Walker.

  There have been so many ups and downs over the last weeks, that it's strange to feel like something is finally stable.

  There's something I can count on.

  And as I smile at Walker when his lips stop touching mine, I realize that it's kind of wonderful.

  ***

  Something's wrong.

  I can feel it the minute Walker leaves and I come back inside. Mom and Dad are sitting in the living room, side-by-side on the love seat, while my brother is in the corner arm chair.

  I can't remember the last time we all sat in this room together as a family.

  Especially without the TV on.

  And it fills my stomach with an icky sense of dread.

  "Rachel, you're done."

  Mom's words -- and her dull tone -- don't do much to make me feel any better.

  "What's going on?"

  "Have a seat."

  I do what she says and drop down onto the couch opposite my parents. Dad is looking everywhere but at me, Seth is slumped over in the chair with his arms folded across his chest, and Mom stares at me, hands clasped tensely in her lap. Her face is drawn and tight.

  I'm really not ready for her to give me the bad news, like Grandma or Grandpa back in Wisconsin are sick in the hospital or maybe worse.

  "Rachel," Mom says. "There's no easy way to tell you this."

  "Does Seth already know?" I interrupt.

  She shoots a glance in my brother's direction, then nods. "Yes, he was with us when we, ah, got the news," she says, and this worries me even more.

  "Dammit, Diane, out with it already," Dad snaps, showing a sign of life for the first time since I walked in the door. He looks at me. "You're freaking her out. I lost my job. That's it. Nobody's dead, nobody's maimed, it's not the big deal your mother is making it out to be. I'll move on, you'll move on, and the family will be fine."

  Dad slumps back against the couch.

  "What? Dad, what happened?"

  Mom shakes her head. "Layoffs. It was nothing your father did," she insists, and I have a feeling her words aren't meant for me. "Just the luck of the draw, really."

  "But -- you've worked there for fifteen years," I point out, still not really sure I'm understanding any of this. "They can't just tell you to -- "

  "They can," Dad cuts in. "And they did."

  "So...what are you going to do?" I ask.

  Mom looks at me like she's wondering when I got stupid. "He'll look for another job, of course," she says immediately. "But, Rachel, we have another problem."

  I want to say that I think
we have a lot of problems now, but I keep my mouth shut.

  "There's just -- there's no good way to tell you this part, either," she begins, and Dad shifts on the couch, looking like he wishes he could beam himself into outer space. "We're not going to be able to send you to college in the fall without some help from you."

  I shrug. This doesn't sound like anything new. I'd always planned on finding a part-time job on campus to get by, anyway.

  "That's fine," I say. "You know I want to do what I can."

  But Mom shakes her head. "I don't think you understand. Honey, we're not going to be able to pay all of the bills. We need more than whatever you'll make working ten hours a week at a coffeeshop in town."

  My nose wrinkles, but I wait for her to keep talking.

  "Rachel, without the prize from the surfing competition, we can't afford to send you to college at all."

  ***

  I'm still running.

  My legs are burning, lungs screaming for air, but I keep going. The dry sand damp with late afternoon rain makes every step I take feel heavy and hard, but I'm fighting through it.

  I have to get away.

  I run until I stumble in the sand and hit the ground, cutting my knee against some broken shells.

  As soon as Mom told me I'd need to surf in the Invitational if I wanted to go to college in the fall, I'd taken off, sprinting down the beach, running to nowhere.

  And now I'm somewhere just past Western, on a beach that's unpopular with tourists, and that suits me just fine.

  I sit up and tuck my legs underneath me, staring out at the ocean.

  I'd grabbed my bag before I fled home, so I have my phone on me, and I take it out now, turning it over and over in my hands. Mom's called twice, but that's it. I think about calling Walker and asking him to meet me, to help me figure this out, but I don't bother.

  There's nothing he can do.

  This is up to me now.

  Everything had been going so well, better than it has been since Alex, and it'd all been happening with Walker and without surfing.

  I don't need surfing to make me happy anymore. Sure, I loved doing it, but now it's stopped being fun, and giving it up feels, well, it feels good.

  Maybe I'd planned on hitting the waves with my board again someday, but not today, and not any day that I could see.