Girl Out of Water Page 10

  Eric has had a few girlfriends over the years. Has he met a long-stay tourist to hang out and hook up with? Is that why our texting has gotten awkward? It’s not like I expect him to wait around for me, and I’m not sure I even want him to, but the thought leaves me unsettled. Eric is one of my best friends. When I get home I still want my best friend.

  As I lean back, I notice a CD case on Emery’s desk. “What’s this?” I ask, grateful for a distraction. The label says it’s a Beatles’ Abbey Road CD, but the cover art is from a different point of view. All four Beatles are in black and white and sitting on top of a building, looking down at the famous Abbey Road instead of walking across it.

  “Nothing.” With flushed cheeks, Emery crosses the room and plucks the CD from my hands.

  “Did you make it?” I ask. Her walls are plastered with pictures and posters and album designs. “Did you make all of these? They’re awesome.” They really are. I don’t have an artistic bone in my body. I’d kill to be able to make stuff like this. Sometimes Tess sketches the ocean and portraits of us out in the surf. Her hand flies across the page like it’s controlled by magic. The most I’ve ever been able to draw is inside the lines of a coloring book.

  Emery sits down in her desk chair and toys with the CD case. Finally, she mumbles, “It’s kind of silly. I know.”

  “Silly?” I ask. “It’s awesome. How’d you make them?”

  She shrugs her shoulders. “I mess around with Photoshop and stuff. For fun. But it’d be cool if I could do it for a job one day or something.” She gets up and returns to her packing. “I have a blog where I post them. People like them, I guess. They request their favorite albums and everything.”

  “I’d love to see it,” I say.

  She turns to me, eyeing me as if trying to see if I’m kidding. Maybe someone made fun of her at some point. People can be assholes for no reason. Or without realizing it. I know I’ve had my moments.

  “Okay, maybe.” She continues to fold clothing. “I can make one for you, if you want.”

  “I would be honored. They’re great. Seriously.”

  She doesn’t respond again, but when she turns to put the stack of clothing in her duffel bag, I spot the most natural smile on her face I’ve seen all summer.

  Seven

  There has to be a limit to how many times one can fall on one’s ass in the same day. And I have to be really close to reaching that limit. “Try again!” Parker insists as I get up from the ground, rubbing my tender backside.

  “Why?” I groan.

  “Because you have to beat Lincoln.”

  I laugh, loud and short. I’m supposed to meet Lincoln at the park today for our challenge, and the stark truth is that I have a zero percent chance of skating better than him. I’ve looked into the average skills a skater acquires after seven years of skateboarding, and I’ve barely learned the tip of that iceberg. And yet, I’m still trying. Who knows? Maybe some skateboarding deity will come down to Earth and bestow me with killer talent.

  “Come on,” Nash says. “Try it one more time. You almost had it, I swear. Here, I’ll show you again.”

  I don’t get embarrassed easily, but watching my nine-year-old cousin breeze through a trick that has me on my ass every ten seconds isn’t easy on the ego. I watch for the millionth time as Nash skates down the driveway, kicks his board into the air so that it spins in a full circle, and then lands on it. The trick is called a kickflip. Apparently it’s easy. Apparently anyone who skates can do it. Apparently I’m a double-right-footed failure.

  “See?” Nash asks, skating back toward me, his floppy brown hair sticking out of his helmet. “Easy as pie.”

  “Apple pie,” Parker agrees.

  “Is apple pie easier than other types of pies?” I ask.

  The boys don’t laugh. They just look confused and skate back down the driveway. Guess I left my coordination and my sense of humor in Santa Cruz. “All right,” I say. “I’ll try again, but we’re heading to the park as soon as your sister gets back.”

  Or never go back to the park again.

  But I don’t want to be the worst cousin ever. I’ve already deprived them of the park for a week so I could practice in private, and they’ve gone along with it since I’ve let them help me practice. I’d be the ultimate asshole if I kept them away all summer.

