Caleb + Kate (14 page)

The blanket Kate wrapped up in and my leather jacket she wore are in the back seat of the jeep, and I try to fast lose the image of her riding beside me.

I've got maybe an hour of good light on the water. The sun is making its way toward bedtime. The wind whips my hair as I drive, and I think,
If only these days of a half day of school and no
work could go on and on
. I'd spend months on the road, surfing up and down the West Coast from Canada to Mexico.

I've been checking out the local surf beaches and reading up on them online. But after my afternoon ride, I decide to stick close to home, driving down to a cove a few miles away.

Within fifteen minutes, I'm stepping into the cold Pacific. Ignoring the shock of it, I jump onto my board and start paddling. Soon my body heat warms the water caught between my skin and the neoprene wet suit. I'll never take the warm Hawaiian waters for granted again.

A few other guys are already out there. One is coming in. He sits up on his board as I approach.

“Hey, keep an eye on those two.” He's an older surfer with gray hair and a sun-worn face. “I told them to head down to Indian Beach; they think they've got this.”

“Thanks, man. I'll watch my back and keep an eye out for floaters.”

The guy gives me a hang loose sign and takes off for shore. The two guys wave at me as I approach.

“Dude!” one yells as the other paddles in front of a wave. He's going to miss it, and he does, falling over as his board wavers flat behind the roll of the wave. The surf is too tight, cove too small, and rocks too prominent for these guys.

I see the roll of a wave and make sure the other guys are beyond ripping in front of me and I turn on the board, paddling toward shore and with the rise. I pop up and feel the speed through my feet as I catch the wave and shoot forward. It's a nice ride up toward the beach. The guys in the water are whooping and cheering like I just won some competition.

Then I spot Finn sitting on my towel smoking a bowl. I wonder how he found me and which of his clunkers he's driving, since I have his favorite ride. I unzip the back of my wet suit and carry my board on my shoulder toward Finn. He leans back and is laughing about something to himself.

“Where's your board?” I ask.

“I traded it in,” he says, lifting the pipe. “So guess what the girls are calling you at your new school?”

“I don't care. I'm down here to escape those thoughts.”

“Come on, this is great.”

I set my board on edge in the sand and grab my towel, yanking hard so that Finn nearly drops his pipe. I wipe off my board, and look out at the guys getting beat by the larger waves coming in, waves I should be on instead of talking to Finn. My cousin is coming close to ruining a perfect afternoon.

The waves are silver now and the sky is taking on its sunset attire.

“Remember that girl I met after the prom?” Finn repacks his bowl as he talks.

“Uh, no.”

“That's right. You took off with little hotel heiress. Anyway, I met a few girls, and one has been texting me. Another rich girl interested in a bad boy.”

“And you would be the
bad boy
?”

“They think you are too. You've got quite a group of fans. They were talking about you in the girls' locker room.” He grins slyly at that. Then he takes a toke on his pipe. He doesn't offer it to me, knowing my answer. Even if I wanted to get high, in Hawaii, I would've lost my job with Grandfather and probably my future. He has a zero-tolerance policy and regularly drug-tests his employees. Finn is still angry for getting the boot, though everyone is aware of Grandfather's stand. Many Hawaiians are losing their futures to the proliferation of ice and other drugs on the islands. Grandfather won't stand for any of it.

The other two surfers rise out of the water. Their feet pad along the wet sand.

“Wow, man, you ripped it up out there!”

“Thanks,” I say, and try not to laugh. My friends back home and I would've considered this a barely mediocre—if not a bad—day in the water.

Another shakes his head like he just survived a hurricane. “Those were some crazy beaters, man.”

Finn has a look that I realize is a permanent fixture on his face: vicious competition, even cold jealousy. I noticed it when I first arrived a few weeks ago. Finn and I were always the closest cousins. At first, I thought it was something he was going through. He thinks I have it easy. He thinks I'm the favorite. He didn't want to leave Hawaii, but Grandfather cut him off and he had no other choice. Truth is, our grandfather does prefer me, mainly because I'm not fast becoming a drug addict. Finn has always looked for the handout.

