Second Star

38

January is unseasonably warm, even for southern California. The forecasters on the evening news don’t bother masking their surprise each time the temperature rises: seventy-three; seventy-eight; eighty-one; and, on the day I leave for college, eighty-four.

“Beach weather,” my dad says carelessly as he loads my bedding into the backseat for me. I nod, glancing at my surfboard, secured tightly to the rack on the roof of my car.

I spent last night—when I should have been packing, or at least looking at my course catalog on the computer—waxing my board. I couldn’t help myself. I want the board to be prepared, perfect for when the time comes. My mother has already told me that when I’m ready, they’re going to treat me to surf lessons at the beach of my choice. They’ll hire me a private instructor. I almost groaned when she mentioned it—what could be lamer than an expensive private teacher on the beach?—but I could see how much it meant to her. She’s willing to let me go out on the water, her face said, but please, please, let her have this one thing, this assurance that I’ll be out there as safely as possible.

So I stifled my groan and thanked her instead.

I don’t really plan to head to the water anytime soon, despite the unseasonable warmth. I’m really excited to start classes, to have a schedule, to study and write papers. It’s been so long that I’m worried I may have forgotten how.

My dad startles me by taking a picture. I don’t have to see it to know what it looks like: a girl with straight brown hair and pale skin, standing beside her shiny new car, ready to begin the next chapter in her life. But he holds his camera out in front of him to show me the photo. I’m surprised by what I see; maybe Fiona wasn’t just being nice the other day when she said I looked good. In fact, maybe I’ve never looked quite so good as I do right now, with my car and my surfboard behind me. Even in the photo, I can see that my eyes have some light behind them, just like my brothers’ always did.

There is empty space on either side of me, space that my brothers would have taken up if they were here today. Maybe there will always be empty space on either side of me, the places where my brothers should be standing. And I know now that I will live with that empty space every day for the rest of my life.

“Oh,” my father says, slipping his hand into the pocket of his jeans. “I almost forgot. This came for you in the mail.”

He holds out an envelope addressed to me. No return address, not even a postmark, as though someone slipped it in our mailbox overnight while we were sleeping.

“Thanks,” I say, taking it from him and ripping it open. I stifle a gasp when I see what’s inside: a photograph with two handsome men—boys—tan and muscular, their arms draped lazily around each other, their surfboards propped up in the sand on either side of them. One of them has hazel eyes ringed in a yellow as bright as the sun, and the other’s are icicle blue.

I hope my father doesn’t see that my hands are shaking as I stuff the envelope and photo into my purse. I shrug like it’s nothing, but my heart is pounding so hard that I’m surprised my father can’t hear it.

My mother comes out of the house carrying a paper bag, Nana trotting along beside her. “Just some snacks for the road,” she says, holding it out.

“You know there are, like, a million restaurants between here and Palo Alto?” I say, but I take the bag nonetheless. I lean down to kiss Nana goodbye and press my cheek to her soft fur.

“Drive safe,” my mom says, hugging me tight. “And call us the minute you get there.”

“I will,” I say. “I promise.” She offered to drive with me, but I turned her down. I want to make this trip alone, and now, as the picture makes my bag feel like it weighs a hundred pounds, I know why.

My father hugs me next, kissing the top of my head the way he did when I was a little kid. I wave to my parents through my open window as I pull away, the shadow of my surfboard visible on the driveway at their feet.

At every red light between the glass house and the entrance to the freeway, I pull the photo from my bag and turn it over in my hands, gazing at it as though I think that if I just stare at it long enough, it will reveal all the answers. Maybe there’s some secret message, some tiny writing stashed in the corner, hidden in the sea behind them.

But there is nothing. No hint, no clue. I don’t even recognize the handwriting on the envelope. It could have been any of them—Jas, Pete, Belle, even Hughie or Matt—who sent this photograph to me.

Pete and Jas look so young in the photo, lanky teenagers; it must have been taken back when they were surfing together, before dust or Belle or I had a chance to come between them. Still, it’s clear that Jas is the older of the two; he’s taller than Pete, more filled out. Funny that I never knew exactly how old either of them was.

I pull onto the PCH and begin the drive up the coast. The next exit is one that I know well. One that no one ever takes. One that leads the way up above the water, where there are two ruined houses on opposite sides of the cliffs. The day I met him, Pete told me about waves that rose all the way up the cliffs, destroying some of the houses there. The storm that set off Witch Tree could have sent the waves that destroyed what was left of Kensington Beach, drenching Pete’s house in salt water, pulling the stairs from the cliffs, and flooding the beach altogether. Maybe the ocean did swallow my memories whole, after all.

I could change direction right now, check the Surfline app on my phone and find out where the biggest swell is headed next, where on earth the best waves will be today, tomorrow, next week. I could turn around and speed to the airport, buy a ticket, check my board, and disappear. That was our plan, after all: to travel the world, chasing the waves together.

But I shake my head, resting the photograph on my lap. Pete always said that once you make a decision to take a wave, you shouldn’t change your mind. No matter how big or how small the wave, once you paddle into it, the surest way to get yourself pummeled is to try to change direction instead of riding it out. I press down hard on the gas, speeding north, resuming my course.

The photograph is all I need right now. Proof that Kensington was real. Pete was real. Belle was real.

Jas was real. In my mind’s eye, I can see him right now, on the other side of the world, taking wave after wave in an ocean as clear and cool as starlight. Long before he met me, Jas planned to chase the waves around the world—with Pete, not with me. He stayed in Kensington because he was waiting for Pete to go with him.

I remember it all, sharp and crystal clear.

I remember Pete: the way my hand fit in his grasp, how his skin was always warm, as though it was constantly basking in the sunshine. I remember his kisses and the way he tasted and the sprinkle of freckles across his nose that were just a shade darker than the freckles that dotted the rest of his body. I remember that he taught me to take a wave, stood up on the board behind me, and let me fly.

I remember Belle: her steely gray eyes, her blond hair flying behind her as she took a wave. I remember the gash in her leg, ugly and red, and I remember the way Pete held her as she bled. I remember the way she looked at me when she told me the truth about my brothers; she was sorry, not just for having kept the truth from me, but also because she couldn’t save them.

And I remember Jas: the smell of him, the feel of him, the taste of him, the weight of his body above mine, the strength of his arms around me. I never met anyone as strong as he is and I don’t think I ever will again. He was strong enough to save me from the water; somehow, he got me onto the beach where they found me, even if all he did was push my body into the right current. And he was strong enough to save himself, to save Pete, to save Belle. Somehow or another, they made their way back onto dry land.

And somehow or another, someone wanted me to know it.

The photograph feels hot on my leg. I stuff it back into its envelope, press the envelope deep inside my bag, and steady my grip on the steering wheel. When I reach for it later, I’ll discover a few fine grains of sand, sugar-white and flour-soft, resting at the bottom of my bag. For now, I’ll keep heading north, just like I planned. For now, I’ll live my life without knowing exactly where my friends might be. Because now I know that every minute we spent together was real. Our love was real, and someday I’ll have the chance to say I love you, too. And that’s enough.

But—maybe just one stop first. It’s beach weather, after all, just like my father said. I can practically feel the weight of the surfboard on the rack above my head. And it turns out I’ve already had a few lessons with a surfing expert. I change lanes and head for the coast.

Just a few waves and then I’ll resume my course.

For now.