Grandview, page 15
“Fully agree, but you understand what I mean. Doesn’t he live up there anyway in Dana Point or wherever?”
“Yes,” Meghan said.
“Perfect,” Braden said. “He needs to stay up there, go to Doho, take some lessons. Keep outta here and away from me.”
“See, that’s what I mean,” Meghan said. “I acknowledge, okay, that my brother should admit some responsibility for what happened. But you should see yourself. Really. You need to see yourself and how your thought process is just like ... you own the ocean. And just so you know, you don’t.” Braden squeezed his eyes shut and began massaging his temples and groaning.
“Oh, dude. Hey, Kylie. C’mere, dude.”
Kylie came, shoving the tail end of a hot dog into her mouth. Through a matrix of processed meat, side-loading bun and condiments, she spoke.
“What?”
“Tell her,” Braden said to Meghan. “She needs to know.” To Kylie, he said, “She’s got it all figured out.” Kylie looked at Meghan and waited, the corners of her mouth painted yellow.
“I’m Meghan,” she said.
“Okay,” Kylie said.
“Go ahead, tell her,” Braden said. Meghan straightened herself and looked up at Kylie, who stood above her, picking at her teeth with a fingernail.
“As a person of color—”
“You’re not white?” Kylie said. Most people apart from Meghan laughed.
“No, I’m saying that you, as a person of color, will understand.” Kylie pulled a wad of napkins from the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt and wiped her mouth.
“Okay. What do I understand?”
While Meghan attempted to justify her belief that localism within surfing communities was, in fact, another form of racism, Kylie’s attention settled on her precious, melancholy friend, who seemed unhappy. Something about her was not right. Meghan systematically defended her position, and Veronica’s eyes flitted to the right and saw Robert and Eddie approach. She then bit down on her lip and looked at the sand. Meghan produced her final arguments and awaited Kylie’s reply.
“Maybe,” Kylie said, without turning her eyes from Veronica, “I dunno.”
“Yeah,” Braden said, “I say bullshit.”
“I hear what she’s saying though,” interjected Tiff. “I don’t know if I agree with all of it necessarily, but I hear what she’s saying.”
“That’s all I can ask,” Meghan said, “that you afford me the respect of listening to my position.”
“All I can ask,” Braden said, “is that people like you stop moving here and turning my city into Barneyland.”
“Yeeeew,” cried a young man in cutoff Dickies and a black Cap'n Keno’s shirt, to whom Braden nodded. He and Braden rose halfway from their seats to fist bump each other and then sat back down. Meghan shook her head gloomily.
“This is exactly what I’m referring to. You think in terms of birthright, but your ancestors stole this land. Or were you not aware?”
“Our ancestors, Meghan.”
“Yes, and I accept that. Can you accept that?”
“Meghan,” Braden said, leaning forward in his chair, “I was born and raised here. This is my home.”
“Okay, so you’re privileged. I’m happy for you.”
“No,” Braden said. “My mom worked hard every day. We got nothing handed to us.”
“I’m not saying you grew up easy, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t just as much a product of white privilege.”
“Meghan,” Braden said, “your neighborhood was a field. Me and my friends used to sneak in there and get drunk.” To the young man in the cutoff Dickies he said, “Remember Quaaludia?” The young man nodded meaningfully. “It was different then, Meghan. You paid what for your house? A million? Two million? Cash? You come here for a couple weeks in the summer and decide you love it so much, you’ve just got to buy a house here. You get your two million dollar house that used to be a field and start preaching to us about white privilege, racist locals, and all your bullshit, and we can hardly afford to live here anymore ’cuz you people won’t stop coming here and buying everything. People like you are the problem, not us.”
“Can’t you hear yourself? You’re missing the point.”
“And I think I remember you talking about your rental property at the last meeting. You bought one of those condos at the front of your development too, right?” Meghan grew silent. Braden repeated the question.
“I did,” Meghan said.
“I checked out the models. They’re all right. Pretty small though for a million bucks. How much you rent it for?”
“A fair amount.”
“How much? Maybe I’d like a decent place to live.”
“For the location, what I’m asking for is totally reasonable.”
Braden made a choking sound and grabbed at his throat, flopping about in his chair. After a few moments of this, he said, “I rest my case. What are your thoughts, Kylie? Am I racist? Her brother bailed his board at my face, so I’m racist? Because I don’t have a million dollars for a tiny condo?”
“I dunno,” Kylie said. “Whatever you think.” Her concern for Veronica, who appeared more desperate by the second, relegated everything else happening around her to a lower priority. Also, she resented the expectation of both Braden and the angry girl that as a “person of color” she was obligated to mediate between them regarding things she normally gave little thought.
To her, life had always passed in a series of episodes, each sequence requiring a different mindset. At home she was a daughter whose priorities consisted of pancakes for breakfast and movie night with dad. In competition she became a predator, taking pleasure in nothing but total commitment to victory. With her friends, she felt herself one part of a minuscule population, surrounded by anthropomorphic objects of lesser value and little meaning.
