Cinderella in the Surf (5 page)

"Alright, I've bought you that thing you claimed was a burger," he says, nodding at the empty kid's meal box in front of me. "Now it's your turn to hold up your end of the deal. Don't tell me you're one of those girls who goes back on her promises, Rachel."

He says it likes he's teasing but I know he isn't. Not completely. I let out a sigh and fiddle with the napkin in my hands, tearing it into tiny little shreds that slip through my fingers and litter the floor. Several land in my lap.

"I don't know what you want from me."
 

"Yeah, you do. I don't know what it is, but I can't get that look on your face out of my head. I've never seen anyone look so haunted. Not like that first day I saw you."
 

The paper ripping gets faster.

Walker moves again, this time so he's leaning toward me, elbows on the table, hands clasped together.

"Okay, look," I say at last. "I'm not lying when I tell you I love surfing. It's what I do. What I've always done, really. I mean, you ask me what I was doing when I was two years old, and I'm sure it had something to do with my board and the ocean."
 

Walker smiles. "You sound like me with my fingerpainting."

I nod. "Yeah, probably do. I knew what I loved from the beginning, and it was great."
 

It's still easy talking about this now -- easier than I thought it'd be. But my stomach hasn't stopped turning because I'm the storyteller and I already know the plot twist.
 

"But there was that day it changed," he says.

I nod again. "There always is. When I was seven, this new guy moved onto the block one house over from ours. His name was Alex Perry, and he was from Montana so surfing wasn't exactly his thing."
 

I pause and laugh to myself, thinking about the home videos we have of me trying to teach him how to surf within a week of him getting to town.
 

I wish I could say I remember everything about the first day I took Alex on a board, but that'd be a lie. Truth is, I'd never know a damn thing about it if not for the pictures and videos that have grown dusty over time.
 

"But he started to get really good," I say, twisting the slim sterling silver band on my finger. "And soon enough, surfing was all either one of us wanted to do. So we did. Every morning before the first bell and every afternoon after the last. For eleven years."
 

"So it was something you did with someone else," Walker says. "It was never really just about it being you and the ocean."
 

I shake my head. "No, not really. I mean, for me, it was just how I lived. Every morning I'd paddle out there as the sun came up and made the water all warm and wonderful, and I just knew it'd be a good day."

"But you always did it with Alex."
 

I study him for a few seconds before I say anything else. I don't know if I like the tone he's taking with his questions, like he's already trying to poke holes in my story. Like he's looking for every reason to believe surfing isn't part of my soul.

"No," I say, and I don't think I do a very good job of keeping the bitterness at being interrogated out of my voice. "That's not right at all."
 

Walker leans back and holds up his hands. "Sorry, sorry," he says. "My mistake."
 

"Maybe let me finish the story you wanted to hear so bad," I say, and he nods. "To answer your question, I didn't do a lot of surfing on my own because there didn't seem to be a point to it if Alex wasn't there with me. But even when you're with someone, how can you not feel like you're by yourself in something as big as the ocean?"

Walker blinks twice as if he hasn't been expecting me to say something like this.
 
"I guess I've never noticed."

"Yeah," I say. "Plus, when you're on the board, it's just you and the water. No one's there to make it easier for you. It's not a team sport the way you can't win in baseball or football without a bunch of other people. You're the only one who can ride that wave."
 

"Okay, okay, okay. I get it. You're right."
 

"Yeah, but I'm not done yet. All the competitions I entered, I did that alone. Me. Maybe Alex was there to cheer me on, but winning? That was all me. Alex might have helped make me a better surfer, but he was never why I loved it in the first place."
 

"So what happened?" he asks, and I swallow hard, biting down on my lip, because this defense of surfing makes me a feel a little bit like a liar since I've stayed away from the sea for so long. "Alex move away? You guys have a fight?"
 

I frown, the corners of my mouth twitching slightly. "No," I say, my voice strong and loud. "He died."
 

Walker stares at me. "Wait, what? Rachel, I'm sorry."
 

There's no disbelief or fake shock or horror or grief, and I'm surprised to realize I appreciate it. He didn't know Alex, and he can't feel sad for him or understand the weight of his loss.

"Yeah, me too."
 

"When?"

"A month ago," I say, and now I don't miss the surprise flash in his eyes. "Like I said, one day can change everything."
 

"It happened in the water?"

"How else would he die? Would anything else make sense?"

"I guess I understand now," Walker says, tossing the small salt shaker from the table back and forth between his hands.
 
"Sorry I said you weren't real about surfing. But you have to get back out there."

"No."
 

"Why not?"

I shake my head. "Not that easy."

"Yeah, it is," he tells me. "You just do it."
 

"I can't."

"Sure you can. You did it once before, didn't you?"

"Not after my best friend died."

"No, but maybe it was scarier back then. You didn't know what you were getting into. At least now you already know what you're doing. I can't imagine ever giving up my painting."
 

I smile, but there isn't a lot of happiness behind it. "I said that all the time. You'd be surprised how easily it changes."

"I don't think so."
 

"Besides, I'm not sure painting buildings is the same thing."
 

He shakes his head. "It's not about the buildings," he says. "But that's a different story. I've been painting forever."
 

"Some people get lucky that way and figure out what they love early," I tell him. "Like me with surfing and you with painting. I never thought I'd have to be the person who has to start all over again later. Find a new passion, a new reason to get up every day. But here I am. Just biding time until I can get to college and get out of town in the fall."
 

He raises his eyebrows. "No, I'm not buyin' it. You don't have to do that at all."
 

"What else am I supposed to do?"

"You get back on your board like Alex would want you to do."
 

"You didn't know him."

