“How’s the pool?” I ask, walking towardher.
She looks up, like I’ve caught her offguard. “Um, I wasn’t at the pool. Well, not here anyway,” she says.“I met this girl, and I went back to her house to swim. Didn’t haveto share it with anyone but her and her older brother. No screamingkids. No annoying parents. It was nice.”
“You make friends easily, I see,” I say,hoping my envy isn’t completely obvious. “Care to share some ofthose mad skills?”
She rolls her eyes and walks past me, but Ifollow. If her dad is going to be my coach for my career, she’sgoing to have to deal with me. The sooner she accepts that andattempts to get along with me, the better. She doesn’t have to bemy friend. But we have to do better than what we’re doing rightnow.
“You have friends,” she spits over hershoulder. She doesn’t look at me, though. “I’ve seen the picturesof your wild party. All of those people were there to welcome youback home.”
That’s where she’s wrong.
“They came for the beer,” I correct her. “Iknow for a fact that Kale was there for the beer. He hated me.Colby Taylor only showed up because he was pissed at his parentsand wanted to blow off steam. His friends showed up to keep tabs onthings and make sure I wasn’t bashing Drenaline Surf, which Iwouldn’t have. And everyone else? Beer. All about the beer.”
She storms down the pier toward the bungalowlike she’s going to rip the thatched roof off of it when she getsthere. I keep up with her pace, but I’ve never seen anyone walkthis fast in flip flops.
“At least you have the money to buyacquaintances,” she snaps. “As long as people believe you havefriends, that’s all that matters. Everything’s about image in yourworld, right?”
I stop in front of Bungalow 5, but Kaiajolts forward, oblivious to the fact that I’ve stopped followingher. There’s nothing I can say at this point. She’s convinced thatI’m a spoiled rich kid who can buy his way into anything. There wasa time when I believed that too. As long as I had my dad’s creditcard and bank account information, I had the world at mydisposal.
But that changed when Miles beat me in thatcompetition. That day changed everything. If I could go back, Iwould’ve congratulated him. I would’ve paddled in with him andhelped Topher chair him up the beach. I would’ve smiled when thephotographers took our picture on the podium rather than evileyeing the world like I was entitled.
I can’t change that day, though. I can’tchange how the aftermath of it. I can’t go back.
Kaia spins around at the door and looks atme. “Look, I’m not trying to hate on you, but you’re the reason myentire summer has been rerouted,” she says. “I’m not here to hangout with you. I’ll tolerate you for my dad, but even that seemsunfair because I’m not spending any time with my dad because he’straining you. So I’m sorry if my ‘attitude’ is a problem, butyou’re not in your world anymore. This is mine.”
I don’t stop pedaling until my calves burn.Even then, I push myself forward with the rhythm of the musiccoming through my earbuds. The fiery gates of Hell wrap my legs inthem, almost making me regret my decision to work out. I exhale andslow down until my calves throb in pain. I pray I won’t collapse onthe floor when I get off of the stationary bike.
There’s no point in using the gym showersince I’m staying just outside of the resort. My muscle shirt isdrenched in sweat, so I pull it off as soon as I step onto thesand. Tiki lights illuminate the pier as I make my way back towardBungalow 3. An orange sunset slips down into the water, leaving asmooth haze across its surface.
I’m almost to the door when I see Kaiasitting on the edge of the dock between our house and the one nextto us. She stares off in the distance, quiet and alone. I keep myhead down as I walk toward the front door.
“Hey,” she calls out.
I glance over, waiting for her to launchanother verbal attack on me. She motions me toward her with herhand. I hesitate, but the house is dark. Glenn is probably alreadyin bed.
“I didn’t mean to snap on you earlier,” shesays. “You’re not the problem. Well, you’re kind of the problembecause you uprooted my summer, but you’re not the reason I’mangry. You’re just easy to take it out on.”
I point to the spot on the pier next to her.“May I?”
She nods, and I sort of wish I’d left theshirt on. I mean, yeah, it was drenched in sweat and probablysmelled like a locker room – I probably don’t smell much betterright now – but at least I wouldn’t look like some cocky douchebagwalking down the pier shirtless.
“I know it’s none of my business, but do you want totalk about why you’re angry?” I ask.
She glances at me, but then she looks away, likeshe’s not quite sure if I’m the person she wants to talk to. “It’sstupid,” she finally says.
“If it’s upset you this much, it doesn’t reallymatter if you think it’s stupid,” I say. “It’s obviously affectingyou, so as trivial as it may be, it’s still important.”
She laughs. “Trivial. I never imagined you’d use theword trivial.”
I shrug. “Believe it or not, I have had aneducation,” I tell her. “An expensive one, at that. But I fucked itup. I had to drop out because I was flunking. Contrary to popularrumors, I actually quit before it killed my GPA. I didn’t flunkout. The dumb thing is that I could’ve aced all of those classes. Iwas just being stupid.”
“Contrary,” she says, as if she’s still impressedthat I know words outside of surf lingo.
“Okay, no more making fun of my vocabulary,” I say.“This is about you, not me.”
She sighs like she’s being forced to surrenderagainst her will. “You can’t judge me,” she says. “At least not outloud.”
I shake my head and hold up my hands in my ownsurrender. “I have
