Authors: Edie Claire
My father clapped his hands in delight.
"Fabulous. I’ve got to get out there myself sometime this week."
"Over my dead body," my mother declared in
a deadpan. "You promised. Lessons first. And down in Waikiki, not up
here."
My father pretended disappointment. "Those
wimpy little waves aren’t any fun."
My mother smiled. "Precisely."
"And you remember what
you
promised?" he said slyly, leaning toward her.
"Unfortunately, yes," she responded.
My father winked at me. "After decades of
begging and pleading, your mother’s finally going to come surf with me, Kali.
Make sure you have that video camera rolling!"
My mother rose from the table with her empty plate
and headed toward the kitchen, smacking my father on the shoulder as she went.
He laughed and dug back into his dinner.
I allowed myself a glance at Zane. He wasn’t looking
at me; he seemed totally amused by my parents. The Thompsons, who were older
than the parents of most kids my age, often had that effect on people. They had
married young and wanted children, but had trouble conceiving; my miraculous
appearance in my mom’s late thirties had really thrown them. Perhaps it was
having a kid so late, perhaps it was something in the water—but my parents had
always appeared blissfully unaware of their status as boring old married
people. They had been together for over thirty years, but still acted like a couple
of honeymooners.
I was used to that dynamic, of course. But Zane was
looking at them as though they were a zoo exhibit.
"Oh, and I almost forgot," my father
continued, catching me staring at an empty chair. "Got a surprise for you.
I was talking to a couple of the officers about you—asking about high schools
and such. One of them has a son who’s also a junior, said he’d be real happy to
show you around. We set it up for tomorrow afternoon. How’s that for
service?"
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I
would
like a tour guide, of course, but a blind rendezvous set up by parents had
about as much chance of being fun as skating barefoot on asphalt. The guy had
probably not even been asked if he wanted to do it.
"Well, what do you say?" my father pressed.
"Did I do good, or what?"
I could feel Zane’s eyes on me, but didn’t dare
glance his way. My father was looking extraordinarily pleased with himself, and
for more than the obvious reason. It was his considered opinion, ever since I
hit sixteen, that I spent way too much time with my girlfriends and needed to
get out and date more.
I said my parents weren’t normal.
"Sounds great, Dad," I forced out,
attempting to hide my face in my plate. Mercifully, my cell phone chose that
moment to vibrate in my pocket, and I dug it out like a lifeline. It was from
Tara. I didn’t need the phone to tell me so; Tara was the only person on the
planet under thirty who always texted in complete sentences.
What do you mean you haven’t seen any hot guys yet?
The serious surfers will be on the Banzai Pipeline at the south edge of ‘Ehukai
Beach. You don’t have to get wet to watch them!
I rolled my eyes with a smile. I had no idea what
pipeline she was talking about, or even what beach. When we found out I was
coming to Oahu, Tara had done more research than I had. She was the undisputed
queen of information; what she didn’t know, she could always find out. She had
promised to keep me informed of everything I needed to make the most of my time
while I was out here, and for someone sitting in a double-wide trailer in the
middle of Wyoming, she was doing a pretty good job so far.
I only wished I could ask her about dead people.
"Kali," my mother reproached as she
returned with dessert, "No texting at the table."
"Sorry," I said lamely, setting the phone
down beside me. "It was from Tara. She was telling me that all the serious
surfers would be at ‘Ehukai Beach, wherever that is."
Zane sat up straight in his chair. "Are you
kidding me? Where do you think you were all afternoon?"
My father spoke to me at the same time, creating a
dizzying effect. "She means the pipe, of course. It’s just down the beach.
I told you that."
Zane threw my father an approving look. "What
he said."
"Kali," my mother said simultaneously,
"would you like some chocolate
haupia
pie?"
"I was surfing the pipe all morning!" Zane
insisted. "Didn’t you see me?"
"What’s
haupia
?" my dad asked.
"Coconut cream," my mother answered.
"And yes, I know it’s rich, but we’re on vacation, and I’m not too fat for
my swimsuit yet. Kali?"
