to tell me what was going on?” he asked when they’d retrieved the board and, out of earshot, were heading toward the ocean.
“I was just sitting on the beach, reading a book on my phone and they came out of nowhere. Started giving me a hard time. Bully a-holes.”
“Punks are always gonna be punks.”
“Nah. They think I’m a nerd because I’m different. I’m skinny and I’ve got a big nose.” His anger radiated toward Mark, making the ocean air seem thicker. They walked on.
Mark also understood, since talking to Laurel, that Peter was still grieving and working through the stress of losing his father, which also made him an easy mark. For some reason, jerks had special radar for vulnerable kids. “Hey, first off, they should talk, if that’s the reason. Did you look at them? Listen, it could be something as dumb as the fact you’re the new kid and they know you don’t have any friends yet to stick up for you, which will change soon enough.”
“And I keep getting stuck watching my sisters. It’s not exactly cool to hang out with four-year-olds.”
So that was why he’d put up such a fight earlier with Laurel. Mark figured it was worth mentioning to her. In the meantime, he’d practice treating the boy like a young friend.
“Yeah, but I bet girls love that, in an ‘aw’ kind of way.”
Peter screwed up his face, like Mark had said the dumbest thing in the world.
“What’s with the Bart shirt, man? He back in style?”
“It was my dad’s.” Peter looked at his chest as if reconsidering the meaning.
What was he supposed to say to that? The kid still missed his father. They continued on, quiet for another few moments, watching the waves as they strolled.
“Well, now that I’ve announced you’re my student, I guess we better get started. Take Bart off. You got trunks under those cargos?”
Peter nodded.
“Wearin’ sunscreen?”
He nodded again, but Mark suspected it was a fib, so he grabbed the small bottle from his back pocket. They both put it on.
“Let’s hit the waves.”
Whether it was because Peter was shaken up from what had just transpired and was grateful, or the kid had always secretly wanted to learn to surf, Mark hadn’t a clue, but highly out of character, from what Mark had witnessed of Peter so far, he did what he was told. And gladly!
After the initial “how to” lesson, and a discussion of strength and balance exercises Peter needed to do to get into shape for surfing, Mark used the time waiting for waves, both sitting on the board, to get to know a little about Peter. “Where’d you go to school last year?”
“Paso Robles Middle School.”
“What’s your favorite subject?”
“Art, I guess.”
“Are you good at it?”
“Kind of.”
“Have a girlfriend?”
He got a killer “as if” glare for that.
“Who’s your best friend?”
Peter stared down at the board, silent.
“No friend?”
“My dad was sick all the time, okay?”
Mark didn’t react to the kid spitting the words at him. He could only imagine how hard it would be to maintain a friendship when his world was wrapped tight with worry and a fatally sick father. Or maybe parents were hesitant to let their sons sleep over at Peter’s house, like cancer was contagious or something. Who knew. “Must’ve been hard.”
“I hated it. I mean I loved him, but everything was so crappy all the time.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Peter’s guard was coming down. “I hear ya. Must have been a bitch.”
“They made me go to some stupid group. We were all a bunch of losers.”
“You mean you’d all lost someone you loved?” He needed to reframe it for Peter—something Mark himself had learned when he went into group therapy—because he couldn’t let Peter get away with the negative opinion of himself and other grievers, or anyone in therapy.
The kid’s mouth was tight, in a straight line, and he looked on the verge of crying.
“This anger you’re feeling all the time is real. It’s part of grieving. When we lose someone we love, we grieve for them. Sometimes it makes us angry as hell.”
“How do you know?” He spit out the words, challenging Mark.
“I lost more military buddies than I care to count in Iraq and Afghanistan. I know what I’m talking about.” His grief had been the single hardest part of coming back to Sandpiper Beach, because he no longer had the distraction of fighting a war. He was faced head-on with all the loss and horrifying memories. They’d crashed against him every single day and knocked him down. Made him want to either strike out or withdraw, so he chose to pull back, lie low, until he felt fit enough for society again. When it came to anger, he knew what he was talking about. Yet dealing with Peter, he already felt in over his head.
He saw a flicker of something in Peter’s gaze—maybe understanding, or firsthand experience grappling with fury. He’d also become more attentive.
“It’s hard, man,” Mark said. “Really hard. I get it.”
“I’m never gonna stop being mad. I hate death!”
The statement made him think about Laurel and all she’d had to face alone. They had that in common. Since they’d met that morning, she’d popped into his head a dozen times, which worried him. He remembered how she didn’t smile easily—but when she did, wow—and how cautious she seemed with him, insecure. Then the next thing he knew, she was spilling her life story over chocolate chip cookies.
Though she looked way too young to be a mother of a fourteen-year-old, she was still bound to be a bit older than Mark. Why was he even thinking this stuff? He wasn’t going to get involved.
He liked her hopeful attitude, trusted her instincts about the B&B and decided she was nothing short of an inspiration the way she refused to let loss and grief—being a widow, a single mother of three kids and overloaded with responsibility—drag her down. Not to mention how tough it must be dealing with a hurting and grieving teen like Peter.
Ah, hell, he already was involved. The kid was still staring at him.
“You have a right to your anger, but your mom isn’t the one who deserves it.” Mark glanced up to see a perfect-sized swell for a newcomer. He jumped off the board, leaving Peter on his own. “Okay, catch this one. Paddle. Paddle. Paddle!”
And Peter paddled as if his life depended on it. Mark bodysurfed alongside him,
