Second Star

29

At four a.m., Jas shakes me gently awake. My clothes are still damp from my midnight run through the fog, but if Jas notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“It’s time to go,” he says, kissing my shoulder. “The witch is calling our name.”

A burst of adrenaline makes me bounce from the bed. The wave is breaking.

On the way to the harbor, the fog is so thick that Jas drives at a snail’s pace, careful around the curves in the road. I can’t see six feet in front of us—are people really going to surf in this soup? Jas explains that we’re heading to the harbor to rent a boat for the day.

“Why do we need a boat?”

“Witch Tree doesn’t break onshore; you have to take a boat to get there.”

“How can a wave break in the middle of the ocean?”

“Waves break over changes in the ocean floor. Reefs, that kind of thing. There’s a wave down near San Diego called Cortes that breaks over a sunken island.

“I’ll need to find a partner to tow me in,” he continues. Jas explained that the only way to surf a wave like Witch Tree is to tow into it on a Jet Ski like the one in the back of the truck. “But I’m pretty sure that finding a partner won’t be a problem once we get to the harbor and offer someone a free ride out.”

I nod, wondering how much it costs to rent a boat and a captain for the day, wondering how much a Jet Ski costs.

“That’s an ugly-looking mess you’ve got on your face,” I say. His bruise has morphed from purple to yellow overnight.

Jas laughs, wincing. “If I get my face rearranged like this too many times, you won’t want me anymore, huh?”

“You were too handsome before,” I answer. “Now you look a little bit more like the rest of us.”

Jas laughs again, resting his right hand on my knee. His palm is still covered in Band-Aids. The cut will sting when the salt water seeps in below the bandages, but I know he doesn’t care. Like he said, it takes more than a few bumps and bruises to keep him out of the water.

I almost tell him what I saw on the beach last night; I want to talk about the bonfire and seeing John and Michael. I should be more excited: I saw them, they’re here, Jas was right. Surely they will be at the harbor today, hoping for a ride out to Witch Tree. But I keep my mouth shut. I’m not really sure I saw anything at all last night. Maybe it was someone else. Maybe it was just a waking dream. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, like maybe if I just rub them hard enough, I’ll be able to distinguish dream from reality, know phantom from human.

“Okay?” Jas says, glancing over at me as he pulls the truck into a crowded sandy parking lot near the docks. Even tethered to land, the boats are rocking and rolling, noisily bumping into the pier. I’ve never seen an ocean so choppy; it looks like a ski slope covered in moguls.

“Fine,” I answer, unclicking my seat belt. But my hands are shaking.

Before he opens the door, Jas leans over, pressing his bruised cheek against my smooth one, steadying me.

It’s cold on the pier; the sun is hours from rising, and judging from the cloud-cover I’m not sure it’s going to make an appearance at all today. The wind whips my hair into my face, and I struggle to pull it back into a ponytail. Despite the hour, the place is packed; half the crowd already have their wetsuits on, their surfboards propped up beside them. A camera crew is struggling with their equipment, hoping for a shot of the best ride of the day. The air feels charged with the power of the summer storm, the swell that simply should not be coming this time of year. Jas told me that the storms usually show up a few days behind the big waves, but I don’t think this storm cares about how it’s usually done. I wonder how far all these surfers traveled. Like Jas said, surfing these waves in August is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Not that it feels like the beginning of August. It’s freezing.

As Jas heads for the boats, I weave my way through the crowd, looking for John and Michael. I concentrate on listening for the sounds of their voices above the howling wind, the waves, the chatter of the people who’ve gathered. No one seems to mind my bumping into them—they’re all focused on the water—but still, I wish I were tiny like Belle. She’d be able to squeeze between these people easily, like a mouse disappearing into its hole.

Suddenly, a deafening shout on a megaphone: “The harbor is closed. I repeat, no boats will be launching from the harbor today.”

He tries to explain that conditions are so bad and visibility so limited that the Coast Guard has shut down the beaches for miles around, but it’s nearly impossible to hear him as the crowd erupts into a series of shouts. I’m jostled about as the surfers raise their arms and their enormous boards in protest. No one will be surfing Witch Tree today after all.

