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My message to Mr. Dempsey read, Maybe we could catch some waves? I hit Send and logged off, knowing this would have to be my last attempt on Mr. Dempsey for a while. A small part of me wondered what kind of high school principal had a dating profile where any of his students might see it.
The answer came almost immediately. One who didn’t care. Who might even welcome it.
***
That night I parked in a well-lit parking lot to sleep, though I probably didn’t clock more than three or four hours total. Every sound—a car door slamming, a siren, footsteps—jerked me awake, and it was a relief to pull into the gym parking lot early the next morning. I always worked the opening shift, turning on the lights, pulling the towels out of the dryer and folding them. It got me off the street before anyone could call in a complaint about someone sleeping in their car. Aside from the time for a shower and throwing in a load of laundry, I also loved the quiet. No obnoxious membership sales staff, no kids club chaos or the yoga-mommy brigade with their enormous jogging strollers and BPA-free water bottles. Just the early morning gym rats, who were still half asleep when they swiped their cards through the reader and grabbed one of my towels.
I stared at the plate glass windows in front of me, the dark street reflecting my image back. My wet hair was pulled into a neat ponytail. The white polo shirt with the Y logo on the front was bright, though my features were blurry around the edges, which was how I felt most of the time. As if I were slowly seeping into the space around me, and pretty soon the only things left would be my car keys and a pile of unfolded towels.
I turned on the computer and logged on to the dating website, not expecting anything. But in addition to the Read icon, there was a response.
Where do you like to surf?
I looked over my shoulder, as if someone might come up behind me and see what I was doing. Beyond the cluster of dark offices came the faint thrum of the treadmills, the clang of weights, but all was silent up front. A pulse of energy zipped through me.
I did a quick Google search for best surfing spots in Los Angeles and tried to think about the kind of person Amelia might be. What she might care about and who she might dream of becoming. Then I started to flesh out her backstory. Amelia Morgan, born and raised in Encino. Maybe she did a few semesters at Cal State Northridge, before having to drop out. The kind of person Mr. Dempsey might think he could help.
The curser blinked inside the blank message space, and I felt the weight of it, the importance of drafting the perfect response. Zuma, I typed back. A beach near the northern edge of LA County would make the most sense for a girl who grew up in the valley. It was also unlikely that Mr. Dempsey—Cory—would be a regular there. Best waves in Malibu! I added.
I hit Send and felt a rush of nerves. I was no stranger to lost opportunity. One moment, you might be on the verge of an entire life, the next you’re feeding quarters into a do-it-yourself car wash once a week so that your minivan wouldn’t look like someone was living in it.
I looked at his profile picture again. A slightly crooked tooth offered a bit of character to a megawatt smile. Athletic shoulders honed from years of surfing. So much better than any of my other options.
***
“Hey, kiddo,” my best friend, Cal, said when he arrived at 8:30. “Robert and I went to go see Ricochet last night and, oh my god, you have to see it. Maybe we could catch a matinee this weekend.”
I glanced over my shoulder, where Johnny, our manager, sat, lips pursed like a Sunday school teacher, tapping away on his computer.
“I’m scheduled all weekend,” I told him.
“Too bad. Want to do lunch today?”
“That’ll work.”
Cal rapped the counter with his knuckles and said, “Stay gold, Ponyboy.”
At least a decade older than I was—a person of a certain era never reveals their true age—Cal was the only one who knew I lived in my car. He found small ways to help, without making me feel self-conscious about it. When he and his boyfriend, Robert, traveled, they always asked me to house-sit, even though they had no plants to water or pets to feed. He also took me out to lunch at least once a week, supposedly to thank me for pushing new members into signing up for training sessions with him. He always ordered too much, then gave me the leftovers. Cal started at the Y like I did, working the front desk while he went to school at night to get his trainer certification. He was always on me to take classes. Community college was invented for people like us. I supposed I could, I just wouldn’t know what to take. How did a person better themselves if the image of their future was a blank page? What would I even take? Accounting? Beauty classes? Welding?
“Meg,” Johnny called from his office. “Remember to fold the towels in thirds first, then in half.”
***
All morning, I kept the Circle of Love website pulled up on the computer in front of me, hidden behind a few other windows. Around eleven, I toggled back to it and reread Cory’s latest message. You are the best kind of distraction, but I almost missed a parent meeting.
Amelia and Cory had been going back and forth all morning, starting out with a flirty one from him. I can’t believe I’ve been surfing LA beaches forever and never run into you. But in the hours since that first message, he’d also revealed a lot about himself, and I was gathering the information, trying to draw out more.
I started with a simple question. What matters the most to you?
His response was predictably sappy. My family. Above personal success or wealth, above health, everything.
His greatest regret was about not making amends with his grandfather before he died. It was painful, but I learned a lot from it. Who are we if we’re not constantly learning and growing? I think it’s the difficult lessons that teach us the most.
When I asked about his job, he wrote, Engaging young minds is both a thrill and a privilege.
I also learned smaller details, things that would cement a connection. He was allergic to cats. He didn’t understand hockey but pretended to. He despised anything with ginger in it and loved black coffee. He called himself a conscious optimist.
Don’t feel bad, I had to Google it too.
