Authors: Katie Klein
The Guardian (23 page)
I roll my eyes. “I just got here.”
“Then get to work,” she demands.
I bite into my lower lip, crushing it between my t
eeth.
Because if I don’t, I’ll unleash a torrent of loathing, hate-filled words.
If I accidentally open my mouth, I will create the biggest scene in the history of Ernie’s dining room. And so I bite, harder and harder, jaw smarting from the pressure.
Becau
se the truth is, it’s all her fault.
Everything.
She’s the reason our lives suck. And the worst part is that she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care. And it’s like she
expects
it. She expects me to work, to pay the bills, to go behind her and clean up her mista
kes. To pack my things and follow her everywhere she goes. She doesn’t care about me or my feelings or that every wrong thing about my life traces directly back to her. All she cares about is that I slap my signature on the back of my paycheck every Friday
afternoon so she can cash it. All she cares about is that I hand her my tip money when there’s not enough to cover the electric and water bills in the same month.
She is worse than a leech, latching on when convenient and sucking me dry, leaving my life
bankrupt in every sense of the word.
“Why are you still standing there?” she
asks,
her voice thick with irritation. “Table Eight.”
I narrow my eyes, but she won’t look at me. She completely ignores me, even, as she fills a pitcher with ice.
“I’m done,” I
announce, feeling both the weight of the words and the burden they release.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” she asks. She glances over at me, withering under my icy glare.
Through clenched teeth: “I said I’m done.”
She gives a curt laugh. “I don’t understand
what that means.”
Blood courses through my veins, temples throbbing, heart pounding. Anger simmering beneath the surface as seventeen years of absolute nonsense consumes me.
“It means that the day I turn eighteen it’s over. I’m moving out.”
In a spark of
irrationality, I want, more than anything in the world, for Seth to be here, to be with me as I say these words. But then I remember: Seth is gone. The idea that he isn’t lurking in the shadows sweeps over me. The anger quickly dissipates and my heart cons
tricts in a spasm of anguish. It’s enough to choke and overwhelm me. I am empty and no one. I am truly and wholly alone in this world.
“Order up!”
Arsen’s
voice, though muffled, is powerful enough to crack my thoughts. A swell pulls me back inside my achin
g mind. Everything goes quiet as I walk over to the window and pick up the plates, loading them onto my tray. But then I feel it.
That familiar roll.
Darkness, then tiny bursts of light.
I wait for the vision, terrified of everything it could mean.
The sou
nd of ceramic exploding against tile functions as a cruel jolt to reality.
My tray spins on the floor, faster and faster and faster until it sputters to a stop, food littered among plate rubble.
In the back of the restaurant, Ernie bursts out of his o
ffice.
“What is this?” he asks, stopping short of the debris. “What is this?
Why you so clumsy?”
“It was an accident,” I mutter, lacking the energy to defend myself.
“We
no
have accidents! This food is ruin! My plates!
Ruin!”
“Relax,” I say. “I’
ll clean it up.”
Ernie’s ears transform to an unnatural shade of magenta, his whole body shaking when he speaks. “No,” he replies, pointing his craggy stub of a finger at me. “You fired.”
I laugh, disbelieving. “
What
?”
“You hear me. You fired. Go. Get out.
” He flicks his hand toward the door, as if to shoo me away, like I’m some kind of pest in need of eliminating.
I stand there for a moment, mouth gaping, thoughts spinning, working to process the words coming from his lips.
He’s firing me?
For real?
“It
was an accident,” I repeat firmly. “It won’t happen again.”
“It won’t happen, because you no work here. Get out.”
My cheeks flush with heat. I scoff. The entire restaurant has stopped to watch the drama
unfold,
dozens of pairs of eyes bore holes right thro
ugh me with their laser stares. I couldn’t have been more on display than if I’d been standing there naked.
I reach behind my back and pick at the knot of my apron.
“Fine,” I say, prying the string apart with awkward fingers.
“Because I don’t need you.”
