Summer of Seventeen (27 page)

“Oh man, I’ve got a one-way ticket on the crazy train!” and he shook his head as if to clear it. “Hey, how come you were walking when Patrick and Dylan saw you and not riding your skateboard?”

“Oh, yeah.” I grimaced. I hadn’t wanted to tell him about that, but he was still staring at me, impatient now. “Um, I kind of got fired.”

“Fuck! Yansi’s old man fired you? He figure you nailed her?” I didn’t want to reply to that, but then he answered his own question. “Nah, he’d have done more than fire you … so what was it?” I looked up at him, meeting his gaze. “Oh shit. Because of me … because he thought you gave me the drugs. Ah fuck, man!” His head thudded against the wall. “I never realized … this has really fucked things up for you.” He laughed bitterly. “Almost as much as it has for me. Life sure gets shitty fast.” He paused. “So where does the Tony Hawk come into it?”

“That was the other crappy bit: ole man Alfaro tossed it into the road just as this van was coming. Totaled it.”

“That bastard!”

And then I told him that I threw the broken deck at Mr. Alfaro’s truck, leaving a good size ding in the door.

“He deserved it. Oh man, your wheels!”

“Yeah, it sucks having to walk everywhere.”

“At least you’re allowed out,” he stated sourly.

I couldn’t disagree with that.

Sean chewed his lip for a moment then looked at me intently.

“Can I ask you something? Something important.”

I was surprised by his tone. Sean was rarely serious—tonight was sure turning out different from how I’d expected. “Sure. What’s up?”

He took a deep breath. “Do you ever think about your mom?” My stomach clenched as he hurried on. “I mean, do you ever wonder about … where she’s gone?”

I swallowed several times before I could speak. “Yeah, I think about her. Sometimes I wake up and I’ve forgotten that she … I think I can smell those cinnamon rolls she used to make. But then I remember.”

His eyes were fixed on mine, so I had to look away.

“I don’t know if I believe in Heaven and all that shit. I used to, I think. I prayed … a lot. But it didn’t make any difference. She died anyway, so I don’t know.”

It was weird having this conversation with Sean. I’d never said any of it to him before. He hadn’t asked. Later, I thought we’d never really talked before that night.

“Sorry, bro,” he said.

“Yeah.”

We were both quiet for a moment, somewhere else, inside our heads. I realized that I’d never talked to Julia about stuff like this either. For the first time, I thought maybe I wanted to.

“Dad’s talking about sending me to live with my grandparents,” Sean said suddenly, his voice bitter.

“Shit! For real?”

“Maybe.” He shook his head. “Fuck, I can’t imagine living where I couldn’t surf. I’d go crazy. Crazier.”

I felt the same, and the thought of Sean going away hit me hard.

“For how long?”

“I dunno. But I’ll be away for my birthday next month. For all I know, he’ll get rid of me until college. He wants me out of here, I know that. Too much of an embarrassment.”

When he couldn’t meet my eyes, I finally understood.

“To keep you away from bad influences like me, right?” I laughed sourly.

“I’m sorry, man.”

“Yeah.” I looked away from him. “It was some scary shit seeing you like that. I thought … I don’t know, but it looked really bad. Maybe you should … cut back or something.”

Sean looked irritated. “For fuck’s sake, not you, too! I’ve got my whole family crawling up my ass giving me grief, I don’t fucking need it from you.”

I met his eyes. “Just sayin’, man.”

He sighed. “Yeah, yeah. I know. It just … it takes the edge off of living … with
them
. It’s a total mind-fuck living here. Your mom was always so cool. And now I’m stuck here 24/7—can’t see my friends, can’t even
talk
to them. I hate it. I really fucking hate living here.” He glanced across at me. “I told them it had nothing to do with you. I told them; I told the police…”

“But you didn’t tell them who sold you the Molly?”

