by KB Benson
“Hey!” a shout reverberates from behind me.
I jump at the sound of another’s voice. I thought I was alone. Jace sits at his desk, throwing his books into his bag and flinging it over his shoulder. A book slips from the flaps of his open backpack and flops onto the floor with a loud thud.
“You know, Mr. Demonas would throw a tantrum if he saw you treating his books like that,” I say.
Jace pauses in his descent to pick them up and laughs. “Keep my secret?”
“I’m good with secrets.”
Jace grabs his books from the floor and throws them into his backpack again, zipping it tightly.
“Hey,” he says again, a little breathless as he walks up to me.
I look at him; a part of me can’t help but smile.
“Hey.”
I’ve seen this before, but it never ceases to amuse me how childish a boy gets when he talks to a girl. The first boy who acted like this was Monroe. The other names tumble like a piano scale through my thoughts: Giovanni, Tommaso, Lorenzo, Isaac, Kimball, Zack, Tyler, Matthew, Jordan, Gale, Todd. How many times have I thought of those names?
I shake my head in an attempt to clear it and turn to head out the door. Jace follows right behind me.
“Wow, Santa Cruz High is a sa-weet school. The last one I went to was pretty tiny. It’s nice to be in one with more than five hundred students.”
“Well this one has about a thousand, so you’ve practically doubled your size. You’ll have to see if you still like it in a month or two.”
“Oh I’m sure I will.” Jace leans to the side to glance up a stairwell leading to the second floor.
I nod. A lot of people say that. A lot of people regret saying that, too. We walk in silence for a moment before Jace breaks it.
“I’m just going to come out with it,” he starts.
I sigh, sure his question will fit in along the same lines as Quinton’s earlier request and fall straight into the undeliverable pile.
“If you have to,” I say, already preparing my response.
“Does your name have anything to do with your eyes?”
Stopping in my tracks, my jaw drops. “What?”
“Your eyes? Were you named after them? They sort of sparkled in class.”
I shift my weight and try to compose myself; no one has ever noticed my eyes before. “Yes, actually it does.”
“Can I see them?”
I shake my head, letting my dark curls fall around my face, creating a shield between the two of us. “Actually, I’d rather you didn’t. They’re sort of bothering me now.” I stare at the tiled floor so they don’t reflect the artificial hallway light.
“Oh, okay. Sorry they’re bugging you. Do you wear contacts?”
“Uhmm, yeah, I do,” I lie. “That’s why they’re bothering me.”
Showing him my crystalline irises won’t end the world, but he’s already noticed more about me than any other student at this school and I only just met him.
Relief floods my veins as we pass the women’s restroom. “Sorry, I really need to use the restroom. It was nice to meet you, Jace.” I race through the door as fast as I can. Thank Zeus for a place where guys can’t follow.
As soon as the door swings shut behind me, I rest against the wall. How did he notice my eyes? They’re caramel, brown, average, nothing more. I lean over the sink and peer into the streaked mirror. A silver streak sparkles along the edge of my otherwise ordinary brown eyes. A pit sinks into my stomach. My eyes are brown unless I’m in the ocean, which I wasn’t. But Jace smelled like the ocean. Is that what it’s come to now? Just the smell of my addiction sends me into a downward spiral?
I blink a few times as I stare into the mirror and take a few deep breaths willing the caramel color to overshadow the silver. Here at Santa Cruz High, I’m not meant to stand out. I was sent here to blend in.
I stare at my reflection; my deep breaths do nothing to help my eyes. Besides my eyes sparkling, I look at my dark brown hair held in a sea of loose waves. I run my fingers through it, the silk-like texture flowing smoothly through them. Thick lashes frame my eyes and are dark against my pale skin which makes my cheeks stand out. The person staring back at me looks mysterious. I smile. Perfect. I take a breath, readjust my top, and head for the door.
Chapter 4
JACE
Moving across states is a routine part of life; my family has moved six times in the last eight years, but I’m used to it now. Santa Cruz is by far the best place we’ve moved to, though. At least this time there’s a beach.
The sun shines down, setting my skin on fire. I’m pretty sure the summer sun is the best cure for boredom, sickness, sadness—whatever. If it’s broke, the sun can fix it. I carry my board across the warm sand, heading to the waves. Davenport Beach is fairly busy; but when it comes to surfing, there’s always room—unless you get the sucky boarders hogging the waves. But usually those of us who know what we’re doing last longer and eventually take control.
Class ended a half hour ago. Immediately I ran to my family’s apartment, grabbed my board and wetsuit and drove to the beach. Reaching the edge of the water, I run full on into the ocean. I leap on my board, flattening my stomach against its sturdy surface. With quick, hard strokes I pull myself out into the crashing waves to the perfect place to catch a ride back to shore.
I feel the gentle pull, the calm sensation just before the storm. The wave pushes me back to the shore, but I stroke harder and duck dive under it. When I was young, before I learned to duck dive, most of my energy and strength was used to keep myself on top of the board when the waves washed over me. I always came up spluttering and wiping the salt out of my eyes. Once my dad taught me about duck diving, I never reverted back.