I
tug. I pull. I groan and stomp my feet when I can’t untie it. I twist the apron around and work at the knot from the front. It finally loosens.
“Fine!”
I repeat. “Fire me all you want! I’d rather
starve
than work for an asshole like you! I Quit.”
“Stu?”
I
call. He’s watching from the kitchen, eyes steady and warm, radiating courage.
I blow him a dramatic kiss. “You’re my favorite chef.”
A flicker of a smile pulls at his lips. “You’re my favorite waitress!”
I toss my apron at Ernie’s chest. It flutters to t
he floor, landing at his feet in a pile of rebellion. I turn on my heel and wind between the tables, heading for the exit.
“This place can burn for all I care,” I mutter, pushing my way through the door and diving into the warm sunlight. The bell above ji
ngles happily, announcing my departure—my freedom—to the world.
T
WENTY-SEVEN
In the blackness I hear a gurgling.
A gulping.
Swallowing.
Waves thunder. The sea water froths into foamy bubbles, hissing and fizzing as it whooshes to shore. I
t
stops,
suspended, drawn back to the ocean. A deep terror pulls at my chest. A scream pierces my dreams.
I jolt awake, shivering while my room bakes in the morning sun. Tiny pearls of perspiration bead along my hairline. I crawl out of bed, passing the s
till perfect rose lying on my dresser. The circles under my eyes have grown darker and more prominent in the last week, taking on a violent purple—a shade no amount of
concealer
will mask.
I need sun
.
I reach in my dresser drawer and
pull out my bathing suit.
Moments later I’m on my bike, towel tucked beneath my arm, heading toward the beach. The sun heats my pale shoulders, and sand buries itself between my toes as I fasten my bike to the rack in one of the closest public access parki
ng lots.
The beach is already filling as I make my way across the sand, searching for a deserted area to relax. I find a place about ten yards from a lifeguard stand, just to the side of a grouping of condos. My towel flaps in the wind as I work to spread
it out. The sand smolders, burning the pads of my feet.
I lie down on the towel, adjusting my position until I’m comfortable. The sun glows behind my closed eyelids. I push the excess sounds away from my ears—the kids shouting, radios blasting—and instea
d focus on the wind, the waves, the occasional squawk of a seagull or sandpiper.
A scream slices the stillness in two. I bolt upright, looking around. The ring echoes in undulations, drowning out the ocean and everything around me. No one else appears t
o have heard it. I rub my temples with my hands. The sounds that faded away, muffled, slowly return to their normal pitch.
On the surface, at least, everything seems fine. Couples are
laying
out, people are walking along the shoreline. Kids are playing i
n the surf. A few body boarders are further out, trying to catch waves before they break.
I remember my dream.
A girl appears from behind, stepping around me. I jump when I see her, startled. She moves a few feet down the beach,
then
lays her towel on the
sand. I scan the perimeter: studying people. The lifeguard blows his whistle. He waves at a group of kids roughhousing in the water, motioning for them to come in. I watch closely. Everything seems so . . . normal.
I’m lying on my back again, facing the s
ky, eyes shut tightly, when that familiar sense of dread washes over me—enveloping my body from head to foot. I grab at my breath, sitting up, heart racing. I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs.
Something’s wrong
.
Something is reall
y, really wrong.
I pinch my eyes shut. The scream inside my head returns, goose bumps prickling the surface of my skin at the sound. I
shiver,
a chill traveling through the length of my body.
Seth, where are you?
My throat constricts, tears sting the cor
ners of my eyes. I take a deep breath, forcing them away. Tension writhes inside me, wrapping around my muscles, squeezing the air out of my lungs. I wipe a trail of sweat off my cheek, an uneasy feeling settling in the hollow of my stomach.
When I close m
y eyes I see the edges of a girl thrashing underwater. She reaches for the surface, struggling. The water swirls above her in kaleidoscopic currents. In a moment, the flailing stops. She gives in, eyes rolling as she sucks in a lungful of briny water. She
jerks, fighting for another heartbeat, then sinks.
