Cinderella in the Surf (8 page)

She approaches me, slow and steady the whole time, like a missile that's locked and loaded on its target and knows its prey won't find a way out.

"Rachel," she says when she's just feet away from me.
 

I swallow hard, my mouth gone dry.

"Hi, Mrs. Perry."
 

I instantly want to kick myself. My voice is too high-pitched, too unnatural, too forced, too damn
cheerful
to come out of the girl who was with her son when he died.

"I hear you're back on the board," she goes on, and for a second, I feel a flutter in my chest, like maybe this is going to be okay and she'll tell me she's glad I can keep doing what Alex loved so much.

"I tried today," I say, and the words rattle around in my head as I try to figure out how I feel about hearing them out loud for the first time. "It kind of sucked."

"I hear it didn't go so well," she continues, and that's when I know this isn't going to be the pleasant, or maybe even heartfelt, reunion I'd briefly dared to allow myself to hope for.

I shake my head. "Not my day."
 

She grimaces. "Well, that's a shame," she says, and I notice she's let go of the table of donuts next to us that she'd been using for support. "But at least you have another, right?"

I open my mouth, then close it. I don't know what to say. What can I say? I hate this, I hate it so much, and I'd do anything to change it, to find the right words to make her stop hating me, but short of bringing Alex back from the dead, I don't know if I can.
 

But I'm sure of one thing: Alex wouldn't recognize the two of us standing here right now.
 

"At least your bad day in the ocean wasn't your last." Mrs. Perry's assault continues. "But you know it isn't always like that."
 

Her voice rises, becoming shriller with each word, each syllable.
 

"What did you do to him? Why didn't you stop him? Why didn't you
stop
him?"
 

Heads swing in our direction from all over the grocery store, curious eyes and gossiping lips, most already fully aware in this small town of the relationship between the two of us.

But Mrs. Perry isn't finished and I can't stop her.
 

Right?

"It was always about you." Her voice drops an octave, her words huskier but no less sharp, each one cutting through me, slicing open a wound I'd thought maybe I'd finally closed.
 

"Everything Alex did, it was for you, with you,
because
of you." She shakes her head and a smile, the most terrifying smile I've ever seen, plays along the corners of her lips. "It's only fitting that he died that way, too, isn't it?"

"Mrs. Perry, please, I -- "

She cuts me off with a bitter, biting laugh. "You think you can say something? You sweet, naive, stupid child. There's nothing you can say to make this better."
 

"I'm not -- "

I don't know where the urge to cut in and plead my case comes from, but suddenly I need her to know that I wanted to stop him. I wanted to. I should have.

But I didn't. I never did, not with Alex. Not once.

And each word hurts more than the last, because deep down, I know she's right. It is my fault.

"There is. Nothing. You can say."
 

I feel the tears well up before they spill over, and I know I need to get out of here because it can only get worse.

"I'm sorry he died," I manage to choke out, and then I'm gone, running down the canned food aisle, past beans and corn and sweet peas, all so average and normal and exactly where they belong, and nothing at all like what my life's become now that Alex is gone.

***

"It was just so...weird. Like, I knew it was happening but it felt like I was watching it happen to someone else. I've never felt so hopeless and hated," I tell my mom later that night as we sit out on the rooftop balcony, the roar of the ever-present and ever-dangerous waves coming in steadily and rhythmic somewhere in front of us in the dark.
 

Hearing them but not being able to see them wash into the shore only makes it spookier.

"She's a mother who lost her child," Mom says with a shudder, her left hand wrapped tightly around the pink mug that's never far from her hand. "It's not something I've spent a lot of time thinking about, and I don't want to start now. You've got to cut her some slack, Rach."

"But it's like she blames me."

I
might blame me, but I can't stand the idea that someone else does, too.

Mom shrugs. "Maybe she does or maybe she knows it really isn't your fault, but blaming you is easy. Most people look for the simple way out."
 

"That's not right."
 

"It's not right that her son is dead, either," Mom points out. "Nothing about what happened to Alex is right, but it's life. And that's all we've got."
 

"And what am I supposed to do?"
 

"Deal with it. Move on."
 

I choke back a half-snort, half-laugh.
 

This, coming from my mom, of all people, is rich. The woman who hasn't been right since her best friend, the maid of honor at her wedding to Dad, was killed in a car crash last Christmas Eve driving on an icy New Hampshire road.

And now I don't remember the last time I saw my mom laugh the way she did on December 23
rd
, when the tree was lit, the presents wrapped, the cocoa hot and her life good.
 

Now, she's just a woman who can't let go of the last gift her best friend gave her, a pink coffee mug with the words
work it, girl
printed on the side in gold script.

It arrived in the mail two days after Julie died.

A silly Christmas gag gift, a tradition between best friends, and now Mom's only connection to a life that was but no longer is.

I know about that kind of thing all too well.

"Move on to what?" I snap. "I can't surf anymore. I'm not good at it and I don't want to do it. It's too much like what it was with Alex only now he's not there and it's just stupid. It's too different and too much the same all at once and I can't handle that. And there's nothing else out there for me. There's nothing else I know how to do."

Mom blinks as she stares at me, her expression unchanging, like she's not at all bothered by my shouts.

"You know there was a day when you didn't know how to surf, either."
 

I pause. "What are you saying?"

"I think you know, Rachel. You love surfing. Or maybe you loved it. I don't know where your head is these days. But what I do know is that if you give up surfing, you'll find something to take its place."
 

"Like what?"

Mom shrugs, and the cooling tea in her mug sloshes dangerously close to the sides. "I can't tell you that. I never would have guessed you'd become the surfer you are today."
 

