Chapter Eight

We've been back and forth to the bowl for the better part of the last week. And each time I try to make up an excuse, so I won't have to sit and watch Boyd rule over the bowl and his new team. So I won't be reminded that I'm not good enough in his eyes, or an equal.

But really, I just want the excuse to go back to Burt's without Boyd finding out and shunning me for good.

At the bowl today the heat is the enemy and Boyd sits in his wheelchair with a cap on and a mini fan with plastic propels. For the first time all week I see him sweat. And not just because his mini doppelganger can't nail a new technique.

Garrett - the doppelganger - keeps trying to impress but Boyd's not having it. He yells over into the bowl that he doesn't want people to be bored. He wants there to be variations on tricks no-one's ever thought to try before.

When Garrett carves up the side of the bowl, Boyd rolls his eyes and shouts down, "Boring!" and Garrett looks like me might cry.

"It wasn't that bad," I say, hoping Garrett might hear and not dissolve into a puddle before our eyes. "I think it's just a case of practising some more."

Like a ruling king or a dictator, Boyd continues to bark orders. He's getting frustrated I know, because he can't drop in on his board and show them how it's really done. That his leg imprisoned in a cumbersome cast is spoiling it all.

I think he even resents me when I go off to skate for a while on the other side of the bowl, on the flat with the box ramps because the bowl feels alien now. Like it's not meant for me either.

On my return the new Bloom skate jam team has formed a semicircle around Boyd. Garrett lays with his back on his board and he pours water over his chest and head. The others follow suit and a water fight soon breaks out.

Boyd wheels his chair and comes to me. He reaches out for my hand. "Please make it stop," he says, his voice low. "Pray to the skate gods for me that this is actually going to work."

I squeeze his thumb and forefinger. "It'll work. They're just tired. It's like a billion degrees out and you've been skating all day."

"I haven't." Boyd knocks his leg cast. "Might just go home and saw the damn thing off myself."

"You can't do that," I say, worrying that from the sound of it and the redness in his cheeks he just might. "You'll make it worse."

"Fuck it, right?" His brows wiggle but when he wheels back to check in on his team, his expression softens and I know he's thinking about how to motivate them again and not break free from his cast.

"Dudes!" He soon calls out, coming back into the circle. "Pool party and beers at mine later. But invite only."

Garrett sits up, looking both excited and confused. "Invite only?"

"For whoever finally nails that trick from this morning," Boyd reveals, like he's enjoying toying with them.

The guy with the shaved head - Rudy pipes up. "But what if we all nail it?"

Boyd's grin widens. "Then you're all invited. And whoever you wanna bring along."

"Girls?" Garrett says. Boyd nods. Garrett throws a punch up in the air. "Sweet dude."

"Dude, you've never even spoken to a girl!" Rudey accuses, ribbing him with his foot.

Boyd laughs into the breeze as Garrett comes to stand, his finger pointing at me stood on the fringes of their inner circle. "I've spoken to her." He points and I look down at myself, like he's made a mistake.

"You did?" I don't remember. I really don't think he did? "When?"

"Only in his wet dreams!" Rudy yells out.

Garrett picks up his board and plays dumb until he grimaces, laughs too. "Oh yeah."

Rudey and the other guy next to him whose name escapes me laugh hard into the crook of their tanned arms. Boyd drags his free foot against the concrete and shakes his head like he can't be bothered with any of them again.

"I have to go to the store," I announce quick. For what I don't even know but I want an excuse to leave. Maybe never come back. I think about trying to skate down near the parking lot for the beach but it's usually packed solid by lunch and we're two hours past.

Boyd shrugs. "For what? I have some soda in my bag if you want it?"

"No, no. I... need something else." I feel uneasy about what I'm about to do and say.

"Then what Syd?"

I lean in so the others won't hear, though I'm sure they too would back off it they did. "Uh... I've got my period."

He pauses for a moment, then mumbles, "oh," like he's only just remembered how we're different. "Sure. Whatever then."

"I'll be gone an hour or so," I tell him, hating that I've resorted to using such an excuse. Especially since I'm at the end of one, but then he doesn't know that.

"Yeah well, however long you need I guess," Boyd replies, like it's something I have to come to terms with. Like a terminal disease. He wheels a back a little and I put my board down and skate away fast from him and the boys and the bowl.

***

I know that Marienne is with a friend from Yoga, shopping in the town over. And that Dad is driving the coast, trying to encourage people into shelling out big bucks for new pool-cleaning equipment, and Daniel is at a birthday party of a kid he met at his Surf club. But still, I'm l nervous as hell.

Like I might get caught heading to Burt's. That I'm doing something really wrong. Illegal even.

It doesn't stop me though. I take my board and within minutes I'm inside again, waiting to be seated. The girl with the fiery red hair greets me. She looks tired, rushed off her feet but the place is empty.

"Anywhere you like," she offers a weak, dutiful smile and waves her hand out. I read her name badge quick - Taylor. Her accent is different. Definitely not Californian. There's a special Southern lilt to it that is warming.

I nod and choose a seat near the soda counter. I take the menu and pretend to scan it, like I'm super indecisive when really I'm not.

Taylor comes back to ask if I'm ready a few minutes later. I can tell she's bored, so I ask about the chicken wings with no intention of ordering them.

"They're chicken wings. BBQ sauce on the side," she says, not in a mean way but in a could-care-less way. I opt to order a small soda and she scribbles it down and heads off.

She soon returns with the soda and I'm left alone in a booth too big for me. I take in the new sign and the tables and chairs, and the music as it plays out. It's not as loud as the night I saw her and Finn but loud enough for me to hear it's not anything like the music that plays in Buddies on a constant loop - The Beach Boys, Jack Johnson and Buddy Holly, jangly surf-rock that I used to love myself.

When I finish my soda too fast, my mind in overdrive to imagine where Finn might be, Taylor returns and asks if I want a refill.

I shake my head. "No thank you."

"I'll get you the bill."

"Is it just you in today?" I ask casually, hoping it won't sound so obvious.

Taylor's gaze falls towards the kitchen and my heart speeds up. "Frankie's in there. On her break." I nod. Taylor smiles. "It's her first day."

And I remember now. "Oh, so just you two?"

"Yeah, why?" Her brows furrow and I know I'm treading weirdo-with-too-many-questions territory but I can't stop myself.

"Your manager, is he away then?"

She gives me a curious look. "Mr. Kerrhart ?" She says, before dissolving into a giggle. "Sorry. I really tried. I just can't ever keep a straight face whenever I have to call him that."

"Finn?" I hesitate to guess.

"You know him?"

I swallow hard. Well, I kind of do. But now I'm thinking I wish I didn't. Finn is a Kerrhart . Not just some young manager roped into running a dying establishment but the direct descendant of surf and skate legend Burt Kerrhart . And that really isn't good.

I begin to shuffle out, leaving another big tip.

Taylor cocks her head aside and grins. "Finn'll be back for the evening shift. Right now though, he's out for a skate."

"The bowl?" I say, without really wanting to but it just slips out.

She shakes her fiery red hair up in a ponytail. "No, down at the Motel."

"Okay, cool." I really don't but I don't want to waste more of her time or risk staying too long and get caught out. "Thanks for the soda."

"You bought it," Taylor replies, pocketing the leftover tip.