Summer of Love (19 page)

“I am?” She blurts and then says, “I am!”

Instead of yelling, which I bet Ula would have done, Doug nods, taking it in. he doesn’t argue but says, “I figured something like this would happen. Luckily, we have extra staff for the holiday and — well, I can’t say it isn’t annoying. And bad business.” He looks at me to see if I’ll change my mind. Arabella bounces in lace, all excited and surprised.

“My aunt planned the trip,” I say, even though he knows this.

“I know she did.” Doug sighs. “When you get back, you’ll need to pick up some extra shifts — just to balance it out.” I nod and Arabella follows my lead, being as agreeable as possible. He can’t really stop us, but we don’t want to leave on bad terms, either. He gives us the go ahead to leave, but then stops me on my way out. “There is one thing you could do.”

“Sure — what is it?”

“You could find a new name — we all agree on that now, right? Something simple, something catchy?”

“We can work on that,” Arabella says suddenly business like. She’s been pretty driven this summer and I imagine she’s psyched to get away, to relax from the stress of the job, not to mention that stress of our supposedly mellow summer loves.

“Yeah,” I add, my eyes wide, a big grin taking over my face. “We can work on that on the plane!”

And once that’s agreed upon, we walk quickly and quietly up the stairs until we’re out of earshot of the café. Once we’re in the apartment, we let loose and scream, jumping up and down.

“We’re going to California together!” Arabella says and squeezes my hands.

“I know!” I say back, the adrenaline making me shaky. “Let’s pack!”

And suddenly, the trip that seemed overwhelming seems fun and filled with potential. And the parties and guys that were tearing at my friendship don’t seem to tug at me as much. Of course I’ll have to tell Charlie that I won’t be around for the holiday — but maybe a little distance will do as the expression suggests and make the heart grown finder. Or, if it’s not meant to be, make the desire fade out. Either way, I’ll miss his big declaration at his parent’s house, but whatever it is can’t compare to heading west with my best friend, to interviewing, to partying with the stars, to looking up my past — and maybe finding the woman responsible for putting me on the earth in the first place.

“Let’s get ready,” Arabella says and thrusts a suitcase at me.

I watch her fold shirts and shorts, watch her slide her passport into her bag — she brings it everywhere with her — and answer, “I already am.”

“Read me the list again?”

“Wait — first I need some licorice.” I bought and industrial sized bag of Chocolate Twizzlers, one of the best candies on the face of the planet, and we’ve been eating them the whole way across the country.

“Vineyard Café, Vineyard Brews, Joe n’ me…” Arabella points to each idea with her pen.

“Wait — stop there —cross that off — I can’t stand the word Joe for coffee and the grammar is totally wrong.”

“Picky, picky. Okay, continuing: Daily Grind, S2G2 — I know that’s short for Slave to the Grind Two but it sounds like a robot. Anyway, how about Drip Drop?”

“How about not?” I say and thwack Arabella with my licorice. We have a brief candy drool and then I look out the tiny airplane window to see where we are — still above the clouds, the land out of sight below us.

“We still have an hour to go — just focus on this and stop fidgeting,” Arabella says. “Another one we came up with was Edgartown Espresso.”

I wrinkle my nose and Arabella copies me. “What can’t I think of something good? I fee like since I admitted to myself that being a writer might be the next plan of action for me, my words have stopped flowing.”

“I know you’ll think of a great name — you just need to close your eyes and think of it.” In fact, I’m going to close my eyes right now…” Arabella settles peacefully into her seat while I flip through the trashy magazines she bought for the trip and wonder about the renaming. Nothing coffeesque. Just a simple idea — one that welcomes you without having to lure you with espresso or latte or whatever fad drink might be in that year.

“Bels,” I say. “Bels.” I elbow her and she opens a sleepy eye. “I got it.” She waits for me to announce it. “Mable’s. Just Mable’s.”

“See?” she says softly, closing her eyes again. “You
are
a writer.”

