Second Star

10

“Please, Fee,” I beg. “I really think I need this time.”

We’re sitting on the terrace behind Fiona’s house, which is held up on stilts driven deep into the earth below us. Her house perches at the top of a hill, just like mine. But you can’t see the ocean from here. We’re surrounded by woods, and the air is heavy with the scent of eucalyptus trees.

“You were right,” I say. “I just need some time by myself. I’m going to drive up the coast, check into a little hotel on the water, and…” I pause, trying to think of something that Fiona will approve of. Finally, I say, “Spend some time alone with my thoughts.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell your parents that? Why did you have to say that you and I were going off on a road trip together?”

“Fee, you know what my parents are like. They’d never let me go off alone, not after John and Michael…” I trail off.

“I don’t like lying to them,” Fiona says, sitting up so straight that I imagine someone’s placed an invisible ruler along her spine. I think suddenly of the time in sixth grade when I saw a test on our teacher’s desk a few days before we were supposed to take it and told Fiona the questions. She was so excited—a guaranteed A! It wasn’t really cheating, she said, since I saw the test by accident and we were still going to have to study the answers to those questions. I played along for a while, but the morning of the test I found myself standing at the teacher’s desk, begging to be given different questions. Now, I almost smile at the role reversal.

“I know,” I say. “And I can explain everything to them when I get back, I promise. I just can’t deal with their worry right now.”

Fiona nods knowingly. “I’ll do it,” she says finally. “If they call me, I’ll say you’re in the shower or drying your hair or whatever.”

I smile and lean forward, placing my hand over hers. “Thank you.”

Later, Fiona walks me to my car.

She pulls me into a hug, and I squeeze her tightly, sorry for lying; sorrier still that I can’t tell her the truth.

The scent of eucalyptus is replaced by salt water as I drive from Fiona’s neighborhood down to the ocean. This time, I drive straight past the lookout parking lot and up a curving road to the cliffs above, where the houses sit.

The road winds around the rocks, like whoever built it was trying to disturb as little of nature as possible. When I finally reach the top of the cliffs, there’s only one house in sight, and it’s not Pete’s. I step on the brake and let the car idle. I must have made a wrong turn. But how can I have made a wrong turn? There was only one road.

The house in front of me looks a lot like Pete’s. It’s the same house—the same design—except for the fact that it’s not quite so run-down. Someone must have repainted it recently; this near the ocean, exposed to the salty air, homes aren’t usually so smooth and bright. There’s a car in the driveway, a navy blue truck, the bottom half of which is covered in sand. Looking at this house, I’m certain that in its backyard is a pool filled with gleaming blue water. I can almost taste the chlorine.

Suddenly, the garage door begins to open. I pull right into the driveway, along the passenger side of the truck. I just need directions down to the beach from here. I open my door, careful not to hit the side of the truck. It’s obvious that the person who owns it takes good care of it.

I can hear some whistling on the other side of the truck, hosing the sand off from the driver’s side.

I see his feet first; bare and dark tan. They grip the concrete driveway the way a surfer’s feet grip a board.

“Excuse me?” The guy stops whistling and steps out from behind the truck. He’s young and startlingly handsome; his eyes are bright blue, and his dark hair is still wet from this morning’s surf. He’s wearing only board shorts, damp with spray from the hose.

“You headed for the beach?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah. I thought I was turning into the lookout, but I ended up here.”

“You surf?” he asks, glancing at the boards sticking out of my car. He smiles, his eyes as clear as a Siberian husky’s.

I shake my head. I’ve always thought that you could tell just by looking at me: I’m not a surfer.

“Not really,” I answer. “Not like you,” I add, gesturing to the collection in his garage. It’s big enough to fit at least two cars inside, but instead it’s filled to capacity with surfboards. I’ve never seen so many surfboards in my life: stand-up paddleboards that seem three times my height, shorter boards that look kind of like water skis or snowboards, with salt-stained foot straps and sharp fins that I’ll learn later are for tow-in big-wave surfing. There is even one hydrofoil board, something I’ve only ever seen pictures of in my brothers’ magazines, plus a beat-up Jet Ski painted camouflage green. And there are dozens of traditional surfboards, ranging from about six to nine feet.

He breaks his gaze with me long enough to glance behind him at his collection. “Those,” he says, shrugging. “Haven’t used most of those in a long time.”

He bends down, picking up the hose and turning it back on, turning back to his truck. He uses the hose to point. “You can take the stairs down to the beach if you follow that road.”

I look over my shoulder in the direction he’s pointing. You’d never know there was a road if someone didn’t point it out.

“Not much of a road,” I say.

He shrugs. “Yeah. Nowadays no one much drives in that direction, so the reeds kind of took over. You’ll make it though,” he says, gesturing to my SUV.

“Right,” I say, opening my car door. Before I pull away, I roll my window down.

“Thanks,” I shout to him.

“What for?”

“For pointing me in the right direction.”

He shrugs and smiles easily. “You’ll have to let me know whether it turns out to be the right direction or not.”