Then it dawns on me.
“Can’t you swim?”
He makes a rueful face, his lips twisting to one side. “Yeah, not that well. I’m okay but not great. I don’t know how to catch waves.”
I thread my way back to him. I’m thinking about all the different places he’s lived. The city apartments, the desert, he’s even flown over the Atlantic. But I’ve never heard him talk about the beach.
He laughs. It’s an uneasy laugh. “I was late this morning because Mom was going off at me. ‘You’re not a strong swimmer, Jackson. In fact, you’re oceanically challenged. Who’s supervising? What if there’s a rip, a hurricane, a tidal wave? I won’t be there to save you! Can’t I come, too?’”
He does this hysterical croak at the end, and we crack up. He’s caught her worried expression perfectly. “You’re all I’ve got, Jackson!”
I look at him and think again how different he is. Since kindergarten we’ve all pretended we’re so tough we don’t even hear what our parents say. Badman says “What’s eating you? Wake up on the wrong side of your mother?” as his regular insult.
I suggest we head for the next set of waves where we can still stand, and watch for a bit. We look at each small wave as it swells, rises into a peak (or a crisis, as his mother would say), breaking into foam. I teach him to look for the moment just before the break—that’s the best time to leap onto the wave—no use when it’s already broken. I catch a couple to show him how to keep your head down, one arm out straight, the other paddling for speed.
After a while we try a wave together. He stays on and almost reaches the shore with me. He’s grinning all over his face.
“Look how far we’ve come!” he shouts, shading his eyes like a sea captain.
“You’re a natural!” I say, and cuff him on the shoulder.
He grabs me and lifts me clean out of the water with both hands. We’re staring face to face and his teeth are so white and his mouth so wide. I don’t think he knows what to do with me then so I jump out of his arms and leap back into the water. He follows me into the next set of waves.
“You’re a good teacher,” he says. He’s so pleased with himself he can’t stop smiling.
“Well, you just need someone to show you the first steps.”
We laugh together. The surf is behaving perfectly. Maybe for once the weather is on my side.
Isn’t it strange the different things people are afraid of? For me it’s fractions and decimal equivalents, Lilly in a bikini, me in a bikini—so much scarier than a six-foot wave.
We go out farther. I peek at his face as a bigger wave looms above.
“Dive under now!” I yell. I find his hand in the water and we pull each other through the waves.
Now we’re catching loads of them. We’re flying, dodging people like bullets.
“This is faster than public transport,” he jokes. “Miss one, there’s another right behind it!”
I bump into a man built like a canoe. I stop, winded for a moment, and watch Jackson shoot past, arm pointing straight as an arrow, his feet kicking madly. He really is a natural.
While I wait for him, I float on my back. It’s so lovely, letting your body go with the swell. I feel as boneless as a jellyfish, a piece of seaweed. My heart slows down. But my ears are beginning to ache from the cold water.
“Think I’ll get out now,” I tell him when he comes back.
His face falls.
“You don’t have to, though. Keep going if you want, you’re doing great!”
“I just have to catch one more wave. That’ll make a set of four.” He shrugs, laughing at himself. “It’s one of my challenges—I have to do things in sets, and finish on an even number.”
“Okay,” I smile at him. “Whatever gets you through the night.”
“That’s a line from a song, isn’t it? An old blues number.”
“Yeah. Have you ever noticed how truly great lyrics say everything about life in just a few words?”
We smile at each other.
I decide not to tell him about Badman’s favorite line: “Eat crap and die.” It’s from some heavy metal band, Knife Edge, or something. Sad, really. But on a bad day, I know exactly what he means.
The sand burns my feet as I pick my way through the towels and umbrellas. I find poor old Mitch still sweltering on the sand. And his shoulders are pretty red.
“The surf is awesome,” I say. Energy is tumbling through me. I feel bold, electrified by the waves. “Come on, Mitch, I’ll go in with you again if you want.”
Mitch sits up, his eyebrows going yes!
“Oh, no, I’m just about ready,” Lilly says. She turns to Mitch. “You want to come in with me, don’t you?” And she starts playing with his hand, stroking his fingers for a second before letting them drop onto her leg.
