?e crowd on the sand dune explodes into applause and whistles, and I clap along, too. Mrs. Roth rotates her hand in the air, egging them on. “?at little peanut is going to win it all,” she tells everyone around us, and some of them high- ve her.
She’s so proud. Everyone’s smiling. It’s all exciting, but now I’m watching Porter, because he’s paddled out just a little farther, and that makes my stomach drop.
Mr. Roth comes bounding up the sand dune, eyes on the water. How long has it been since Porter’s surfed like this? I’m suddenly nervous. If he crashes, or whatever it’s called, I don’t want him to do it in front of me and be embarrassed later. I can’t handle that. I want to look away, maybe make some excuse, like I got sick from the doughnut and had to leave. I can hear about it later.
?en he pops up on his board.
Too late. Can’t look away now.
His wave is bigger than Lana’s. His stance is different from Lana’s. He rides the board up the curling water, up, up, up … (please don’t fall!) and at the top, he’s— Holy Mother of Sheep, he’s ying up in the air, board and body! Impossibly, on a dime, he turns the board one hundred and eighty degrees, sharply. ?en he rides the wave right back down, smooth as glass, white foam kicking out from the tail of his board like the train of a wedding dress.
“YES!” Mr. Roth bellows, holding up his arm.
?e crowd behind me shouts along with Mrs. Roth.
It’s happening so fast. ?at was just one move, and though Porter doesn’t take the board up in the air again, he’s already made turn number two (crouching low at base of wave, wait, wait … rides up again), and whoosh! Turn three! Now he’s riding back down, still going, arms out for balance, like ns.
Lana’s style was fast and quick, full of spunk; Porter is slower and his moves are grander. Poetic. Beautiful. He’s cutting through the water as if he’s painting a picture with his body.
I didn’t know sur ng looked like this.
I didn’t know Porter could do this.
He makes the last turn at the end of the wave, a baby turn, because there isn’t much wave left to ride, and then neatly comes to a stop where the sand rises toward the beach, the wave washing all around him, as if the ocean found him shipwrecked and is delivering him safely to shore.
?e crowd roars.
I crush my doughnut in my hand. “Holy shit,” I say in amazement, then apologize, then say it again several times, but no one is listening or cares.
Mr. Roth turns around, grins at the crowd—grins!—and kisses his wife before running down the other side of the dune to greet his son. Mrs. Roth picks me up in a bear hug. For a woman who isn’t an athlete, she sure is strong. When she puts me back down, she cups my face in her hands and, shockingly, kisses me straight on the lips. “?ank you, thank you, thank you. I knew you could get him out here.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I say, ushing with excitement and a little embarrassment.
“Oh baby, yes you did,” she says, her eyes shining. “He hasn’t surfed like that since the shark.”
• • •
Porter surfs nearly a dozen more big waves. He screws up once, falling off his board pretty hard trying to pull an aerial “alley-oop.” Mrs. Roth blames the wipeout on the wind. But otherwise, he’s pretty much a demon. He and Lana engage in a friendly sibling competition, and it’s awesome. After a couple of hours, word has spread, and a hundred people or so line the beach. My throat goes hoarse from cheering.
When it seems as though they’re slowing down—both the waves and the surfers—Mrs. Roth tells her husband to call her “babies” back to shore soon. She doesn’t want Porter overdoing it and injuring himself. Mr. Roth grunts and seems dismissive, but he slowly makes his way back down the dune. I guess Lana was right when she said her mom wears the pants in their family.
Someone taps me on the shoulder. “How are they doing?”
I turn around to nd Grace, dressed in a magenta jacket and oversize gold sunglasses. Her mouth is arrow-straight, matching the tense line of her shoulders. She is not a happy camper.
“Grace,” Mrs. Roth says cheerfully. “You should have come earlier. Porter was on re.”
Grace smiles at her, and it’s almost genuine. “Is that so? I’m sorry I missed it. Took me a bit to nd out where they were sur ng.”
“You could have called me,” Mrs. Roth says absently, only halfway paying attention.
Grace aims two bladelike eyes on me. “It’s ne. I texted Porter and he was more than happy to let me know.”
Oh, God. “Grace,” I whisper. “I totally forgot to text you back.”
“No big deal. I’m not exciting enough, I suppose,” she says, and walks away.
My heart sinks. ?e Artful Dodger in me whispers to let Grace go, but another part of my brain is panicking. I get Mrs. Roth’s attention. “Sorry, but I need to talk to Grace.”
