Breathe me Home | NaNoWriMo 2016

Chapter 8

The next day at school is a weeny bit tense. My three hecklers almost fall all over themselves when I walk into the social studies room.
"Hey, brat, how'd the interview go?"
I didn't see which one said it, but apparently it's the funniest thing any of them has ever heard. I slip into my back corner desk and fantasize about appropriate punishments. Flogging. Bamboo shoots under the fingernails. One hundred hours straight tied to a chair while watching back-to-back Banana Splits reruns. No...they'd probably enjoy that.
Another shout from the idiots. "Hey is Uncle gonna teach you to surf?" Instead of laughter, though, this one is followed by a series of "Shhhhhs."
Jonas, who has remained quiet up until this point, cranes his neck to look back at my peanut gallery. All three boys fall into their chairs and show a renewed interest in their textbooks.
What's that all about? Jonas isn't exactly intimidating.
Before I can figure it out, Mrs. Ashe strolls in. She cocks an eyebrow toward the back of the room, obviously suspicious of the silence. She glances at her chair, probably checking for lizards or one of the foot-long centipedes that never show up in the travel brochures. Finding no signs of tomfoolery, she begins the day's lesson.

After school I walk past my bus and follow the same sidewalks that George led me on the day before. I must be insane. A few of the kids in front of me turn to shoot questioning stares, but most ignore me. And I ignore them.
Pearl City Surf sits exactly as I'd left it yesterday. I doubt that any customers interrupted the old man's day. The door is propped open again. I take a step, on foot inside the door and one out. Not too late to change my mind. I can easily back out and find someone else on this street to help me. This part of Pearl City wasn't as touristy as the shopping district in Honolulu. Maybe these locals wouldn't be so busy, more willing to help.
But what Dad had said stuck with me. I can't quit. This is my bronco. I have to face him. If my father is willing to give up his Navy career and cart us all back to Montana, then I can handle one old man.
Someone coughs from inside.
I step back outside, heart pounding my ribs into submission. Okay, Stacy, deep breath. I grip my notebook in one hand, straighten myself, and step back into the shop. This time, it's not empty. The old man is sitting on a stool behind the counter, going through what looks like a year's worth of mail. Probably never remembers to check his mailbox.
He must be sober today, because his eyes snap up from the letter he's reading and bore into me. "In the market for a surfboard?" He folds his arms across his chest.
"No...no, sir." With the counter between us, I feel a bit braver, so I step closer.
"Still bugging me, then."
"Yes...no, sir." I step to the counter and lay my notebook on the glass. "I...I really need to talk to you."
"And I told you I don't have time for you." His glasses perch on the end of his nose and he peers at me over the tops, dark eyes boring right through me. Though he looks like he's been crumpled into a ball and left to dry in the sun, his eyes are clear and sharp.
I look around the shop. "You don't look busy."
He shoots up from his stool so fast that I flinch. "And what do you know, girl!" A brown finger hovers in my face. "Thirty years I've been on this spot. I think I know my business. Now get out! Find another islander to harass!"
Tears threaten to push out of my eyes. I can't do this. There's nicer people out there, why do I need to waste my time on this bitter old man who spends his days hiding behind this counter or up in his room?  I grab my notebook and turn to the door, practically running by the time I get to it.
A shadow fills the doorway.
I stop, nearly colliding with the person coming into the shop.
It takes only a second for me to recognize his face. And his eyes, which are slits now, glaring past me.
"Uncle," Jonas says. "That wasn't nice."