"Or the one I was yesterday," I mutter under my breath, but she ignores me.

"You can try anything to find out where you belong."
 

I sigh. She's right and that's probably what's bugging me the most.

"Maybe I'll take up painting," I mutter under my breath.

Mom smiles. "That's a good step."

If she only knew.

CHAPTER TEN

Walker and I meet up the next afternoon after texting back and forth late last night. He'd asked me if I was up for doing something today since his painting crew finished making Johnny's beautiful yesterday and is between jobs right now, and since I know I'm going to need to fill the next few months of summer without surfing, I'm not really in any position to turn down friends, or even an afternoon with a plan.

Plus, getting out of the house after last night's conversation with Mom doesn't seem like the worst idea, either.

Walker says he saw the amusement park on his way into town for the first time a few weeks ago, and that's where he wants to go today.
 

I know the place, since I've been living near San Diego for almost my whole life, but I've only been there twice, both times when I was a kid, and not in the last five or six years, at least.

And the last time I was there during a middle school field trip wasn't exactly a shining moment in the History of Rachel, but whatever. I'll get over it.

Walker wants to go, and I want to get out of the house, so I'm standing outside the big black wrought iron gates that look like they belong outside some spectacular medieval European castle. The loops and twists of all the different roller coasters loom in the distance, and I can already hear the impossibly upbeat carnival music that'll play on repeat all day and turn into an earworm I can't get rid of for the next week.

"Hey there."

I'm standing here examining a giant sculpture of what might be a pigeon when the voice startles me out of my thoughts. I spin around to see Walker behind me.
 

I steal a second to take in everything from his work boots to his slightly tattered jeans to his plain red T-shirt with a small hole and some tiny white paint splatters at the hem.

"You look like you're gonna go paint a house," I tell him, and he cracks a smile before he shrugs.

"Don't have a lot of clothes with me. I think everything I own has some kind of paint on it."
 

"Probably like the time when my whole wardrobe was from the surf shop," I admit.
 

"Probably," he agrees. "You ready to do this?"
 

I take a look at the biggest roller coaster loop I can see from where we're standing and try not to grimace. "As I'll ever be."
 

He studies me for a second before we start walking over to the ticket booth. "You sure about that?"

I hate that he's asked me for a second time, because now I've got to work twice as hard at convincing him, and maybe me, that I am.
 

"Let's do it."

He nods, and steps up to the window to buy our tickets, waving me off when I try to hand him a twenty, so I hang back and try to take a few slow, steadying breaths.

It's been like six years.

And this isn't a big deal.

But before I can give myself anymore (probably useless, but still) words of advice, Walker's standing right here, holding out a ticket to me. I take it with what I think might look like a smile and we hand them to the attendant, get stamps on our hands, and then we're inside.
 

It's just as I remember.

"So." Walker rubs his hands together like a kid about to open his Christmas presents. "What first?"

I glance around, but don't see anything that looks particularly safe, or appealing. "How about, uh, well, I like the ferris wheel a lot. And the teacups."
 

He raises an eyebrow. "The what?"

I stand up a little straighter. "The teacups," I say, trying to keep the defensiveness out of my voice. "They're fun."
 

There's a hint of amusement when he speaks. "Rachel." He says my name like he's struggling not to laugh. "You know this isn't Disney, right? Do they even have teacups here?"
 

I shrug, defiant. "There's a park directory right over there," I snap. "Let's find out."

I don't wait for him to walk over with me, and I'm pretty sure I stomp to it, scanning the board for mention of the teacups.

Nothing.

In fact, outside of the Kiddie Kave, I don't see anything that doesn't scream downright terrifying to me.

I try to keep the pit that's rapidly forming in my stomach from erupting into full-on nausea.
 

"I'm right, aren't I?"
 

Walker has a confident, almost cocky, grin on his face that I'd probably find adorable under the right circumstances, but these definitely aren't.
 

It's kind of infuriating, actually.

"How about the Python Pit?" he suggests, squinting at the board. "We can start in the Animal Den with all those coasters and make our way through the park. Heck, I'll even buy you some fair food if you don't blow chunks after the rides."

I glare at him. "I will not
blow chunks
," I say with a boatload more confidence than what I actually feel.

"Good," he says like he doesn't buy my bravado. "More fun for me that way. Ready?"

I follow him, a half-step behind the whole way, praying the wait's going to be too long for us, until we're in front of the Python Pit, a towering roller coaster that goes up, up, up, plummets, then twists, spins, flips, and does all other sorts of things your body isn't supposed to do.

A sign blinking red words above the empty line flashes that we're just five minutes from taking our "ride into the jaws of death."
 

Which is totally comforting.

Walker looks over at me, eyes wide with excitement. "This is so cool!" he exclaims as he rushes through the empty rows.

He's waiting for me at the front of the line. "We could've been in the first car if you weren't so slow," he complains, but there's a smile on his face.

"Haven't you ever been on a roller coaster before?" I grumble when I catch up to him.
 

He shakes his head. "Actually, nope. This is my first time at a place like this. We never went when we were kids."
 

"Tennessee isn't that far from Disney, is it? Could've road tripped."

Walker shrugs. "Yeah, but so what? Doesn't mean my family ever decided to take us. Besides, from what I know, Disney doesn't have roller coasters like this."
 

I nod because he isn't wrong; it's a heck of a lot more intense here than it is at the Happiest Place on Earth. But I'm still wondering how it's possible that someone who's so clearly excited about these roller coasters has made it twenty years without ever getting on one.

The next string of ride cars pulls into the station then, before I get a chance to ask him anything else. Instead, I'm mesmerized by the shaken looks on the faces of the people who've just been through the Python Pit.