I don’t say anything back. I just look out the window at the padded sky, each cloud illuminated, and wonder if she’s right — if I will write or if it’s like singing and it will fade or morph into another interest. In my pocket is my ticker stub, something I’ll save and write about — a marker of where I’ve been and with whom and why. My life’s map. And where does all this fit into the map of my life? What will college interviews and London and Charlie and Mable’s search lead to?

And then I remember Mable’s instructions as to what do next.
Get on board
. Maybe she means my clue is on board — that’d be obvious. I check my seat pocket for a letter, then realize she’d never be able to get a letter in there without some big time strings. Not even the cabin attendant has a clue for me. I’m stumped. But maybe, like my visit to the used bookstore in town where I thought I’d find a clue but instead found an original Poppy Massa-Tonclair novel, I’m supposed to look in the wrong places.

“What do you think she means?” I ask Arabella as we study the luggage journeying around in circles waiting to be reclaimed.

“I thought it meant on board the plane,” she says and coils her hair up into a knot and slides gloss onto her lips. So tanned and summery, she looks like a native. I meanwhile am rosy-cheeked, my red hair has threatened to turn into the bright copper of a new penny, and unless I get a clue about the clue, we’re going to be hanging out here all night long. My phone alerts me to messages of which I have two — one from my father telling me to call him and one from Charlie saying he misses me already which of course makes me grin inanely and forget to call my dad.

“Screw it — let’s just hire a car,” she Arabella says, ever the problem solver, especially where money’s no issue.

“A) — I don’t have the money for that and b) you have to be twenty-five or something to rent a car.”

Arabella squats down, exhausted from travel and the big burst of energy we had right before leaving the island. She never phoned Henry to tell him of her whereabouts and I only spoke to Charlie briefly, telling him I was off to the palm tree state and he’d have to tell me his big surprise when I get back. He was actually happy I made the decision to go, as if my sudden spontaneity makes me a more freewheeling person — which I guess it does, albeit under slightly false pretense.

I take out a piece of paper and scribble on board onto it.

“What’re you doing?” Arabella asks.

“Trying to see if by looking at the words they suggest anything — an answer.”

“You mean if you rearrange the letters?” She takes the paper from me and turns it around. “I haven’t got a clue.”

“Maybe we should just start shouting get on board and see what happens,” I say. “I’m joking, of course. Doesn’t that make you think of the Stage Rage class at LADAM?”

“Yeah — but maybe you’re onto something. What if we just walked around and looked for clues — people or…”

“Or maybe — maybe…just come with me.” We sling our bags on our shoulders, and walk together to the information desk where I ask, “Do you have a phone book?”

The info lady hefts a giant book onto the counter and despite Arabella’s protests; I begin to page through the book looking up any stores that could be called Get on Board.

“You’re a raving lunatic, you realize?” she asks, leaning her head on her hand and watching me use my finger to point to all the names that could or could not mean anything.

“Look — I’m trying, okay? Where the hell else are we supposed to go? My interview isn’t for days, we have no hotel, I at least have no money, and we’re too young to get a car. So. Any better ideas?”

Arabella pauses for a moment, eyeing me and then, drama girl that she is, put a on her very most proper English accent and turns to the information woman. “Terribly sorry to bother you, but I wonder if you could help?”

“That’s why I’m here,” the helper says.

“If I say the words Get On Board to you, what does that mean?” Arabella smiles at me, haughty and proud of her simple solution.

But the info lady looks completely blank. “Get on board the plane?”

Arabella slumps, acquiescing. “Fine, I have no idea.”

“Get on Board — never heard of it,” the information lady says as if we’ve purposefully picked something about which she has no information and are therefore evil.

“Get on board?” says the guy standing to the left of us, waiting his turn for information. He’s barefoot, with sunbleached hair and shades, his tee-shirt wet. If I didn’t have Charlie waiting back east (at least I think he’s waiting…) I’d be drooling. Okay, so I’m still a little drooly. Just because you eye other people doesn’t mean you’re less in love, right? Am I in love or only in like? Or neither — and why the need to classify my feelings?