“That’s what I mean,” said the girl whose name no longer mattered. “You’re asking her these pointed questions, like you need to guide her or something. I know it’s not intentional—I’m not saying that. You just really need to just, like, meditate on your own embedded racism.” She turned her face to Kylie. “Are you okay?” the girl said. “You say what you want. Don’t listen to him.”
“This is my friend, Meghan,” Braden said. “Stop embarrassing yourself.”
While Kylie’s mind repaired the gaps in conversation from when she hadn’t been paying attention, she asked Veronica to accompany her on a walk down the beach. She helped Veronica stand up, took her arm, and they left the group. Before being out of earshot, she turned back to Braden and the girl.
“Braden, don’t speak for me.” At this, the girl laughed and clapped her hands. To her, Kylie said, “Stop clapping,” and led Veronica away.
Chapter 36: Alliances
Kylie led Veronica through scattered bunches of people, a few of whom called out to her. She did not reply but guided Veronica to the shore until they stopped where Madison and her friends were earlier convened, adding to and confusing the existing set of footprints. Veronica’s breath was irregular, and her eyes remained downcast behind the curtain of her long, black hair. Kylie separated Veronica’s hair in the center and peeked through to make a silly face, but there were tears and snot and Kylie let the hair fall. Veronica from her reticule pulled out a small pack of tissues and cleaned her face.
“Want me to stab him?”
“No.”
“Because I will. I’ll get a coat hanger from the fire and stab him in the eye.”
“I believe you would,” Veronica said, smiling against her will. “But no, please. Don’t do that.”
“What happened, babe? You were with him for like ten minutes, and now it’s all weird.”
“You could tell?”
“Me and everybody. You guys came walking back together like in Bambi, when the little animals are all in love and like floating around. Then you got all weird.”
“Ugh,” Veronica said.
“Well, that’s what it looked like. What happened? Did he say something?”
“No,” Veronica said dejectedly. “It was just different all the sudden. I thought something was happening between us, but then he stopped talking to me. I could just tell he was disgusted at me by the way he looked at me.” Veronica’s voice quavered, but she fought it back.
“You know his fiancée died, right?” Veronica shook her head.
“How?”
“Some kind of hiking accident.”
“Oh, how sad.”
“Super sad. I think he was the one that found her too.” Veronica gasped, and Kylie nodded. “That’s when he started all his charity things and stuff. He’s kinda messed up. And he did this before too with my friend Heidi. They hung out for a few days and he got all weird, and he told her it was because he was, like, devoted to Shannon still. That’s who died. She was really nice.”
“Oh, you know what,” Veronica said, “I think I remember hearing about her. Heavens. That was Eddie’s girlfriend? That councilwoman’s daughter?”
“Yeah, that was her. You don’t want all that, dude. He’s messed up.”
“It isn’t just him,” Vero said. “It’s me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Kylie.” She began crying again.
“Vero,” Kylie said, “there’s nothing wrong with you. Don’t say that.”
“Thank you, honey,” Veronica said.
But it is me, Kylie, thought Veronica, as Kylie made her way up to the bathrooms, it’s always me. She sat alone with the tumultuous obsidian sea. From a fire pit behind her, perhaps the one from which she came, a chorus of voices accompanied the strumming of an amplified acoustic guitar. She thought back to when Eddie called out her name from a distance while she passed by, smoothed over and made pretty beneath June’s all-flattering gloom. At arm’s length, electric-lit, bereft of that kindly shroud, he had seen her truly and regretted his own advances. The change in his countenance she could have foretold, having seen such metamorphoses before in other temporarily interested men.
Veronica could not know that Eddie, upon seeing her up close, was pleased to the point of astonishment with how well and how naturally the different parts of her body and face combined into a ravishing whole. She did not understand the strength of Eddie’s devotion to his departed fiancée, which made the development of new relationships close to impossible for him. Eddie himself did not understand how great a part of that devotion was, in fact, a mask for his own insecurities. Shannon had known and accepted Eddie’s body. With Shannon he had grown comfortable with his collection of moles, his unconventionally aligned body hair, the large, textured birthmark over his lower abdomen and his undersized manhood. Neither Veronica nor Eddie understood that had their romance progressed uninterrupted each would have found in the other precisely that acceptance and companionship for which they longed.
Chapter 37: Historicity
Kylie reappeared within the radius of the fire’s light. Shayla was again speaking, though reluctantly and in an unofficial capacity. Shayla’s exterior showed its usual composition, but inside the front pocket of her hooded sweatshirt she clenched and unclenched her hands, digging the fingernails from one hand into the palm of the other. A small audience sat before her in rapt attention.
“190.”
“Whoa,” said Chad. “I knew you were smart, but that’s impressive.”
“What is yours?” Shayla asked, digging her right thumbnail into her left palm.
“147. Which until now I felt pretty good about.”
Holly, a slender woman with full-sleeve tattoos and multicolor hair said, “Chad, I did not know that about you. Very cool.”
“What are you guys talking about?” Kylie asked.
“Intelligence,” Chad said.
“One way to measure one kind of intelligence,” Shayla said.
“What way?”
“IQ,” Chad said.
“You could have just said IQ,” Kylie said. “Is 147 good?”