"If you were looking for guys your age,"
Zane continued, talking over my mother, "you
should
have noticed
me. You really don’t think I’m hot?"
"Yes, you are," I blurted, "it looks
delicious."
My mother stopped cutting the pie and stared at me.
My father stopped eating his fruit salad and stared at me.
Zane himself looked startled for a second. Then he
fell back into his chair in a paroxysm of laughter.
My mind spun. What the
heck
had I just said?
"What I meant—" I spoke up quickly, then
faltered. It was an explanation I had no idea how to finish. I wasn’t sure how
it had happened, but I was pretty sure I had just simultaneously called my
mother fat and propositioned a dead guy.
"I mean you’re entitled to a little
treat," I said with blessed inspiration, keeping my gaze firmly on my
mother. "We all are. After all, like you said, we’re on vacation!"
I helped myself to a heaping portion of the pie and
buried my scarlet face as deeply in it as possible. My parents’ conversation
turned studiously to the weather.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Zane
doubled over in his chair, still laughing hysterically.
If he wasn’t already dead, I would have killed him.
I stepped out of the shower, threw my hair up in a
towel, and dried off. It felt good to get rid of the sand. It also felt good to
have a little privacy.
Zane had disappeared from the table shortly after
dessert, and had not had the decency to reappear the entire time I had waited
for him alone on the deck afterwards. Perhaps that was because he knew why I
was waiting for him.
I slipped on my most comfortable sleep shirt,
brushed my teeth, and stepped out into the hall. Whatever had happened at
dinner tonight, I was never doing it again. Either he agreed to my rules or I
would simply ignore him, just as I did all the other, considerably less
annoying dead people I saw every day. I
could
do it. And I
would
do it. Period.
I opened the door of my smallish corner bedroom and
walked in, enjoying the omnipresent sound of breaking waves that floated in
through the open windows. The condo was a modest two bedroom on one level,
nothing fancy. But it had come cheap for the week, thanks to my father’s
connections; and it was superbly located in a cluster of houses within a
stone’s throw of Sunset Beach. I had slept with the window open every night,
enjoying the sea breezes that rolled in constantly through the slats of the
wooden shutters.
I shut the door behind me, and without thinking—and
in a move I did not choose to psychoanalyze—clicked the lock. The condo wasn’t
very old; from the eighties, maybe, which was good. When it came to hotels and
motels, the newer the better, because the shadows were fewer. Some buildings
replaced older ones, of course, but the rooms never lined up perfectly, and shadows
that floated randomly through walls and ceilings had long since ceased to draw
my attention. I had once slept like a baby in a hotel room in Atlanta where
three bikers packing pistols had played poker all night long. I could only take
them so seriously when their feet dangled in the air above the toilet and their
heads were on another floor.
I grabbed my book off the nightstand and hopped into
bed with a smile. Ocean breeze, crashing waves, soft mattress, and a good book.
What more could I ask for?
I was well into a second chapter when I noticed his
ankle. He was sitting across the foot of my bed, his back propped up against
the wall, his legs actually overlapping mine on top of the covers. He had the
gall to flash me a smile.
"I was wondering when you’d notice," he
said cheerfully.
My teeth clenched. I wanted to jump out of the bed,
but that would hardly accomplish anything. At least here, I was under the
covers.
"You are NOT allowed in my room," I
growled.
"Why not?" he asked innocently.
"Because you’re a guy!"
"Under ordinary circumstances, maybe," he
argued. "But as you so painfully keep reminding me, I don’t
count
as a guy."
I took in a deep breath. He had a point. Sort of.
But I was not going to let him call the shots. He was the one asking for help,
here. Either we played by my rules, or we didn’t play at all.
"What do you want?" I barked.
He looked back at me for a long moment. I didn’t
know whether it was calculated or not, but his eyes had an amazing capacity to
mesmerize me. It was as if, when he chose to, he could throw open some inner
window that showed pure, raw emotion. The kind most people—like me—tried hard
to hide.