“Yeah, Get on Board,” Arabella says slowly to the guy. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“Sure,” he says and slides his sunglasses to the top of his head. “Get on Board — the surf shop on PCH — near Malibu.”

I look at Arabella and she looks at me, both of us shrug simultaneously. “Want to try it?” I ask her.

“We don’t have much to lose, right?” Arabella says, pulling her long-sleeved green tee shirt off to reveal a bright white tank top underneath. Against her skin, it nearly glows. I poke in my bag for anything resembling fashion and grab a navy tee-shirt.

“I’ll change in the car,” I say.

“What car?” Arabella wants to know and I point to the taxi sign with my pale finger and we lug our stuff and join the line.

In the taxi, I crouch down so I can whip my current plane-gross tee-shirt off and slide into the navy shirt I pulled from my bag. While I’m face to knees, I ruffle my hair to get it to stop clinging to me scalp and do a massive flip, hitting Arabella in the face with the ends.

“Ouch,” she says and peels my hair from her eyes while eyeing me. “Better, though. You and your straight hair.” She plays with her tousled mop and hands me Chapstick so we don’t get too parched.

“You realize of course that I have no way to pay for this,” I say and nervously watch the meter click as the fare increases.

“Didn’t you save your tip money?” she pats her pocket like the contents of the Slave to the Grind (hopefully soon-to-be-renamed-Mable’s) tip jar are all in the confines of her shorts.

“Yeah — but it’s in the bank. And it’s supposed to stay there.” I sigh and look out the window. The taxi follows the curves of the Pacific Coast Highway, and I can’t help but be calmed and invigorated by the blue-green water, the soft rush of the wheels on the pavement, the curiosity of what’s to come.

“I’ll get this one, you get the next one,” she says. Arabella’s always willing to pay for things or do more than her share — partially because she’s just generous, but part of it must come form her large trust fund that kicked in at age fifteen. When there’s no shortage of money, I guess it’s easy to be free with it. But while I love her for trying, I don’t want to feel needy or that I’m taking advantage of her in this way.

“It’s not a problem,” I say and smile to cover my worry. I open my bag and take out my wallet, holding the bills for an impending stop.

“Okay,” the cab driver says from the front. “Here you go. That’s Zuma over there and that…” he rolls down his window and points to a small building that looks like something out of a surfing movie form the nineteen fifties, “that’s Get on Board. My son’s big into waves — that’s how I know.”

He pops the trunk and we collect our bags, totally uncertain if we’re in the correct spot, what this all means, or where we’re headed.

“Hey,” I say as we carry our stuff toward the surf shack whose sign reads Get on Board and then, in sun-faint letters, Stan’s Surf Shop. “At the very least we’re at Zuma beach, in the sun, with each other.”

“Right,” Arabella nods and puts her sunglasses on. “It could be worse. Now are you going to ask inside or am I?”

We pass a sign that depicts an image of a surfer bright against a blue background.

“Come pose for a photo,” Arabella says.

“Could you be more touristy?” I ask not embarrassed but amused by her. She’s half ultra-hip and half gawking out of towner. “I’ll oblige one picture now and then we have to figure out what we’re doing here.”

She and I stand near the sign, our arms around each other and do one of those pictures where one of you holds the camera out as far as you can to make it look like someone else took the picture.

Arabella looks at the image on her digital camera. “That sucks. We have to get someone to take it for us.” She scouts around and summons some boy from near the front of the surf shack. “Excuse me? Hal-lo? Could you come do us a favor?”

The guy shuffles over in his flip flops and bathing suit, and when he’s closer, appears to be caught off guard by me. Then he shakes his head. “Sure, give me the dig.” Arabella hands over the goods and the guy quickly snaps a picture, all the while looking a mite confused.