Meet Me at the Boardwalk (3 page)

I
’m not like Jade.

What I mean to say is: I was never burning to get out of Seashell Point. I used to love it here—the salt staining your skin, the crest of the waves, the way everyone kind of lived lazily, sipping cold drinks and discussing which board shorts were best. But my hometown has lost some of its old appeal. My change of heart doesn’t have much to do with the impending boardwalk doom written up in today’s paper, or what Megan knew about it, or even how Megan’s mom mentioned what happened to me.

Everything has to do with me alone—specifically—with what happened last summer.

Ah, yes. That would be my “accident,” as my parents like to call it, or my “recovery,” as the doctors like to call it, or my “stupidity,” as I like to call it.

See, one morning, when I went out to surf—

Screw it; lame intro. Let’s be exact. It’s not like I can pretend not to know the precise date and time. It wasn’t “one morning.”

When you’re traumatized, you remember everything about what happened up to the very instant: the weather conditions (cloudy, cool, and rough water, i.e., an approaching storm); what you were wearing (Nike wet suit, Expedition
waterproof watch, the leather ankle bracelet Jade’s father gave you); the other two surfers in the water at the time (Mr. Browning, your old third-grade teacher, and some random tattooed tourist chick you’d seen a few times); the trio of seagulls gliding overhead—like some evil omen—as you strapped the board to your ankle and started paddling out to sea.

Details, details. So, on August 12, at 6:46
A.M.
, I was floating on my board, flat on my stomach. There I lay, poised to take a particularly choice approaching wave, when I spotted Megan and her mom, standing alone on the boardwalk, watching me.

I shouldn’t have thought anything of it. But Megan has issues with her mom. Just like Jade has issues with her dad and sister…just like I have issues with both my parents. I thought:
Megan looks bummed. I should do a goofy trick to distract her.

I remember, too, thinking about the soundtrack to
Dogtown and Z-Boys
—a documentary about these whacked-out group of surfers-turned-skateboarders from Southern California. (Megan forced me to rent it; she’s obsessed with weird movies.) And all this was swirling through my head as I turned back to the wave—

It was close, about to break.

I should have back-paddled over it. I should have let it pass.

I should have…I should have
…

See: Surfers, contrary to popular belief, are not “slackers.” In fact, the best are very meticulous about how they approach their passion of riding waves. The best are as meticulous as, say, a great lawyer is about practicing the law. (Can we sue the surfboard company for Miles’s accident? Answer = “No, they are not liable, but nice try.”) Or they are as meticulous as a great doctor is about practicing medicine. (“Miles, with rigorous meds and therapy, your leg will heal in nine months.”) You don’t think of great doctors and lawyers as slackers. A dozen different smart decisions have to be made quickly, depending on what’s coming at you.

I am not a great surfer is what I’m getting at.

I made a dumb decision. I took the wave, thinking I could clear the top of it as it crested—and actually get airborne—then use gravity to propel me down the tube as it curled over me. The problem was the wave was cresting already. My heart was pounding and I was perched on my board, shooting upward at too high an angle…and the very, very last thing I remember, before lying on the beach in agony, coughing up seawater, was a glimpse of Megan—staring in horror as the wave swallowed me up and hurled me down to the ocean floor…

Whatever.

Enough about all that.

At least I was off my crutches now. I still had a limp. And my left leg continued to ache after six months in a cast and two hours of physical therapy a day.
Woo-hoo!

But time to look ahead. School was out in three weeks,
today was the first day of the season, it was a beautiful morning, and Megan and Jade were waiting for me. I tried to avoid peering at the surfers as I limped down the boardwalk. Funny: My surf buddies always used to rag on me for being a “girl’s best friend.” It had always pissed me off. Not anymore. None of
them
had ever visited me in the hospital, except Mr. Browning.

“So, Miles, are you ready to party, or what?” Jade said by way of hello.

Party?
“You’re not on drugs, are you?” I asked.

