Washed Up

Undertow

Riley

Undertow. Noun. [uhn-der-toh]. Any strong current below the surface of a body of water, moving in a direction different from that of the surface current.

Failure.

That's the word my dad used to describe me when I told him the news over the phone two weeks ago.

"You're a failure, Riley Olson. What ever possessed you to drop out of Cornell? Do you know how much that costs us a semester?"

This was followed by a detailed breakdown of the cost of my college tuition down to the penny. I mean, I guess I deserved the dressing down he gave me. I did drop out of college after my sophomore year, and it was really expensive.

I press my flip-flopped heel harder against the gas pedal and speed down the highway, my tiny Honda Fit rattling on the pothole-covered road. So it's my own fault I'm in this mess. Is that supposed to make me feel better? Because it doesn't. Not one freaking bit.

Wind races through my car as I accelerate--60, 65, 70, 75--until the sea soaked air sends my tawny locks flying in every direction. I glance in my rearview mirror, and when I don't see any cops, I accelerate to 80 miles per hour, speeding by an Oldsmobile with an owner that matches its name.

You know what I wanted to tell Colonel Eugene Olson when he spewed his judgmental crap at me? I wanted to tell him that it takes one to know one. He may not have failed in his career--he's a Colonel in the Army who has hopes of making Brigadier General in the next few years-but he sure was a failure of a father.

    I've moved 17 times in my life, 18 after my car and I make it to our destination, and most of those times were because of my dad and his job. While most of Dad's coworkers refused promotions because they didn't want to uproot their families and move to a new state or even country, my dad always took the jobs, and my mom and I were dragged along for the ride. When I finally graduated from high school while we lived in Camp Atterbury, Indiana, I immediately enrolled at Cornell University. I never planned on going back to my life as an Army brat.

    The first semester of college was a blast; I loved having a roommate and a little family on my floor. I wasn't used to having friends since we'd never stayed in one place for very long, so I treasured the newfound intimacy with my floormates. But by the second semester, my roommate and I started to fight about stupid stuff: missing socks, stolen snacks, loud music, dirty dishes. By the end of year one, I was fed up with her, so I signed up for study abroad for the fall. I lived in Italy for the semester and loved the sightseeing and culture. I enjoyed traveling through parts of Europe I had never been before and I even picked up a little Italian. Mi chiamo Riley! Impressive, right?

    Spring semester, I got a new roommate and started to take some classes in my major, Business Administration. I hated them. I've never been great with organization or money or anything like that, but Dad said a Business degree would get me a good job after graduation, so I listened to him, but I ended up hating the classes. They didn't interest me, and I didn't do well at them. When I started to get B's instead of the A's I was used to, I decided I was done. I knew I couldn't change my major without Dad threatening to stop paying my tuition, so my decision was made. By the end of my sophomore year, I hated everything about college, and since I'm 20 now, my life is in my own hands. I decided to drop out.

    I don't regret dropping out of college, but I do regret where it led me: Long Beach Island, New Jersey. Most people would be thrilled about spending their summer at the beach, but I'm not. More specifically, I'm not thrilled about spending twelve weeks living with people I've never met and working in a pizza shop serving over-enthusiastic tourists.

    The wind whipping my hair into my face grows saltier and I breathe in the smell. This summer wouldn't be so bad if I could spend it on the beach. I love the outdoors. In every place I've ever lived, I always find someplace outdoors by myself that makes it all bearable. After move number six, I gave up on trying to make lasting friendships. Finding a place to be alone with my thoughts has pretty much been my only solace. Even at Cornell and in Italy, I always found a place where I could be alone with nature.

    The highway winds over a hill and I slow down when I see the bay, a huge bridge covering the distance between the mainland and the long, slender island. My new home. I almost laugh out loud. The word "home" has lost all meaning to me. I've had seventeen homes, but none of them felt like what a home should feel like. Or at least what I assume a home should feel like. In the movies, a home is always filled with love, laughter, and support. It's steady and constant, a place to run to when things are hard. I guess the outdoors have been my only home, but I imagine the beach will be too busy to be much of a refuge for me this summer.

    I cross the bridge, and my heart starts to pound. I'm not sure why I'm nervous. This is my 18th move; I should be used to the process by now. Unpack your meager possessions. Find a grocery store, a gas station, a convenience store. Don't get attached to anyone. This time is different, however. Before, I was always with my parents so I could hide behind them and then scuttle off to my room when anyone tried to talk to me. This time, however, I have to meet Mr. and Mrs. Jennings and thank them profusely for agreeing to take my parents' prodigal daughter under their wing for the summer. This time, I'm on my own.

    I think Mom sent me here because she felt bad for me and she knew better than to try to change Dad's mind. Mom told me that her and my dad used to spend their summers on this island all through college, working part time jobs and living in a crappy mainland apartment. They stayed on the beach any time they weren't working, rode bikes up and down the island, and made friends with all of the people who lived there year round like the Jennings. Since my parents are stationed in the U.A.E. right now, they couldn't fly me over to join them so they sent me here as an apology.

    I should be grateful. I'm using this summer to figure out what to do with my life. By the end of the summer, I'll have my feet back under me. I'll find a full-time job myself doing something that I love--still have to figure out what that is--and I won't have to rely on my parents' restrictive generosity any longer. I have twelve weeks--93 days, to be exact--to figure out just what that looks like. For now, I'm caught in the undertow, but by the end of this summer, I'll be riding the waves like a pro.

~~~~~

Welcome to the first chapter of "Washed Up," my summer-themed short story! I hope you enjoyed this little introduction to Riley. We'll get to learn about Ross, the other main character, in the next chapter!

If you enjoyed the first chapter, please add this book to your library and vote! Thanks for reading.

~ Hannah