Riptide Summer Read online

  Jean knocked on my door, and I jumped since Rox and I had been sleeping naked. I yelled, “Wait!” Rox jumped into her clothes as I lifted my arms and pulled my nightgown over my head.

  Jean kept pounding. “Do you mind?” I yelled. It was so embarrassing. Then it got worse. Jean flung the door open and tripped over some books, landing on her hands and knees. Her beer spilled all over the rug.

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “No!” I hollered.

  She smelled like the hospital and the medical lowlifes she hung out with. I felt my face turn red as the heat of shame rose up in me.

  I don’t think she even noticed I had company until Rox said, “Morning, Mrs. Nuuhiwa.”

  I pulled the covers over my head. How embarrassing. My mother sucked the oxygen out of every room she went into.

  “If it’s okay with you,” Rox said, putting her hands up as if to stop the fight before it started, “I’m going to leave before the shit show.”

  What was I going to say? No, please stay. I want you to see how loaded my mother gets. Rox stepped over Jean and was gone in an instant. I’d never live this down. And if the Sisters of Sand or the McBrides ever heard about it, I wouldn’t be able to show my face at State again.

  I didn’t want to hear another word out of Jean, so I ran into the bathroom and locked the door.

  I stared blankly into the mirror. I looked like a sad sack, so I gave myself a mini beauty treatment: smearing my face with Noxzema until it stung, then rinsing it off with cold water. I dabbed on lip gloss, pinched my cheeks for extra color, and rubbed primrose behind my ears. Nigel and Shawn were picking me up soon, and I wanted to make sure I didn’t smell like Fiji. Then I combed my hair from the part to the tips.

  That’s when I saw the burn on my arm. I thought, This will last forever. Just like me and Rox.

  I looked downright sweet in my coral necklace and bikini. This summer my colors were going to be Cyprus and yellow. They would bring out the green in my eyes. What used to be the worst thing about how I looked would become the best, I decided right then and there. The buttercup-yellow flowers embroidered around my top and the soft, bamboo-green bottoms with thin satin ties would help me maintain my local superstar status. Even though I wasn’t born here, Santa Monica was my home now—and I had to keep it that way.

  I snuck out of the bathroom and listened for my mom. The coast was clear. The smell of coffee wafted down the hall. That was weird. I’d assumed Jean would be passed out by now, like she usually was after working the night shift.

  I could hear the coffee percolating as I cautiously slipped into the kitchen. Sitting with Jean was a well-dressed woman. Her purse matched her shoes and belt, her makeup was meticulous, and I could tell her gold jewelry was real. She stopped talking when I walked in.

  A chill spread down my spine.

  “Who died?” I asked. Who was left in my family? A tutu—my dad’s mom, who I’d never met—in Hawaii, my dad’s best friend, Uncle Mike, and my mother’s brother, who sent Christmas cards occasionally. When nobody answered, I tried asking again, with manners this time. “Would you please tell me what’s going on?” And then I asked, “Did you get fired?”

  The lady gently patted my mother on the back and Jean whimpered, looking down at the floor. “This lady is going to help me stop drinking,” she said. “I’ve been trying to do it on my own, but I fell off the wagon again.”

  I could hardly believe my ears.

  Jean grabbed me around the waist. She was shaking so hard I had to cradle her in my arms for fear she’d slip to the floor. I held her tight as she kept saying, “I’m sorry.”

  “What do I do?” I asked the lady.

  “Just hold her,” she said. “And by the way, my name is Joyce.”

  I’d never talked to an adult without calling them Mr. or Mrs. It was strange. And when she stood up, I could see that Joyce was a big gal—wide and tall. She had salt-and-pepper hair pulled up in a French twist, and there were no chips in her firecracker red nails. Everything about her was calm and centered.

  She told me, “Your mom is sick,” and pulled up a chair for me. “Jean here has been trying to stop drinking for a while.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  Joyce said, “It’s going to be okay,” as she gently touched my hand and nodded sympathetically. “I was once like your mom.”

  That was hard to believe. Jean had buried her face in my lap, and I could see an inch of dark roots in her blond hair. “How can that be?” I asked. This Joyce was like nobody I’d ever seen. I couldn’t imagine her having a hard day in her life.