We buy fish and french fries for lunch. I’m starving, and the french fries are just about perfect. Delicious! I like them best when they’re crispy like this. I hate those cushiony fat ones, with no crunch. Tasteless. Especially when they’re gray and mushy at the ends. “Hate is a very strong word,” my mother always says, frowning. Well, I hate a lot of things, with a passion. It’s okay to say you love things though, isn’t it? Then you’re being positive and polite, and everyone approves.
Jackson seems to love the crunch factor. I watch him carefully peel off all the golden fry and leave the naked fish in the box. Slowly, he devours the strips of crackling batter.
“Aren’t you going to eat the fish?” Lilly asks him, peering over his shoulder.
“No, do you want it?” he says.
“I’ve eaten mine.” Lilly picks up a piece of Jackson’s batter and examines it. She studies it like a food scientist. “This stuff is lethal for me—just total fat. I haven’t eaten calories like that for ages. Doesn’t it always just go straight to your hips, Ez?” and she looks with sympathy at my midriff.
My mouth is full of french fries so I don’t say anything for a moment. I just go on chewing, hoping the moment will disappear. I hold my breath, trying to suck in my stomach seeing as everyone seems to be so busy examining it right now. Unfortunately, the mushed fry decides to go down with the gulp of air and I start spluttering and coughing like a blocked drain. I sound just like Jackson on a bad day. I think of Valerie telling me about Mama Cass, that folk singer who died from choking on a ham sandwich. But at least the old Mama had a few hit records before she kicked the bucket.
Jackson jumps up and starts thumping me on the back. Mashed potato shoots out of my mouth. Relief floods me—maybe I can still have a hit record. I look down at my knees covered in white goobly spray.
“Ooh, gross,” says Lilly, wrinkling her nose.
Mitch laughs till he just about wets himself. Jackson is still thumping away, although the thumps are turning into concerned pats, making neat circular patterns on my back. I smile at him. He’s doing them in sets of four.
When we’re about to go home, Jackson asks me if I want to come back to his place.
“Hey, can we come, too?” asks Lilly, giggling at him. “Ez tells me how great your house is.”
“Oh, no, it’s not that great,” I say, right away. I’m shaking out my towel and catch Jackson’s expression over the top of it. Oh, God almighty, what have I said? “No, what I mean is, oh sorry, well…” I stop. It’s useless, blabbing on. I fold the towel over and over, smoothing it down before I stuff it in my bag. How can I make it better?
Jackson just shrugs. He doesn’t look at Lilly or me. “Yeah, whatever,” he says.
We walk along the asphalt path, past the surf club. The sun glints like a welder’s hammer, sparkling on metal bits in the road. I find my sunglasses. Sometimes the sun is just too much, making your feelings heavier, louder, booming away, blinding you. There’s no shadow, no shades of meaning, nowhere to hide.
I didn’t mean it that way.
All the way home in the bus I’m fuming. I want to scream like the dying lady in La Traviata. I could punch m
yself in the mouth. Damn Lilly. It’s just—I can’t bear the thought of sharing Valerie with her. She won’t see how special Valerie is. She’ll just spoil it somehow, dull it. Make it hers. I consider trying to tell Jackson this, that I wasn’t badmouthing his house—oh, but some things are just too hard to say.
I sneak a glance at him. He’s quiet, looking out the window. I can only see his profile. The long straight line of his nose, no little bump of indecision. He can play dead, like a statue. Scares me sometimes, the way he closes up. Mostly, he’s so open, tumbling over himself to tell you about his past, his ideas, his number thing; but if you hurt him somehow, or he disapproves of you, you won’t find him anywhere. He disappears inside himself like those little soldier crabs that burrow into the sand at the bay behind Pelican Beach. No matter how hard you dig or how loud you call, you won’t find out what he’s thinking.
We troop through the front door in single file after Jackson, and he goes to the fridge to get drinks. He tells us to throw our things down in the hall. We stand around in the kitchen, looking at him pouring lemonade. It’s stifling inside—the windows and the back door are closed as if no one’s been home all day. But I saw Valerie’s car outside.