The crowd disperses fast as everyone scrambles to make their way to the next wave.

“Wait!” I say, shouting my brothers’ names. But my voice is carried off by the wind.

I hear someone say they’re heading up the coast to Maverick’s, someone else say they’re gonna head down to Killers, a wave in Mexico; the swell is sure to generate heavy waves down south in a couple days, too. And it’s easier to get around the Coast Guard down there.

“Wait!” I shout again, chasing the surfers into the parking lot.

I feel the heat of Jas’s hand slipping into mine. “Come on,” he says, nodding in the direction of his truck. “Let’s head back to the motel.”

I shake my head. “Where do we go next?” I ask desperately, but I let him lead me to the car. How could such a large crowd disappear so quickly? I look frantically at the few surfers who are left, trying to pick out a familiar face.

And then I see one. Not a face I’ve been looking for, but the last face I expected to see.

“Pete,” I say softly. Somehow, over the wind and the waves, he hears me. My belly twists inside of me; I drop Jas’s hand and stop walking. Jas pauses and turns, sees just who I’m staring at.

I rub my hands against each other as though I’m trying to keep warm, but the truth is, I’m trying to rub Jas’s touch away. Why don’t I want Pete to see me holding Jas’s hand? The last time I saw him, I told him I didn’t ever want to see him again. So why do I care whether he knows that I’m with Jas—am I with Jas?

Belle appears from behind Pete, scowling first at me and then at Jas. She doesn’t seem surprised to see us here. Pete, on the other hand, looks completely floored. I feel myself blushing hotly.

“What are you doing?” Pete shouts. His words are directed at me, but he’s looking at Jas.

“I’m looking for John and Michael,” I shout back, but my voice sounds thin, reedy, weak. Pete crosses the parking lot until he’s so close I could reach out and touch him. Belle follows, along with a few faces I recognize, including Hughie and Matt.

“I’m looking for my brothers,” I repeat. Even though it’s the truth, it feels like a lie.

Pete takes a step closer—not to me, but to Jas.

“Don’t use her to get back at me,” he says icily.

The wind picks up, sweeping sand into my eyes, blinding me. “What?” I shout.

I hear Jas’s voice saying, “I’m not—” but then Pete cuts him off.

“Not that I should be surprised,” he says. “It’s just your style. And you never could get over it that Belle chose me.”

I try to open my eyes, but my body won’t cooperate. The sand is making tears leak from beneath my eyelids.

“Once she sobered up, though, the choice was obvious. Tell me, Jas, did you have to drug Wendy to get her, too?”

I shake my head. In my mind’s eye, I can see Jas’s face last night when he leaned in to kiss me. The long muscles in his torso when he lifted his shirt over his head. The arch of his back when he reached for the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. His hands on my skin; his face next to mine.

“Pete,” I say, forcing my eyes open. His face is blurry in front of me, an impressionist painting. “What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t he tell you, Wendy? Belle used to be Jas’s favorite duster.” He says the word favorite like it’s something dirty. “Until she wised up and left him. I gave her a place to stay after he bled her dry. And he never forgave me for it.”

“I don’t understand,” I say.

“Oh my god, Wendy, isn’t it obvious?” Belle shouts. “I was with Jas until Pete rescued me, got me sober, taught me to surf. And now Jas is using you to get back at Pete.” She turns from me to Jas. “An eye for an eye, right, sweetheart?”

Finally, Jas speaks. “It’s not like that, Wendy,” he says softly. “Not at all.”

Pete is standing so close to him that he can’t even turn to face me.

“Really?” Pete says. “Tell me how it is, then. When will it be enough? Do you have to mess with everyone I care about?”

I take a step back, away from them both. Nothing that they’re saying makes any sense, and yet everything they’re saying is perfectly clear. My tears have washed the sand from my eyes and I’m able to see clearly when Pete lifts his fist and brings it crashing down on Jas’s face, right above the bruise that’s already there. I hear Jas shout in pain and watch him try to shove Pete away; he doesn’t throw a single punch, just holds his hands up to defend himself. He’s inches taller than Pete, but he looks utterly defenseless.

I turn from the fight and break into a run until there’s too much fog between us for me to see any trace of them at all.