  “Once, I did a face-plant right in a bowl of risotto,” she said. “My husband and kids were so disgusted, they left me there and went to bed.” Joyce started laughing. Was that funny? “That was eight years ago,” she said. Then she asked, “Are you hungry, Nani?”

  You’re not going to believe this, but Joyce made me French toast and scrambled eggs. I peeked at Jean through my hair. She was trying to be wide-eyed and alert, but her face looked sort of like a mug shot. Then we drank coffee together while Joyce told us more stories. “When my son was about your age, I drove the car into a brick wall and tried to blame it on him. I had blacked out, and I didn’t even remember it until my husband told me the next morning.” She was laughing again, so I laughed, and Jean laughed too, sitting up straight for the first time in months.

  I said, “Good thing you don’t drink anymore, Joyce.”

  She held up her coffee cup and said, “Cheers.”

  Most grown-ups ask dumb questions and talk at the wrong time, but Joyce was okay. And thank God she wasn’t from a church. What a relief. It seemed she belonged to some secret society that doesn’t accept money, and basically talks to anyone who drinks too much.

  The doorbell rang, and Jean bolted to her room, gasping, “I can’t see anybody.” She hid herself halfway behind the door as Joyce reassured her, “Why don’t you take a shower? I’ll be here when you come out.”

  Let me tell you something. That Joyce is a sharp one. She saw the way my eyes zeroed in on her before I opened the door. “Okay if I hang out with your mom for a while?” she asked.

  I crossed my arms and turned to her. “Why are you doing this, really?”

  “Because somebody did it for me.” She pulled a smoke out of her giant purse. She was a beauty shop type, but there was nothing sugarcoated about her. I decided, right then and there, to trust her. To hand over my broken-down mom.

  When I took one last look at her, Joyce was dabbing her eyes with a crisp, white handkerchief, then patting her forehead like a gospel singer. I opened the door just a crack and slid out to meet Nigel and Shawn.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Déjà Vu

  When we got to State, Shawn and Nigel zipped out of the van to inspect the waves. Both of them were wearing red trunks, and their hair was the exact same length, just below their shoulders. Of course, my nemesis, Jerry Richmond, was waiting for them.

  He was a real piece of work these days, with his foxy-boy body. That was something I couldn’t compete with. But what irked me the most was, he was a great surfer. No—he was beyond great. He was righteous in the water. Sometimes when I watched him, I secretly dreamed I was in his body, clipping and cutting back into each wave. How incredible would it be to surf again, breaking through the endless rhythms of the sea, rearranging reality so it fit my needs?

  After an executive meeting with the guys, Nigel gave me a big, salty kiss. “You don’t mind if we split, do you? Zuma is going off.” I tugged at his pretty, long, blond hair and put a smile on my face. It didn’t matter how close we were; surfers didn’t like girls who tagged along. I knew the rule:

  Waves before girlfriends.

  Besides, soon Nigel would be on his way to the slums of Calcutta. Until then, every wave counted. Looking at him, I felt like a chunk of my heart was vanishing right before my very eyes. The combo of Rox and Nigel was the perfect balance of yin and yang. My life work
ed this way, and I never wanted it to change. But I knew better than to make a fuss, so I just gave Nigel a flirty tap on the butt as he walked away.

  The extra bummer was, now I was stuck with Lord Ricky and his raunchy sidekicks, Brad and Stu.

  “Did you hear? Tuuuubed is doing an article on me. Hey, Glenn!” Lord Ricky pointed at a man with a long, gray ponytail and a camera swinging around his neck. He was barefoot and wearing rolled-up white linen pants and a matching shirt that looked like he’d slept in it. “He’s the man who’s going to put me on the cover.”

  Dream on, you dweeb, I thought. I hated the way Lord Ricky elongated every vowel, making each word an event I wanted to forget. He moved in closer. “Where’s my kiss?” Lord Ricky loved to do this whenever Nigel wasn’t around.

  I shrugged my shoulders like a dumb girl, which I am not. He tried to stretch out his arm to beckon me closer, but he was wearing his uniform: an old lady’s yellow bathrobe that fit so tight that if he moved too quickly it would tear right off him. He had a hickey on his neck and was sitting on his throne: an upside down trash can. Lord Ricky was insatiable—and disgusting—when it came to young girls.