Sean shook his head, his eyes pained. “I couldn’t. I get the weed from … some guys I know, but the other stuff … those dudes are whacked—seriously scary.” Then his voice broke a little. “I hate this fucking shit: you’re my best friend, man.”

I didn’t know what to do. I opened my mouth, trying to think of something to say, but suddenly a light flicked on in the hall, the beam filtering under the door.

“Shit! Someone’s awake—they must have heard you!”

I leapt up, scrambling out of the window, keeping low and hiding in the shadows. I held my breath when I heard Mr. Wallis’ voice.

“Who are you talking to?”

“No one,” Sean mumbled, sounding like he’d just woken up. “Must have been dreaming.”

“Do you have a phone in there?”

Sean’s protest went unheard, and his main bedroom light snapped on. From what I could hear, his room was being searched and then the window was slammed shut.

Too fucking close.

I slunk away, keeping to the darkest parts of the shadows, until I reached Julia’s car.

I drove home slowly. Seeing Sean hadn’t fixed anything. My life wasn’t always great, but I had Yansi, and I even had Julia, sometimes. Sean didn’t have anyone, except me.

Which meant he was really fucked.

I managed to sleep for a couple of hours when I got home, but I’d set my alarm early, intent on hitting the beach at dawn.

For the last nine hours, the surf had been building gradually, a wall of white sound that washed over the whole town during the night. The beach was going to be busy today so I wanted to get there early, determined to get my ride before the waves were crowded out.

The air was cooler now, and I knew the storm would have churned up the ocean, drawing colder water from deep down. It rarely got cold enough to need a wetsuit, even a shortie, but I threw a rash vest into my backpack just in case.

I was heading out the front door when I saw a light on in Marcus’ room. I stood outside for a moment, wondering if he was with someone, or intending to go surfing. But then his door opened and he saw me.

“Great minds think alike. You need a ride, kid?”

“Yeah, that would be awesome. Thanks.”

He grinned, and I could see the same excitement in his eyes that all surfers had when a big swell came in. A real surfer never lost that, no matter how old you got. I heard them all the time in the Sandbar, reliving their glory days back in the last century:
remember the winter of ’87?
Or,
did you see that epic ride
Pete Lopez caught in ’92
, or,
Hey, don’t forget that 25 foot monster that Yancy Spencer shred back in ’67
. It was hard to imagine anyone that old being a surfer.

But we all had that look, and I saw it in Marcus now. For the first time I knew exactly how he felt without any of the bullshit.

“Where should we go to catch the best waves? Jetty or further north?”

“Jetty will be good, but it’ll be crowded. Nah, drive south toward Tables Beach, and we can park near 32
nd
Street. I know an access point—there won’t be so many people.”

He nodded and smiled. “Can’t beat local knowledge.”

I tossed my backpack into Marcus’ van, carefully lying my board on top—a 7’ semi-gun with FCS fins.

The surf was pumping, and I swear salt water was shooting through my veins as I stared out. I just wished Sean could have been here. He’d have been like a kid at Christmas, hyped up on sugar and the rush.

From the van’s window, I could see clean, glassy lines of surf rolling in from the Atlantic, heaping foam onto the sand. The wind was offshore, holding the waves upright, making the rides long and smooth. The swell was even higher than predicted, topping out at 15, maybe 18 feet. I hadn’t ridden anything that big in a while. Adrenaline started surging through me. I was fitter, stronger than I’d ever been. It was going to be intense.

The street was lined with cars, vans, vee-dubs and trucks when we got there. So much for it being less busy, but I knew Jetty would be worse. Guys who didn’t know the area well would head over there—people would be dropping in all over the place, making it impossible to catch a clean ride. This was still better.

Marcus leapt out of the van and started waxing his board, covering the older, dirty crust with a fresh layer. You needed it for traction: these weren’t the kind of waves where you wanted to lose your footing, or you’d be picking your teeth with your surfboard.

He tossed the cake of Sex Wax to me, and I rubbed it on my board, paying attention to the area my back foot would rest on.

