On figuring out the 360. On my own. On wowing the UCSD surf coach. On not losing the only thing I have in life, surfing my favorite beaches.
So I drive into Black’s with music blaring, feeling the need to surf until I burn off some stress. I wriggle into my wetsuit, unload my board, sling a backpack over my shoulder, and head for the beach.
Waves are breaking right and a handful of surfers are out. I didn’t see Esmerelda in the parking lot, not that I expected Ford to be here. My eyes are raw from crying for the past few days. They feel like someone took Coke bottles, smashed them up to tiny pieces, and taped them to my eyelids. Salt water is going to suck today. The thing that I never wanted to happen—losing my best friend—happened. I lost him to the girl I told him to date. ’Cause I’m an idiot.
I wax and comb my board, watching guys rip moves I need to perfect. The last thing I need is to be a joke at the comp. This is my chance. All I need is to maintain better control of my life. I slipped up. Let emotions get in the way. Well, no stupid boy is going to get in the way of my dreams. Neither are my parents. I will do it. I will kick ass. I have to win. That’s all I have.
After a quick glance around, I shove my backpack in an inconspicuous spot half-covered by a rock and schlep toward the ocean. A gust of cold wind reminds me that I haven’t zipped up my wetsuit, and why would I? Ford does that for me. But I don’t need him. I can zip my own freaking wetsuit. It’s not like it’s that big of a deal. Wetsuits have long tags attached to the end of the zipper so the user doesn’t need anyone else. Damn it, why did Ford and I have to fight the week before the comp?
As I finish fixing my wetsuit and lean over to snag my board, a little strand of hair at the nape of my neck rips out. Grr. Stupid Ford. Stupid zipper. Stupid me.
I huff out to thigh-deep water before jumping on my board and paddling out. I don’t even wince at cold water attacking me in all the wrong places.
I make it out to the breakers, winded. I hope I didn’t use all my pissed-off energy up getting here and then not be able to catch anything. There are five other surfers out here, but they’re all guys. Surfing without Ford or Damien makes me a smidge nervous. Nobody has my back, but maybe that’s been true all along. The one person I thought I could count on … well, forget it.
Some college-age jerkwad with his roots showing says, “You paddled out to play with the big dogs, so don’t expect any free rides. Unless you want one in the backseat of my Hummer.”
I flip him off. “Trying to impress me with your gas guzzler? No thanks, Assclown. The only thing I plan on riding? Waves that you want.”
Another dude in a deep blue wetsuit says, “Nice one. Don’t pay attention to Assclown. He’s all bark and no action …
anywhere. And since he gave you such a warm welcome, take your pick off the next set.”
“Thanks.” If Ford were here, Assclown wouldn’t have given me more than a second glance.
Assclown doesn’t argue about me picking out my wave. He grumbles, “This ain’t no tea party.”
I ignore him. When the next set comes in, I paddle hard for the first wave, almost too hard. I ease up and catch the sweet spot. My mind goes blank to anything but this. I love it—the sheer joy that wells up inside me as I carve switchbacks up and down the wave. As the time to exit or ride it in approaches, I’m pumped and decide to end with a 360. But I hesitate near the end of the spin, and down I go. Water collides with my face and I reach for my nose to keep water from rushing up it. Ugh—that split second where I don’t have control? I can’t stand it, and it bites me in the ass every time. I have three days and I still haven’t perfected a move that says I’m here to win.
Of course, oh yay. Here comes Ford, paddling right toward me. Am I supposed to pretend we didn’t have an