I stare at him. I think my mouth is hanging open, I’m not sure.
He scratches his forehead and makes a growling noise, dismissing the whole speech. “I’m a weather nerd. It’s because of surfing. In order to find the best waves, you have to know about tides, swells, storms . . . I guess I just picked up an interest in that stuff.”
I glance at his fancy red surf watch peeking out from his jacket cuff with all its tide and weather calculations. Who knew he was such a smarty-pants? “I’m seriously impressed,” I say, meaning it. “Guess you’re the guy to sit next to if I need to cheat in biology.”
“I aced AP Biology last year. I’m taking AP Environmental Science and AP Chem 2 this year.”
“Yuck. I hate all the sciences. History and English, yes. No sciences.”
“No sciences? Bailey, Bailey, Bailey. It appears we are opposite in every conceivable way.”
“Yeah,” I agree, smiling. I’m not sure why, but this makes me sort of giddy.
He laughs like I told a great joke, and then leans over the bar.
“So what do you think of our California fog now? Cool, right?” He cups his hand as if he can capture some of it.
Testing, I stretch my hands out too. “Yeah, it is. I like our fog. You were right.”
We sit like that together, trying to catch the ocean in our hands, for the rest of the ascent.
At the end of the line, a waiting chairlift operator releases our bar and frees us. We made it to the top of the cliffs. Along with a tiny gift shop called the Honeypot—I really hate to break it to them, but bumblebees don’t make honey—there’s a small platform here lined by a railing and a few of those coin-operated telescopes that look out over the ocean. If it were a clear day, we’d be looking out over the Cavern Palace, but there’s not much to see now, so only a few people are milling about. It’s also breezy and chilly, especially for June.
I never knew California had such crazy weather. I ask Porter to tell me more about it. At first he thinks I’m making fun of him, but after not much prodding, we lean against the split-fence cedar railing, and while we polish off the last of the muffins, he tells me more about ocean currents and tides, redwood forests and ferns and ecosystems, and how the fog has been declining over the last few decades and scientists are trying to figure out why and how to stop it.
It’s weird to hear him talk about all this, and like the scars on his arm, I’m trying to fit all his ragged pieces together: the security guard at work with the lewd mouth who made fun of my mismatched shoes; the surfer boy, struggling to pull his drugged-up friend Davy off the crosswalk; the brother whose eyes shine with pride when he talks about his sister’s achievements; the guy who high-fived me when I took down the kid who stole the Maltese falcon statue . . . and the science geek standing in front of me now.
Maybe Walt Whitman was right. We all really do contradict ourselves and contain multitudes. How do we even figure out who we really are?
Porter finally seems to notice how much he’s talking and his golden face gets ruddy. It’s pretty adorable. “Okay, enough,” he finally says. “What are you nerdy about?”
I hesitate, wanting to talk about classic film as passionately as he told me about ocean rain, but then I remember the incident with Patrick and my stomach feels a little queasy. I don’t relish rehashing all that again. Maybe some other time.
“History,” I tell him, which, though a compromise, is also true. “Confession time. I’ve been thinking lately that I sort of want to be a museum archivist.”
He brightens, as if I’ve just reminded him of something. “Like, cataloging things?”
“Yeah, or I might want to be a curator. I’m not totally sure.” Admitting it aloud makes me uncomfortable. I get a little squirmy and feel the need to flee the scene, but we’re standing on a cliff, and there’s nowhere to run. “Anyway, working at the Cave may not be a dream come true, but it’s a start. You know, for my résumé. Eventually.”
He squints at me, and I tell him a little more about my museum dream—which fits in with my Artful Dodger lifestyle: behind the scenes, low stress, geeking out over old things, preserving historically valuable pieces that most people find boring. As much as I love film, there’s no way I’d ever want to be a director. I’m realizing that more and more. Put me in the shadows, baby. I’ll happily plow through boxes of old files. “I like uncovering things that people have forgotten. Plus, I’m really good at organizing things.”
Porter smiles softly. “I’ve noticed.”
“You have?”
“Your cash drawer. Bills all facing the same way, creased corners straightened. Everything stacked and clipped together for the drop bag all perfect. Most people’s drawers are a wreck, money turned every which way.”
My cheeks warm. I’m surprised he’s paid attention to details like that. “I like things neat and orderly.” Stupid CPA blood.
“Orderly is good. Maybe you’ve got some science in you after all.”
“Pah!” I exclaim. “Nice try, but no.”
His eyes crease in the corners when he chuckles. “Guess you don’t want to work in the Hotbox forever, though, huh?”
“God no,” I say, pulling a sour face. “Not the Hotbox.”
Just mentioning it by name makes us both thirsty, so we head inside the Honeypot and grab some drinks. By the time we’re done with those, the sun’s breaking through the fog—sucking it up, now that I learned that tidbit of science—and the warming midday air smells like my dad’s backyard, of pine and redwood, clean and fresh. I breathe it in deeply. Definitely doesn’t smell like this out east.
When we finally get back on the chairlifts, we’re sitting closer. A lot closer. I feel Porter’s arm and leg, warm against mine. His board shorts are longer than my skirt, his legs longer than my legs, but when the lift sways forward, our calves press together. I stare where our bodies are joined. For the tiniest of moments, I consider pulling away, making myself small again, like I did on the ride up. But—
I don’t.
And he doesn’t.
The bar comes down, trapping us together. Arm against arm. Leg against leg, flesh against flesh. My heart beats against my rib cage as if it’s excitedly keeping time with a song. Every once in a while, I feel his eyes on my face, but I don’t dare look back. We ride in silence the entire way down, watching the town get bigger and bigger.
A couple of yards before we hit the ground, he speaks up in a voice so quiet, I can barely hear him. “What I said the other day about you having champagne tastes?” He pauses for a moment. Mr. Reyes is smiling, waiting to unhitch our bar. “I just wanted you to know that I like the way you dress. I like your style. . . . I think it’s sexy as hell.”
LUMIÈRE FILM FANATICS COMMUNITY PRIVATE MESSAGES>ALEX
*NO NEW MESSAGES*
“If what I think is happening is happening, it better not be.”
—Meryl Streep, Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009)
12
I’m a mess. It’s been eight hours since Porter and I parted at the Bees and I haven’t been able to get his words out of my head. Sexy as hell.
Me!
He!
What?
He didn’t say anything else, barely even looked at me when he told me he had to “skedaddle” because he promised to help his mom unload something at the surf shop that afternoon. I think I thanked him for the muffins and the chairlift ticket. I’m not even sure. I was so flustered. I might have told him I’d see him at work. Mr. Reyes asked me if I was okay, so I know I stood there too long, looking like a complete lunatic. Then I walked a half mile in the sand to the wrong parking lot and had to backtrack to get to Baby.