  As I’m about to step back onto my board, a minivan stops in front of our driveway. A side door opens, and Emery pops out with her duffel bag. Before I can ask how the lake was, she rushes past us into the house, eyes welling with tears, and then slams the door behind her.

  “Umm…” I say.

  The oblivious dad driving the van waves and then pulls away.

  “Umm…” I say again.

  “I think Emery’s in a bad mood,” Nash says.

  “I think so too,” Parker agrees.

  I nod. “I think so three.”

  • • •

  Okay, so here’s the thing—I’m supposed to be at the park to meet Lincoln for this challenge. If I don’t go, he will inevitably mock me the next time he sees me. Or worse, give me some sad, sympathetic look, like a puppy that’s about to be put down. But I also need to comfort and talk with Emery who just ran into the house with tears in her eyes.

  The problem is that Emery is currently in her room, door locked, music blaring.

  I knock for the tenth time. “Emery, are you okay? Please let me in. I need to know you’re okay. Emery? Come on. Answer me, please.”

  No response.

  I sigh and slide down the door. Hopefully it’s nothing serious. I remember overreacting at Emery’s age when Dad said I couldn’t go to the Beyoncé concert without a parent. I remember giving him the silent treatment for a week when he said I couldn’t surf on my sprained ankle. It’s probably just preteen hormonal drama, like when Marie was pissed at us because we almost missed Cassie’s dance recital. But then after a few uncomfortable junior high lunch periods, Marie realized she’d given us the wrong date for the recital in the first place.

  Crap. That reminds me I need to text Cassie good luck. Her summer dance recital is tonight. Her last recital before boot camp. I’ve attended every one since middle school, but this year I’ll only be able to watch whatever shaky video someone posts online. That is, if I even go online to look. I’ve been avoiding my news feed the past few days.

  “She’s fine,” Nash says. He tugs my hand. “We’re gonna be late!”

  Parker and Nash don’t look too concerned. Still, worry gnaws at me each second she doesn’t respond. “Has this happened before?” I ask.

  “Only like every month,” Parker says.

  “Good.” I shake my head. “I mean, not good, but you know—if this happens monthly, it’s probably not anything serious, right?”

  “Mom always waits until she calms down or gets hungry,” Nash says.

  “How long does that usually take?” I ask.

  Nash shrugs his shoulders. “Long enough for us to be late to the park.”

  “If you don’t want to wait…” Parker runs off down the hall.

  “What?” I ask, but he’s already disappeared into his room. A few moments later he returns with a paper clip and starts jimmying the lock.

  “Parker, stop it!” Emery yells from inside her room.

  I’m surprised that Parker, not Nash, is the one who picks locks. But then Parker is quiet and patient and logical, which would make him an excellent burglar—not that burglary is a career path he should consider. He’d just be good at it.

  A few seconds later, the lock clicks. “I’m coming in,” I tell Emery, then open the door.

  Emery sits on the bed, her eyes red-rimmed, a magazine in her lap. “Get out!” she shouts. Her voice is more choked than loud, kind of like when a dog is scared and can’t get out a full bark.

  “Guys, downstairs,” I tell
Parker and Nash. The boys hesitate, glancing at their sister, but listen and leave. Once they’ve thumped down the carpeted stairs, I hover by the door in a way I hope says I’m-only-invading-your-privacy-as-much-as-necessary. “You okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Right.” I play with the hem of my tank top. “But, here’s the thing. Obviously something happened, and I need to know what it was, so I can figure out if I need to tell your mom.”

  Okay, not as smooth as Dad’s communication skills but not the worst either. Crap, who am I kidding? I’m total shit at this. I should be comforting her, not threatening to tell her mom.

  “Don’t,” Emery says, a sharp cut in her voice. She looks up at me from her magazine. “It’s not—it’s not a big deal. Don’t bug her with it.”

  “If it’s not a big deal, then maybe tell me?”

  “Look, it’s nothing.” She shoves off her covers and stands. “I’m okay, really. Let’s just go to the park so you can do your skate thing.”