“It’s pretty high,” Chad said, “but next to Shayla I’m an idiot.”
“I find that premise disagreeable,” Shayla said.
“Of course you do,” said Chad, “but there has to be some objective standard. It’s not perfect, but it works.”
“For some things,” Shayla said, “it does work. Yes.”
“If Chad is 147,” Kylie said, “I’m probably like 300. What are you, Shayla?”
“190.”
“Okay, then I’m at least 148. How do you find out?”
“You take a test,” Shayla said.
“Let me know when you do, Kylie,” Chad said. “I’d love to see the results.”
“I will,” Kylie said, pushing on his shoulder. “Make room, fool.” Chad put one hand down to brace himself and with the other knocked Kylie’s hand away.
“You didn't bring anything to sit on? How is that my problem?”
“Move over.”
“Ask nicely.”
“Move over or I’ll tell Jody you’re being a dick.”
“You can tell Jody anything,” Chad said, “I could care less. Ask nicely.”
Kylie growled.
“Fine,” she said, “please may I sit on your precious towel, asshat?”
“I’ll accept that,” said Chad, “since it’s probably the best you can do.” He scooted over to make room for her, and Kylie seated herself, flicking Chad’s earlobe in the process.
“Lil’ bitch,” she whispered, leaning into the same ear.
“Nice to meet you, little bitch,” he replied, “I’m Chad.”
“Stop it, you two,” said Holly. “Adults are talking.” Robert arrived with his and Leticia’s chairs. He locked them open and set them in the sand.
“You need me to separate them?”
“Not if they can behave,” Holly said.
“That’s a big ‘if,’” Robert said.
“Hey, bro,” Chad said.
“Hey,” Robert said, and they bumped fists. Chad gestured at Kylie with his chin.
“I’ll be nice,” he said, “but I don’t know about her.”
“I’ll kick your ass,” Kylie said.
“Try it,” Chad said.
“If you won’t stop,” Holly said, “can you just go somewhere else? I for one would like Shayla to finish.”
“We’ll be good,” Chad said. Kylie nodded.
“Sorry, Shayla,” Kylie said.
“No prob,” Shayla said.
“So,” Robert said, “what’s the topic?”
“The secrets of The Universe,” Holly said.
“Oh,” Leticia said. “Interesting.”
As the conversation wore on, Shayla felt increasingly separate. Not dissociative, not yet. Only separate. It was hard for her to maintain equilibrium, but she was doing pretty well. Once her monologue evolved into conversation, she felt better. But then, the conversation became about subjectivity in art, a topic about which she had a lot of feelings, and so she conjured The Rolodex, an imaginary device by which she separated her thoughts into five distinct categories: Obvious, Simple, Conversation, Careful, Scholastic. She could not remember having first envisioned The Rolodex, with its handwritten, fraying cards, but it was familiar and always available when needed. The tongue of the cardstock divider marked “Conversation,” had it actually existed, would have been much worse for wear than the other four. Most of the time the system worked as long as she dwelt primarily within the first three categories.
“Do you believe in God?”
Shayla had known this question would come up. It was inevitable. The person asking was someone Shayla knew well, a very slight young woman who went by Jay. Her girlfriend had been Shayla’s roommate during her freshman year at college. Jay’s long blue hair shot out from beneath a beanie pulled low to just above her eyes.
“Yes.”
“Can you give a logical explanation of why?”
There was a pause, and Shayla said, “No.” She gave this answer not because she was unable to give an explanation, but because her own answer to that question was written out on one of the cards behind the Scholastic divider and was in need of refinement.
“Who is God?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is there one God or many gods?”
“I believe there is one God.”
“How do you know?”
Robert could tell Shayla did not relish her time as Oracle of Moonlight. Her speculations concerning the identity of God made him uneasy, and he wished for someone to change the subject. Shayla wanted to change subjects as well, but for that change to come about by the will of another and at the right time. He enjoyed listening to her speak and tried to imagine possessing a mind like hers. Shayla detailed her theodicies, which were brilliant. If there is one God, Robert thought, and if they made all this, what is the reason? On the cement area at the entrance to the children’s playground, a woman in rags had the top of the trash can off and was picking through its contents. How does that fit into the divine plan? he thought. Does that please God, humans reduced to eating trash? The homeless woman dropped her hands and looked directly at him, and for one terrible fraction of a second Robert believed she had heard his thoughts. And if God is real, he thought, surely they can see my thoughts, clear as day. He shuddered and pushed that thought as far down as he could. Someone really needed to change the subject.
“Shayla,” Robert said, interrupting, “do you think we’re gonna make it? As a society, I mean.”
“Please explain what you mean. Are you referring to one aspect of society in particular?”
“I just mean as a whole. You know, global warming and pollution and stuff like that. And justice, and everything. All of it.” Shayla stared into Robert’s eyes for a full seven seconds, sifting through categories and counting one-one thousands to herself. It felt much longer to Robert and the others and longer to Leticia still. She reached eight-one thousand and breathed in a lungful of salted air.
“I believe,” she said, “that humanity will carry on a long time yet, though with fewer of us and in different ways. Far fewer of us.” Robert pursed his lips.