“Cabana boy.”

I turn and stare at him.

“That's what they're calling you. The cabana boy. You know, the little guy who runs out and serves drinks or whatever the rich women need.”

I shrug. “Great, cabana boy. Who doesn't love the cabana boy?” I say it easily, but his words sting, and from the expression on Finn's face, the satisfied look of triumph, he sees it too.

“Your precious little boss's daughter—ask her if she sees you as anything more than that.”

“See you around, Finn.”

I never liked rich girls who looked and acted like rich girls. In Hawaii the rich were mostly on vacation or cutting business deals. This life here, it's different. More cruel, somehow.

I want to put her in her place. I want her to know that she isn't above me. For a brief few days, I was drawn in, I can't deny it. I even thought . . . it doesn't matter what I thought. I was nearly a fool.

Finn is right, Grandfather, too, and that's nearly the worst of it. Grandfather has always told me to distrust the Monrovi family. Finn said it would turn out this way—and before I can figure out what to do about Kate, it's like this? Has she made me a fool to her friends? I won't let it matter. It never would have mattered before.

No, the worst part is a pain beyond humiliation. I was actually falling for her.

My nature has always been to fight. My faith forces me to forgive.

But I don't need either to know that I'm finished with Kate Monrovi.

KATE

I stare at my face in my bathroom mirror as I get ready for school.

What does he see when he looks at me
? What do I see—just a face, another face among millions? Sometimes I look like a stranger even to myself.

Maybe Monica was right, and a guy like Ted is the only kind of guy who would really appreciate me. Of course other guys
want
me . . . but
love
me?

Caleb hasn't sent a text back to me. I sent him a note asking if he needed any help on day two. I've checked my phone a dozen times, jumping at the sound of other people's words, meaningless words that fill a meaningless in-box.

The slight frizz in my hair tells me it's going to rain today. Humidity always brings stray curls rising from my usual smooth waves. I blow my hair out and use some product. I pull a few sections out and weave three tiny braids on each side, pulling them back on the sides. The finished result reminds me a little of something Greek or medieval. I choose a canary-yellow chiffon dress with soft long sleeves, some long necklaces, a red belt, beige sweater, and my tall brown Prada boots.

It's a rare non-uniform day. We get one a month to Gaitlin to encourage self-expression. Today, I want to look pretty. Not stunning or chic or casual—but pretty, more sweet and feminine than usual. The idea of dressing nice today just sounded like a good idea.
It's not for him
, I tell myself. Again and again.

Perhaps I'm longing for sweet simplicity. The noise of school and life are getting too loud. I can't think straight lately. I can't figure anything out. It's like trying to make a toothpick structure while riding on a rollercoaster. The toothpicks all just fly away.

My fingers feel cold as I touch my skin—the fact that it's clear and soft is evidence of my day and night cleansing routines. Does he want to touch my face? Does he want to kiss me? That dance, walking barefoot in the dark in my prom dress, planting an apple tree, riding to Portland in the jeep with the music pounding our backs and the wind in our hair, sitting shoulder to shoulder at church as we sang to someone greater than both of us . . . that all feels like a dream. And those things are not my reality. I go to parties for debutants, charity balls, political events, and international socials. I don't think love works once the real living comes at it. Isn't that what I've believed for so long?

“Kate,” Mom says, knocking lightly on my bedroom door. I walk out of the bathroom.

“Yeah?” I say in as normal a voice as I can muster.

“You look so beautiful,” she says softly, then her expression changes to concern. “Is something wrong, honey?”

I want to crawl onto her lap and cry on her shoulder.

“No, just got an eyelash.”

“Well, you need to get to school.”

I nod. “Thanks, Mom.”

