The Fire, the Water, and Maudie McGinn: Chapters 13–30

I’m not much of a reader, so I stare idly at the cover until Dad comes back in.

I walk along the seam where the sand and water meet, just ambling, exploring.

Past our curve of sand, beyond an outcropped curve of cliff, I discover another beach, a much bigger one—it’s the main town beach.

The words are flowery and strange, but after a while, I kind of get the hang of it, and it feels like I’m picking up a new language, a whole new way of speaking English.

Through all her hardships, she is so levelheaded!

Sure, she gets kind of riled sometimes, in the early pages. But unlike me, Jane Eyre has never smacked herself in the head when things didn’t go her way, or stim-fluttered her fingers to the point of distraction.

He looks around as if getting his bearings, realizing where he is.

Blessed, calm relief unfurls inside me when I’m finally left to myself, to be just me, by myself.

But all their talk, actions, wishes, commands, demands, messages, and complicated needs fill my head with an onslaught that gets so, so hard to follow.

It’s like when a radio song you love comes on, and it starts out clear—but then lapses into fuzzy static, and you have to strain harder and harder to catch all the fragments, to keep up.

It’s like when a radio song you love comes on, and it starts out clear—but then lapses into fuzzy static, and you have to strain harder and harder to catch all the fragments, to keep up.

I make another piece of buttery toast, spreading the jam extra even, picking out the lumps of strawberry so it looks like a sheen of berry-colored glass on my bread.

When I get to the part where Jane goes: “Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!—I have as much soul as you—and full as much heart!”—I get tears shining in my eyes.

I look up and see a pair of gangly, hairy brown legs dangling over the edge.

ALL PROCEEDS GO TO CONWY BEACH CONSERVATION FOUNDATION!!!!

“TV crews come. Sometimes pro surfers show up with their big-time sponsors and do demos. It brings in a ton of money for ocean cleanup, bluff fortification, stuff like that.”

“TV crews come. Sometimes pro surfers show up with their big-time sponsors and do demos. It brings in a ton of money for ocean cleanup, bluff fortification, stuff like that.”

He pushed me forward into a throng of kids.

A flock of plovers skitters across the wet sand in front of my feet, a quick and fluid bird wave.

She puts her strong brown hands down flat on top of her white longboard and guides it through the water over to me. Waves chop and lap at it. It’s got a black stripe down its middle and a decal of a skull by the nose.

“You doing okay mentally, hon? I mean, what a nightmare you went through! You’re not having any nasty ol’ tantrums or meltdowns or anything we should be worried about?”
“I haven’t had one of those since I was ten.”
“I know, I know, but your father’s just put you through quite an ordeal, now, hasn’t he.”

A welt of anger rises up.

He was a grungy skater punk, a great guy, but not a great student. She was, well, fancy. Unlikely couple, to say the least.

But a few good words are also floating there:
hoping
ambitious
willing to work for it

I paddle forward through the waves, skidding up, lurching down.

It’s a dappled muddy yellow brown, the leopard shark.

Dad’s riveted to his phone, watching the news on its tiny screen.

The beaches appear one after another, sweeping vistas of sandy beige and sparkling blue.

The old truck judders and whines as we cruise down a steep slope into a fancy town.

A really fancy town. Manicured flower beds, lush palm trees, immaculate sidewalks, and rows of deluxe-looking boutiques.

“The owner of this place ordered some custom pieces from me a few years back, and he says he might have more work for me now.”

While Dad’s gone, I hunker down in the truck and try to distract myself with people watching.

A very blond lady struts past in teetering high heels—there’s a tiny white poodle peeping out of her handbag.

You breathed really well, and you got right through it, right out the other side. You always will, you know. The panic always subsides. Eventually.

He will hate me now.
His eyes will fill with scorn and disappointment,
just like Mom’s eyes and Ron’s.
Because I’m no good.
I get everything wrong.
I’m incapable
of being sensible.

“Arson, it’s called, isn’t it?” I whisper, my throat burning.

He gives me a wry smile. “I guess you don’t need it now.”

I order a plain cheese quesadilla and Coke, and Dad gets a massive California burrito oozing guacamole. A bundle of French fries protrudes from it.

Mwah-ha-ha. Dad has no idea how much planning and plotting I’m doing for this Surf Bash he’s so fond of. I’m more resolved than ever. And tomorrow, as soon as he leaves for his first day of work at the cabinetry shop I’ll be leaping into devious action.

Her green eyes are intense and earnest. “So, then you’ve got to find your own best way to reach your goal. It may take falling off the dang board a hundred times before you get it. Or maybe you’ll find a workaround, a different way that works better for you.”