“Look!”
I drag my suitcase beside her and raise my eyes. Ahead of us, the land slopes downward for a few blocks of houses, past a street with businesses, then a narrow green park, beyond which are a strip of sand and the endless blue sea.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Mom beams.
“I’m too tired for beauty.”
I didn’t mean to sound so snarky and unenthusiastic. And really, it does look beautiful, like a hologram postcard. It’s just that I’m exhausted, and I’m also mad at Mom that this month away from home ruined my plans of hanging out at the mall with Fern, looking at boys and eating soft pretzels with brown mustard.
We haul our suitcases half a block down a street called Fourth to a tall hedge, behind which is an old cottage that really could use a fresh coat of paint, and a front door with a rotting welcome mat. Under the mat is a key, which opens the door to a living room that causes Mom to gasp with desperate happiness. There’s a big wooden table in what must be the dining room. Beyond that is the kitchen. I stand at the front door while Mom moves through the rooms. I watch as she opens up the cupboards and drawers.
“Look! It has everything we need. Plates and silverware and glasses. Spices. Condiments in the refrigerator. Even brown mustard!”
“We have all of that at home.”
Mom turns to me. “This is gonna be fun. And it’ll be good for you to get out of your comfort zone.”
I frown. “Comfort is comfortable.”
“How about we unpack and then go check out Main Street? Let’s wear our swimsuits so we can test the water before the sun goes down!”
I shrug. Today is probably the last time I’ll see her all month, as she’ll be busy teaching interns in the ER at a nearby hospital, and attending a conference. That’s pretty much the definition of our relationship. But she’s acting like things are going to be different for the month we are in California. The hospital here is part of the same system as the one she works at back home, and she thinks it’ll count as a vacation just because she’ll ignore me while working in a seaside town. But if she can fake it for one day, maybe I can too.
Trying to salvage our relationship by avoiding me in a new setting is just one of the reasons Mom has dragged me here. She’s also trying to destroy my friendship with Fern, who is pretty much the only person who supports me and my fears. Fern and I spend our time indoors at the mall, where things are predictable. Mom thinks I need to spend less time with Fern and more time doing things that could possibly kill me.
I drag my suitcases into the smaller bedroom with the single bed. The room has wood floors, as does the entire cottage, and windows on two sides with white curtains. I’m moving my folded clothes into the dresser drawers when I make a horrifying discovery—an aqua-colored one-piece swimsuit with a mermaid on the front.
“Mom!” My shout fills the cottage. “What is this mermaid abomination? And where is my skull-and-crossbones swimsuit?”
Mom appears in the doorway of my temporary bedroom. “I thought this one looked more beachy. It’s cute, huh?”
One day. I can fake it for one day.
It’s a good thing I brought all my makeup in my carry-on, or Mom would have tried to make me leave it back home, too. I like to wear black makeup and black clothes so I don’t have to explain to Mom and everyone else that I’m not happy, and Mom is always trying to put me in sunny colors and make me look like I am.
After unpacking and resting, we walk down Main Street in the late afternoon. I keep my arms folded in front of me to hide as much of the mermaid swimsuit as possible. At least I’m wearing my black Converse high-tops with the skulls and crossbones I painted on the ankles with white nail polish.
Mom is acting all enchanted by the boutiques and restaurants. She’s doing the slow-stroll thing that people do when they don’t really have anywhere particular to go.
Main Street has a place to buy espresso every hundred feet. It also smells like pizza and dried pee and Mexican food and, above all, the sea. There’s a toy shop that makes me wish I were eight instead of almost thirteen.
“This place looks cute,” she says, stopping in front of an ice cream shop.
I scowl. “Pinkie Promise?” That’s the name of the place. I’m not in the mood for anything cute.
Mom smiles. “Let’s try it! We’ll be here a whole month. We need to know where the good treats are, right?”
I shrug. Mom takes my hand and leads me inside.
I shake my hand loose from hers when I see the cute guy behind the counter, who looks like a surfer prince, with black skin and long blond hair that looks like it’s never been brushed. I’ve never seen someone with black skin and blond hair before, but I’ve never been to California before, either. He’s like what the football brutes and hockey jocks look like back home, but maybe a little more interesting. He’s possibly old enough to be out of high school, so it’s not like I’m trying to look all sophisticated and grown-up by shaking my hand loose from Mom’s. It’s just that I don’t want to look like I can’t walk by myself.
“Hello, ladies,” he says, grinning. “How’s the surf?”
“We don’t surf,” Mom says. “It’s our first day here and we just put on our bathing suits to test the water.”
Ugh. Mom doesn’t understand that you’re supposed to act like a local. Don’t carry tourist guides, don’t let anyone know you’re lost. Anyway, she’s not going to get me to even put my feet in the ocean. And this is absolutely the last time I’m wearing this mermaid bathing suit.
“Well, welcome to Ocean Park, amigas!” exclaims the surfer dude. “What sounds tasty today?”
“Hmm . . .” Mom leans over the case and looks inside. “Can I have a sample of the cherries jubilee?”
I roll my eyes. Mom also doesn’t realize you aren’t supposed to annoy the cute guy at the counter by asking for samples. The surfer dude dips a tiny pink spoon into the cherries jubilee and presents it to her. She tastes it, and gets this dreamy expression on her face, like she’s remembering climbing cherry trees in her childhood or something.
“That’s quite lovely. I’ll have a cup of that.”
“Excellent choice.” Surfer dude scoops, delivers. “And how about you, young Betty?”
I frown a little. “My name isn’t Betty.”
Someone laughs behind us. I turn for a quick glance and see a girl my age who looks like a movie star, with the sort of golden hair you only see on kindergarteners, or on the big screen. As gold as a gold crayon.
I turn back to the surfer dude, who’s still waiting for my order. “Just a cup of pistachio, please.”
“Comin’ right up!”
As he reaches into the fluorescent-lit refrigerated case, I do another quick glance behind. The girl smiles, and I wonder why.
“Here you are, Betty.” The surfer guy at the counter hands me my cup and spoon. “Otis, at your service.” He does a little bow, with his hands held together like he’s praying. “I’m here almost every day after my morning waves. I hope to see the two of you many times during your stay.”
Mom takes her wallet out of her canvas beach bag. “How much do we owe you, Otis?”