Furious - By Jill Wolfson Page 0,14

thick-haired stereotypical surfer dude, his chest broad and expansive as he grips his board behind his back, his chiseled profile contemplating the ocean for the next wave to catch. I get a kick out of how people decorate it according to the season: in December there’s usually a Santa hat on that head of metallic hair, and in the summer a baseball cap.

As I get closer, I make out a carved jack-o’-lantern with a broad, leering grin sitting at the statue’s bare feet, near the plaque: Prince of the Waves. The statue was dedicated to the community a long time ago, and there’s something familiar about the shape of the surfer’s head and the set of his mouth. Up close, you see a tension in the surfer’s jaw, and this makes me certain that he’s more than a fantasy archetype. He’s human with human feelings. My guess is that the sculptor based him on a real person.

I wrap my hands around the metal railing that separates me from the steep twenty-foot cliff and the ocean below. I bend back my head to follow a V-shaped flock of pelicans that are struggling against strong headwinds.

Who was this Prince of the Waves?

I bet that just like me, in weather just like this, he stood on this spot, the edge of an entire continent, the point where land ends and there’s nothing left, nowhere to go that’s solid. I wonder if he, too, imagined how these waves started far away. Something big and dangerous—an earthquake or hurricane—set them in motion, and they traveled through space and time, gathering strength and eventually meeting their end here.

A crash on the rocks below my feet.

I’m sure a science teacher like Mr. H could explain exactly how the shape of the cliff, the direction and pull of the current, and the force of the wind all come together to make this one of the most famous surfing spots in California. On most days, the waves roll in steadily and evenly shaped, musical like a poem. But right now they remind me of an argument, yelling and screaming, starting in one direction and suddenly veering into another, breaking apart, colliding and unpredictable.

I squint through the fog and light rain, and I can’t believe what I’m seeing. There’s actually someone, a surfer, in the water. A wave slams hard, burying the figure and tossing around the board like it’s nothing but a toothpick. There’s so much churned-up water, it looks like angry milk. Not even the Plagues would be out there today. You have to be crazy. Or you have to be someone who doesn’t care about getting hurt. Or you have to be obsessed. Or part fish. Or someone who’s a match for these waves, as fierce as the ocean itself.

I loosen the string of my jacket hood, let it drop back, then remove the clip from my hair. I shake my head. Each strand swells with moisture, turning my hair even wilder than it usually is, as coarse and tangled as a steel-wool pad.

What would it be like to be that surfer? To kick my legs and pound my arms, to punch my whole body through thick walls of water. To yell and scream and charge. To have nothing to lose. To have that much anger and not be afraid of using it.

All along the cliff, there are signs—DANGEROUS. UNPREDICTABLE SURF. STAY BACK—but right now instead of warning me, they tempt me. I lean forward on the rail and bend way over, far enough to see the cliff from a whole different angle, the way the surfer sees it.

Smash. The waves crash again on the rocks below. I breathe in, feel the power of each wave unleashing its force on the ground beneath me.

My eyes follow the surfer, who is now paddling toward the cliff, following some invisible diagonal line to where I’m standing. I begin making out individual features that confirm what I already know. I don’t know how I know, but I do.

Alix hoists herself out of the surf at the base of the cliff, like she’s been coughed up by the sea. Her hands tear away at the brown mass of kelp, skinny strands like mermaid’s hair, or witch’s hair, that’s wrapped itself around her ankles and the board. She shakes water from each ear. She turns to squint at me.

I want her to wave. I want her to recognize me as the girl who hates everyone, too.

But no, she glares at me and