Surf School (3 page)

‘Sure thing.' The major surge of love that filled Pink on a regular basis powered through her. She'd never met anyone so cool, and so interested in her. The combination was intoxicating and filled her with a sense of power and possibility.

There were at least fifteen minutes before the next school bus and Pink planned to spy on him for every one of them but by the time she'd crossed the road, Kim had thrown his guitar into the van and was driving fast along the beach front without even a backward glance. Pink stamped her foot, annoyed, wishing she'd accepted his offer of a lift. She shoved her school hat into her backpack and flagged down the first bus headed for the mall. Shopping was going to put her in a much better mood than double modern history.

Marlee tapped her feet nervously, willing the bus to hurry up, while running through the day in her head: weights training first, double maths, English, sports psychology then media
training. What self-respecting school had lessons in the last week of the year? If she'd stayed at the local high school with Tilly they'd be lying under the trees on the oval, planning out their summer. This school had seemed like such a great opportunity when the letter came but now she wasn't so sure. She was surfing less and less and it made her edgy, as though her dream of hitting the pro circuit was bobbing away on the tide, forever out of reach.

She flagged down the bus, hoping the early one would still have a few seats.
Bargain
, she thought, glancing up the aisle, a whole seat
and
an open window. The bus was hot inside, with an unmistakeable smell of liniment mingled with pimple cream and deodorant. Marlee swung into the seat, ripping the window back further to watch the surf before the bus turned off the beach road.

‘You weren't out for long this morning.' Kyle rested his pencil on top of his crossword.

She hadn't recognised him sitting across the aisle. Glasses and crosswords were two things she wouldn't have associated with Kyle. She shifted uneasily, wishing she'd remembered her iPod. She often saw Kyle, but unless she was with Tilly, she pretended, not to. Since she had been at the new school, she saw him a lot. Good surfer, bad sport. Marlee looked at him coolly.

‘Yeah, well the locals weren't too friendly.'

Kyle's laugh was mild and gentle. ‘It's just the poo shooters.' He jumped up, arms wide and flapping, bum stuck out at an awkward angle, as if he was a learner. Marlee laughed in spite of herself and Kyle sat back down. ‘It's our break. Locals
have priority, especially over learners,' he added defensively, running a hand under his chin for bristles that weren't quite there. ‘It was the same for us when we were groms.'

Marlee refused to back down. ‘Is that right? I thought the beach was a public place – for everyone. Aren't there enough waves to go around without bullying little kids?'

‘There are never enough waves. Geez, be fair – I copped heaps when I was a grommet. We all did. It's how you learn.' He shoved the crossword into his backpack. ‘It was a toss up between who hassled me the most in the surf: your old man or mine.'

He smiled like it was a good memory but Marlee cringed. Her father's unopened letter in her school bag seemed to give out heat and she pushed her bag further under the seat, guilt rising then sinking quickly in her gut.

‘Mind you, my old man's mellowed a lot these days.' Kyle's voice was soft and Marlee leaned closer so she could hear him, happy to be distracted. ‘You missed a great right-hander at Rocky yesterday.'

Marlee knew Rocky Point well. Phil often took her and Tilly there after school.

‘Pig slop everywhere else.' Kyle waved his hand dismissively at Diamond Beach.

‘Yeah,' she smiled, ‘maybe, but we still have fun.'

‘You and Tilly?'

Marlee nodded.

‘She's going to be a great surfer.' Kyle tapped his index fingers like drum sticks on the seat in front of him. ‘Hey, you
trying out for the Pro Juniors? Did you hear Graham outline the training schedule?' He whistled through his front teeth. Mr Graham, head of sports, had a clipboard and stopwatch approach to sport. Marlee found him only slightly less annoying than Kyle.

And I'm sure you're about to tell me, you big know everything about surfing
BORE, she thought, crossing her arms, jaw taut. ‘I'm not really into that whole scientific approach to performance. Anyway,' she added, irritated, ‘it's not all about competition. Some things should just be for fun. That's the main reason I surf.'

Kyle stopped drumming, his fingers held poised in the air. He laughed like she'd just told him a really good joke. ‘Give me a break. Jack Finn's daughter not competitive? Yeah, right.'

‘I didn't say I wasn't competitive.' Marlee glared at Kyle which seemed to amuse him even more. His eyes creased around the edges and he chewed the side of his lip. ‘And leave my father out of this. I'll be surfing long after any competitions are over. Anyway, I don't even know if I'm good enough for the Pro Juniors.' Marlee quickly glanced out of the window. Why'd she do that? Blurt out her innermost fear – and to Kyle Parker of all people. She bent down to fix her shoelace, hoping he hadn't heard.

Kyle leaned towards her and said quietly, ‘You're a top surfer.' Then added as an afterthought, ‘For a girl. I've watched you heaps. You've got talent and guts. If you can get a bit of sponsorship, you'll be set.' He sat back, still talking but almost to himself, fingers tapping a slow beat. ‘But I reckon the head
part's the hardest. No-one can teach you that. Mr Graham says that's what really makes a champion.'

