Seven Tears into the Sea (10 page)

I was slipping through, making it, when the second guy grunted. I couldn't help glancing his way. He looked like a young Brad Pitt who'd been living behind one of these dumpsters for a week and decided to crawl out for a joint. He reeked of weed. And though he sure wasn't my type, he was handsome in a doomed way.

I kept walking as he talked. Loud, too, so I'd be sure to hear.

“Guess you been schooled by the little turista, Roscoe.”

I was pretty sure that wasn't a Spanish word. And a thug should change his name to something besides Roscoe.

I reminded myself there was still one of them lurking in the shadows. Lounging in that inset doorway? Yes.

That guy was tall, and he wasn't trying to hide. He sort of squared his shoulders.

Of the three, I'd rather face pudgy Roscoe or the moody blond. The one in the shadows was the one to watch.

But I didn't. The smell of corn dogs crowded out the stench of rotten fish, and the sweet trill of a flute was louder than my heels' echo on the slippery concrete.

I was out.

Nana was waiting for me under the blue and white striped awning.

“Your ice cream is melting,” she pointed out.

The dish sat across from her on the wooden picnic table. I sat, and even though I wasn't hungry, picked up the plastic spoon and began eating the vanilla ice cream, saving it from becoming part of the pool of chocolate syrup and sprinkles.

“Sorry,” I apologized. Boy, I really shoveled that ice cream in, as if my scare demanded I refuel. “I saw some cute earrings, though.”

“Did you buy them?”

“No.”

“I have a little cash if you'd like to go back,” Nana said.

My mixed feelings must have shown. I didn't want those earrings quite enough to return to that dimly lit side street.

“Did something happen?”

“Nothing serious, but I think I ran into some of those bad boys you and Thelma were talking about.”

“Those boys?” Nana asked, looking past my shoulder.

My head whipped around to see Roscoe and the shaggy blond strutting down the middle of the street. They didn't push people aside, but their attitude said nothing would make them happier than a scuffle.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Zack McCracken, I haven't seen you for so long,” Nana called out. “Come over here and say hello.”

I sputtered. I didn't spew my ice cream all over the table, but it was touch and go there for a minute. I barely managed to swallow.

My grandmother was a real piece of work. I mean, they weren't actual thugs, but they didn't look like the kind of boys she'd “chat” with.

So this was Zack. He couldn't possibly remember me.

Stoned as he was, he still looked uncomfortable to be singled out. Something in his expression reminded me
I'd met him before third grade, before his bow and arrow attack on the sea lion.

Years ago, Dad had been working on our old station wagon in the gravel driveway, and I'd been bored watching him, when I noticed a kid with a broken down bike up on the road. That was before the traffic increased and it became a serious highway.

“Go ahead and see if he needs help,” Dad had said, glancing out from under the hood.

So I did.

Zack and I had been little if it was before third grade. I remember noticing an old bruise on his face. One of his knees had been scuffed up, too, like he'd taken a fall. The only thing wrong with his bike, though, was the chain had slipped off those metal things that make it go around. I knew from experience how to fix it.

By the look of his grease-blackened fingers, he'd been trying to get the chain back on those little metal hooks, but he had a rock in one hand, ready to pound it. I guess ten-year-old boys don't handle frustration well.

I don't know what we said to each other, but I ended up fixing his bike. He'd hated that. In fact, he jerked his bike up off the asphalt, jumped on, and jammed his bare feet against the pedals. He rode off in a rage.

I didn't get it then. By now, I'd noticed guys don't like
to be rescued. Especially by girls. So why had I liked him in third grade?

Zack sauntered up, but stopped in the middle of the street, then joined a few other guys—I didn't see the tall one—to loiter near a store called Merry Mermaid. It was a second-hand clothing store. Maybe they were about to go shopping, but I bet their presence had more to do with the painted wooden statue of a bare-breasted mermaid that guarded the shop's front door.

Instead of saying anything, Zack stopped about four feet from our table and waited.

“Hello Zachary,” Nana said.

“Hi,” he mumbled. He shot me an appreciative glance before the tough guy scowl locked into place. I guess I looked better under the strings of lights than I had in the alley, but his look wasn't exactly a compliment.

“You're out of school, I see,” Nana added.

He made a gesture like “so?” but then he nodded.

“I'm reintroducing Gwendolyn, my granddaughter, to old friends,” Nana said.

He looked skeptical, as if he didn't fall into that category. If he remembered me, he didn't care.

“Have a nice vacation,” he said, but it sounded more like a curse.

“Oh, she's not vacationing,” Nana chuckled. “She's working for me.”

Skepticism turned to outright disbelief. “Working?” he asked.

“There's more to do than ever,” Nana said. “In fact, there's a summer job for you at the Inn, if you want a little extra cash.”

Zack squared off as if he wanted to fight. “I have a job at the arcade. And I'm not homeless, you know.”

Talk about defensive, I mean, offering him a summer job wasn't the same thing as—I felt a twinge of guilt—suggesting he lived behind a dumpster.

“Of course not,” Nana said, brushing his paranoia aside. “The Marlinspike was still docked in the harbor last time I looked.”

The Marlinspike must be a boat. Did that mean he lived on it? The stench from the alley surged up in my memory, and I remembered the heavy clouds of diesel that had hung on the air those mornings I'd gone down to the harbor with Mom. Living on a fishing boat wouldn't be ritzy, that's for sure.

“Hey, yeah,” Zack said as he pointed at me. “Gwennie.”

He wasn't so wasted he couldn't remember me, I guess.

From everyone else my childhood nickname had sounded sweet. He gave it the singsong whine of a bully, and that's probably why I stood up, walked past the table, and thrust out my hand, forcing him to shake with me.

