Sara Zarr - Story of a girl

For everyone who is my family.

First Lesson

Lie back, daughter, let your head

be tipped back in the cup of my hand.

Gently, and I will hold you. Spread

your arms wide, lie out on the stream

and look high at the gulls. A dead

mans float is face down. You will dive

and swim soon enough where this tidewater

ebbs to the sea. Daughter, believe

me, when you tire on the long thrash

to your island, lie up, and survive.

As you float now, where I held you

and let go, remember when fear

cramps your heart what I told you:

lie gently and wide to the light-year

stars, lie back, and the sea will hold you.

Philip Booth

I was thirteen when my dad caught me with Tommy Webber in the back of Tommys Buick, parked next to the old Chart House down in Montara at eleven oclock on a Tuesday night. Tommy was seventeen and the supposed friend of my brother, Darren.

I didnt love him.

Im not sure I even liked him.

The car was cold and Tommy was stoned and wed been there doing pretty much the same thing a dozen times before, and I could smell the salt air from the beach, and in my head I wrote the story of a girl who surfed the cold green ocean, when one day she started paddling in the wrong direction and didnt know it until she looked back and couldnt see the shore.

In my head I wrote the story, while Tommy did his thing, one hand wrapped around my ponytail.

It was the girl the surfer girl I had on my mind when Tommy swore and got off of me. My dad dragged him out of the car, then me. He threw Tommy to the ground and pushed me into our old Tercel.

Right before we pulled out of the lot, I stole a look at my dad. There might have been tears slipping down his cheek, or it might have been a trick of the headlights bouncing off the night fog.

I started to say something. I dont remember what.

Dont, he said.

That was almost three years ago.

My dad hasnt looked me in the eye or talked to me, really talked to me, since.

They made us clean out our lockers on the last day of sophomore year. I tore down the class schedule Id taped to the inside of the door at the beginning of the semester and tossed it into the pile of recycling that already included ninety-five percent of the crap Id busted my ass to do all year. What was the point of all that so-called learning if, in the end, it was going into the trash? The only stuff I kept was from Honors English. I would deny this if asked, but I thought I might want to read some of my essays again. Theres this one from when we read Lord of the Flies. I really got into it, the savagery and survival-of-the-fittest stuff. A lot of kids in my class didnt get it. Jeremy Walker asked, Why couldnt the boys on the island just get along?

Then Caitlin Spinelli was all, Yeah, didnt they know their chances for survival were, like, so much better if they worked together?

Hello! Walk down the halls of your own school for three seconds, Spinelli: we are savages. There is no putting of the heads together to come up with a better way. There is no sharing of the bounty of popularity with those less fortunate. There is no pulling along of the deadweight so that we can all make it to the finish line. At least not for me. Caitlin Spinelli might have a different perspective, being rich in all the things that would have put her in the surviving tribe.

Anyway, Mr. North wrote on my essay in purple pen. He used red pen to correct spelling errors and messed-up grammar and stuff like that, but when he just wanted to let you know he liked something, he used purple.

Deanna, he wrote, you clearly have much of importance to say.

Much of importance.

Yo, Lambert!

Speaking of savages, Bruce Cowell and his pack of jock-wannabes, whod been kicked off every school team because of attitude problems and/or the use of illegal substances, were right on schedule for their weekly feats of dumbassery.

Bruce leaned up against the lockers. You look hot today, Lambert.

Yeah. Tucker Bradford, flabby and red faced, came close and said, I think your boobs got bigger this year.

I kept sorting through the stuff in my locker, peeling a piece of candy cane left from Christmas off one of my binders. I reminded myself it was the last day of school, and besides, those guys were seniors. If I could get through the next five minutes I would never have to see them again.

However, five minutes is a long time, and sometimes I just cant keep my mouth shut.

Maybe, I said, pointing at Tuckers chest. But theyre still not as big as yours.

Bruce and the lackeys watching from a few feet away laughed; Tucker got redder, if that was possible. He leaned in with his nasty Gatorade breath and said, I dont know what youre saving yourself for, Lambert.

This is the thing: Pacifica is a stupid small town with only one real high school, where everyone knows everyone elses business and the rumors never stop until some other kid is dumb enough to do something that makes a better story. But my story had the honor of holding the top spot for over two years running. I mean, a senior getting caught with his pants down on top of an eighth-grade girl, by the girls father (No way! Her father? Id just kill myself!) was pretty hard to beat. That story had been told in hallways and locker rooms and parties and the back of classrooms since Tommy first came to school the morning after it happened. At which time he gave all the details to his friends, even though he knew it meant my brother, Darren, would kick his ass. (He did.) By the time I got to Terra Nova for ninth grade, the whole school already thought they knew everything there was to know about Deanna Lambert. Every time someone in school saw my face, I knew they were thinking about it. I knew this because every time I looked in the mirror, I thought about it, too.

So when Tucker breathed his stink all over me and said what he did, I knew it meant more than just a generic insult suitable for any girl. He reduced my whole life story into one nine-word attack. For that, I had to send him off in style. I started with the middle finger (you really cant go wrong with a classic). I followed it with a few choice words about his mother, and finished by implying that maybe he wasnt into girls.

Right about then I wondered if there were any teachers or otherwise responsible adults around in case Tucker and Bruce and their friends decided to take it beyond words. Probably I should have thought of that sooner.

Bruce chimed in. Why do you front, Lambert? Why pretend youre not a skank when you know you are? He gestured to himself and the guys around him, We know you are. You know you are. And, um, your Dad knows you are, so...

A voice called from down the hall: Dont you guys have some kittens to go torture or something?

Jason had never sounded so good.

You dont even want a piece of this, punk, Tucker said, shouting over his shoulder.

Jason kept walking toward us, with his usual no-hurry slouch, black boots scuffing along the floor like it was just too much effort to pick up his feet. My hero. My best friend.

Didnt you, like, graduate yesterday? he said to the guys. Isnt it a little pathetic to still be hanging around here?

Bruce grabbed Jasons jeans jacket and slammed him up against the lockers. Where in the hell were the people in charge? Had all the teachers fled for the Bahamas as soon as the last bell rang?

Get off him, I said.

One of Tuckers friends said, Come on, man, we dont have time for this shit. We promised Max wed have the keg there by four.

Yeah, said Tucker, my brother only works at Fast Mart for like ten more minutes. After that, were gonna get carded.