Girl Out of Water(15)

I glance at the park, one hand shading my eyes against the bright sun. I’m not sure what I was expecting—something smaller, I guess—but a gravel lot is filled with a few dozen cars, and behind it stretches an expanse of grass and trees so great I can’t begin to see the end of it. At the entrance stands a giant wooden sign with etched white lettering reading Holly Commons. A wide and winding concrete path cuts through the grass, allowing easy access through the park, which must be at least a few square miles.

“Okay, see you guys later,” Emery says, leaning forward against her handlebars to bike off.

“Hold on there.” I step forward, blocking her bike. “Where are you going?”

She looks confused before saying, “Oh, right. Sorry. I usually hang out with my friends at the courts. Is that okay?”

“The courts?”

“The basketball courts.” She dismounts from her bike and walks toward a map posted behind Plexiglas under the park sign. “See?” She points. “We’re here. Down this path, a left here, a left there, and a right, and there you go. Right next to the lake.”

A lake?

I’m a bit nervous to let Emery go off alone, but when I was her age I spent hours at the beach without direct parental supervision. And seeing her friends will be the best distraction from her mom’s surgery. “Okay,” I say. “But text me when you get there, and if you don’t, I will come find you, and I will embarrass you.”

She smiles, a full smile this time, which crinkles the soft skin around her green eyes. “Promise,” she says, then climbs back onto her bike and heads down the tree-lined path.

“Okay guys.” I turn back to Parker and Nash. “To the skate park. Lead the way.”

Ten minutes later, after we follow a lengthy trail that’s actually kind of beautiful with the surrounding trees and flowers and Snow-Fucking-White chitter-chatter of birds, the wooded path opens up into a giant, ungainly slab of concrete. Benches, rails, and what I think are called quarter pipes and half-pipes are interspersed throughout the park, and more than a dozen skaters ride around, trying out tricks, shouting, and being altogether way too loud. Immediately I yearn for the crashing of waves that drowns out all other sound—or at least the relative quiet of the wooded area we just left.

“You wanna come watch us?” Nash asks, eagerly scanning the park.

“I’m going to watch from over there.” I point at a metal bench that looks out of the way from most of the action. “I’ll come closer later. You guys have fun.” I want to join them, but all the unfamiliar noises and people bombard my system. Adjusting to an unfamiliar yet quiet house was one thing. Adjusting to this cacophony is entirely different. My chest feels tight, my breathing short.

I need to sit; I need space.

“Okay!” They seem just as happy to go off without me.

I settle down onto the long, flat bench, wishing I’d brought something to read, maybe a Detective Dana novel, this old, cheesy series circa the 1970s about a female police officer who quits the corrupt force to start her own private agency. The books are absurdly plotted, and I can only find the tattered paperbacks on eBay and in old bookstores, but for whatever reason, I love reading them. I never get sick of tagging along as Detective Dana solves each ludicrous case.

Back home, I never get the urge to read outside. Tess is the one who does that, racing through novels while tanning. It feels wrong to have the sun burning my neck and wind cutting through my hair without a surfboard beneath my feet.

Without my friends by my side.

I pull out my phone and send off a few texts, including one to Eric, but they’re all probably too busy surfing to respond. I guess I can’t blame them. What’s better: a friend thousands of miles away or a barrel wave?

I scroll through my Instagram feed, soaking up pictures of sand, surf, and my friends. I notice a new haircut, a new bathing suit, a new tourist they’re hanging out with. Each picture makes my pulse race and my stomach clench. I’ve been in Nebraska less than a week, but already my friends’ lives are moving on without me. How long will it take for me to disappear from their feeds and then their thoughts entirely?

I put my phone down and close my eyes. The sun continues to beat steadily, lulling me into a warm haze. In my half-asleep state, I find myself focusing on the sounds around me. The scrape of wheels against concrete. Shouts and jeers. The hard crack of landing a jump. Every time I start to drift off, these sounds yank me awake, because they remind me this is not home.

? ? ?

“Hey.”

The voice is smooth and deep. Definitely not one of my cousins.

I pry open my eyes and then immediately close them when assaulted by the piercing midday light. Why didn’t I bring sunglasses with me? Did I think Nebraska wouldn’t have a sun? I raise my hand to shield my eyes, cracking them just enough to see a black guy about my age standing in front of me.

“Hey,” he says again, smiling. Why is he smiling?

“Hi…” I respond, still groggy from dozing off. Did one of my cousins break something? Do I owe someone money for ruined property? I rub my eyes and focus on the person speaking to me.

He’s tall and wearing jean shorts and a sleeveless flannel shirt. And he only has one arm. His right arm is dark and muscled, and his left—just isn’t there. It ends about six inches below his shoulder in a smooth, rounded nub.