Once again I stare at the girl in the mirror. Mom said beautiful, but something in the girl I see appears lost, or maybe phony. Sometimes I wish I could go off to one of those silent retreats at a monastery or some Indian ashram. Then I could sort everything out, I could hear God telling me what to do with my life, I could feel God in a new and magnificent way. I've been a Christian since I was a little girl. But my Christianity is a muddy mess of thoughts and opinions and making God into what works for me—like going shopping at the mall and picking out whatever I want, putting together faith like I would an outfit. Somehow I don't think the Creator, the
I AM
, the Savior of the world is something we can mix and match to our liking.

Monica's eyebrows pinch together when she sees me walking toward the quad at school. “Did I miss the memo about Renaissance Day?”

“Shakespeare Night has turned into Shakespeare month.”

“Darn, missed that. I could've worn my corset and bowler hat.”

Suddenly I feel self-conscious. This is why I don't experiment; I usually go with whatever the new season's favorites are. And of course, we usually wear our school uniforms.

“You look great, it's just not like you to break out of the box.”

“I have my Abercrombie T-Shirt and jeans in the car.”

“No way.” She leans back and gives me the once-over. “This is really a great outfit—everyone will think it's a new designer, just wait and see.”

“Promise?” I ask and look toward the parking lot. Caleb still hasn't arrived. The sky rolls gray with the promise of the rain I expected. Maybe he drove a car I'm not familiar with.

“Why don't you talk to me, instead of looking for him?”

“That obvious?” I feel myself blush.

Someone wraps his arms around me. At first I think it's Oliver, and I reach back to mess up his hair.
That's not Oliver's
hair
.

Ted smiles like he's won an election, and I push him away. He laughs and then pauses as he looks me over. “Impressive. I don't think I've ever seen you so . . .”

I turn away, not wanting to even ask what. Too much attention is worse than no attention at all.

I don't see Caleb anywhere. “Gotta go,” I say to escape Ted and get to first period on time. Maybe Caleb is sick or something. What if he's decided not to attend school here? What if he got hurt yesterday on his bike? No one would tell me. A panic bubbles in my chest as I wonder whom I'd even call. I tell myself to calm down, he's probably already in class.

“Adorable outfit,” Lily says during Women & Literature. “Who is it?”

“New designer,” Monica answers as she sits beside me.

“Really?” A few other girls turn to find out the name, but Ms. Landreth starts right in on our poetry segment. She lists the names of the “young women” who will present their poems about love in the next two weeks. She's divided several of our assignments this way so that every few weeks we have something due. Those who already presented their love poems have something else due now and vice versa. Volunteers get extra points. I tense and then relax when she doesn't call my name. “You ladies will present on Monday,” Ms. Landreth informs the class.

This poem has been one of the toughest for me to write. I don't know what I believe about love. Before the prom, I couldn't think of much to write. Since prom, I feel completely confused by it all. Maybe that should be my poem's theme: “Love is Confusing.”

Between second and third period, Katherine careens up to me. “Hey, I know I've been avoiding you. I was so embarrassed about the prom.”

We walk through the quad with my eyes studying the crowd. I still haven't seen Caleb, but Susanne answered my text and said that he was in class.

“Don't worry about it, Kath, it'll be one of those stories to laugh about years from now.”

And then I see a jet-black head of hair among the other faces of people who are dull and uninteresting. My eyes try to find his face through the crowd.

“I guess so. Maybe we can hang out soon.” There is an edge of vulnerability in Katherine's voice that I should pay attention to, I know this, but I'm also wary of being the person everybody leans on. My friends always think I have it more together than they do. My stable home life, good parents, a faith that appears steadfast . . . these create the illusion. They want to use me as an anchor. Don't they know I feel unanchored half the time myself ?

My phone beeps, but I ignore it.

He's coming toward me. He walks down the corridor with a backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Oh, there's Caleb. I've been wanting to talk to him. You two are friends, right?” Katherine says under her breath, but I barely hear her.

My eyes meet his and I can't move, then we are nearly face-to-face, and I try to ask him what's happening by my expression. He gives me an empty stare and then he's gone.