Sophomore Switch(39)
Author: Abby McDonald

I blink. Carla is standing in my doorway.

“Hope you don’t mind, but it was open.” She’s dressed for the beach, in shorts and a lime-green T-shirt.

I nod slowly, part of me still back in Oxford in that student lounge.

“Happy birthday!” Carla tosses me a heavy bag. She’s grinning, with a worrying gleam in her dark eyes.

“Thanks,” I say slowly, pulling out a pile of dark rubber material. I look back at her in confusion.

“It’s a wet suit, dumb-ass!” Carla takes it from me and shakes it out to reveal the shape.

“Umm, thanks?” My eyes flick back to the screen. Back to Sebastian’s message.

“We’re going surfing. Well, you are. I’m just going to watch. And laugh.” Carla pushes my laptop screen closed and spins my chair around until I’m facing her. “It’s your gift. I mean, you can’t be a real California girl until you hit the waves.”

“But I’ve never —”

She cuts me off. “Which is why my friend Nick is giving you a lesson. C’mon, let’s go.”

Carla collects my beach things and drags me to her car. We’re meeting her friend at an “awesome” surf beach farther down the coast, so I let her talk all the way onto the freeway, her voice a soothing chatter as I rest my head against the cool window and try to recapture my California calm. As strip malls and dry brush speed by, I think about how Sebastian chose to contact me. MySpace. One step up from a Facebook wall posting, but far below email. Or, god forbid, an actual letter.

Did I not even deserve a bloody email?

“OK, spill.”

I snap back to the present and find we’re parked off-road in front of a long expanse of golden sand. The water stretches, vivid blue, all the way to the horizon, and I can see other surfers already bobbing in the shallows.

Carla turns off the radio and stares at me, worried. “This is the anniversary of your birth, and you’re sitting there looking like your dog died.” She frowns. “He didn’t, did he?”

“What?”

“Your dog. Die. OK, obviously not.” She pulls her hair back into an electric blue tie. “But something’s wrong, right?”

I get out of the car and begin to pull on the wet suit, but she keeps fixing me with that concerned look. “It’s my ex,” I admit eventually. “He emailed. Today. No wait,” I quickly correct myself with a wry smile. “He sent me a MySpace message.”

“Ouch.” Carla exhales. “You still into him?”

“No!” I exclaim quickly. “That’s just it, I’m not.” I tug harder at the wet suit, stuck around my thighs.

“Asshole,” Carla declares, pulling on her sunglasses.

“No . . .”

“Asshole,” she insists, taking pity on my flailing limbs and pulling the wet suit over my shoulders. “Seriously, it’s typical. The minute you get over someone, it, like, triggers an international beacon. ‘Warning: she’s happy! Red alert!’ and just like that, he gets back in touch.”

I manage a smile, just imagining the sirens. “Like the bat signal.”

“Exactly. Don’t even think about it,” she orders me. “Today is about having fun, not angsting over your selfish jackass ex.”

“Yes sir!” I mock salute her.

“Damn right.” She adjusts my zipper and stands back, surveying me proudly. “There, you’re ready.”

For something so beloved by slackers and beach bums, surfing definitely takes a lot of work. After jumping into an upright position on the sand for what seems like hours, Nick finally takes me to the shallows to try it properly.

“Remember, you’ve got to feel for the wave. Be a part of the ocean!” He’s standing knee-deep in water in a pair of red trunks, his dark hair buzz-cut short and a string of beads around his neck. In short, he is a walking surf stereotype.

“Part of the ocean,” I repeat, sitting astride the surfboard. With Nick calling instructions (and Carla lounging on the sand), I cautiously paddle farther out.

“Now wait!” he calls.

“For what?” I yell back.

“You’ll feel it!”

Well, that clarifies things.

Squinting at the horizon, I sit, bobbing gently on the tide. Nick says that when the right swell comes along, I’ll just know. I’m glad someone has faith in my instincts, because I’m not so sure about them myself.

Sebastian.

Just the memory of him makes me angry. Carla is right: contacting me now like that is a completely bastard thing to do, but the more I think about it, the more typically him it is. Sebastian hated conflict, hated me getting stressed or anxious. Whenever I was worried about an essay or deadline, he’d always just slip away. “You need some space to deal with this,” he’d say, and I’d work through everything alone. So of course he’d stay well away when I was upset, only to reappear when he thought I was fine, wanting to be part of my life again.

But I don’t have to let him back in.

I taste salt on my lips, that one thought surrounding me as I rock and sway with the tide. I don’t have to let him back in. So what if he sent me a message? I don’t have to reply. I don’t have to think about him, and I certainly don’t need to pretend that I’m fine with how he treated me.

I can just be finished with him.

I smile, finally feeling loose-limbed and tension-free the way I’m supposed to be. Another set of breakers is rolling in, and Nick starts to yell from the shore. “This one, this one!”

I see Carla leap up, cheering me on. Here’s my cue. Angling my board away from the waves, I lie forward and begin to paddle, faster as the swell approaches. My heartbeat begins to quicken as the wave rises under me, just like Nick said, so I take a breath and leap into position, my feet unsteady on the slab of board. For one second, maybe two, I’m there: rushing toward the shore as if the wind itself is carrying me, and then I feel my balance go and I tumble over into the water. The wave breaks around me, loud and fierce, and then I surface, knees in the sand and salt water streaming from my nose.

“Way to go, Em!” Carla whoops, running down to hug me.

“You’re joking.” I cough, wiping water from my eyes. “That was terrible!”

“Yeah, but it was a start.” She grins. “Now get out there, and stay on this time.”

I laugh, still feeling that incredible surge of adrenaline in my veins. “You know, you should consider a career in the army.”