Girl Out of Water(26)

1. Jump with the board by slamming my back foot down on the back lip.

2. Slide my front foot up.

3. Land.

Now if only my feet would agree with my thoughts.

“You can do this, Anise. You can do this,” I mutter. “No hesitation.”

I take a quick breath and then jump. My left foot comes down hard against the board, and it pops up into the air with me, then miraculously, we land as one. The adrenaline I’ve been missing since I left California rushes through me. I did it. I ollied. A shitty ollie, but still—if a tree falls in the forest, and it was a shitty tree, the tree still fell, right?

I’m about to try it again when I hear the front door open behind me. Dad, in striped pajama pants and a gray T-shirt, walks outside. “You should really be wearing a helmet,” he says, settling down on the lawn in one of his yoga poses.

“I know,” I say. “But the kids’ helmets are too small, and it’s not like I wear one when I’m surfing.”

“Yes, well, when you’re surfing I don’t have to worry about you cracking your head on concrete.”

I grab the skateboard and sit down next to him. “Okay, point made. But I’m pretty sure forcing my head into a child-sized helmet would be just as harmful. Lots of skull squishing.”

“True.” Dad readjusts his pose, stretching his legs out in front of him and arching his feet back so his toes point toward the moon. I copy him, relishing how the stretch unwinds my sore muscles. “I guess we’ll have to risk it then. There are worse things in the world than finding my daughter’s pretty brains splattered all over the driveway.”

“You’ve always been such a sweet talker, Dad.”

We continue to stretch in silence, the night air cooling my overheated body. I think of home, of the evenings spent on the beach with Dad, performing this exact routine, except tonight dry grass tickles my skin instead of damp sand. We’ve always been in sync like this, always shared so much with each other. For a second I’m tempted to tell him about my mom’s postcard and the note I left behind, warn him that at any moment our human hurricane could disrupt this relative peace. But I quell the idea.

I hate hiding things from Dad, but I don’t want to talk about her. Besides, even though he tries to hide it from me, I know he gets upset when he thinks about her. How could he not? The first decade or so he was as forgiving as humanly possible. Sometimes they’d even “get back together” when she’d come into town. But he hit his breaking point around the sixth time she ditched us, so he now welcomes her with all the consideration and distance of a hotel concierge.

After a few minutes, Dad speaks again. “If you’re serious about skating, we’ll get you a helmet. Maybe a board of your own too.”

I turn to him. “I’m not serious about skating.”

“Okay, but you did just skate for two hours straight.”

“It’s not… I just…”

“You miss surfing?” Dad asks.

“That’s probably the understatement of the century—of the millennium, actually.”

It’s not only surfing. I miss everything. My friends. My home. My ocean. But I don’t tell Dad that. He already knows it. No point in making him feel worse.

“I’m sorry,” Dad says. “I didn’t mean to uproot you. Being here’s—”

“—the right thing to do. I get it, Dad. I do. Family helps family, and I’m happy to be here. Well, not happy, but you know. It’s the last summer before Marie leaves for college, before Cassie leaves for boot camp, and I just really wanted to spend it with them.”

“I know,” he says, then brings up his knees and hugs them to his chest. “You could apply to colleges all over the country. You don’t have to stay in Santa Cruz when you graduate.”

“Trying to get rid of me?” I smile, but the corners of my mouth feel rigid. I hate when Dad brings up college. I hate when he tries to nudge me out of the nest. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to stay in Santa Cruz. In fact, wanting to leave is absurd. Why would I want to abandon everything and everyone I love? Being here less than a month has already made the details of home slip away. Is it the bottom or top kitchen drawer that gets stuck when you open it? Five or six steps up to our boardwalk? If I leave for college, vanish for so many months, these details will continue to fade until my memory of home disappears entirely.

Dad sighs. He leans into me, bumping my shoulder. “You know I’m not trying to get rid of you, Anise. I love you. But I want you to consider your options. There’s a lot of world out there.”

“But why leave when I’m already living in the best part of it?”

Dad glances at me, like he wants to push this further, push me further. But before he gets the chance, I stand and head toward the house. “Taking a shower and going to bed,” I call out. “Night, Dad.”

He probably says night back, but I’m inside before I have a chance to hear it.

? ? ?

Two days later I’m sitting at the kitchen counter and chowing down on a giant bowl of Cap’n Lucky Puffs. I’ve been spending almost every free moment under the oppressive sun, trying to learn how to ride a damn skateboard, so my appetite is back to its usual ferocity. I’m midbite when Dad walks into the room. My shoulders tense. We haven’t talked much since he brought up college, and I’m hoping time has erased the issue from his mind. Most parents would be thrilled their kids don’t want to move away for school. Why does my parent want me gone?