“Ha! I just asked Meg that exact same thing!” She smiled behind her bug-eyed shades. “Great minds think alike. But actually the last thing I want to do this summer is
think.
No thinking at all.”

“No thinking, huh?” I shot an anxious glance at Megan. “Great plan, Jade.”

Megan shrugged.

“So…what’s with the fancy dress?” I asked Megan. “
Is
there a party?”

“My mom had an interview early this morning, and she made me tag along.” She shook her head, her cheeks pink. “You read the
Register
, right?”

I nodded glumly. “Yeah. I don’t believe it.”

“Don’t believe what?” Jade asked.

Megan chewed her lip, afraid to answer.

I could relate. Saying something out loud makes it a lot more real. (Try saying: “I broke my leg in three places,” and mean it.)

“Some real-estate big shot is coming to town,” I explained in the silence. “The rumor is he wants to tear down the boardwalk to make room for something else, something bigger and different. Nobody knows what, though. Or at least nobody claims to know anything.” I turned back to Megan.

“If my mom knows anything, she’s not telling me,” Megan muttered.

Jade sighed and arched an eyebrow. “Oh, come on, you guys. That’s just gossip. Meg, your mom said the same thing about the petting zoo a few years ago, when those penguins escaped. You honestly think this town would let somebody tear down the boardwalk? Nothing’s gonna happen. And even if it does, we don’t need this crummy boardwalk anymore, because now we have a new place to meet—and for once it belongs totally to us: the Jade Cohen party house.”

My eyes narrowed. I was used to Jade’s high-speed and nonsensical monologues, but this one was more deranged than most. “The Jade Cohen…what?”

“My dad’s leaving the house to Turkey and me this summer,” she said, rubbing her hands together mischievously.

“Are you serious? That’s so cool!”

Jade laughed. “Well, yeah, it will be, because I’m planning on locking Turkey in the closet with her law books and feeding her scraps, so she doesn’t bother us—”

“Oh, my God, you guys!” Megan grabbed each of our arms and yanked us close together. “That’s him. That’s Arnold Roth, the real-estate guy.” She jerked her head toward the beach.
“And look at him. He’s already plotting major destruction. I’m serious. Look at him!”

“Where?” Jade and I whispered at the same time.

I followed Megan’s gaze over the railing to a secluded spot of sand, maybe thirty yards from where the first sunbathers were starting to crack open their cheesy beach reads. There I spotted a guy who looked sort of like George Clooney, but fatter. He stood barefoot, squinting at the boardwalk’s support pylons, in a white sun hat, blue button-down long-sleeved shirt, and rolled-up seersucker pants. (A definite tourist.)

It did seem as if he were plotting something. He barely even moved.

A blonde girl stood next to him. A natural blonde, too. Living in a resort town your whole life as a natural blond, you develop a sixth sense for these things. She faced the opposite direction, toward the ocean, her long curls flapping in the wind. She was also barefoot, in a backless shirt and cutoffs. Judging by her flawless skin and length of her slender legs, she was probably as tall as I am and not much older.

“Who’s that with him?” I asked. “Trophy wife?”

Neither Megan nor Jade replied.

“Why, do you think she’s hot?” Jade asked, laughing.

“I…well…I mean, I can’t see her face, but…” I left it at that.

Megan pursed her lips. “That’s his daughter, Lily-Ann,”
she said. “She’s going to Williams in the fall.” Something about her tone seemed to add:
She’s also a huge spoiled tourist who thinks she’s God’s gift to planet Earth.

“So I guess that means she’s not invited to the Jade Cohen party house, huh?” I joked, trying to lighten the mood.

Jade glared up at me over the tops of her sunglasses. “Miles, so far we only have three partygoers. Two of us are girls. If you’re going to invite somebody, it has to be a guy to even the ratio. That’s rule number one. Girls cannot outnumber guys under any circumstances. The playing field must be level at all times. After all, we all want to get lucky this summer, don’t we?”

I should have made a wisecrack right then.

I should have shot back with something like “
Fine, I choose Brian Ashe and I’ll raise you Sean Edwards. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to scope out this Lily-Ann girl.”

