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Authors: Elana K. Arnold
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cave—like a rock cave behind a waterfall, with the moisture and the noise.
I flop on one of the two cracked vinyl stools by the kitchen counter. The couch seems too intimate. I shouldn’t worry, though. As soon as Jordan tosses me a soda and cracks one for himself, he makes my role clear.
“Did your mom say anything about the concert the other night?”
I shake my head and try not to feel too smug when he looks crestfallen. And I don’t tell him what he would like to know—that my mother always answers any question I ask about her dates, rare as they are. Most things I don’t even have to ask about; she just tells me. Almost always, she is an open book. It’s only the big secrets she keeps. So for her to keep quiet about her date with Jordan is unsettling, actually. But I don’t give Jordan this information, even though it would cheer him up, make his eyebrows shoot up his forehead in that comical Jordan way. Instead, I crack open my soda and sip it.
The swamp cooler hums. Jordan empties his soda can, smashes it, and tosses it overhand into the recycling bin. Then he says, “I had a really good time.”
If I had to guess, I’d say she did too, not only because of her silence on the issue but also because she’s been going around humming Rainbow Funkadelic songs for the last forty-eight hours. Another piece of information I won’t be sharing with Jordan.
It isn’t that I think my mom shouldn’t have a sex life. Everyone has one, whether it involves fantasizing to sloppy romantic movies or hooking up with random strangers or dating the same person for years and years. But the thought of my mom with Jordan …
Not that minor players have much say in these matters.
But Jordan looks so pitiful sitting there that I can’t help but throw him a bone. “Reggae was a good choice. It really is her favorite kind of music.”
This cheers him up. “Yeah. She seemed to enjoy it. She danced a lot.”
My mother dancing is something to watch. Literally. Everyone stops and watches when she starts to dance. It’s that underwater thing again—she moves like a wave, so fluid, her arms and back and hips and legs undulating like she’s made not of sinew and bone but of water.
Seemingly satisfied, Jordan changes the subject. “So what are you doing all summer?”
I shrug. “Summer school. Hanging out.”
“Doesn’t your mom want you to get a job?”
Back to Rebecca Golding. I shrug noncommittally.
“Maybe I can get something for you down at the shop,” he suggests. “Like sweeping up and helping with inventory.”
Jordan works for Riley Wilson Boards, a local surfboard shaper. A few of the bigger-name surfers ride his boards, including one guy that has a line of board shorts at Target, so the shop is making a name for itself. I’ve been in there a few times, but really, what’s the point? I can’t afford one of their boards, and anyway, if I ever have any money, I end up spending it on random stuff for my art.
“What do you do there?” I ask. “Sell boards?”
Jordan kind of laughs. “I’m not much of a salesman,” he says. “Naw, I’m a shaper.”
“Really? How come I didn’t know that?”
He shrugs. “I guess your mom didn’t tell you.”
Seven
So of course my mom is thrilled that Jordan is going to try to get me a job at the board shop. She comes home looking a little worn out, but as soon as I tell her the news, it’s like an extra light gets flipped on. Maybe it’s the job prospect that makes her happy. But I don’t think it’s just that … the way she pulls her hair over her shoulder, braiding it loosely and then shaking it out, the way she arches her back to stretch and seems to grow taller, brighter, more alive … .No, it’s not just the idea of me getting a job. It’s that Jordan is getting me one. Because she wants it.
“We should celebrate,” she says. When she calls Jordan to invite him along with us, she doesn’t have to thumb very far down her recent call list
I flop on one of the two cracked vinyl stools by the kitchen counter. The couch seems too intimate. I shouldn’t worry, though. As soon as Jordan tosses me a soda and cracks one for himself, he makes my role clear.
“Did your mom say anything about the concert the other night?”
I shake my head and try not to feel too smug when he looks crestfallen. And I don’t tell him what he would like to know—that my mother always answers any question I ask about her dates, rare as they are. Most things I don’t even have to ask about; she just tells me. Almost always, she is an open book. It’s only the big secrets she keeps. So for her to keep quiet about her date with Jordan is unsettling, actually. But I don’t give Jordan this information, even though it would cheer him up, make his eyebrows shoot up his forehead in that comical Jordan way. Instead, I crack open my soda and sip it.
The swamp cooler hums. Jordan empties his soda can, smashes it, and tosses it overhand into the recycling bin. Then he says, “I had a really good time.”
If I had to guess, I’d say she did too, not only because of her silence on the issue but also because she’s been going around humming Rainbow Funkadelic songs for the last forty-eight hours. Another piece of information I won’t be sharing with Jordan.
It isn’t that I think my mom shouldn’t have a sex life. Everyone has one, whether it involves fantasizing to sloppy romantic movies or hooking up with random strangers or dating the same person for years and years. But the thought of my mom with Jordan …
Not that minor players have much say in these matters.
But Jordan looks so pitiful sitting there that I can’t help but throw him a bone. “Reggae was a good choice. It really is her favorite kind of music.”
This cheers him up. “Yeah. She seemed to enjoy it. She danced a lot.”
My mother dancing is something to watch. Literally. Everyone stops and watches when she starts to dance. It’s that underwater thing again—she moves like a wave, so fluid, her arms and back and hips and legs undulating like she’s made not of sinew and bone but of water.
Seemingly satisfied, Jordan changes the subject. “So what are you doing all summer?”
I shrug. “Summer school. Hanging out.”
“Doesn’t your mom want you to get a job?”
Back to Rebecca Golding. I shrug noncommittally.
“Maybe I can get something for you down at the shop,” he suggests. “Like sweeping up and helping with inventory.”
Jordan works for Riley Wilson Boards, a local surfboard shaper. A few of the bigger-name surfers ride his boards, including one guy that has a line of board shorts at Target, so the shop is making a name for itself. I’ve been in there a few times, but really, what’s the point? I can’t afford one of their boards, and anyway, if I ever have any money, I end up spending it on random stuff for my art.
“What do you do there?” I ask. “Sell boards?”
Jordan kind of laughs. “I’m not much of a salesman,” he says. “Naw, I’m a shaper.”
“Really? How come I didn’t know that?”
He shrugs. “I guess your mom didn’t tell you.”
Seven
So of course my mom is thrilled that Jordan is going to try to get me a job at the board shop. She comes home looking a little worn out, but as soon as I tell her the news, it’s like an extra light gets flipped on. Maybe it’s the job prospect that makes her happy. But I don’t think it’s just that … the way she pulls her hair over her shoulder, braiding it loosely and then shaking it out, the way she arches her back to stretch and seems to grow taller, brighter, more alive … .No, it’s not just the idea of me getting a job. It’s that Jordan is getting me one. Because she wants it.
“We should celebrate,” she says. When she calls Jordan to invite him along with us, she doesn’t have to thumb very far down her recent call list
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