God, she’s so pretty . . . so nice. Smiling so wide. It feels like a trap.
“Bailey,” I tell her.
“Bailey Rydell,” she says, surprising me. “Porter tells me you work with him at the Cave.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Pops was super mean to her,” Lana reports.
Mrs. Roth scrunches up her face. “I’m so sorry. He gets like that sometimes. The trick is to either play his junkyard dog game and show your teeth”—she imitates a snapping dog, which is kind of adorable—“or you do what I do and just ignore him.”
“And don’t let his big talk fool you,” Lana says. “My mom totally wears the pants in this family.”
“That’s right, baby.” Mrs. Roth wraps her arms around her daughter. “How’d you do this morning? Find anything good to surf?”
“Nah, just paddled. Porter was right, as usual. Onshore winds were crumbling the waves.” Lana looks at me and brightens. “You should come out with us one morning, watch us surf. Porter likes it when someone’s there to cheer him on instead of Pops yelling at him.”
Mrs. Roth nods, smiling. “And boy oh boy, would he show off for you, my dear. You tell him you want to come see him surf one morning when the waves are fine. He’d love that. Just say the word, and he’ll be texting you weather reports at the butt crack of dawn.”
“He’s obsessed with weather,” Lana tells me.
“I know,” I say too quickly, unable to stop myself.
They both grin back at me like I’ve solved some big family secret code.
Mrs. Roth glances over Lana’s head and raises a hand to a customer. “Hey, baby?” she says to Lana. “Can you do me a favor and help Mr. Dennis?”
Lana makes a gagging noise. “Maybe when you start paying me an actual salary.”
Mrs. Roth gives me a sheepish look. “Don’t spread that around, okay? We’re not forcing them into child labor; it’s—”
“Technically, you sort of are,” Lana mutters, giggling when her mom pinches her waist.
“—just that times are tight right now,” Mrs. Roth finishes explaining.
“And Porter and I are the only suckers in town who’ll work for free,” Lana adds. “I’ll go help Mr. Dennis, but only if you let me stay out an extra hour tonight.”
“Half an hour, and go, go, go. He’s got that pissy look on his face.” Mrs. Roth swivels toward the front door and makes an exasperated noise; someone’s unloading a stack of boxes by the front door. “Deliveries go through the back. How many times do I have to tell that guy? Oh, Bailey, I have to take care of this, I’m sorry. I wanted to do girl talk with you. Stay here.”
As she races away to redirect the delivery man, I watch Lana struggling to pull down a surfboard from a high-up rack, where it’s stacked in the middle of several others. She’s all muscle—no eyelash-batting doll—but it’s hard work, and she’s breathing heavy, shaking out her arm and joking that she nearly smashed her hand getting the board out. It strikes me that there’s no one else working here. It’s just the four of them, running this place? And with Mr. Roth’s limitations, that leaves all the physical stuff dumped on the mom and two kids, neither of whom are getting paid. And then Porter has to turn around and work full-time at the Cave.
This really, really sucks.
And what about when school starts in the fall, and when Lana and her dad go on the surfing tour? Is Mrs. Roth going to run the store by herself? How will Porter keep his grades up and help her and hold down his job at the Cave?
My phone buzzes with a text. Surprisingly, it’s from Patrick, as in, Patrick of Killian’s Whale Tours and my broken gaydar: Hey. You free? Wanna get coffee at the Shack? I’ve got new stuff from the film festival.
Well, what do you know? He doesn’t think I’m a total loser after our “date” fail in the video store. Before I can text back, the back door swings open and Porter breezes in, a huge smile on his face. Delight rushes through me until I see his father behind him . . . then I freeze up. “Pops fixed the seat. You’re good to go.”
Mr. Roth hands me my keys without looking me in the eyes. I think. I’m not looking him in the eyes either. This might work if we both keep avoiding each other. “Still dented,” he mumbles, “and it might stick when you unlock it, but there’s nothing I can do about that.”
“You’ll just have to wiggle the key some and knock it with your palm,” Porter volunteers cheerily.
“Or take it somewhere to get it fixed professionally,” Mr. Roth says. “But the worst problem you’ll have is locking yourself out, so you might want to carry your helmet inside with you until you’re more sure about it. And get a better wheel lock.”
“I’m headed to buy one right now,” I tell him. I scratch my hand, uncomfortable. “Thank you for doing this.”
Looking away, he grunts and shrugs the shoulder that doesn’t have an arm. After a few seconds of awkward silence, just when I think he might turn and leave without another word, he pins me with a hard stare and points a finger in my face. “You really want to thank me? Next time you see Davy Truand, you call me day or night and I’ll finish what Porter started. That boy is stupid and dangerous, and he’s obviously got you in his sights, so I’ll tell you what I tell my own daughter: You stay away from him as best you can, but if he comes anywhere near you, get your phone out and start dialing my number—hear me?”
Um . . . ?
I feel the rattle of the weird, low note that escapes the back of my throat. He’s sort of yelling at me again, but it’s in a concerned-parent way, and I’m not sure, but I think he’s offering to kick Davy’s ass for me now. I look at Porter for confirmation and he’s grinning.
So very confused.
All I can do is nod. So I do, several times. This seems to meet Mr. Roth’s approval. He nods back at me, also several times. And then he tells Porter to quit standing around like a lump and help his mom with the delivery that’s now coming around to the back door. I watch him head toward Mrs. Roth, and I’m stunned.
“He likes you,” Porter whispers near my ear, sending a small cascade of shivers over my scalp. It freaks me out that he has that effect on me in public, especially when his family is halfway across the store.
I find my voice and ask, “How can you tell?”
“For my dad, that was practically hugging and welcoming you into the family. He said you have grit.”
Artful Dodgers don’t have grit. Is this because I snapped at him outside? It’s hard for me to think too hard about it, because Porter is linking his index finger with mine.
“Hey, Porter,” a voice calls out.
I drop his finger and look up to see Mrs. Roth smiling sweetly from the door to the back room, her dark storm cloud of hair haloed around her shoulders. “Aw, I’m sorry, kids,” she says.
“You ladies met?” Porter asks.
“We did,” she answers, “And Bailey’s going to come watch you do your thing one morning.”
Porter raises both brows and has a look on his face that’s hard to decipher, like maybe he’s embarrassed, but kind of happy, too. “Yeah?”
“If you want,” I say.
“Yeah, maybe,” he says. “You should come see Lana, for sure. If you can get up that early.”