I should have…I should have…

I would have, too—if it were a year ago. If it were last summer, before the accident, Jade and I would be ragging on each other by now. But our relationship hadn’t been the same since September. And it wasn’t because I couldn’t surf.

For the first time in our lives, we had a secret between us that Megan didn’t know.

So most of all, right then, I should have acted natural for Megan’s sake.

“You guys?” Megan said.

Suddenly, I noticed Megan’s gaze darting between us.

“Yeah?” I asked.

“I’m really not sure about this party house thing,” she said quietly.

“What, are you kidding?” Jade asked, laughing. “It was your idea, Meg.”

“Yeah, but…Okay: We have your house to ourselves this summer. But think about it, guys. Jade…it was just like you said—this is our last summer before senior year, maybe even the last summer we’ll really get a chance to hang out and have fun together, just the three of us. Yeah, we should definitely have barbecues and stuff, and parties, and even invite some tourists if we want, but…”

I cocked my head at her. That little outburst probably represented the most words Megan had ever uttered continuously in her life.

“So, you’re saying…” Jade asked, pushing her sunglasses back up her nose.

“I’m saying the three of us should make a pact,” Megan stated.

Now I felt as if I’d been beamed into some bizarre alternate universe. The last time Megan took a proactive stance about anything was when she decided to keep cleaning houses for a summer job after Jade got fired for being naughty on the job. She’d kissed a tourist’s son…whatever. But right after that, both Jade and I had tried to coax Megan into working at a concession stand on the boardwalk. Her response? She’d said it would be “too distracting” to work near Jade and me. We
still
haven’t stopped calling her on how lame that decision was.

But a pact…this was unexplored territory.

“Go on,” Jade prodded.

“The three of us should hang out as much as we can this summer. Hooking up with random tourist people will be too—”

“Distracting?” Jade and I both said at the same time. We grinned at each other, almost as a reflex. Panic crept up in me. We turned back to Megan.

“Exactly,” she said.

I held my breath. My pulse picked up a notch. I waited for Jade to speak.

“Well, I’m in,” she said briskly, extending a hand to Megan. “I think it’s a brilliant idea. No kissing tourists. We’ll discipline ourselves, have a ball—
and
bond.”

Megan heaved a huge sigh of relief. “Really?” she asked.

I sighed, too, and I wasn’t even sure why.

“Absolutely,” Jade said, raising her right hand. “Daughter-of-a-hippie’s honor. We don’t break our word. Now let’s get to school, shall we, party people?”

Megan turned to me. I forced a fake smile as I shook her hand, watching Jade stroll down the boardwalk toward Main Street.

I’d never faked a smile with Megan before. It made me feel gross, like how my parents fake smiles with people they despise—but I guess I’d been faking a lot of things with her all year. Keeping a secret from one of your best friends is just another term for faking, isn’t it?

But the worst part? I wasn’t even thinking about Megan’s feelings. I was thinking of all the possible things that could go wrong with this pact, of all the right decisions I could make if I were good at anything (as in:
Tell Megan what happened with Jade
)…and mostly how if anything
did
go wrong with the pact, I might lose my friends.

I dropped Megan’s hand.

She stepped closer, with a puzzled grin. “You okay?”

I shrugged.

Funny: Worrying about Megan had turned me
into
Megan. Well, the guy version, anyway, the (not so) strong silent type.

Maybe Jade was right. Maybe “no thinking” should be the rally cry of the summer. I never used to think so much, except about how cool it would be to win a surfing competition, or hook up with the perfect girl, or turn into a giraffe and hang out all day at Pete’s Petting Zoo.

I’m not that guy anymore.

S
o: the big secret.

Before I confess, I want to share my thoughts on secrets in general. Like babies, once they’re born, secrets lie around and fatten up. At first, there isn’t much to worry about. You tend to them and you put them down for sleepy time. They’re a presence, though. They’re never
not
there. Then they start to think for themselves…and pretty soon they wander off on their own, and that’s when they get a lot more complicated and worrisome.