The last of the tiny air bubbles trickle from her mouth, escaping to the surface.
Her face remains frozen, mouth open in a primal scream. Eyes gaping: flaming red. Skin glowing a chalky white, lips the co
lor of hydrangeas. Her blonde hair hangs suspended in the water.
Floating.
Falling.
My eyes flicker open. I scramble to my feet, legs shaking. Unsteady. I pitch forward, falling into the sand. I push myself back up and brush the grit and broken shells off
my hands and knees. My stomach churns, turning at the memory of the dead girl’s empty eyes glaring back at me. I gag, stumbling toward the dune, retching as the bile rises in my throat. I heave, coughing.
Sputtering.
Eyes stinging and throat burning.
I wi
pe around the edge of my mouth and turn from the yellow mucus in the sand.
Someone is going to drown.
I move away from the towel, closer to the lifeguard. The same girl from earlier is watching, eyes guarded, following me.
“Hey, stranger!
Didn’t think
I’d ever see you again.”
I flinch as his fingers graze my elbow, pulling it away.
Arsen
.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
My heart beats double time. “No. It’s fine.” I exhale, swallowing. “Hey.”
“Is that
all the
hello I get?” he asks, his lips turning up in
a teasing smile.
“Sorry. It’s been a long day,” I confess. I wipe my lips again, wishing for a stick of gum.
“Really?”
He glances at his watch, encased in a waterproof plastic. “It’s not even lunch time.”
“Time is relative.” I shield my eyes with my hand,
studying the water, looking for anyone with blonde hair.
A thick stretch of gray clouds blows in.
An answer to prayer.
“So, I’m sorry that stuff happened. You know, with Ernie,” he says.
“I hate Ernie,” I reply, still searching. “Actually, I take that b
ack. Hatred requires passion. Ernie isn’t worth an ounce of my passion.”
He shrugs. “Have you found another job yet?”
“No.”
“Oh.” He pauses for a moment. “Your mom seems kind of stressed, too.”
“I wouldn’t know. She’s not talking to me.”
Arsen
shifts
uncomfortably.
I shouldn’t be so rude
.
“I’m sorry. It’s just . . . complicated.”
He smirks. “That’s the story of your life, isn’t it?”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I mumble, almost inaudibly.
A group of surfers catches my eye. I recognize the red ha
ir instantly.
The girl’s tattoo sleeve snaking down her arm.
They’re sitting on their surfboards behind the breakers.
Waiting.
The cloud that cloaks the sun slips away, the water sparkles in the light as it dances around them. A wave sweeps through, liftin
g them up before gently descending. Golden tresses shimmer.
“There she is,” I murmur.
“I’m sorry, what?”
Arsen
asks.
I clear my throat.
“Um . . . nothing.
Sorry.” I tuck my wind-swept hair behind my ears, refusing to take my eyes off the girl.
“It’s no
t the same without you at the restaurant,” he goes on. “Everyone misses you.”
I scoff. “Not everyone, I’m sure.”
“
Flavia
.
Stu.”
He clears his throat. “And, you know, I kind of miss you, too.”
I glance over at him and our eyes meet. I want to smile, but m
y lips refuse to cooperate. Realizing what I’ve done, I jerk my attention back to the surfers. They pass behind another wave.
“So . . . you aren’t surfing today?” I ask, changing the subject. The sun dips behind another cloud, rays of light spilling throu
gh the cracks. A cool breeze blows off the ocean. I cross my arms and shudder, goose bumps prickling my skin.
“I was out earlier,” he explains. “The waves aren’t that great. They’re calling for some kind of front to come through in a few days, though. I ca
n’t wait. It’s
gonna
be wicked.”
The surfers ride on their stomachs, paddling further out to sea. I watch the blonde, head throbbing and heart pounding.
“Aren’t they kind of far out?” I ask. I stand on my tiptoes, trying to get a better view.
