Furious (19 page)

“I’ve never had a shape in my life. It’s weird ’cause I’m not exercising. I’m hungry all the time—starved—and I keep eating.”

“Like a shark. Same here. I’m really into the rocky road ice cream. And it’s all becoming muscle.” Alix lowers one of the surfboards and gets on her knees to demonstrate how to put zigzags of wax on the surface. “This will keep you from slipping off when you stand up.”

“
If
I stand up.”

I lower the other board to the ground and go to work on the edges, imitating what she’s doing. The bar of wax smells nice, like the peppermint gum Raymond is always chewing. It meshes with the scent of the coconut sunscreen, and makes me think of fruit drinks and tropical islands. “So your body is changing, too?”

“Yeah. I figure it’s connected to what Mr. H taught in class the other day. What’s that law? The conservation of energy.”

“I thought you slept through physics, Alix.”

“Naw. I just look asleep. Stuff sinks in even with my eyes closed.” She stops waxing to give me her full attention. “Here’s how I figure it. What we’re doing takes energy, right? And energy’s got to come from somewhere. It doesn’t just grow on trees, right?”

“Well, energy does kind of grow on trees.”

“You know what I mean. Not
our
energy. It must be coming from us. Messing with people’s minds is exercise, maybe like running a marathon.”

“The Fury Diet!” I suggest. “We could write a bestseller and make a fortune from it. We need a motto.”

Instead of drawing more zigzags, I use the wax to write in my elegant handwriting
Get Mad! Get Fit!
along the length of my board. Alix nods approval and balances her board on her head. “Ready to tackle the ocean? Yeah, you’re ready.”

I take my time following her down the steep, rocky stairs. The board isn’t quite as heavy or cumbersome as I thought it would be. Thank goodness for that. Alix, too, is being very patient with me; I didn’t expect that from her. I figured she’d make fun of my fear and get irritated with how tentatively I’m maneuvering the steps. That’s exactly the attitude I couldn’t handle right now. When I know someone is watching and judging me, I just get more fearful and clumsy. But Alix is giving me the same respect for my limitations as she shows her brother, and I appreciate that.

When we get to the edge of the ocean, I flash her a nervous look and then force myself to step into the knee-high water. When I dunk up to my neck, there’s a slap of cold as some water finds its way past the protective barrier of my wet suit. But quickly my body heat warms it up, and no more water gets in.

This is amazing. The ocean is freezing. I feel the sting of the icy salt as I splash some on my face. Only, my core, the center of me, doesn’t feel it. Putting my belly on the board, I paddle away from shore exactly as Alix instructs. She stays right next to me, giving directions and shouting encouragement.

I try for a few waves, but they pass right under me. “You’re not working hard enough,” she shouts. “Paddle!”

Another wave and another and another. All misses. I feel the ocean energy slide away beneath me.

Then one wave, bigger than the others, comes right at me and I panic. I can try going over it. Maybe I can get out of its way. But I hear my name again, and that gives me confidence. This is my wave. It’s meant for me.

I turn the board and point it toward shore. My arms dig into the water and I can feel—I can actually hear—the building swell of a wave getting closer. That’s when Alix gives my board an extra push.

It’s exactly what I need.

I slide down the front of this liquid wall, and when I get to the bottom I actually manage to spring to my knees for a second—a whole, wobbly, terrifying, thrilling second—before losing my balance and falling into a swirl of foam. The air disappears. Cold water goes up my nose, tosses me around, and holds me under. I don’t know which way is up.

But unlike the usual me, I’m not afraid for some reason. In my mind I replay Alix’s instructions: Stay relaxed. Go with the flow of the wave. Don’t fight it.

I pop to the surface in calm water and see Alix’s worried face looking down into mine.

“Are you okay?”

I lick my lips, enjoying the sting and taste of salt already drying on them. In answer to her question, I get right back on the board and start paddling back out to where it’s deeper and dangerous.

I loved catching that wave, and even getting tumbled. I loved the roughness of the break and the stillness when I was underwater. I loved paddling hard and going over the top of a wave.

I love being out here with the gulls overhead and the seals nearby.