Okay, and one more thing: (I know I’m stalling.)

I dare
anyone
to swear that they haven’t considered hooking up with a friend—that is to say, a friend who is an attractive member of the opposite sex. At least once. Even if it’s just a fleeting notion. Even if it’s a boy or girl you’ve known your whole life, who may be your
best
friend, you wonder: What might their lips taste like? Would they put their hands in my hair? Are we secretly in love?

Isn’t that what love is supposed to be? A lifetime of hooking up with your best friend, who also happens to be an attractive member of the opposite sex?

Just throwing it out there.

Here’s what happened.

On the morning of August 12 last year, I emerged from a hot shower, post cold ocean dip. My cell phone rang. I was wrapped in my bathrobe about to dry my hair. It wasn’t even seven o’clock. I marched into my bedroom and frowned at the caller ID.

Meg? Now?
I remember being annoyed. I remember thinking that she probably wanted me to poach some cleaning supplies from Dad because she’d run out of Windex and couldn’t make it to the store on time—before she had to clean Glenn Close’s house or some other such tourist nonsense.
You should have worked on the boardwalk with Miles and me
, I remember wanting to tell her.

“What’s up, Meg?” I answered flatly. “Top o’ the morning to ya.”

I didn’t hear anything but sobbing.

After two sleepless nights, the hysterics, the disbelief, the denial—and finally the call from Eloise Gordon, Miles’s mom,
“He’s going to be okay!”
—we got the news that it was safe to visit him in the hospital. If you’ve never been to an ICU, intensive care unit, I don’t recommend a sightseeing trip. The bright lights, the beeping, the gurneys, the IV’s…everything bathed in a blinding white, white, white: the floors, the scrubs, the surgical masks—
I
felt sick. And then we saw him.

His eyes were closed. He was hooked up to about a dozen different tubes and wires. A nurse hovered over him. They’d
shaved his long blond hair. He had a bruise on his forehead. His legs were elevated. The left leg was wrapped in a cast. His tan looked fake, almost orange. It was almost as if you could see how pale he would have been if he hadn’t spent the summer in the sun. He didn’t look like Miles.

“Miles?” his mom whispered. She kneaded his shoulder. The nurse didn’t seem to like that, but she didn’t say anything. “Sweetie? Megan and Jade came to visit.”

His eyelids fluttered. His pupils were little pinpricks; there was only brown. He smiled at Megan. He didn’t notice I was there.

“Thank God, you’re here,” he croaked.

I tried to say hello, but my throat was too parched. I began tugging at my hair.

“He’s heavily sedated,” the nurse said.

“You saved my…my…life, Megan.” He closed his eyes again.

“Actually, Mr. Browning saved your life,” Megan whispered. “And that other surfer, Bruce Willis’s personal assistant. What’s her name? I’ve been in such a fog since this whole thing.” She glanced up at me. “Jade?”

I didn’t answer. (How could I? I couldn’t even speak.) Instead I bolted.

As I ran down those horrible white halls, I thought:
How would I know what Bruce Willis’s assistant’s name is? You’re the one with the mom on the tourist board.

Now flash forward to the morning of September 14.

Miles came home, via wheelchair. I ditched school with permission to welcome him back. To be fair, Mr. Browning intervened on my behalf. (
“You think this poor kid wants to spend all day alone?”
) But Megan didn’t ditch. She didn’t have to. She’d been taking the bus from Seashell Point to the county hospital three times a week to visit him. She’d been the loyal friend. She’d sat by his bed, listened to him—all of it. She’d been completely sympathetic about my
not
having visited Miles since that first day.

“I understand,” she kept saying.

Even worse, she meant it. Megan never says anything unless she means it. She barely talks at all, so her words count. But what was there to understand? That I ran out on him like a coward? That I was jealous of how Miles honed in on her instead of me in his drugged-out stupor? That I was too fragile to go to an ICU? That I wasn’t as good a person as Megan was?