“Nah.
That’s
where the good ones start.”
“It looks dangerous,” I point out.
“They’re good,” he assures me, folding his arms across his chest. “Why are you so concerned?”
I ignore the mocking edge to his tone. My heart slows as I watch them ride over another wave. I don
’t realize I’m holding my breath until I see her bobbing on her board.
Wherever you guys are
.
Whatever you’re doing: the blonde. It’s the blonde
.
I choke on a lungful of air, coughing.
“You okay?”
Arsen
asks.
In the next moment, a figure steps up, stopp
ing beside us. I glance over and recognize the small frame, the dirty blonde hair, and the boyish face immediately.
Joshua
.
“Yeah.
I’m fine.”
It worked.
The girl from earlier stops beside him.
Her auburn hair is pulled into a tight
ponytail. She adjusts the bandeau of her bikini.
Arsen
glances over at them, a confused expression crossing his face. He shifts closer to me. The four of us stand there, watching the surfers. The cloud moves on, and the sun emerges again. I squint. Another
wave passes beneath them. I move uneasily, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
Waiting.
The surfers catch the next wave.
Joshua takes a step forward.
The wave breaks early. Then, everything seems to move in slow motion: the blonde pulling he
rself to her knees, tucking her feet beneath her, rising.
Rising.
Rising.
She’s barely on top of her board when a shift in the swell sends her over. Her body crashes, disappearing in the surf. The board flips over several times before riding back to shore
without her.
“She’s under,” I mutter. I wait with bated breath, hoping she’ll rise to the surface. But I know how this is supposed to end.
“Hey!” the girl beside Joshua calls out to the lifeguard. “She went under!” But he’s already on his feet. A shrill
whistle pierces the air. He grabs his bright orange preserver and races toward the sea.
My heart stops beating as swimmers clear out of the water. I
suck
in air and hold it in my lungs.
Waiting.
Counting the silence.
It feels like a lifetime has passed b
efore he reaches the spot where the girl went down.
She’s gone by now.
I wring my hands, fighting against the wave of nausea that works to consume me.
She’s gone. She’s gone.
Arsen
focuses on the rescue, staring, an intense expression lining his featur
es. Joshua has disappeared.
The entire beach remains frozen as the lifeguard tears through each wave with sure, steady strokes. A few surfers follow, paddling out to sea to help. The girl with the tattoo sleeve stands at the edge of the water, alone.
I clo
se my eyes. The girl flails and struggles. Something pulls at her ankle, holding her down. Her leg remains fixed, tangled, while the rest of her thrashes for the surface.
There are others now.
Helping.
I open my eyes.
“They’ve got her,” I whisper.
*
*
*
My muscles refuse to uncoil, relaxing, until I see the lifeguard helping her to shore. And when they stand together in the water, my knees weaken. I nearly collapse under my own weight, leaning into the wooden stand for support. I ta
ke a couple of deep breaths, then turn, making my way back to the dune.
Arsen
, Joshua, the girl . . . they’re all gone. I pick up my towel and shove my feet into my flip flops. Still shaking, I traipse across the sand toward the path leading to the parking
lot, stealing an occasional glance at the blonde girl who, on the surface, at least, appears to be okay.
When I reach the bike rack, it’s empty.
“What?” I look around. There are plenty of cars, a few empty spaces, but no bikes. I walk back to the beach.
No bike. I return to the parking lot and walk between cars.
Nothing.
My gut lurches when I realize that not only is my bike gone, but it’s probably gone forever.
“Someone
stole
my bike,” I mutter. I force a laugh. It comes out low and shaky. “I cannot beli
eve this.”
I take off across the parking lot on foot, keeping my eyes peeled.
As I walk the four blocks back to my house, I try not to think about how I’ll get to school, to work—if I can find another job. I’m hot, sweating, and winded by the time I reach
our gravel driveway. I let myself inside then, exhausted, fall onto my bed and enter a calm, dreamless sleep.