Alix could be right and the ocean is a cure. If I keep trying. If I don’t give up. If I have faith in myself and my sister Furies. Maybe from now on, things in my life won’t be as hard or as scary or as impossible as they used to be.

*   *   *

At school the next morning, I’m going through my locker to get ready for class. I find an envelope that was pushed through the vent, and open it to find an ornate, professionally printed invitation to Ambrosia’s Halloween party.

“Hey.”

Even though my back is to him, I recognize the voice. Brendon. I’d know it anywhere, even underwater, I bet. Right now I want desperately to channel Ambrosia, to remain calm and aloof, to turn slowly and meet him with lowered eyes and a breathy greeting, to say something like: Hey yourself.

I whip around like I’ve been shocked with electricity.

The book I’m holding—one thousand textbook pages of Western Civilization—jumps out of my hand and lands hard on his right foot, sending him into a one-legged, hopping dance. Meanwhile the party invitation and pile of papers in my other hand—research on the Furies—fly through the air like confetti on growth hormones. I fumble to get them. He tries to help, but he’s off-balance and I’m off-balance because I’m so close to him and I can’t believe he’s talking to me, and I can smell his piney, oceany smell. We knock shoulders and bump heads, and it’s a total, horrible disaster.

This encounter firms up my double reputation as a klutz and the girl who hates everyone. I wouldn’t blame him if he ran off screaming. So I’m surprised and relieved that he helps me pick things up. His eyes glide over the invitation. “I got one of those, too.” He comments on the papers. “Furies. Interesting.”

“I’m not always like that,” I blurt.

“Not always like what? Interesting?”

“No, clumsy. Well, actually I am. Clumsy, I mean, not interesting.”

Idiot! Shut up!

He flashes one of his rarely given grins. I almost drop the papers again. Eye crinkles appear, which cut off any possibility of me responding. Brain dead. Lips numb. My mouth won’t do a thing except to smile back way too broadly, a creepy clown grin that makes the muscles in my face hurt. Several more uncomfortable smiling seconds pass, and then, thankfully, he picks up the slack.

“I saw you in the ocean yesterday.”

“I was in the ocean yesterday.” This is the brilliant response that I manage to get out.

“Looking good on that board.”

Does he mean
looking good
as in
I look good to him
? My hands begin a mad dash around my body. I can’t stop them. They scratch my upper arm, rip the elastic band out of my hair and put it back in, cover my mouth in a fake cough, and then massage the back of my neck.
Stop fidgeting!
My left arm finally goes limp at my side and the right hand lands on my hip. I feel the brand-new curve of my waist in my hand and hold it there like a good-luck charm.

“You like to surf?” he asks. “I didn’t know that.”

“I like to surf.”

“Been surfing long?”

“I haven’t been surfing long.” More brilliance by the brilliant conversationalist.

“Maybe you’d like to…”

He hesitates. His eyes drop. He’s shy. I didn’t know that about him. But I imagined that he might be shy. Why not? Popular people can be shy, too. That’s what I saw in his expression! I’m glad he’s shy. I like that he’s shy. It makes him even cuter. So what is he trying to say? Maybe I’d like to what? What? What would I like to do?

“… to go surfing sometime.”

Be cool, Meg. Steady, girl. “Surfing? Me? With you? Together?”

“Yeah, with me. I want you to know…” He jams his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I’m sorry.”

“About what?”

“About the mini-golf thing. The way you asked me … your invitation was pretty random. ’Cause we never talked before or anything. You took me by surprise.”

“It was weird.”

Something happens to his face then. It scrunches in on itself, a wince, like he’s reminding himself of something he’d rather forget. “No, I want to be more honest. I wasn’t just surprised. I was rude. I was an asshole. When I get uncomfortable, that’s sometimes my default mode.”

My hands start their flutter dance again. “Oh, that’s okay. I didn’t actually expect you to say yes, even though I asked. I’m always doing things like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like…”
Shut up!
“Like nothing. I had the coupon and I saw you and I thought … anyway, it was just a whim. Dumb.”