  Except of course it’s not nothing. Something shut her down, caused her to come home practically in tears. I want to hug her, tell her she can confide in me, reassure her, but she’s standing in this tensed, arms-crossed, fuck off position, and at least for now, I want to respect her desire for space. She doesn’t look physically hurt, and the tears have stopped, and the boys want to go to the park, and I have to do this absurd challenge, so for now, maybe I should listen to her.

  “All right,” I relent. “But…when…or if you decide you’re not fine, let me know, because you know, it’s okay to be not okay.”

  Emery rolls her eyes, then brushes past me and out the door.

  • • •

  The sun presses higher into the air, turning a hot day into a blistering one. It feels like a sin to step out of the bliss of air conditioning. By the time we get to the park, my clothes are dripping off me like the clocks in those Salvador Dali paintings. Definitely not attractive. Not that there’s a reason for me to look attractive. I would just prefer if my perspiration levels weren’t reaching new highs today. At least I managed to skate all the way here without incident. Twisting an ankle before arrival wouldn’t have been good for my already depreciating self-confidence.

  We enter the park, and for the first time, Emery doesn’t bike toward the basketball courts. “Umm, Emery?”

  “What?” she responds, continuing to ride alongside us to the skate park.

  “Aren’t you going to the courts?”

  She doesn’t respond. Oh, I’m actually that dense. Of course she’s not going to the courts. Whatever happened this weekend had to do with her friends, so she doesn’t want to see them right now. I’m a total asshole for even asking. My mind races. “Oh, great. You want to watch me get my ass kicked too, right?”

  “Right.” She even grins. Or not-frowns. Which is a giant leap forward from an hour ago. “Totally right. Gotta take pictures for posterity and all.”

  I not-frown back at her. “So sweet of you. Thanks, Emery.”

  As we enter the skate park, the boys follow close behind me, like they’re bailiffs keeping me from running without posting bail. My goal today is to be collected. I might not skate better than Lincoln, but at least I can lose with grace. I can be the bigger person. I can suck up my battered pride for my cousins and their love of this sport.

  But then I see Lincoln. He’s wearing his jean-shorts-flannel-combo that is either style or a complete absence of style. My pulse thuds, and I almost stumble off my skateboard. My nerves of steel aren’t looking so steely.

  The twins holler for Lincoln from across the park, attracting the attention of almost everyone here. Lincoln glances up, and even from this far away, I can see him smiling. He doesn’t look the least bit nervous. And why would he be? This is his sport. His skate park.

  Lincoln and Austin skate over and slide to easy stops a few feet away.

  “Hey there,” Lincoln says to Emery. “You must be the third Sutter sibling.” He holds out his hand for her to shake. “I’m Lincoln.”

  She hesitates a moment, then shakes his hand. “Hey, I’m Emery.”

  “Hey Emery,” Austin says, his voice peppier than I expected from someone who wears only black. His genuine smile mirrors Lincoln’s. Emery nods back. I wonder if they know each other from school. Then he turns to me. “Austin,” he says. “Nice to meet ya!”

  “Yeah, hey, hi,” I say and try to smile back, but I’m too busy worrying about Emery and my kickflip to give it any real effort.

  Then, without a word, Emery goes to sit on one of the benches.

  Parker and Nash have already turned to Austin and are gushing over some trick he pulled off the other week, asking if he would teach them how to do it. As the boys and Austin enthuse over each other, Lincoln turns to me and smiles. Like we’re friends. Like this is normal. Like it’s totally perfectly normal to challenge a relative stranger to a skating competition. Maybe it is. Maybe, with a lack of better options, competitions with strangers are normal forms of entertainment in Nebraska.

  Or maybe it’s only a normal activity for this particular guy who makes my skin flush deeper than sunburn.

  “So,” he says, gesturing to my new board and helmet. “I see you’ve taken a liking to this fine sport.”

  “Not exactly,” I say. “My dad just didn’t want to see, and I quote, ‘my pretty brains splattered all over the driveway.’”

  “Makes sense,” Lincoln says. “You do have pretty brains.”

