“Lonnie had, like, issues with him,” Rachel said, bending to pick up an interesting shell. Turning it over in her hand once or twice, she rejected it and let it fall. “Braden testified or talked to the police or something about Lonnie’s brother being the one who vandalized those cars at the high school last year. His brother got sent to juvie and Lonnie was really pissed about it. They got into a fight in gym, but Coach Peet broke it up. Lonnie broke Braden’s nose, though.”
“Lovely. Did he get suspended?”
Rachel shook her head. “Nope. Coach said Braden, like, had it coming and didn’t tell the principal. Coach said now they were even and could go back to being teammates. Go Sabertooths!” she finished with an ironic fist pump.
We turned around to head back toward where I’d parked my Ford Fiesta. The wind at our backs grabbed at my ponytail and flicked it into my face. It pulled Rachel’s black hair over her eyes until she looked like Cousin Itt. She pushed her bangs back with one hand, then made a visor of it, scanning the ocean. The surfer was up again, a mostly black splotch atop a green and yellow board that stood out against the heavy gray green of the waves. He carved a path along the inside of the wave, trailing his hand in the water, and Rachel clapped, laughing delightedly. “I’m going to learn to surf,” she announced, turning to me.
“Lindsay?” I prompted.
“She’s amazing,” Rachel said. “She set a school record for kills last year when she was a junior. She and Mark are, like, the perfect couple.”
“Are you and Lindsay close?”
She waggled her hand. “You know. Not, like, BFFs, but not enemies or anything. They run with a different crowd.” She didn’t sound jealous or bitter about not being part of the popular crowd. I’d never minded, either. I’d been happy with my semi-nerdy friends in chorus and my best friend, Vonda.
“What do you know about Braden taking part in a drug study?” I asked.
“Look!” Rachel pointed toward the water. The surfer was up again, zipping toward the beach, when suddenly the front end of his surfboard flipped up and seemed to hit him. He toppled into the water, disappearing from sight. After a moment, the brightly colored board popped to the surface, but there was no sign of the surfer. Both of us scanned the waves and shore anxiously for thirty seconds. I willed the man to appear. Nothing. I looked up and down the beach, but the couple with the dog were gone.
“Call for help,” I told Rachel, stripping off my cardigan. I was a mediocre swimmer, not in any way qualified to undertake a rescue in conditions like this, but there was no one else. I sprinted the twenty yards to the waterline, pulling my tee shirt over my head as I went. My feet slapped against the hard, wet sand as I neared the water. A wave broke, sending a surge of water over my feet and halfway up my shins. It was colder than usual, pulled up from the depths by Horatio’s winds. I stood there, torn, not wanting to dive in, but unwilling to just watch as the sea took the surfer. Between swells, I thought I spotted something black. He wasn’t too far out. The beach sloped gradually into the water and normally I’d have been able to walk out to where he floated. Without further thought, I waded into the angry surf.
Chapter Thirteen
THE COLD SMACKED ME. MY SKIN SEEMED TO SHRINK around my frame as I struck out toward where I thought I’d seen the surfer. I couldn’t last more than ten or so minutes. Ducking under a wave about to crest, I popped up for another look. There! In the trough between two waves, I spotted the surfer’s head bobbing just at the surface. One of his arms flailed before another wave cut off my view. I spit out a mouthful of salty water and went under again, finding it easier to swim beneath the waves, even though roiling sand and shell bits made a muddy scrim I couldn’t see through. The next time I surfaced, the surfer was barely a body length away, his face twisted in panic, his mouth open as if he were screaming something.
“I’m coming,” I screamed back pointlessly.
The current pulled him away even as I breaststroked toward him, trying to keep him in sight. Stretching out my hand, I brushed what felt like the slick skin of his wet suit—his ankle, maybe—before the current yanked him away. A wave began to swell behind him, pulling him up above me. It looked like one arm was useless, dangling helplessly as he tried to stay upright by paddling with his left arm. Then the wave swept me up and I gulped in a deep breath before it smashed me down toward the sea floor, rolling me over and over against the sand. I needed air. I tried to orient myself, tried to get my legs beneath me. Just as I got my legs upright underneath me and pushed as hard as I could, something heavy thudded into me. The surfer.