I’m not sure how to answer that. “Uh, yes, I guess?”
“Well, you see … fog forms over the water because it’s cold. And the Paci c stays cold here for two reasons. First, cold air from Alaska comes down along the California Current, and second, cold water comes up deep from the bottom ocean by something called upwelling, which has to do with wind blowing parallel with the coast and pushing the ocean surface southward. ?is stirs up the Paci c and brings up icy brine from the bottom of the ocean, which is so cold, it refrigerates the ocean air, condenses, and creates fog. Summer sun heats the air and makes it rise, and the fog gets sucked up.”
I stare at him. I think my mouth is hanging open, I’m not sure.
He scratches his forehead and makes a growling noise, dismissing the whole speech. “I’m a weather nerd. It’s because of sur ng. In order to nd the best waves, you have to know about tides, swells, storms … I guess I just picked up an interest in that stuff.”
I glance at his fancy red surf watch peeking out from his jacket cuff with all its tide and weather calculations. Who knew he was such a smarty-pants? “I’m seriously impressed,” I say, meaning it. “Guess you’re the guy to sit next to if I need to cheat in biology.”
“I aced AP Biology last year. I’m taking AP Environmental Science and AP Chem 2 this year.”
“Yuck. I hate all the sciences. History and English, yes. No sciences.”
“No sciences? Bailey, Bailey, Bailey. It appears we are opposite in every conceivable way.”
“Yeah,” I agree, smiling. I’m not sure why, but this makes me sort of giddy.
He laughs like I told a great joke, and then leans over the bar.
“So what do you think of our California fog now? Cool, right?” He cups his hand as if he can capture some of it.
Testing, I stretch my hands out too. “Yeah, it is. I like our fog. You were right.”
We sit like that together, trying to catch the ocean in our hands, for the rest of the ascent.
• • •
At the end of the line, a waiting chairlift operator releases our bar and frees us. We made it to the top of the cliffs. Along with a tiny gift shop called the Honeypot—I really hate to break it to them, but bumblebees don’t make honey—there’s a small platform here lined by a railing and a few of those coin-operated telescopes that look out over the ocean. If it were a clear day, we’d be looking out over the Cavern Palace, but there’s not much to see now, so only a few people are milling about. It’s also breezy and chilly, especially for June.
I never knew California had such crazy weather. I ask Porter to tell me more about it. At rst he thinks I’m making fun of him, but after not much prodding, we lean against the split-fence cedar railing, and while we polish off the last of the muffins, he tells me more about ocean currents and tides, redwood forests and ferns and ecosystems, and how the fog has been declining over the last few decades and scientists are trying to gure out why and how to stop it.
It’s weird to hear him talk about all this, and like the scars on his arm, I’m trying to t all his ragged pieces together: the security guard at work with the lewd mouth who made fun of my mismatched shoes; the surfer boy, struggling to pull his drugged-up friend Davy off the crosswalk; the brother whose eyes shine with pride when he talks about his sister’s achievements; the guy who high- ved me when I took down the kid who stole the Maltese falcon statue … and the science geek standing in front of me now.
Maybe Walt Whitman was right. We all really do contradict ourselves and contain multitudes. How do we even gure out who we really are?
Porter nally seems to notice how much he’s talking and his golden face gets ruddy. It’s pretty adorable. “Okay, enough,” he
nally says. “What are you nerdy about?”
I hesitate, wanting to talk about classic lm as passionately as he told me about ocean rain, but then I remember the incident with Patrick and my stomach feels a little queasy. I don’t relish rehashing all that again. Maybe some other time.
“History,” I tell him, which, though a compromise, is also true. “Confession time. I’ve been thinking lately that I sort of want to be a museum archivist.”
He brightens, as if I’ve just reminded him of something. “Like, cataloging things?”
“Yeah, or I might want to be a curator. I’m not totally sure.” Admitting it aloud makes me uncomfortable. I get a little squirmy and feel the need to ee the scene, but we’re standing on a cliff, and there’s nowhere to run. “Anyway, working at the Cave may not be a dream come true, but it’s a start. You know, for my résumé. Eventually.”
He squints at me, and I tell him a little more about my museum dream—which ts in with my Artful Dodger lifestyle: behind the scenes, low stress, geeking out over old things, preserving historically valuable pieces that most people nd boring. As much as I love lm, there’s no way I’d ever want to be a director. I’m realizing that more and more. Put me in the shadows, baby. I’ll happily plow through boxes of old les. “I like uncovering things that people have forgotten. Plus, I’m really good at organizing things.”
Porter smiles softly. “I’ve noticed.”
“You have?”
“Your cash drawer. Bills all facing the same way, creased corners straightened. Everything stacked and clipped together for the drop bag all perfect. Most people’s drawers are a wreck, money turned every which way.”
My cheeks warm. I’m surprised he’s paid attention to details like that. “I like things neat and orderly.” Stupid CPA blood.
“Orderly is good. Maybe you’ve got some science in you after all.”