“No, it wasn’t dumb at all. It was kinda cool. Nobody ever does anything like that. We stay with the same group of friends forever, never step out of our comfort zone. You tried. I’m flattered.”

I feel my cheeks getting hot. Ambrosia is definitely wrong about him. Here’s the hard evidence she wanted. He actually apologized for being a jerk. On his own. We didn’t do a thing to make this happen.

A couple of his friends walk by. Brendon’s right hand comes out of his pocket, and I figure that’s that, now he’s going to signal them to wait up for him. Apology over. Good-bye, Brendon. But instead, he pulls out a bag of jelly beans and holds it open for me. I take my time to select pineapple and coconut. He chooses the same piña colada flavors. I can tell he does that on purpose. That’s so adorable.

Chew, swallow. “I also want to apologize for my friends—about the golf-club swinging. So immature. They can be real jerks.”

I shrug. “That’s okay. You’re not your friends.”

“I know, but it’s no excuse.” Another wince moves over his face. “My friends do things, and I just go along with them. Sometimes I don’t think for myself.”

I select a popcorn-flavored jelly bean and let it dissolve in my cheek. “Your friends, especially Pox, seem a little nicer lately. Bubonic, too.”

“They are definitely different.”

“An improvement for sure, don’t you think?”

Brendon gets thoughtful, and I worry that he somehow senses that I have something to do with the increase in the niceness quota at Hunter High.

“Maybe we’re all just growing up,” he suggests.

“Could be. I hear that happens at our age.”

He laughs immediately. A good sign. It would suck if he didn’t get it when I was being funny.

“Apology accepted?” he asks, and when I nod he looks relieved. “Can I make it up to you? Want to go surfing together? Let’s both branch out. I have some favorite secret spots I can show you.”

The way he says that—using the words
spots
and
secret—
I hope he’s not just talking about surfing. My mind makes a wild leap, and I let the words follow my thoughts, let them right out into the air between us. “I like secret spots.”

I. Can’t. Believe. I. Said. That. I said that!

Then I can’t believe that I lean against my locker with one of my hips thrust forward and my shoulders rolled back. Suddenly this is like a conversation between two sexy people in a sexy movie. I’m not sure if it’s a good sexy movie or a stupid sexy movie, but I have to think it’s at least fairly good because Brendon touches me lightly on the shoulder. I flinch, but he doesn’t remove his hand. I’m very glad about that.

The bell rings for first period. His hand lifts. Sexy movie over. I turn away, slam my locker door, pick up my book, and fumble to get everything into my pack.

“So,” he says.

“So,” I reply.

“It’s a date then?”

Date! He used the word
date.

“When?” I ask it too fast and too loud, way too eager.

“I have an idea, but I have to check on something. I’ll let you know.” He hands me back my papers, checks out the title again. “The Furies. You don’t want to forget these.”

20

Did that conversation
really happen?

Yes, it did!

Did Brendon ask me on a date?

Absolutely! At least, I think so.

Is it possible that he likes me? Me?

How could he like me? Why wouldn’t he like me?

This question-and-answer session with myself goes on all day, through classes, during lunch. I’m totally distracted, but I don’t tell anyone about Brendon, not even Raymond. I’m afraid that saying it out loud will break a spell of some sort. (No! We didn’t do anything to him. He asked me completely on his own.)

I’m riding the bus to Stephanie’s house after school because I promised that I’d help put together flyers and posters for her newest project—
Save Our Town’s Last Greenbelt.
I also know that she and Alix want to talk about projects of a different sort: What should we do about Gnat? Who else needs a lesson from the Furies? What specific areas—cornering, singing, entering, exiting—should we target for more practice?

But Fury work is the last thing I feel like doing right now. True, Gnat is a serious contender for all-American pain in the ass, but right this instant I just don’t care. I know I should, but I don’t. I can’t muster up any real anger at him. Rather, I want to drift off into about five happy hours of replaying my amazing conversation with Brendon—what he said and how he looked when he said it and what I said in return. I’m thinking about suggesting something besides surfing for our date. How about a movie with popcorn, sitting close to each other in the dark, someplace where we’re not separated by double layers of neoprene and icy waves?