  Lincoln has a talent for doling out the world’s strangest compliments.

  “Anyway,” he continues, “I figured we’d both hop on the quarter pipe for a few minutes each, scoring points for the most 360s, hardflips, noseslides, the usual, with points factored in for speed and style. Sound good?”

  I stare at him, mouth open. He can’t be serious. Is he trying to kill me? I’ve barely figured out riding without falling off and ollying, and I still haven’t mastered the kickflip. I’m not even sure what most of those other moves are, much less have the ability to perform them.

  Lincoln bursts out laughing. He pats me on the shoulder. “Sorry, sorry. I was joking. Apparently I need to take my poker face on tour. Don’t worry, I didn’t expect you to turn into Cara-Beth in a week.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Cara-Beth Burnside?” He stares at me as if I’m from another planet. “A pioneer of women’s skateboarding and snowboarding? Anise, my new friend, I demand you go home tonight and watch her Villa Villa Cola footage.”

  Her Villa Villa what? “I’m sure she’s not that famous. I mean, have you ever heard of Conner Coffin or Malia Manuel?” I rattle off the names of a couple of my favorite surfers.

  “Actually, I have. Not all of us obsess over a single sport. I spread my ESPN time around. Perhaps you should try the same.”

  See, that doesn’t make any sense to me. Why spend small chunks of time on a dozen sports when you can spend all your time on the best sport of all? I’m not saying all sports besides surfing are terrible—they’re just terrible in comparison to surfing.

  “So.” I shift my balance and place one foot on my skateboard, rolling it back and forth a few inches. “How are we actually competing?”

  “I was thinking we each make three laps around the perimeter of the skate park, finagle in as many tricks as we can, and we let the boys judge who’s better.”

  “Did you really just say finagle?” I ask.

  “Finagle is a great word,” he says.

  “It’s a weird word.”

  “Weird and great aren’t antonyms.”

  I narrow my eyes but don’t respond. “Don’t two cousins against one brother make the judging a little biased in my favor?”

  Lincoln smiles. “Ah yes, but I’m betting on the fact that I’m still better than you.”

  His smugness is infuriating, particularly becaus
e it reminds me of my own smugness and its quickly evaporating quantity. Back home I’m nothing but confident. Here, I’m stuck on concrete ground, but it doesn’t feel very solid.

  “Ladies first?” Lincoln asks.

  “Isn’t that a bit sexist?”

  “I was going for polite, but we can go with ‘losers first’ if you’d prefer that.”

  I roll my eyes. “So much better, thank you.”

  “Guys!” Lincoln snaps his fingers and cuts off the boys’ chatter midsentence. “We’re about to start.” Then he turns to the benches and waves at Emery. “Come join the judging!”

  “Come on, three against one,” I say. “Now that’s really biased.”

  It turns out not to matter. Instead of coming over, Emery pulls her giant headphones out of her backpack and shoves them over her ears. I hope I’m doing the right thing by giving her space. One glance at the ever-eager Parker and Nash tells me I’m at least doing something right for two of my cousins.

  “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

  “Good luck!” Parker and Nash chorus.

  Lincoln and Austin wish me luck too, which is nice of them but also a little useless.

  Despite skating all the way to the park, I hesitate before getting back onto my board. I’m nervous my unease will show in front of everyone, or worse, my body will betray me in some spectacularly embarrassing way. But walking over to the wall would be embarrassing too, so I take two short breaths and one long one and then jump on the board.

  My ride to the far side of the park is seamless. So far so good.

  “Ready?” I call to everyone. Parker and Nash are standing on top of a table to best view my humiliation, and Lincoln and Austin stand on the ground in front of them.

  “Ready!” they all scream.

  “Okay!” I call back. Then a few seconds pass, and I say, “Okay,” again because I still haven’t started moving. A few seconds later I say, “Okay,” again, and then I realize I should probably be skating and not talking since this is a skating competition and not a how-many-times-can-you-say-okay-in-one-minute competition.