Coward that I am, I’m about ve seconds away from turning heel and running down the alley, never to return again, so when Lana nods her head toward the shop, I’m already in such a state of confusion, I just follow her inside. Better than staying outside with the drill sergeant. Or Porter—who I might swoon over in front of his dad. I can’t trust myself anymore. WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?
“Pops doesn’t mean to come off like that,” Lana says as we head through a storeroom lled with shelves of boxes. “He’s just grumpy. I think he’s in pain twenty-four-seven, but he’ll die before he admits it. You ever hear about the whole phantom-limb thing?”
“Yeah,” I say. Vaguely. Amputees come back from war and still feel their missing limbs.
“I’ve heard him tell Mom that he still feels pain in the arm, even though it’s not there. He has a lot of nightmares and stuff. He won’t take pills or go see a doctor because he’s scared of getting addicted. Our grandpa was an alcoholic. Pops doesn’t want to turn into him.”
I don’t have time to process any of this before she pushes open another door and we’re blinking into the sunlit windows of the surf shop. Redwood and brightly colored boards surround the walls; music plays from speakers hanging from the ceiling. It’s not busy, but a few people mingle, looking at boards and wet suits, chatting around displays of gear.
Funny, but this is one of the places that was closed for lunch every time I came by to mark it off my Alex map; either that or I got distracted, because my favorite churro cart is outside—I can see it from here, along with the waves slamming against the pier —and it’s that churro cinnamon scent I smell now, mixed with Porter’s coconut wax. It’s a heavenly combination, almost erotic. De nitely not something I want to think about when I’m meeting his family.
Lana serpentines around the displays, cheerfully greeting customers, and heads to the back of the store. She leans over the counter and tugs on the arm of a bronze-skinned middle-aged woman with generous curves and a massive cloud of frizzy ebony hair. Lana pulls her away from a conversation, whispering in her ear. ?e woman is de nitely Polynesian, and de nitely their mother. Like, whoa, crazy familial resemblance. Mother and daughter look in my direction. Both of them smile.
“Hello,” the mother calls out, coming around the counter to meet me. She’s dressed in jeans and a loose top. Unlike the rest of the family, she’s not muscular and t, but more on the soft and plump side. Her big cloud of hair is pulled behind one ear and hangs to her hips. “I’m Porter and Lana’s mom. You can call me Mrs. Roth or just Meli. Everyone does.”
God, she’s so pretty … so nice. Smiling so wide. It feels like a trap.
“Bailey,” I tell her.
“Bailey Rydell,” she says, surprising me. “Porter tells me you work with him at the Cave.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Pops was super mean to her,” Lana reports.
Mrs. Roth scrunches up her face. “I’m so sorry. He gets like that sometimes. ?e trick is to either play his junkyard dog game and show your teeth”—she imitates a snapping dog, which is kind of adorable—“or you do what I do and just ignore him.”
“And don’t let his big talk fool you,” Lana says. “My mom totally wears the pants in this family.”
“?at’s right, baby.” Mrs. Roth wraps her arms around her daughter. “How’d you do this morning? Find anything good to surf?”
“Nah, just paddled. Porter was right, as usual. Onshore winds were crumbling the waves.” Lana looks at me and brightens. “You should come out with us one morning, watch us surf. Porter likes it when someone’s there to cheer him on instead of Pops yelling at him.”
Mrs. Roth nods, smiling. “And boy oh boy, would he show off for you, my dear. You tell him you want to come see him surf one morning when the waves are ne. He’d love that. Just say the word, and he’ll be texting you weather reports at the butt crack of dawn.”
“He’s obsessed with weather,” Lana tells me.
“I know,” I say too quickly, unable to stop myself.
?ey both grin back at me like I’ve solved some big family secret code.
Mrs. Roth glances over Lana’s head and raises a hand to a customer. “Hey, baby?” she says to Lana. “Can you do me a favor and help Mr. Dennis?”
Lana makes a gagging noise. “Maybe when you start paying me an actual salary.”
Mrs. Roth gives me a sheepish look. “Don’t spread that around, okay? We’re not forcing them into child labor; it’s—”
“Technically, you sort of are,” Lana mutters, giggling when her mom pinches her waist.
“—just that times are tight right now,” Mrs. Roth nishes explaining.
“And Porter and I are the only suckers in town who’ll work for free,” Lana adds. “I’ll go help Mr. Dennis, but only if you let me stay out an extra hour tonight.”
“Half an hour, and go, go, go. He’s got that pissy look on his face.” Mrs. Roth swivels toward the front door and makes an exasperated noise; someone’s unloading a stack of boxes by the front door. “Deliveries go through the back. How many times do I have to tell that guy? Oh, Bailey, I have to take care of this, I’m sorry. I wanted to do girl talk with you. Stay here.”
As she races away to redirect the delivery man, I watch Lana struggling to pull down a surfboard from a high-up rack, where it’s stacked in the middle of several others. She’s all muscle—no eyelash-batting doll—but it’s hard work, and she’s breathing heavy, shaking out her arm and joking that she nearly smashed her hand getting the board out. It strikes me that there’s no one else working here. It’s just the four of them, running this place? And with Mr. Roth’s limitations, that leaves all the physical stuff dumped on the mom and two kids, neither of whom are getting paid. And then Porter has to turn around and work full-time at the Cave.
?is really, really sucks.