A wave brews in the distance, and I pull myself farther to reach it. It’s going to be big. Just as I reach the prime spot, the wave appears, as if from my desire alone, and grows. I turn my board around and paddle toward the shore. The wave rises beneath me. As its peak reaches my stomach, my board catches. The wave carries my board; and I pull myself on top of it, planting my feet firmly.
The wave looms over the beach, and I work to get a few bottom turns. I drift to the top of the wave again. Bending low, I twist my body, getting in a few spikes before following up with an aerial. The ocean spray clings to my skin and I wipe the back of my hand over my eyes before launching into another trick. My calves burn with the exertion. I feel alive.
I grip the board with my toes as the wave curves over itself creating a barrel. When I was a kid, my first attempt at any surf tricks landed me in a hospital bed with a torn ACL. It took months to heal. Months I couldn’t spend in the water. The moment I healed, I ran straight for the waves. Needless to say, I never wiped out the same way again.
As the wave and I near the shore, I crouch into the barrel. The waves roll over my back but never touch me. Inside it’s as though I glide through the ocean—breathing underwater, seeing underwater, a part of the water itself. You can’t find that type of experience anywhere else.
The wave crashes in on itself and I surf to the shore.
“Whoo!” I pump my fist into the air, cheering for an awesome ride. I grab my board and drag it onto the sand and shake off my wet hair.
Boarders all along the beach grab their boards and run into the ocean. I let them have it. The wave I caught was prime and would probably be the best one all day; but if they surf now, I can go back out by the time the next epic wave hits. I carry my board farther away from the ocean, the warm sand sticking to my feet and wetsuit.
Everything on the sand glows, bathed in the sunlight—people’s towels, coolers, their skin. Everything glows except for an odd anomaly sitting in the distance—a black hole in the middle of it all. I meander toward the dark blotch, peering over the heads of the hundreds of beach goers. Sandcastles, crabs, and bright-colored umbrellas litter the beach. I step around them with ease, never taking my eyes off the dark spot. A small part of me fears if I look
away, even for a minute, the darkness will disappear. I don’t even dare blink.
As I edge closer, my heart stutters. Iris.
“Ah, so we meet again,” I say.
Iris peers up at me, shielding her eyes against the sun. Even in the shadow of her hand, her eyes still sparkle. When she recognizes me, she lowers her hand and looks back out to the ocean without a word.
I stick my board in the sand and sit down next to her. Her black swimsuit pales her already white skin. How is she so light if she lives in California? Even if she never comes to the beach, there is no way she could be this white.
I follow her gaze out to the ocean. She almost looks sad.
“What are you looking at?” I ask.
Iris stares for another moment and then shakes her head. “Oh, just the ocean.”
I nod and scan the reflective water. “It’s a pretty awesome beach and the waves are amazing today.”
“Yeah, they are.” I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t.
“I can’t believe you aren’t out in them.”
Iris smiles sadly. “Mmm, you’re telling me.”
“Why don’t you then?”
She remains silent and at first, I think she doesn’t hear me.
“Don’t know how to swim?” I guess.
She laughs and shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. So, I saw you surfing earlier; you’ve got some impressive talent with that board.”
“Nice change of subject.” I roll my eyes. I’ll get her to tell me eventually. “And thanks. I’ve been surfing since I could walk. It’s about as natural to me as breathing at this point.”
“Nice. Self-taught?”
“Sort of. When I very first started, my dad taught me. We tandem surfed on his board for months before I got the hang of it. When I got older and could surf alone, I started attempting tricks.”
Iris rubs her arm uncomfortably. “Well, your practice paid off. I think a lot of these boarders are trying to prove they’re in the same league as you.” Iris gestures to the numerous neon colored boards floating across the water.
“Ha. I’d like to see them try.”
Iris cocks her eyebrow at me, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
“I’m totally kidding.”
Iris returns her gaze to the ocean.
“Have you ever surfed before?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. And I’m actually okay with that.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. You’re okay with that? You’re missing out on one of life’s greatest creations. You better have a good reason!”
“Well, I’m fairly certain I’d fall in and be dragged to the bottom of the ocean. Is that good enough?”
I laugh but can’t tell if she’s serious. “I can teach you if you want? Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall and sink to the bottom of the ocean.”
“How do you plan to keep me up?” A playful smile settles onto Iris’ face, but her voice sounds nervous.
“Same way my dad did. We can go together at first. You know, just until you’re steady on the board.”
A wrinkle creases Iris’ brow like she’s deep in thought—or totally stressing out. She hides her worry with a small smile. “And how long do you think that’ll take?”
“Until you say when.”
Iris mulls the idea over. She looks at me for a few minutes, her eyes dancing in the light. Her teeth lightly catch her bottom lip and, for a moment, I think she’ll take me up on the offer. Just as quick as the smile came, it falters and slips away. Her gaze drops to the sand.
“Thank you, but I don’t think so.”
“Really?” I thought I had her. “You can trust me. Iris, I promise I won’t let you get hurt. You don’t need to be afraid of the ocean.”
She laughs, tossing a handful of sand at my chest. “Hey, I’m not afraid of the ocean.”