“So, you livin' in Cook's Cottage?” he glanced over his shoulder at his friends. “Maybe you could use some company.”

There was nothing wrong with his words, but the way he said them was scary. A flare of fear made me mean.

“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe you could ride your bike over.”

He blushed. “Yeah, and maybe I could pay your sea lions a visit.”

I didn't recover half as fast as he had. It was a threat. And the way he slung his thumb through a belt loop and raised his chin—that was a dare.
Just tell me to stay away and see what happens.
I could hear it, though he didn't say a word, and I didn't egg him on. I guess Nana didn't hear what I did, because she kind of scolded him.

“The sea lions in Mirage cove are a protected species,” Nana said. There was no mistaking her warning.

“We don't need more seal huggers,” he growled at me. “Tourists or locals.”

I'd heard environmentalists called “tree huggers.” I guessed this was the same thing, but it sounded silly.

“Oh now, Zack,” Nana tsked. “You know sea lions aren't to blame for this area being fished out.”

“No, I don't know that, Mrs. Cook.”

Half polite, half rude, he turned and swaggered off down the street. The knot of boys outside the Merry Mermaid broke up and followed after him.

All but one.

It had to be the tall guy who'd been lurking in the alley doorway. The same guy I'd talked to at the cove. I knew that, but I didn't know why my hands were shaking.

“That boy in jeans and the black T-shirt, there by the Merry Mermaid,” I said suddenly. “Who is he, Nana?”

For a second I thought she'd miss him. He slipped from the doorway and walked down the street, mingling with the crowd but never disappearing because of his height.

“I don't know,” Nana said slowly, but she was rubbing the spot between her brows as she had when she tried to do my reading last night. “Not a local boy, I don't think.”

Nana's eyes searched mine.

“I talked with him on the beach yesterday,” I admitted.

She drew a deep breath then turned back to watch him.

“He has a certain way about him, doesn't he?” she asked.

So even Nana saw it.

“Kind of,” I said. I wasn't really comfortable talking with her about a cute guy. I mean, who would be? To their grandmother?

The street crowd had thinned out when Nana and I started back to the car. It was full dark as I helped her back into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and walked around the back of the car to the driver's side.

Footsteps shuffled along the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. Headed for the beach, Zack and his crew watched me. I couldn't see them well, but the shortest one, probably Roscoe, noticed me watching.

He was probably smiling as he did it, but I could only see his dark silhouette raise his arm, make a gun of his hand, and shoot straight at me.

The sea lions woke early, and because I'd left the skylight open all night, so did I.

In minutes I'd swung my feet to the floor, trotted downstairs, and poured myself some juice.

Sitting at the kitchen table in my nightgown, I listened to Gumbo crunch cat food while I paged through Nana's garden notebook. The flower drawings she'd dismissed with a wave of her hand were wonderful.

I flipped to the back of the notebook and found some more drawings folded and jammed in so that the open edges caught in the binding. Once I pulled them free, I had to tip and turn them. Right-side-up and upside-down didn't really apply. They appeared to be random, fairy-tale-looking scenes. Like the garden sketches, they
were smeared. Time and friction had blurred them, making it seem as if I were studying them through a rain-streaked window.

Using the card stock and pens from Nana, I began lettering the first entry for her garden guide. Last night, restless with my bellyful of street food, I'd made two resolutions. One, I'd do at least one card each morning. Two, I'd start making good on my summer pact with Mandi and Jill.

“Every day we'll do something new,” we'd vowed.

At our all-nighter to end all all-nighters before school started, I wanted to have something to brag about.

The last summer before senior year must be incredible. Adulthood was hovering on the horizon. And then all the fun would end.

It never seemed fair that just when you're old enough to do anything you want, you can't. You have to start working, so there's no time. And if there is time, you're not working, so there's no money.

With great care and too many flourishes, I finished the card. It didn't look bad, I thought, holding it up and blowing on it to dry the black ink.

The last words about having to “take charge lest it run wild,” made me grin. No one was in charge of me. Technically, Nana was, but if I stayed up all night listening to CDs or dressed Gumbo in a bikini made of lunch meat and watched her eat it off, no one would ever know.

That last one wasn't the sort of thing I was likely to do, but when the word “bikini” crossed my mind, I knew what I'd do today for my “something new.” Before work I'd go for a swim. I had plenty of time to swim, come back up here to change, and make it to the Inn on time. My fingers flew, taming my hair into a single braid, then grabbed a towel and headed out.

Everything before me was draped in fog, which only made this first swim more exciting.

I picked my way down the gravel driveway, headed for Little Beach. If you looked at a map, that wouldn't be its name, but we'd always called it that to distinguish it from the white, sandy beach in front of the Inn.

Walking through the sea grass atop the rolling dunes, I pushed aside fears of what could be hiding in the fog. The bad boys of Siena Bay weren't awake yet, that was for darn sure.

Besides, all I'd have to do to escape anyone was dive into the ocean. I had studied to take the Red Cross lifesaving test and passed it. Though I didn't become a lifeguard, I'm a strong swimmer. I mean, not being stuck-up or anything, but that's really an understatement.

Aware of the power in my shoulders and legs as I strode along, swinging my arms, I felt good.

When I reached the driftwood-littered beach, I kicked off my flip-flops. Beside them, I dropped the oversize blue jersey I'd used as a cover-up.

Here I didn't cringe with that everyone's-looking-at-the-place-I missed-when-I-shaved-my-legs feeling I got at poolside. Here I was at home. The wet sand cradled my feet, and the fog lay on the water. I breathed the dampness, amazed there was absolutely no boundary between silver-white air and ocean. No wind swirled around me. I might have been standing in a cloud.