When I was finished, Marcus was waiting impatiently. He locked the van and tucked the key into a waterproof ziplock around his waist. He usually hid the key under the wheel well, but with the number of people out this morning, it would be dumb to do that. They weren’t all locals, and he wasn’t going to risk coming back to find that someone had stolen his clothes and spare boards. That happened a lot—more in the summer. You had to look after your shit.

We jogged down to the shore, joining a bunch of guys who were warming up on the sand and planning their paddle-out. You couldn’t just run into the sea and start paddling when the surf was this big—not unless you were itching to get pounded by a ton of water closing out on top of you. I was looking for smoother water, a channel that would give an easier ride out to the line-up, the area behind where the waves were breaking. Surfers really liked riptides, because if you knew what you were doing, those would pick you up and suck you out like a conveyor belt and drop you at the line-up. Swimmers hated rips, but they saved surfers a lot of energy.

Marcus was studying the sets coming in. In every group of waves, one would be bigger than the others: usually about the third or fourth one in. So although most of these waves were double-overhead, every now and then, you’d get a 18 footer or more. Not everyone wanted to ride a wave that big, but if you caught the wave in front of it and you didn’t make it, you were going to get slammed by the biggest motherfucking wave that was rolling in behind.

That’s why the smart surfers would take their time, studying the sets, picking their spot.

I found mine, and I was gone.

I ran into the waves, then leapt onto my board, belly down, stroking out through the froth and foam. The water was definitely cooler now, cold enough to take my breath away. I got maybe fifty yards before I had to duck-dive the first wave. I took a lungful of air, then forced my board under the wave, paddling through the wall of energy, popping up on the other side and hearing it break behind me. My eyes stung a little from the salt, and the wind whipped my hair across my face. I shook my head like a dog, and paddled to the line-up.

I nodded to a couple of guys I’d seen around, then sat up, paying attention, watching the sets roll in, waiting for my wave.

I let a couple go, and two of the guys in the line-up paddled for them. I waited.

Another guy took off on the next wave, and I waited.

Then the horizon disappeared, and a huge, dark wave started rising up. Fuck, it was massive! That wave had my name on it. I turned the board around and started paddling hard for the peak, powering through the water. Two other guys were paddling with me, but I was ahead of them. This was
my
wave.

The wave lifted me, roaring like a jet taking off. One more stroke. One more, and then I leapt to my feet, the wave tipping forward, my stomach dropping. The board bounced and shivered down the face of the wave, and I bent into it, crouching down, lowering my center of gravity. The wave was glassy on my left, my fingers trailing along its front, my right hand reaching out for balance. The spray misted in my face as I stared straight ahead, my hips, knees and feet flexing and moving automatically, tiny adjustments that meant I’d ride this monster and not get chewed up and spat out.

The wave started curling above me, and I wondered for a heartbeat if it was going to close out and crush me down toward the ocean floor, but it held up, creating a perfect tube, a roaring tunnel of green light. I surged forward, the rail gripping the wave, the fin anchoring me to the water so I didn’t side-slip.

My heart was hammering, blood singing, eyes focused, concentration like iron. Adrenaline poured through me—every microdot of negative energy, every bad thought washed out of me, suspending time. I felt all powerful, invincible, weightless, flying, a guru.

And then the water’s energy began to ebb and the wave dropped, spitting me out of the tube like a dart.

The board slowed and I let it slip over the back of the dying wave.

A huge grin split my face as Marcus paddled over to me.

“Holy shit, man! That was fucking insane!” he yelled. “That must have been over 20 feet! You’re crazy, kid, but you are one helluva surfer!”

He slapped his hand against mine, and I felt like I’d gone into battle and come out on the other side. A survivor.

“You’d love Maui,” he grinned, excitement and approval in his voice as he jerked his chin at me. “You rock, kid.”

I watched him paddle away, the smile threatening to send my jaw into a cramp.