Abel’s knees felt watery.
“Ain’t nothing but a slip of paper,” Cody said.
A slip of paper. Abel spit salt water from his lips and walked away, hoping Cody would follow, but he didn’t. As the kid had just demonstrated, anything in the water could look like an accident.
As Abel faced the horizon, it dawned on him that it was about this same time yesterday that Cody had hit him with the homo-blast and paper ball. That smile on his face reminded Abel of the one Emma had drawn on the angry island god. The water inside his wet suit sent a chill as he paddled back out in search of wave number five.
After reaching double digits, he took his fins off in the shallows and jogged to shore. The beach was void of tourists in the unwelcoming weather. He stepped up the incline where the heavy surf had dug into the sand. The coquina was rough against his feet as he walked to where he’d left his belongings.
He looked around but didn’t see anything but his flip-flops. In the distance, Cody and his group were back in the water. Abel wished there were some other explanation, like a huge seagull had flown off with his backpack, but he knew Cody and his crew had swiped it.
Paddling over to ask for his things back would be futile. He wasn’t in the mood to be turned into a spectator sport again.
Abel tucked his boogie board under his arm and walked to the nearest gas station to borrow a slim jim. As if to silence the soggy slap of his flip-flops, he let his thoughts run and became more convinced of what he put together in woodshop yesterday. If that kid had the balls to swipe my backpack while I was in the water, I know he thieved the prom dresses. He had a pretty good idea where to look.
After breaking into his truck, he retrieved his set of keys from the glove compartment and headed back to the station to return the slim jim. He drove to a nearby McDonald’s and, over a Big Mac, hatched a plan.
The house at 1489 Sea Breeze Lane was on a canal street two blocks off Gulf Boulevard in the north end of Indian Rocks Beach. The Kimballs lived across the street from the waterfront properties. Chimes from an ice cream truck and the grinding pitch of a wood saw broke the silence. The truck’s tune was somewhat familiar, but Abel couldn’t quite place it.
Garbage canisters lined the streets. Collection day was either today or tomorrow. The Kimballs had a derelict lawn. Shrubs, but no gate or fence, separated the front and back yards.
His best hunches of where to find the dresses were either the garbage or the garage. He’d brought along some plastic shopping bags to put the prom wear in and the swim gloves he used when boogie-boarding. There was no telling what he might run into.
He walked to the garbage can in front of the house and opened the lid. Except for a rancid smell, there was nothing inside. He hoped one of the Kimballs might come out and ask what he was doing. He’d gladly welcome this jumping-off point as an opportunity to voice his suspicions about Cody swiping his backpack. In fact, he decided, he’d go to their door right now to have that conversation.
He knocked. His pulse raced as he listened for the scraping of a chair or footsteps from inside. He waited and knocked again. No one answered. All indications were that no one was home. He walked over to the side entrance of the garage. If the dresses weren’t in the garbage, maybe they were inside there along with his backpack, and he’d tell whoever questioned him about opening this door that he was here to get it back. With gloved hands he twisted the knob, but found it locked.
He readied a story and walked around back. Should a neighbor happen upon him, he would say that he was a snowbird relative, down from Michigan, and was stopping by unannounced. The Kimballs had told him to let himself in and make himself at home.
He sidled past a hydrangea bush and into the backyard. Vinyl privacy fencing cordoned off the rear of the property. Grapefruit rotted on a dying tree near an attached lanai. Through mesh screening he saw that the Kimballs had left their sliding glass door open. He tried the flimsy screen door on the patio. It was poorly hung and gave a little, but it didn’t open. An eye screw and hook secured it. Tugging again, he found there was enough room to wedge the blade of a pocket knife between the door and frame.
Above the power lines a turkey vulture rode the thermals. Abel took out his knife, pulled on the door, put the blade to the hook, and nudged it free. He placed the shopping bags over his shoes and entered the Kimballs’ house.
Morning breakfast odors lingered. His plastic-wrapped footfalls crinkled on the terrazzo as he treaded through a rear living room area. The dining nook led to the kitchen. Through that was the garage.
He froze when he heard a bell peal. His eyes darted, looking for a place to hide. Near what looked like a family portrait in the dining room, he saw a grandfather clock and realized it was only the timepiece striking one.
He studied the portrait. In between two weathered-looking adults was a soft-featured Cody. Hair parted on the side, he looked to be about Emma’s age.
Abel looked at the gloves on his hands, the bags on his feet. As if the luau wasn’t bad enough, try explaining this? He nodded to the Kimballs. Going through the kitchen and out the garage seemed the safest route.
A strong whiff of gas and dead grass hit him as he stepped inside the garage. He flicked on the lights. Huge breasts strained a pinup’s bikini bra on a poster above a workbench. He took in the rest of the garage. His eyes traveled from the door panels to an oil pan and stopped on a surfboard bag with the word Dakine on it.
Next to the board in the Dakine bag was a tri-fin Volcom short board. The one Cody had at the beach was different from these two. How many sticks does one kid need?
A low rumble trumpeted something heroic inside his head, like the opening music of the old Hawaii Five-0 show. He followed images of a banquet procession. Burly Tongans in grass skirts and Hawaiian shirts hoisted a roasted pig, apple in mouth, on a surfboard that doubled as a serving tray. Sequined prom wear blurred. Hell, who’s to say those dresses weren’t already on their way to the landfill, or were never here in the first place? Why waste a gift, especially one provided by a kid who ripped off his stuff and almost did the same to his head. And Tori and Emma didn’t need to know anything about it.
Making a note to relatch the eye hook and take those damn bags off his feet, he allowed himself to venture that getting up on a surfboard probably felt a lot like this.
Should anyone ask what he was doing walking out of the Kimballs’ garage with a surfboard tucked under his arm, he’d simply say, Cody let me borrow it and told me to come by and get it. Hell, Saturday night, should his punk ass somehow happen to be at the luau and start asking questions, Abel would welcome the turnabout. It’s not like there was only one Volcom tri-fin in the world. This time he’d be the one dishing the hard look that said, Prove it.
Tree limbs swayed in the cold front’s last gasp as he strolled down Sea Breeze Lane. Then it came to him, the tune from the ice cream truck. Slightly off-key and at a faster tempo, but he recognized it as the theme to Love Story.
He drove to St. Cyprian’s, parked beneath a twisting live oak near the auditorium, and phoned the front office.
“Do you still have front-row tables available for the luau if I drop off a surfboard as a door prize?”
“Sure, how thoughtful,” came the response. “The surfboard goes so well with the theme. I bet it’ll be one of the best raffle items of the night.”
“I’m actually here at school. Would now be a good time to drop it off?” he asked.