  I was never so happy to see the Lisas and Jenni in the parking lot.

  “You’re not bugging Nani, are you, Lord Ricky?” Lisa H. had an overbite and big smile like Joni Mitchell’s.

  He gave her a stern look, which made it possible for me to sneak around him, and Lisa Y. skipped over to me. Some of her wavy, gold hair got in my mouth as she stumbled. She has bad vision. Story goes: she blew up firecrackers in her face. She refused to wear glasses. But none of the guys knew about her eyesight because she always kept one of us by her side.

  The four of us inspected State. Everybody was in their assigned place: the old guys were in the volleyball courts with a few Lakers celebs—the only non-white people on the beach besides me; the gay guys were partying on the left side by the green wall; and the locals were sitting all around us, but nobody dared park their butts in front of the Sisters of Sand. They had to look at our backs while we watched the takeoff zone and everything that goes with it: surfing and surfers. Nobody with a brain got too close to us.

  Nobody, except Melanie Clearwater. Since she had taken over the Topangas with her sister, Nicole, they had started inching closer to our spot. The Topangas were a bunch of retro-hippies who lived in the infamous canyon just before Malibu, hung out at the Elysium nudist resort, and grew their own pot.

  The Lisas hated Melanie—especially since she had moved the group into their Earth Mother phase, drinking vanilla extract for breakfast and wearing see-through tops with petticoats. Today they were testing their chakras by touching pressure points on each other’s bodies.

  Melanie’s saccharin voice chimed out, “Hi, girls.”

  “Hey, Mel,” Lisa Y. said unceremoniously, watching the Topangas tap each other. “That should keep them busy for hours,” she whispered.

  Lisa H. covered her mouth with her hand and said, “Lesbos.”

  “Disgusting,” Jenni chimed in.

  I twisted the tips of my hair. “Yeah, for sure.” What a phony baloney I was.

  I looked closer at the Topangas, crammed together on one big blanket, as we passed them. Thank you, Pele, I thought. If Rox and Claire hadn’t called dibs on me last summer, I’d be stuck with the Topangas, suffocating on the cherry incense they were burning.

  It was Claire’s last day at State, and we wanted to get everything just right before she got there. We made sure her towel faced the sun and that her and Rox’s ice-cold Tabs were in the right place. When horns started honking down the Pacific Coast Highway, I knew they were arriving. I had a sudden thought: this is what it would sound like when Rox and Jerry tied the knot. They’d probably have a Just Married sign in the rear window and go to Catalina for their honeymoon. It made me cringe.

  I took Rox and Claire’s graduation gifts out of my Levi’s pocket purse and placed them in the center of the towels. The SOS had gotten them dolphin necklaces: one turquoise, the other ruby red. The dolphin was Pali High’s mascot, and my family’s ‘aumakua. They were my protectors.

  “Hey!” Lisa Y. pulled at Lisa H.’s top to show her how sunburned she’d gotten: more burnt than the little girl in the Coppertone billboard over State Liquor.

  “Stop being the boss of me,” Lisa H. snapped.

  “You’re fried,” said the other Lisa, pointing a tube of sunscreen at her.

  This is going to be a fun summer, I thought, walking to the water and thinking about Jean. I was worried about her, but I reminded myself that Joyce was a Sturdy Gertie. I couldn’t let my mom distract me. Not today.

  I had just gotten knee-high in the water when I heard, “Hey, love,” from behind me. I turned. Glenn snapped a shot of me pushing the bangs off my face. They were bugging me so much, I think I was frowning.

  “Is that going to be in Tubed?” I asked, concerned that it wasn’t a very good shot.

  “Sorry, love. We have a No Girls policy. Just wanted to make sure my camera was in focus.” Typical, I thought to myself.

  Then, looking beyond me, he asked, “Are the waves always this good?”

  “Yep.” At State, the Pacific is a silver indigo. It’s restless and rough. Nothing like Waikiki.

  Bob, the lifeguard whose tower stands to the left of the SOS, hoisted the yellow caution flag over his station, carefully watching another numb-nut kid struggling to catch a wave. Bob shook his head, then yelled to me, “Watch the rip.” I wanted to ignore him, but instead I smiled and waved.

