Girl Out of Water(9)

It’s so simple.

Our heights the same. Our lips level. We fit together with an ease that seems impossible.

His lips part slightly, and I shiver into their warmth, stepping closer to him so our sand-freckled bodies press together, arms wrapping, hands exploring. My toes curl into the damp ground as his lips graze over my cheek, my neck, my collarbone. As his tattered breathing skirts across my bare skin, I feel the moon above us—watching, glowing.

And as we stand there under its careful eye, I wonder: If the moon has the power to turn tides, does it also have the power to still time?

? ? ?

Dad wakes me up the next morning—after approximately two hours of sleep—and tells me we’re already late for the airport, and no, I can’t go back to sleep, and no, I don’t have time to shower, and no, the airplane can’t pick me up from home. I’m so exhausted I actually crawl out of bed without further complaint and follow him to the car. It’s not until I’m at the airport, through security, and walking onto the plane with a duffel bag slung over my shoulder, a boarding pass in one hand and a to-go cup of green tea in the other, that it actually registers. I’m leaving Santa Cruz for more than two months, and nothing short of a natural disaster, which of course would be terrible, will get me off this plane.

Dad gives me the window and then promptly puts in headphones and falls asleep. I settle into my seat and lean my head against the cool, vibrating wall. My stomach churns with anticipation…and maybe the one and a half beers I drank sometime around three in the morning. A few hours ago, I was on the beach with my friends—surfing, talking, kissing Eric, and now I’m here, on a plane, taking me away from all of it.

I slip my phone out of my pocket and glance at the display, which is filled with messages, wishing me good-bye. The one from Tess reads:

If you’re not back in two months, I’m sending a rescue squad.

There’s a message from Eric too. Just the sight of his name heats my cheeks. But then an overhead announcement comes on, asking everyone to turn off their phones, and since I’ve never been on a plane before, I’m not sure if that’s a rule no one pays attention to or a real rule, so I shut mine off and slip it into my ragged tote, still damp and sticky with sand from last night, and then curl further into my seat.

The plane crawls down the runway, then races down the runway, then tears down the runway, and as we shoot up into the sky like blasting off from an epic wave, the ground turning into air and Santa Cruz shrinking away beneath us, I think of the note I scribbled last night around four in the morning, head buzzed and lips swollen, the note I taped to my mom’s favorite mirror in the guest bathroom: Aunt Jackie was in a car accident and broke both her legs. We’ll be at her house all summer if you want to find us there.





Three


“Why is it hot?” I groan. “And humid?”

Six hours, one flight change, two snack-size bags of peanuts, and two cans of Coke later, I’m standing with Dad outside the Omaha airport, bags around our feet, sweat dripping down our necks, and no taxis in sight.

“This isn’t fair,” I say. “No ocean should equal no humidity. Isn’t that like a meteorological rule or something?”

“Anise, enough,” Dad says. “Now grab a bag and help me find the taxi stand.”

I’m not used to this problem, the problem of finding things. For the last seventeen years, I’ve lived in the exact same place, which means I never had to find a grocery store or find a pharmacy or find a goddamn taxi stand. But this place isn’t home. This place is dirty concrete instead of sand; this place is pigeons picking at overfilled garbage cans instead of seagulls scavenging under the boardwalk.

“Fine.” I swing my giant duffel bag over my shoulder and grab the rolling carry-on with the half-broken wheel. “You know, we should invest in some real luggage.”

“Remember a couple summers ago when I asked if you wanted to go to DC and you basically had a heart attack at the suggestion that you’d want to do anything but surf all summer?” Dad asks.

“Umm…”

“We haven’t taken a trip since you were eleven, so we’ve never needed better luggage.”

“Right,” I say. “Well, maybe we should buy some. It might make these impromptu trips to Nebraska a bit easier.”

Dad halts in front of me. I stop short but still half-crash into his back. He turns and gives me the look. You know, the one all parents have, the one that says I brought you into this world, and I can take you right back out.

“Anise, honey, I know this isn’t fun for you, so you can complain to me as much as you want—”

“Really?” I interrupt.

The look intensifies. “But if you make so much as one ungrateful, selfish, immature comment around your aunt and cousins, I swear you’ll never see the pit of a barrel wave again. Understood?”

The duffel bag strap digs into my shoulder. I readjust it and keep my eyes on the ground. Dad and I are close, so when he’s upset with me, it slices deep. Plus, he’s right. I shouldn’t be complaining. I should be happy to help my family. I am happy to help my family. I’m just not so happy to be helping my family in Nebraska.

“Understood,” I say.

“Good. Now come on. I think I see some taxis over there.”