I’d arranged everything with Mr. and Mrs. Gordon earlier.

They would drop him off; I would fix him lunch and put him to bed while they went to work—and so on and so forth. And of course, I’d help him catch up on the missed schoolwork and gossip for a few hours. Then they’d be back to relieve me for Miles-care in the early afternoon. Essentially, it
was a babysitting gig. But I had an angle. In all her visits, Megan had only brought Miles flowers as a gift.

“Flowers.” “Miles.”

Say those two words together. It’s like saying:
“Turquoise.” “Jade.”

They don’t match.

I’m sure he appreciated the gesture, but flowers were empty, an allergenic Hallmark card. Megan could have done better. So I bought him a skateboard.

It cost me my entire summer earnings from working at Amusement Alley, plus a couple of bucks that Dad gave me. And yes, I know, it might have seemed a little cruel at first. But I knew that Miles would get the joke. (Especially since I’d pre-tagged the board with several kiddie stickers of giraffes.) Miles had always maintained a sort of reverse-snobbery against skateboarding—even though as far as I could tell, surfing and skateboarding is pretty much the same thing. One’s the water version; one’s the land version. Right? But out loud, Miles always said, “Skating is for the tourists who rip down the boardwalk like they own it.”

When his mom wheeled him in that morning, I couldn’t quite breathe. The door opened, and the sunshine poured into the front hall. I mean, I could breathe but my heart was thumping a little too hard for breathing to be pleasant.

Then I saw him.

He was himself.

The spark was back in his eyes, and his hair had grown
enough so that it had a sort of mid-career Brad Pitt thing going. Honestly, I didn’t even notice the cast. He smiled, and then his mouth fell open.

“A skateboard?” he said, laughing.

I tried to smile back. My throat tightened. My eyes began to sting.

“Listen, Jade, honey, I really have to run to work,” Mrs. Gordon mumbled, locking the wheelchair brakes. She patted down her pockets and handbag, checking for essential belongings—keys, wallet, phone. “I know you have a funny sense of humor, but don’t let Miles ride that thing. Thanks so much, dear—”

With that, she slammed the door behind her.

Miles’s eyes moistened.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” I said.

“What’s up?”

“I brought you a present.”

“I thought you were scared,” he said.

“Of what?”

“Of seeing me.”

I tried to swallow again, but it hurt. “Do you like it?” I choked out. My voice was hoarse, like a criminal in a mob movie.

“Do I like what?”

“The skateboard.”

“I love it.” He lifted a hand, reaching out toward me. “Can I see it?”

“Sure.”

I marched forward and placed the skateboard in his lap, all the while thinking:
Whatever you do, Jade, don’t cry.

He tossed the skateboard on the floor. It landed with a rubbery thud, and then rolled toward the hallway.

“What?” I cried. “You don’t like it, do you?”

“I like it a lot. I just like more that you—I just like that you’re here.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I croaked.

He held out his arms to bring me in for a hug.

I sat on his lap and hugged him back for a long time. He smelled clean and new like fabric softener. Miles used to smell like the beach.

We pulled apart. We looked at each other. Everything seemed to be a blur.

He kissed me. On the lips. I kissed him back.

I ran my fingers through his hair. His shoulders were just as strong and firm as they’d been before the accident. I’d massaged them on lots of occasions, for fun, even to tease him after he’d surfed. But now was different. We pressed close together, and our kiss deepened, as if the harder we kissed, the less real Miles’s accident would seem. Nothing made sense. Our tongues touched.
This is Miles
, I kept thinking.
Miles
.
He’s like your brother
.

But the kissing went on. Soon, I felt his fingers running over
my
shoulders, through
my
hair. We both sighed a little, into each other’s mouth. We kissed like that for a long, long time.

His lips were softer than I’d thought they would be.

Afterward I left the room and washed my face and made him lunch: microwave fried clams. He laughed.

Then he sat in bed while we played a round of poker. Right, and a final crucial detail—

We never talked about the make-out session again. Ever.