“Phew, it’s like an oven in here,” says Lilly, wiping her face.
I lean over the kitchen table to open the windows.
“Open the sliding door, too, will you, Ez?” says Jackson. “And you can turn on that fan in the living room.”
That’s better. I like it when he singles me out, acts as if I’m one of the family. He must have forgiven me.
As I come back into the kitchen, Valerie is wandering in from her bedroom. She looks dazed, as if she’s just woken up.
“I was just reading,” she murmurs. “What’s the time?”
There’s a crease along her cheek where she must have fallen asleep on her book.
Jackson hands her a glass of lemonade. “Five o’clock.”
“Heavens!” she says, her eyes widening. “And you’ve been at the beach the whole day?” She grabs his shoulders. “You’re okay?”
Jackson wriggles out of her hold, turning his back on her. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “Didn’t you go to work?”
“Yes, but I left early. Told them I was sick. I am, actually. Exhausted.” She smiles around the room. “Hi, Esmerelda, how are you doing?”
Jackson introduces Lilly and Mitch and goes into the living room. I smile at Valerie and together we watch Lilly as she follows, swaying across the cork floor, her hips pausing for just a beat at the left and right. A sarong, flecked with golden thread to match her bikini swings gracefully over her perfect bottom. Valerie grins back at me and ruffles my hair. I know it’s stiff with salt.
“Oooh, the beach,” says Valerie and leans down to bury her nose in the top of my head. “I love that smell. Sand squeaking under your toes, skin toasty, white salt tracks drying on your legs—”
“Fish and french fries—”
“Sunsets falling into the water, salty kisses.” Valerie stops and wrinkles her nose. “Sorry, I got carried away. Was it lovely at the beach? How did Jackson do? We haven’t lived near the beach you know since his dad…”
“It was a great day,” I tell her quickly. “Jackson caught some waves—he was really fine.”
“Jackson did?” Valerie’s smile opens up, disappearing her eyes. She reminds me of Jackson after he’d ridden his first wave.
“Yeah,” I feel my own grin widen with pride. I can tell how happy she is because her face transforms for a second, and she doesn’t look tired anymore.
“I’m so glad he has you as a friend,” she says softly. “He’s very lucky.”
We beam at each other and I’m about to say to Valerie that she should go to the beach more often, in fact why doesn’t she come with us next time, when Jackson calls from the living room.
“Esmerelda? What are you doing?”
“He sounds a bit desperate,” laughs Valerie. “Go on, honey. I might go back and lie down. Don’t know why I’m so tired.”
In the living room Jackson and Mitch are sitting on either end of the sofa, not saying anything. Jackson is tapping out a nervous rhythm on his knee. I can hear him clearing his throat. I wonder if he’s getting ready for one of his coughs. Lilly is drifting around the room, picking up things and putting them down. She yawns and looks up at me.
“Jackson’s mom is a singer, you know,” I tell her. “Did you see the mike and amp? They’ve got all sorts of instruments here.” I start to babble, I don’t know why. Now that she’s here, I somehow want to impress her, make her see what an incredible world she’s walked into.
Lilly looks around and shrugs. She’s holding a photo of Valerie wearing a baseball cap with her hair all tucked up inside it, and a man’s shirt. She stares at it blankly for a moment, and puts it down. It’s a funny thing but Lilly seems to have absolutely no curiosity. Why is your mother dressed as a man? she could ask Jackson. Isn’t that the Empire State building in the background? Did you take the photo? What’s America like? But Lilly just moves on. I think of the green caterpillars on Mom’s gardenia bush, the way they just munch and fill and move on to the next leaf, without ever a backward glance.
I show Lilly the amp and mike in case she’s missed them, and the keyboard and guitar.
“Mmm,” she says, picking up the guitar. “My cousin’s got an electric bass, brand new. It cost one thousand three hundred and ninety-nine dollars. And he got a new amp, too, really loud, excellent quality. It’s a Fallen Angel, you know? With built-in reverb and boost option. Top of the range. But he’s a professional, so I guess…”
She lies the guitar down on the sofa next to Mitch and touches his knee. “You haven’t met my cousin Jason yet, have you, Mitch? He’s away a lot, touring. You should see his place, it’s so cool, he’s got this stereo system that cost five thousand dollars, it’d blow your head off.”
