Page 29 of Better Than Revenge
“YOU’RE UP EARLY,” GRANDMA SAIDthe next morning. “Isn’t it Saturday? Time to sleep in and procrastinate homework or surf.”
“I don’t surf, Grandma. Apparently, that’s you.” I sat at the kitchen table eating oatmeal coated in brown sugar and sliced bananas. I had a feeling Theo was going to kick my butt today, and I wanted to make sure I ate enough to support a butt kicking.
“You should. It’s fun.” Grandma sat next to me eating her own bowl of oatmeal. Hers had bananas but only a small sprinkle of brown sugar.
“Tell me more about your surfing. How long did it take tolearn?”
“Andrew Lancaster taught me nearly every day for an entire summer.”
“Every day? Did you get really good at it?”
“Not particularly, but I had fun.”
That wasn’t the pep talk I needed this morning. “I’m going to pretend you became a competition-ready surfer.”
“Why would you pretend that?”
“Because I have big plans, Grams, and I need some inspiration.”
“You’re good at everything you do,” she said.
Goodwas the right word. I was pretty muchgoodat things I tried. But good didn’t make me a star soccer player. Good didn’t make me the host of the school’s podcast. And good would definitely not turn me into the starting kicker. I needed to be beyond good. I needed to be exceptional.
“Wait. Andrew Lancaster?” I asked. “Isn’t that the famous painter?” The Andrew Lancaster I’d heard of was a pop painting icon. Especially famous around here because he grew up on the Central Coast. He’d died about five years ago, but his art lived on. An art installment of his works traveled the country. He painted on surfboards and tires and old road signs and records and anything he could get his hands on, it seemed.
“Yes, he painted. I told you that. He painted my surfboard. Mine was the first one.”
“Really?” Could that be true? My grandma had owned the first piece of art painted by Andrew Lancaster? “What happened to that surfboard again?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it part of his art installment?”
“No, my friend borrowed it, and I never got it back. She lost it, I think,” she said, like I hadn’t just asked her what happened to it and she hadn’t just told me she didn’t know.
“Huh. Maybe we can find it somehow.”
“Maybe,” she said.
“I have to go.” I kissed her cheek, rinsed my bowl out in the sink, and loaded it into the dishwasher.
“Bye, honey.”
“Mom! Dad! I’ll be back later.”
Mom poked her head out of her bedroom on my way to the front door and gave my outfit—running shorts and a tee—a once-over. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“To work out with a new friend. And then maybe grab lunch.” I only said that last part because I had a feeling this would take a while. I wanted a cushion of time to work in. I didn’t want to tell my mom what I was really doing until I knew it was even the slightest possibility.
“Okay,” Mom said. “Also, I’d like to meet this new friendsoon.”
“Sure.” Not happening. I wasn’t even sure if Theo thought of me as his friend. I certainly didn’t think of him as mine.
My phone buzzed with a text to our group chat as I left the house.Kill it today,was the message from Deja. She must’ve had to work if she was up this early.
Lunch tomorrow?I typed back.
I’m in and I’m sure the guys will be too when they wake up.