With his new board, Robert’s confidence surged and he got good, fast. He rode wave after wave straight to the shore, coasting in on bursts of salty spray. He stayed in the water until his skin puckered and his nails were tinged blue. He tanned until he was caramel. He wore his donated rash guard daily; on rainy days Deb would snatch it up and wash away the sea smell. Gradually, he inched his ratty towel closer to where the high school kids made camp. The guys were all lean muscle, with pounds and inches over Robert. They guzzled foaming beers between waves, water dripping from their sleek wet suits. The waves seemed to be bigger over here, smashing against the starfish-dotted rocks that hulked close by. The tide sucked more insistently at his feet. Dungeness crabs occasionally scuttled by on their forbidding claws, hiding in the eel grass.
He paddled out and tried to catch a swell. The board slid out from under his feet and careened to the beach. He sputtered through a mouthful of salt water and scrambled after it. His wet hair and limbs flung droplets on a trio of tanning girls, who shrieked and clutched at their towels.
“Sorry!” Robert shouted over his shoulder. He retrieved his board just in time to see the older guys glide in. He kicked the sand and bounded back into the water.
He decided he’d match them wave for wave.
One evening, when the sun had melted to a red sliver, one of the high school guys strolled over, holding a tattered piece of paper. Robert had ridden in his last wave and started toweling off Hulk. Deb had complained that her car stank like wet dog.
“You’re getting pretty good,” the older guy said.
“Thanks,” Robert mumbled. He toed the sand, studied the grains.
“There’s a contest here in a few weeks,” he continued. His blue wet suit gleamed. He looked like a costumed superhero. “Competition won’t be that bad in the kiddie division. Hell, you might be the only entrant.”
The yellow paper was creased into quarters and spattered with salt water. Yannatok’s only surf contest had six divisions and a cash prize for each.
“Keep it.” He shook water from his ear. “I’m entered already.”
Robert folded the flyer back up and trotted to the parking lot to wait for his mother. He shivered in his T-shirt and tugged his towel around his shoulders as the temperature dropped. He handed the flyer to Deb as soon as she pulled up.
“Fifty dollars?” Deb’s brow wrinkled at the entry fee. “I mean, Robert, you probably won’t win any money.”
“I don’t want to win any money,” Robert said. But why did he want to do it, then? If the point wasn’t winning, what was? He couldn’t explain; he just knew that crumpled paper had been his ticket to something bigger than a surf competition, and if his mother wouldn’t sign him up, it’d be just one more place other kids could go that he never would. Kids who’d flown on real planes, taken real vacations. Kids who crossed that bridge and left Yannatok more than once a year. Kids who didn’t have to beg for the money to keep doing something they were good at.
His mother left the flyer folded up in the car’s cup holder. Robert grabbed it on his way into the trailer and marched into the living room. Deb was shaking her foot out of one boot while balancing on the other, a hand pressed to the small of her back.
Robert held up the flyer. “Did you even read it?”
“Enough, Robert.” Deb flopped onto the couch and trained the remote on the TV. “Please. You’re giving me a migraine.”
Robert stood in front of the television. He imagined he could feel the remote’s rays hitting his chest and crashing to the floor, like arrows hitting armor. “Mom, is it really that much money? What if I did win it? Wouldn’t that be an investment?” He was pleased with the maturity of his argument.
“How much does gas cost? How much does food cost? How much does dog food cost?” Deb said pointedly. Then she shooed him away from the TV. “You have no idea. Get away from the television.”
“How much do cigarettes cost?”
Deb flung a pointed finger toward the door. “Get your smart mouth out of this room before I kick you out.”
Robert stomped to the computer and tugged his headset over his ears so roughly that the skinny plastic band snapped. He flung it to the floor and stormed to the kitchen, pulling open drawer after drawer in a fruitless hunt for tape.
“We don’t even have any tape!” he screamed over Law & Order’s credits.
He played the simulator without his headphones and crashed over and over, like invisible walls were keeping even his avatar from escaping. He scrolled down the simulator’s destination menu. New York. Los Angeles. Paris. Rome. Tokyo. Each sounded as unlikely as landing the plane on the moon. As far-fetched as a beach house, a Disney vacation, or a college education.
Before he went to bed, he tucked the flyer into her purse, next to her cigarettes.
* * *
Soon, the days shortened and the water grew icier and Robert stopped going to the beach. He stayed inside and played with his flight simulator instead. He crashed the planes over and over again, flying too fast and rocketing into mountains and trees and the air control tower. He’d watch the dashboard burst into flames and reload the program.