Rooting for the Apocalypse (8)
Chapter 8: Sweet and Sexist
Drama ensues when Athena invites her dirtbag boyfriend on her dysfunctional family’s vacation.
The sun is low and the air has cooled. Athena wakes up and turns her head to squint up at me. I put down my book.
Good evening, I say.
What time is it? she asks.
Real or fake?
Whatever.
It’s five.
You let me sleep three hours? I’m gonna be so out of whack.
Oh my gosh. I sat here and let you use my legs as a pillow. Major boyfriend points.
My head is wet. Did you pee your pants?
That’s from you drooling on my leg.
Lies!
You’re lies. Love over.
I stand slowly and Athena rolls gently to the floor, where she crouches and arches her back.
Hiss, I’m a cat, she hisses.
You’re annoying is what, I say. C’mon, let’s go to the beach.
We put on our swimsuits and head to the beach, grabbing Sofia along the way. We dodge piles of trash and dogshit and horseshit on our way to the ocean. At low tide, the beach is wide and the trek is long. Helen stands ankle-deep in the water, staring out at the ocean.
Hi mom, Athena says. Just dipping your toes?
I came out to take a walk with your father, Helen says. But he decided to go by himself.
Why? Athena asks.
I wanted to go left and see the campsite, Helen says. He wanted to go right and look at some new condos for sale. Did you know in front of the campsite, there’s supposed to be a geothermal vent? You can bring a shovel and dig a hole and the water will be hot. We should go tomorrow as a family.
Yeah, that sounds fun, Athena says. Do you want to come swimming with us?
No, the water’s too cold, Helen says. She shivers and adjusts her shawl. I’ll wait here for your father. Do you surf?
Athena’s teaching me, I say. She’s really good.
I remember when I was growing up, the boards didn’t have leashes, Helen says. The girls would stay on the beach and cheer on the boys.
She does a little dance, swaying her hips, waving her arms in the air, and then says, When one of them lost a surfboard we would rush to push the surfboard back out to them. You would always push back the board to your boyfriend or, if you didn’t have a boyfriend, the boy you had a crush on.
That’s sweet...and sexist, Athena says. Did you do it for dad?
No, Helen says. This was before I met your father.
Did you ever try surfing? I ask.
No, Helen says. It looks like fun, though.
Athena and I wade into the water and then dunk, holding hands. Athena leads me deeper into the water and shows me how to paddle on the board, and spot waves, and to position myself in front of them. I lie on the board and she stands next to me, anchoring me in place. A wave comes and she pushes me forward. I am caught and carried almost to the shore, at a speed that seems unimaginably fast. Athena claps and cheers, and I immediately capsize. The waves come smooth and steady, and we repeat the exercise until I can catch and ride a wave all by myself, without even pushing off from the ground. I paddle back to Athena after another victory.
Are you sure you don’t want to try? I say.
Totally, Athena says. You look like you’re having so much fun.
I am having so much fun! I say, and then laugh. Except that I appear to have chafed off my nipples and most of my belly.
You are looking pretty red.
It stings, but I’m having too much fun to care. Surfing is the best.
We’ll have to teach you to pop up. Then you’ll be a real surfer.
Tomorrow. C’mon, get up here with me.
Athena clambers onto the board and we float, watching the sun turn from gold to purple and sink into the mountain. Our friend the pelican zips by, scouting for his dinner. Athena shivers and I hold her tighter.
The rental barrels down a narrow road, headlights illuminating a motley of hazards — speed bumps, potholes, stray dogs — seconds before calamity. To his credit, Frank brakes and swerves like a pro, skirting doom by a hair, all the while exchanging fire with Steph.
These protesters are disgusting, he growls. So disrespectful. I’d shoot every single one of them. It’s disrespectful to the flag, to the country, to the troops, to the police, to the men who serve and give their lives to protect our freedom.
That’s not even what it’s about, Steph yells. It’s about police violence. Cops killing us in the streets.
What about all the cops that get killed, Frank yells. They’re fighting for their lives out there.
Why are they fighting the people?
Look, when you’re paid to do a job, you do it. Everyone should just do their fucking jobs.
That’s the whole point of protest, when you —
STOP! Helen screams.
The car screeches to a halt and slides along the gravel another ten feet, so the bumper pokes just a foot into a vague intersection. Our stop sign is far off the road and only two feet off the ground, an improvisation, apparently. The seat belt slackens and allows me to breathe. A dump truck rumbles in front of us.