Marlee felt like she was sucking in air but none was going in. Her mind raced. A compliment from Kyle Parker? Well a half-compliment, if you take out the patronising bit at the end. The realisation fizzed into a million tiny bubbles throughout her body. She checked his face for signs that he was making fun of her but his green eyes were sincere. He held her gaze briefly, then glanced away, confusing Marlee even more. She expected to see anger, amusement – scorn even – but instead she saw something she'd never figured on. Was it shyness?

The bus pulled into their stop. Kyle smiled brightly, bravado back in check, indicating for Marlee to get off first. She smiled back, hesitant. How polite.
Could this morning get any weirder?
she thought, standing. Kyle jumped up quickly then and they jostled together down the aisle, competing to see who'd be first off.

6 DECEMBER

Has Kyle Parker taken a pill or something? Not only did he tell me today that I was a top surfer (for a girl, mind you) and that he's watched me in the surf heaps (errrr … creepy) but he played a trick on me as I got off the bus. Can you get a late-blooming humour gene? Of course, he's reverted to type now – he just totally ignored me at lunch. He's so moody. I can't be bothered with that. Hope your day is going a bit better.

Where were you this morning??!!

Mxx

The last week of school was always a joke. Fran shoved her sewing assignment into her backpack and sauntered around the corner, expecting to hear Tilly's wolf whistle splitting the air at any moment. But Tilly wasn't there.
Typical
, Fran thought, checking her watch. She wandered across to the beach for a quick look at the surf and wished she hadn't. There was hardly a soul on the freshly graded sand and only a couple of locals bobbed contentedly out the back, waiting for the next set to roll in. She spotted her mother paddling for a wave, then weaving across its face. Fran checked her watch again. The school bell would be going just about now, she thought.

She hoisted up her backpack and crossed the road back to Tilly's. The driveway was empty, the front door and flyscreen shut. Boards were lined up against the wall but Fran noticed that Tilly's, Phil's and Sam's boards weren't even wet. Her heart began to thud. In all the years she'd known Tilly her front door was always open. It opened in the morning when Phil went for a surf and stayed like that the whole day with just the screen door locked to keep out the flies. The only time the front door had ever been shut during the day was when Tilly's mum had died.

She dialled Tilly's mobile. Voice mail. Phil's. Nothing. She banged on the door but no-one answered. Fran ran all the way to school, hoping her friend was already there, waiting to give her heaps for being late. But when Fran got to the place where they hung out, Tilly was nowhere to be seen.

‘Hello, I'm Doctor Marshall. Your father's through here.'

Tilly did not want to go through that door. She did not want
to know what was in there. Whatever it was she wasn't sure she could face it. Sam yanked on her hand and reluctantly her feet began to move again, one at a time, towards the bed, towards her father.

Phil lay perfectly still – not something Tilly saw very often – his eyes closed, his face the colour of clay. He looked weird in a hospital gown.
So not his colour
, Tilly thought. It was such a Pink thing to say. And so absurd. She laughed loudly, hysterical. Tilly snorted as she tried to suck in air, gagging as she gulped back tears. Sam glared at her, shocked, and she dropped her head, embarrassed, grabbing her forehead and squeezing it hard, trying to choke down the emotions flowing out of her. ‘Sorry.'

One of the nurses squeezed her shoulders. ‘Don't be sorry. It's good to let all that emotion out.'

Tilly broke down again, crying this time, confused, frightened, feeling guilty that she could even think of laughing. Every emotion she had poured out of her like sweat, in no particular order and all at the same time, so that she struggled to regain some composure. She rubbed her forehead from the top of her nose to her hairline. Up, down, up, down, nice and steady, forcing herself to breathe evenly as she inched towards Sam, who was standing at the top of the bed.

‘He's in an induced coma,' Doctor Marshall said gently. ‘When people come in with head injuries we put them into a coma to help recovery. In a day or two, when we know the extent of his injuries, we'll bring him out of it. I know it looks very frightening but he's strong and already he's showing signs
of improving.' The doctor answered Tilly's thoughts as she looked at the tubes and the beeping machines.

Somehow between last night and now, Phil had shrunk, as though the tubes had taken all his air. Was her dad, who always seemed so strong and protective, really this person? Tilly eased into the chair beside the bed, lifting his hand into hers. It felt cold and she rubbed it gently to bring the warmth back, pretending not to notice Sam wiping away tears. Phil was covered in bandages, plaster and dried bits of blood, and as the hours ticked by Tilly checked out each bit, listening to the machine feeding air in and out.

As the dawn whittled down to day Tilly stood up stiffly, stretching her body, then leaned against the wall, pushing her body into it, her head trying to sift through wave after wave of information.

‘He was riding his bike home,' she said to Sam. ‘Why didn't he walk after the party, leave his bike at the restaurant? It's so unfair, Sam. He finally leaves that job and now this.' She rocked her heels against the wall, its roughness prickling her skin. ‘Everytime something good is about to happen for Dad, it goes wrong. Why is that?' she cried, her voice shrinking. ‘What if he dies, Sam?' Her voice was now a whisper.