"I’m sorry about what happened at dinner,"
he said softly, his expression radiating regret. "I shouldn’t have put you
in that position—having to pretend in front of your parents. I won’t do it
again. I promise."
I stared back into his genuine, troubled face and
felt the anger quickly drain out of me, replaced by an unexplainable need to
apologize to
him
. Luckily, I squelched it. I would not be taken
advantage of, no matter how gorgeous his eyes were... or how nonthreatening he
looked in the soft cotton tee and sweats he had mysteriously changed into.
"We have to set some rules," I squeaked,
forcing my eyes back to his face.
"No problem," he said quickly, smiling at
me.
I looked away again. Where the heck was I supposed
to look with a guy like him sitting on the end of my bed? Conversation was a
whole lot easier when I was mad at him.
"First off," I began, "you cannot
surprise me by popping up all over the place. Particularly in my bedroom!"
He nodded. "I’m assuming the shower’s okay,
then?"
Perfect. Now I
was
mad at him.
My eyes narrowed. "If I so much as see one
half-transparent toe of yours anywhere NEAR any bathroom or bedroom I ever go
in, I will NEVER talk to you again. EVER. Got it?"
He considered. "Fair enough. Except for the
part about the bedroom. I mean, it is the perfect place to talk privately,
isn’t it? At least when you’re fully clothed. What if we consider it ‘by invitation
only?’"
I let out a sigh. Tara was right. I sucked at
negotiation.
"Fine. Assuming I ever invite you. And the
second thing is—"
"I can’t be talking to you or distracting you
when you’re around other people, particularly your parents," he finished.
"I already promised that, remember?"
"So you did," I responded.
We stared at each other for a moment. I took a
breath. "Assuming you stick to the rules, I’m willing to do what I can to
help you. But you have to understand something. I don’t know crap about any of
this. Seriously, I don’t. I know you think I
must
—that I’m secretly
hiding some profound truth from you. But I’m not. I’m just an ordinary person
who’s been cursed with this ability to see weird stuff nobody else sees, and I
have no idea why. It’s never done me or anybody else any good, that’s for sure.
So whatever I may do to try to help you with your… issues, I need you to
understand that I am totally and completely winging it."
He looked back at me with a curious expression, but
his eyes had become unreadable. "You really shouldn’t think of it as a
curse, Kali," he said quietly. "You should think of it as a
gift."
I snorted. "Being constantly aware of dead
people is no gift, believe me."
He gave a slight shrug. "It is to me."
I suddenly wished, really hard, that I was wearing
something other than a worn lime-green nightshirt with a yellow duck on it that
said, for inexplicable reasons, "Summertime Funtime" in big pink
letters across the chest. I also realized that my hair was still wrapped up in a
towel.
It was too late to worry about either.
"Look, Zane," I began, trying to muster
whatever shreds of dignity I had left. "I think that what you are is more
like a ghost. And from everything I’ve ever read or seen on TV talk shows about
ghosts, they get stuck on earth for a couple specific reasons. One is that they
were murdered, and they want justice."
He shook his head. "Nobody would murder me. I’m
too lovable. Next."
I sighed. Lacking in ego, he was not. "Two,
they murdered somebody else, or did some horrible thing they want to atone for,
or they’ve been sentenced to some hell-on-earth chain-dragging gig. Like Jacob
Marley, you know, in
A Christmas Carol
."
He lifted his arms innocently. "No chains. No
guilt. Next?"
I sighed. "The only other thing I can remember
is people who don’t realize they’re dead, and they get lost somehow on their
way to the light."
His eyebrows rose. "That sounds promising. And
what light would that be?"
I shrugged. "I don’t know. Didn’t you see
anything? Maybe when… when it first happened?"
He let out a sigh of his own. "I told you, I
don’t remember anything happening. All I can remember is surfing on this beach.
For the most part, I’ve had a great time doing it, too. It’s just been
confusing, since I can’t remember anything else. And after a while…
lonely."
"You don’t remember seeing a light?"