We sit for a while, staring at the air, and then Valerie wanders in.
“I suppose you’re all hungry after a day at the beach,” she says, looking around the room. “Jackson? Have you asked your friends if they want something to eat?”
Mitch looks up at her hopefully.
“Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Ford,” says Lilly, “we pigged out at the beach.” She pats her stomach. “I’ve eaten enough for two weeks!”
Valerie frowns. “Don’t think I’ve got anything very interesting in the fridge, actually.” She closes her eyes for a moment, and I notice the dark smudges under her eyes. It could be smeared mascara, but it looks more like weariness to me. When she opens her eyes I notice they are veiny and red. My mother looks like that when she hasn’t slept.
“But you boys ought to eat something…” Valerie says, looking at Mitch.
“I’ll go to the store and get a few pastries, okay?” I say. “It’s on me, I’ve got money.”
Mitch’s eyes dance.
Valerie starts to say no, then changes her mind. Energy just seems to drain out of her. “Thanks, love, that’d be great.”
“I’ll come with you,” Jackson turns to me, starting to get up.
“You’ve got guests, honey,” says Valerie. “Ez won’t be long.”
I charge off up the street. I’m glad to be alone for a bit. There’s so much to walk off, so much to think about. The hill climbs steeply and the sun is blaring full in my face. My T-shirt is sticking to my back as I pass Badman’s house.
Ivy grows wild over his fence, jungle green and bushy, curling out toward the sidewalk like a forest. My mother always sniffs at it, shaking her head. “Needs a good trim. So neglected-looking, that house. Such a shame.” Mom says the ivy problem is because Badman’s father has gone off to New Zealand and no one has time to look after things anymore. I like the ivy. It’s a spot of wilderness in suburbia, a green pause in the rush of things.
I slow my pace, dawdling under the ivy shade. I lean my back against the wall for a moment and in the quiet a tumble of notes float out toward me.
Badman must be tuning up. He licks through an E-minor scale. Sounds like water flowing up a set of steps. A streak of excitement shivers through me. Then three chords crash through the air and I feel as if my body might split open. “Smoke on the Water.” That chord progression goes straight to your heart, bypassing your brain. I close my eyes and my legs start to thump in time against the wall. How many watts does his amp have, I wonder.
I sink back into the ivy, curling the darkness around me. Badman veers off the main track of the song and slides into a moody guitar riff that lifts the hair off the back of my neck. The rhythm is quickening, climbing higher. I can imagine his fingers flying on the neck of his guitar. The high notes are a scream, stinging like a cut in lemon juice, scraping the skin off the back of your throat. I’m singing for him, about fire burning in the sky, making the gravel rust in my throat. In the dark under my lids I weave my voice into his notes, becoming the treble to his rhythm. Another riff morphs into Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love,” climbing into “Stairway to Heaven.” His playing comes at you like wave sets and you keep diving under, into the trance of his music. He must be going under, too, because I hear his voice let loose, roaring with the guitar. His pitch is terrible, raw and wild and out of key, but somehow it swells the fever just right as he starts to punch the power chords of a heavy metal song, “Tainted Love.” My heart is the pulse of his song and suddenly I feel a longing that’s almost unbearable. I want to sing out loud, wrap myself in that music, be inside it, not outside, looking in…
“Bruce, will you turn that thing down! Damn noise, can’t hear myself think!”
There’s sudden quiet, so thick you could slice through it with a knife. A door slams, final as a pistol shot.
I walk on quickly, starting to run.
Jackson cuts the apple Danish and cherry strudels in halves, and arranges them on a plate. We bring them into the living room and sit around munching. No one seems to have much to say. I can hear Mitch’s jaws moving, and Jackson’s swallow. But mostly, like a soundtrack to a movie in my head, I can hear the sting of Badman’s guitar.
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