The Lifeboat Clique (21 page)

I took the wheel, and Abigail rode shotgun, in the car Mom had bought off Craigslist. The elevator music was still on the radio, and I clicked it off, leaving us in silence. At first I drove aimlessly, up and down the streets. The elementary schools had let out for the day, and kids were walking through the crosswalks with backpacks. We watched them silently, the outgoing kids laughing and talking, and the shy ones walking alone. Ready to be sifted and sorted for another high school, somewhere in the LA future.

We didn't speak. There was nothing to say. The wheel felt good in my hands, the car heavy and steady underneath us. I drove down the 10 Freeway and then up the Pacific Coast Highway, past the familiar landmarks of Santa Monica, the mountains on one side, the ocean on the other. I'd traveled this very same route over a month before, to go to an exclusive party on a Malibu bluff given by my ex-best friend who was now my friend again, skinnier and quieter, who sat with her chin resting on her hand, looking out at the sea that had swallowed us and then spat us back with a message no one wanted to hear.

I had seen photos on the internet taken right after the tsunami hit: houses flattened into piles of wood, cars dumped upside down, uprooted palm trees and broken
furniture washed up in the middle of the road. It was amazing how much could be restored in just a few weeks. The road had been cleared, and construction crews were out in full force. Scaffolding was shoring up the mountain, and some of the few restaurants still standing had signs that said We're Open! The kayak rental place on the border of Malibu was even operational, the kayaks sitting loaded on a flatbed truck and a young shirtless guy in board shorts waving a sign that said Kayak Specials! $15/hr!

Most of the houses that lined the beach were gone. And without those houses there, we had a clear view of the Pacific Ocean, so calm that it seemed like a different ocean must have been the one that clobbered us, a bully ocean whose little brother was there now to apologize.

We didn't speak, but we both knew where we were going. Back to the beginning, or the end, or the beginning that started the end as we knew it. That house on the bluff. Traffic was light, but we had to slow down for lanes blocked off for work crews restoring the road or trying to put the mountain back in place with backhoes and shovels. The lights weren't working, just blinking red. And cops were everywhere, motioning, warning, pointing.

I turned right; we climbed up a steep road. We parked on the side of the road and got out of the car. Neither of us spoke. There it was on the bluff: the site of the house party
that had started it all. There was nothing left of the house but the foundation and the driveway. No work crews were around it. No reporters, no people. It sat alone and forgotten. Just a few wreaths sitting on what used to be an exclusive Malibu property.

“Wow,” Abigail said at last.

“Yeah,” I said.

We walked up the driveway and onto the foundation.

“Are you sure we're supposed to be standing here?” I asked. “Is this like a grave or something?”

“Anyone's guess,” Abigail said. “Wanna go?”

“No. Weird as it sounds, it kind of feels peaceful here.”

Abigail sat down, and I sat next to her, the cement cool under our legs. A breeze came up that smelled of sea air. Clumps of palm leaves were still scattered here and there. We looked out at the ocean across the Pacific Coast Highway.

“Some party,” Abigail said. “Just a whole bunch of us hanging out in a place where we didn't belong, trying to be cool, thinking we're better, somehow. And then it's all gone in the blink of an eye. Hell of a lesson to learn.”

“It's too much education at once, if you ask me.” I said. “I would rather have it spread out over a few decades and given to me as internet links.”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“Yeah.”

“Soccer.” I didn't even ask the question, just said the word.

She nodded. “Dream is still there. Never went away. Even when I went away from it, drinking and partying, it was waiting for me.”

“Are you gonna try out again next fall?”

“Maybe.”

“You should, Abigail,” I said. “You have a real talent.”

“Well, so do you.”

“Talent for what?”

“For anything you want to do. You proved that out there on the ocean. You can do anything.”

“But what if I don't know what that is yet?”

“That's fine. Lots of people don't know when they're our age.”

I leaned back on my elbows. The sun came out from behind the clouds, and the sky reminded me of that day so long ago when Abigail had sprung us both out of gym class, at my expense, and we had lounged on a table outside and tried to figure out if we liked each other.

“No one learned anything, did they, Abigail?” I asked. “I mean, from our news conference.”

“Guess not.”

“Everyone just went right back to being the way they were before. Nothing we went through mattered. It didn't change anyone.”

“Whoa, now. Just hold your horses. We changed. We got better. And you forgave your daddy, and I forgave my mom, and so our families got better. So that's a start, right?”

“That's a start,” I admitted.

“And your cat licked you,” she said.

“He sure did.” I pointed between my eyes. “Right here.”

“And who says that's got to be the finish? We can keep going, just being the best people we can be, and if people want to come along with us, that's good. And if they don't, we'll keep on doing what's good for us.”

Abigail leaned back on her elbows next to me.

We both stared out into the Pacific. The waves so orderly and small.

“Whoever thought a tsunami would be our best teacher,” she said. “Half a dozen more, and maybe I wouldn't hate my brother.”

“Nah,” I said. “No amount of water can wash away that hatred. Maybe a good tornado.”

Then there was nothing but silence and the wind and, in the distance, tiny waves crawling up to the shore and LA
healing around us. Knitting itself back together, getting to its bony knees and then to its French-pedicured feet. LA would survive, and so would we.

The ocean was back in its place, plotting its next move or simply just existing, the waves out there perfect, not the ones you surf on, not the ones that take everything away from you, just the ones you watch until it's time to go home.

THIS BOOK WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN POSSIBLE WITHOUT THE
passion, guidance, and badassery of Mollie Glick at Foundry Literary + Media. Then Claudia Gabel, my amazing editor, came along and cut it like a gemstone. I thank these great women.

Thank you to Katherine Tegen and everyone at Katherine Tegen Books/HarperCollins: Melissa Miller, Rosanne Romanello, Lauren Flower, Alana Whitman, Carmen Alvarez, Kelsey Horton, and Rebecca Schwarz.

Heather Daugherty and Marla Moore made the best cover ever.

My mother, Polly Hepinstall, served as my first copy
editor, as always. And Paige Robertson gave me great soccer pointers. Thanks also to Dallas Jones, Dawn Dekeyser, Becky Hepinstall Hilliker, Jessica Hepinstall, Glenn Stewart, Linda Birkenstock, Jason Kreher, Carrie Talick, Cam Giblin, Greg Wells, Arla Wood, Kaeleight James, and Riley Alger.

Photo by Rohitash Rao and Cory Noonan

As a baby,
KATHY PARKS
was thrown out with the bathwater. This experience shaped her life and art. She is the author of five novels and also works as an advertising copywriter. She lives with her husband, Michael, in Carpinteria, California.

Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at
hc.com
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COVER DESIGN BY HEATHER DAUGHERTY

COVER ART & HAND LETTERING BY MARLA MOORE

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