“Alright, then. We don’t have to do it today. My offer stands for whenever you’re ready.”
She smiles. There’s a chance. “Okay.”
I wonder if she can’t swim. That would suck to live so close to this amazing beach and not be able to swim. Eventually, I’ll get her into the water though, even if I have to teach her myself.
Chapter 5
JACE
The sun beats down through my windshield turning the cab of my truck into an oven. With a few clicks of the knob, I crank the AC full blast. As I drive along the coast on my way to school, the beach life is already picking up. Kids squeal and run from the waves and onto the shore to build the foundations of their sandcastles. Adults break out their multi-colored umbrellas and cocktails prepping for a relaxing day. In only a couple of hours I’ll be right there with them trying out for the Santa Cruz High surf team. The Santa Cruz Scholastic Surf League starts its competitions in October, so I’m already behind my soon-to-be teammates in conditioning.
Unlike the majority of students at Santa Cruz High who take four classes a day, I only have three today. Thank you, Bayshore High. My old school let me get a lot of extra credit hours in during my sophomore and junior years knowing my family might move again any day. Mr. Sudds, the surf team coach, has agreed to let me try out for the team so long as I use the extra hour each day to train. Assuming I make the team.
Despite my anticipation for the tryout, my day starts off rocky when I trudge into Calculus, a rotten class with the sole purpose of destroying my hope of ever getting a 4.0 GPA. I’m actually decent at math, although I don’t own up to it. The real reason this class sucks hardcore is Mrs. Callihan, a witch in the truest sense of the word disguised as a teacher. I’ve only been here a few weeks, but it didn’t take long to figure out.
A few days ago a girl ran out of class with the stomach flu, mid-test. The next day Mrs. Callihan flunked her, called her dramatic, and refused to let her take the test again. The girl cried for the entire hour, and Mrs. Callihan wasn’t reprimanded in the slightest.
The bell rings and I dash out of the math lab. I swear it’s a miracle nobody gets trampled. With twenty-five kids in the class, the room is cramped, not to mention dark with only one window. Plus, it smells like something died in there; although that could just be an added effect of my imagination.
I have five minutes to get to Mythology; the class that’s turning out to be my favorite. With each class a combination of listening to stories and doing art projects, I feel like I’m back in second grade only the projects are a lot harder now. We just finished learning about Odysseus’ journey a few days ago and are going to work on a big project for the next few weeks. Mr. Demonas is assigning us our topics and partners today. Honestly, although the stories are neat, Mythology isn’t my favorite because of them. It’s my favorite because of her.
“Demonas hates tardy students,” a voice interrupts my thoughts.
I turn to see another guy rushing alongside of me. He sits on the opposite side of Iris than I do in class.
“Oh yeah? Is he a fan of detention?”
“Oh, more than a fan. I’ve been there twice this year already—but I haven’t gone anywhere near as many times as some of the other people in our class.”
“Really? Who’s been sent there the most?” I ask, waiting to see who the flunkey of senior year will be.
“Iris, by far.”
My pace slows. “For real?”
The boy’s brows pull together. “Yeah. She’s always late to class. Demonas is a lot stricter on her than other people. I’m not sure why, but as long as it isn’t me.”
We turn the corner into the hallway where Mythology is just as the tardy bell rings.
“The name’s Quinton, by the way.” The boy extends his hand to me. I give it one hard shake before he slips into the classroom. Just before I follow suit, Iris rounds the corner across the hall, beautiful and mysterious as ever.
As we both near the door, she smiles and ducks her head into the classroom. This is one class where the teacher acts like a dictator and forces us to sit in the same seat every day. Luckily. I don’t mi
nd the assigned seats here like I do in Chemistry where I sit next to Phil, a heavier guy who always seems to sweat bullets even when the AC is on full blast.
I rush to my seat next to Iris when I hear Demonas call out my name.
“Jace, tardiness is unacceptable in my class, even by a minute. Since you’re a first-time offender, I will let you off with a warning. Iris, detention tomorrow, two o’clock.”
Iris nods as though she expected this.
I take my seat next to Iris in the back.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“Hi.”
“Sorry about detention. I can’t believe he’s giving it to you for being less than a minute late.”
“It’s okay, I’m used to it,” she shrugs.
“I guess that’s good. Are you ready to hear about this project Demonas has for us?”
She sighs. “Yeah, if it’s anything like the last one, we’ll be pulling quite a few all-nighters. It was on Icarus and Daedalus. You know, the boy who flew too close to the sun?”
“Oh yeah, I think I know that one. He fell into the ocean and drowned, right?”
Iris nods. “Yep. The project was to write an extension of some portion of that myth. Most people did theirs on the battle between Theseus and the Minotaur. Either that or the different punishments King Minos forced on Daedalus and Icarus. It was pretty extensive—thirty pages.”
My jaw drops. “Thirty pages? For an extension? That’s insane.”
“That’s Mr. Demonas. It’s insane, but not impossible, obviously, because we all did it; but it was hard.”
Resting my chin in my palm, I look to the front of the room where Demonas scribbles on the board. Hopefully this project isn’t as time consuming as his last one. Hopefully it doesn’t cut into my time going to the beach.