The left corner of Walker's mouth twitches up. "Am I wrong?"

I sigh. "No."
 

"Exactly. So get back out there. What's it gonna hurt?"
 

I shake my head. "Thanks for the burger," I tell him, tossing the napkin in my hand aside and sliding out of the booth. "You held up your end of the deal, and now I've held up mine. Story time is over."
 

Before he can stop me like I know he will, I turn and run out of Hilo's, and I don't slow down until I'm tucked safely behind the sturdy front door of our house.
 

CHAPTER SIX

Waking up the next morning is the same as it has been every day for the last month.

I lay in bed, nestled under my blankets, praying this will be the day I'll feel different, and I'll finally know what to do with myself.

It never is.

I know what everyone wants me to do -- get back in the water again -- and I know what I want to do -- avoid surfing at all costs.

So instead, I settle on a compromise with myself: I'll head down to the beach, and I'll even put my bathing suit on, but I won't go all the way in the water.
 

And I know what you're thinking.
Big deal
. I go down to the sand every day. Heck, I even waded in yesterday.

But I don't go here.

Not to the canoe.

Not to this bright beacon of happiness and memories and everything that's me and Alex.
 

But I have to do it. If I'm ever even going to think about getting back on my surfboard, I have to go here first.

My stomach clenches slightly as I make my way down the sand and catch my first glimpse of the impossible-to-miss wooden boat that's been sitting on the beach near our houses for as long as we both could remember.

On That Day, I met Alex in front of the canoe, like usual. He was leaning up against the bright boat splashed in reds, oranges and yellows, and no one seems to know where the paint job came from.
 

Nobody uses it anymore -- I don't know if anyone ever did -- and no one knows how the boat came to rest on our patch of sand, but it hasn't moved in all the years I've lived here. The small boat, barely big enough for two, has been our surfing meeting spot for almost a decade.

So when I see it in front of me and know I'm going to it, it's impossible to keep the memories of all the mornings and afternoons from coming rushing back to me.
 

I suck in a deep breath, one, then two.

But the churning in my belly doesn't go away. It's all so familiar, all so real and right and normal, and it doesn't make sense that Alex isn't going to pop up from behind the canoe and announce this was his idea of a great big practical joke.

Typical Alex.

I stand in front of the canoe for what must be hours, just staring at it, before I eventually slide my back down the side and wriggle up against it.
 

People come and go around me, all dressed in bathing suits and cover-ups, lathered in sunscreen, and I'm sure I get more than my fair share of curious looks, but no one disturbs me.

Maybe they can see how important this is for me, or maybe no one wants to get tangled up with the crazy that I'm positive is radiating off my skin.

As I sit here, I wonder where I'd be today if Alex was still around.

But I already know that answer.

I'd be here, exactly where I am now, probably with my legs dangling off a surfboard in the warm waters of the Pacific, waiting to catch a wave.
 

And even when I do think maybe I want to get back out there now because I remember how good it used to feel, I seize up.

I'm just scared it's gonna feel different.

Worse.

Painful, without Alex here.

So I stay safely on the sand, and as far as I know, I'm not going to be able to get back out there anytime soon.

I'm not strong enough.

"I've heard so much about you."
 

The voice startles me out of the same thoughts that keep turning around in my head, over and over and over again.

I look up into a face that's familiar but unrecognizable. I stare hard at her features -- the shoulder-length blonde hair, the blue eyes that are so clear and piercing they look like they belong on a prop doll at a Haunted House -- and I know that I've seen her before, but I can't place her face.

We've definitely never spoken until now.

"Oh," I say lamely without getting to my feet. "Cool."

The girl chuckles and shakes her head. "I suppose I should introduce myself." She smiles sweetly at me, but alarm bells start clanging in my brain. I don't like it. "I'm Piper Monaghan."

The name doesn't mean much to me, but all of a sudden, the clear accent definitely does. There's a strong Australian twang in her voice, and now I know exactly who she is.

This is the girl Ahe pointed out to me at the market the other day. The surfer from Australia. The one who's apparently in town for the International Invitational in a couple of weeks.

The one who's going to take my name away from me, if I let her.

And, believe me, I'm going to let her. I don't have a choice. I'm going to have to give it up because defending it means I'm back on my board.

"Rachel."

"Yeah, I know who you are," she says.
 

I nod. "Most people out here do."
 

Her eyes narrow and flicker, and I know Piper's wondering why I haven't admitted I know who she is, too.

But to be honest, I'd never even heard of her until Ahe told me who she was.
 

And besides, I kind of really don't like her.

She stares at me for a few seconds, and I just know she's waiting for the little light bulb to go off in my head, but I refuse to make this easy for her.

"I'm Piper Monaghan," she repeats, slower this time, like I'm too dumb to catch it at first.
 

I nod and smile. "Yeah, you said that," I tell her, trying to disguise the disgust in my voice with sweetness. "It's really nice to meet you."
 

She sighs, defeated. "I surf, too."
 

"You do?" I try my best to sound surprised. "That's great! Where do you surf?"

"Australia," she replies. "Mostly. I'm from there. I've done some other international competitions, but never in the States."
 

"How do you do?"

She smirks. "I win."
 

"Me too."

"I know," she tells me, then immediately looks angry with herself. "But not anymore, eh?"
 

I snap my head up quickly and get to my feet. "I haven't lost a competition in years."

"Okay, but you quit. You can't win when you're not surfing."
 

"I'm--"

"You're what, Rachel?" she asks, folding her arms across her chest. "You're out of the game. Don't pretend otherwise. I might be from Australia but I know people in the States, and they all say you haven't been back on your board since your friend died. That's a sweet story and all, but what kind of surfer are you?"