Page 5 of Under the Waves

The last time I walked down this street, I was chasing after a dream I knew would never be mine. I didn’t know what I thought would happen, but little girls liked to dream until they realized that the world doesn’t deal in pinkie promises and wishes on stars.

I shivered as the crispy Oregon breeze brushed against my skin. I’d forgotten how cold the wind blown in from across the open ocean down here on the coast could get. Hawthorne Hills was a small town tucked away on the West coast of the United States of America—where the forest met the ocean. From evergreen pine trees coated in dew drops from the morning light rain down to the concrete roads laced in a veil of mist, there was an almost mysterious aura hidden beneath the threads of summer and golden beaches.

Vast mountains roamed the outskirts as wildflower meadowswere tucked neatly between small pockets of forest and patches of free roaming grasslands. The waves kissed the golden grained beaches, hugging the fallen rocks piled at the bottom of the cliffs.

A single onyx road ran parallel to the coastline, connecting the old main street down at the northern oceanfront to the new property developments that had been renovated by the floods of wealthier families who’d moved to town over the years.

If you followed the road past the cliffs at the ocean’s edge and down towards the beach, you’d be greeted with the end of the old main street where most of the local homes resided. Sandy sidewalks coated in greenery lined each side of the paved street, on which homes of gray wooden planks and cobblestones lay. It wasn’t anything fancy, not like the main part of town, but it was enough.

Hollows beach hugged the mainland—aka, the best stretch of beach for surfing. From its soft sands to its monstrous waves, it followed the west coast down to the next town over. Huge fragments of cliffs jutted out into the ocean that were broken off from the mainland; the waves eroding them away slowly until only the memories of them remained.

Most days, my life felt like those cliffs—that I was slowly being washed away into memories. The only difference between us was that people here would remember the cliffs.

No one would remember me.

Hawthorne’s natural forests with rivers for veins and branches of pine for fingers surround the town. Vast stretches of it weaved through Hawthorne Hills, no part of the town untouched by the comfort of the woodlands. Small bridges connected parts of the forest where the crystal clear post-glacial rivers ran through them.

I remembered when I was little, I followed the various woodland trails across the bridges down towards Glacial Point. I used to love sitting down, my legs dangling through the wooden bars above the ravines below. Chirps of wild birds soaring overhead and the current of the flowing river below quickly became the most comforting melody I’d ever heard.

Snow-covered mountain tops peaked through the low stretch of clouds in the distance and small local-owned shops were littered along the main street, including Buckley’s bar, whichcatered more to the passing tourists and Elite kids, especially because it was a family-owned bar by ice hockey hotshot Cade Buckley.

Locals from the other side of town, like myself, opted to hang down by Sunny’s Hut on the old main street. From surf gear to smoothie bowls, Sunny’s Hut was vibrant and full of life, and also happened to have everything a small beach hut business could ever need—including pastel deck chairs for outdoor seating.

At the top of the cliffs lay the local surf school, a place I had always wanted to attend since I was a little kid. Enclosed in a forest of green, a small oak boardwalk lead down the cliffs to the beach below. Most of the wooden planks were coated in grains of sand and stained with droplets of salt water that had fallen from the boards of the beginner surfers that took classes there.

I always wanted to be one of them, but my father refused to let someone else coach me. He thought of them as if they were evil villains trying to corrupt me and turn me against him. I always envied the kids who got to experience the joy and friendships formed in those classes, but my father taught me how to win, and that was something I never lost sight of. I was the Orca, after all, second was never an option for me.

Just then, taped to a nearby lamppost, a glint of a flier caught my eye.

Surfing teacher wanted!

If interested, please contact Daniel Gonzales at the surf school.

All are welcome!

I pursed my lips before taking the flier down and folding it into my back pocket to look at thoroughly when I got home. That was theperfectjob, if there ever was one. I’d get paid tosurf—well, teach kids to surf but how difficult could that be? At least it would be something stable.

I’d heard of the Gonzales family. They moved here from Latin America years ago now, and the last time I saw them, they were expecting a kid of their own. Ever since the accident, they were one of the only families who didn’t join in with the public slaughtering my mom and I faced that month continuously until it became too much, and we had to move away. But, on a positive side, they would be less inclined than others to refuse to hire me because of who I was.

By the time I reached the junction, I decided that I would go down and ask if there was a position still available for hire. I needed the money, and if that made me a selfish bitch, one of my favorite insults they loved to call me, then so be it—financial security was important to me, and besides, I had to dig my way out of this hell hole somehow.

Not that any ofthese idiots cared.

Part of me still couldn’t grasp why they all did what they did, but I’d given up trying to understand that night years ago. To this day, I hadn’t been able to open up to anyone about it and I was beginning to think it was something I would take to my grave.

Nowthat, being six feet under in a casket, seemed more comforting than having to face starting a new life here againandhaving to go home to an addict mother who was slowly killing herself.

I shoved the thoughts away.

It was a new year.

A new Poppy.

I shuddered, fighting the wave of nausea that just surfaced in my throat. I’d thrown up three times this morning because I was so fucking nervous, I could’ve ripped my hair out. My fingers couldn’t stop shaking so I decided to fiddle with the wire of my headphones in my pocket as I walked.

I knew there was something wrong with me. Even though I didn’t strive to starve myself, my relationship with food was definitely far fromperfect. Looking at food shouldn’t make my entire body itch with the weight of my anxious thoughts, yet hereIwas struggling to eat more than a few bites because the voices inside my own head had convinced me it would make me ill. Now I could barely stomach more than a handful of bites before I felt full. Over the last few years, I’d lost so much of the muscle and physique my father and I had spent so long striving to achieve.

I wanted to get it back, to get it all back—Jesus, I just wanted mylifeback.