Beyond the Rising Tide by Sarah Beard Read Free Book Online Page B

don’t know what—maybe vomiting or asphyxiation or spontaneous combustion. But nothing happens. So I take another bite, bigger this time. And it goes down as easily as the first.
    Now that I’m confident eating won’t turn me into a gremlin, I return my attention to Avery. I can’t believe I’m sitting beside her, eating a sandwich we made together. She’s close enough that I can feel warmth radiating from her skin. And she smells amazing, like coconut and some other fruity scent.
    All the death talk should make an easy transition into the things I really want to talk to her about. But I can’t exactly turn to her and say, “You don’t need to take my death so hard. My life wasn’t really worth living anyway.” Not only would it sound totally creepy, but she can’t know who I am. No, I’m going to have to be creative about this. Deliver my message in a roundabout way.
    I look around her mom’s condo. I’ve seen the decor before. Sailboat paintings and knickknacks, and a wooden yacht club plaque. I study it now with feigned interest, as though I’ve never seen it before. “Do you love sailing as much as your mom?”
    She finishes chewing, then says, “It’s her passion, not mine. I think she gets a lot of writing inspiration on the waves. But we usually take a family trip to the Channel Islands at the end of the summer before school starts.”
    “Are you going this year?” With her aversion to the ocean, I don’t see why she would. But if I can get her to explain why, it will steer our conversation in the direction I want.
    “I’m not sure.” She rolls a blueberry between her thumb and index finger. “A lot of things have changed since last year.”
    Now we’re getting somewhere. “Like what?”
    Her fingers go still, and she gazes down at her blueberry as though it’s a crystal ball showing her the answer to my question. Whatever she sees darkens her expression into something pained. Her lips part, and just when I think she’s going to voice her thoughts, she slides on a cheerful façade. It may fool other people, but through the tiny cracks, I can still see her pain.
    She smiles in the way she usually does right before making a joke. “My sister dyed her hair black, and I don’t think my mom will let her on the boat when she no longer looks like a California girl.”
    I give her a courtesy smile, then gaze at her and wait for a real answer. She doesn’t give it to me, though. She eats her blueberry and says, “What about you? Do you sail? Wait—let me guess. You surf.”
    I try to tell myself that it’s okay she’s not ready to open up yet, that I can be patient. I shake my head. “I’ve never tried it.”
    Her eyebrows lift in surprise. “Why not?”
    “Just haven’t had the chance.” I saw the ocean only once when I was alive, on the same day I drowned in it.
    Her brows come back down and pinch together. “Don’t you live around here?”
    I’ve never had a conversation like this, where I’ve had to construct my answers so that they’re both truthful and vague. “No—I’m only here for a little while.”
    She picks up her sandwich, but doesn’t take a bite. “Well, you can’t visit SLO county without giving surfing a shot. If you catch even one wave, you’ll be hooked for life.” Her expression sobers, and I glimpse that pain in her eyes again before she blinks it away. “I know someone who could give you lessons. His name is Tyler, and he works at the surf shop at Avila Beach. Just go in and tell him I sent you.”
    “I might just do that.” Or not. I should probably avoid Tyler so I don’t end up accidentally throwing my fist in his face.
    A cell phone on the counter starts vibrating, and Avery reaches for it and looks at the screen. “Sorry, I have to take this.” She takes the phone into the living room. I try not to listen but can’t really help it when there’s nothing else to listen to. It sounds like someone is asking her for a favor, because Avery is