  Only surfers were allowed out right now—no civilians, and no girls—but that couldn’t stop me from getting wet before paying homage to the outgoing rulers. I watched the water—unlike that wannabe surfer boy who’d just lost his board. He had no idea what he was doing. But I could see the riptide from where I was wading out.

  In some places, the rip was smooth and calm. The tourists always swam directly into it, not knowing it was dangerous. State Beach had a fixed rip. It was almost always in the same spot, smack dab between where the lineup sat and Bob’s perch. It looked like a river within the ocean, white water rapids, muddy and dark. Anything in its path was sucked out to sea. You have to know where the danger is in order to avoid it.

  In a way, life is like a riptide.

  “Yo!” Bob yelled again.

  If only that knucklehead had swum parallel to shore, he’d have stayed out of the narrow current that snagged him. But he was panicking, trying to go against the tide. He’d gotten himself into the worst part of it, between the breakers and the whitewash. He was like a hamster stuck in a wheel: not going anywhere. He didn’t realize he would be okay if he just stepped out or treaded water. It was too late; he struggled to keep his chin up, then waved his arm, signaling desperately for help.

  “Look out,” Bob called as he ran past me, throwing a red buoy over his shoulder as he rushed into the water. Even just standing there, I could feel the current yanking at my legs. I didn’t fight it. I just moved one way and then the other downstream. I zigzagged serpentine lines without losing my cool, and voilà—I was back on dry sand.

  I assumed the lineup was watching the rescue, but when I turned around, I saw them all staring at Rox and Claire, who were both smoking. I knew Rox couldn’t quit. They strolled arm in arm down the beach, just like I remembered seeing them strut when I first met them. Except, now they were older and more amazing. The sight of them stopped all the volleyball games. Men were transfixed by their strange, magnetic force.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Total Perfection

  Rox sat absolutely still, cross-legged on the striped beach towel.

  I lifted her hair. “This one’s for you.” I hooked the necklace and watched her gently place it in the center of her chest. It was a sparkling speck of red to honor Pele and give Rox protection. Better late than never.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, clasping the tiny dolphin between her fingertips. She looked at me and said to the g
roup, “I’ll never take it off.”

  “Me neither,” Claire chimed in. “Thank you, everyone,” she said, hugging each of us.

  It was turning into a great day. At least, until the Lisas started bickering about Tubed magazine again. Lisa H. looked at me. “Nani. Have you ever seen a girl in Tubed magazine?”

  Rox took over. “No, but I’m going to be the first. You watch. Usually, in surf magazines, all you see are girls’ butts. Who they are doesn’t matter.”

  “She’s going to change all that this summer,” Claire said.

  Lisa H. stood up, gyrating her hips. “Not if I get a picture first.”

  She trotted down to the water.

  “She’s becoming a problem,” Rox said, under her breath, to me and Claire.

  I nodded. The new seating arrangement was making her overly confident. Lisa H. was a Sagittarius, and too eager. Her desire for power was making her annoyingly stupid.

  “Do you want the good news, or the bad?” I asked.

  Rox said, “Good.”

  “Lisa isn’t going to be in Tubed.”

  “What’s the bad?” Claire asked.

  “None of us are. There seems to be some kind of gentlemen’s agreement: no girls allowed.”

  “There’s a word for that,” Claire said. “It’s on the tip of my tongue …”

  “Sexism?” I said.

  “No Fair-ism. BS-ism,” Rox replied. “Well, that changes everything, doesn’t it?”

  “Hey, girl,” Melanie said as she walked toward the water.

  Rox was just about to flip her off when one of those dark, excited expressions came over her face. “Hey!” she said, all friendly, which tipped Claire and me off immediately. “See that guy over there? His name is Glenn, and he told us how he chooses girls for Tubed.”

  Melanie looked at Rox. “And you’re going to tell me?”

  “Sure, why not? Claire and I are leaving soon. So, he said you have to keep your chest up and back arched a little. Shake your butt side to side when you walk. That catches his eye.” Rox raised her Tab in a toast. “May the best butt shaker win.”