“Hello, cowgirl,” he says in an emotionless, lazy voice that sounds like it got flattened by an eighteen-wheeler. He’s high as hell—on what, I don’t know. But his eyes are just as dead as his words, and his head’s moving a little funny, bobbing and weaving.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement from Porter.

“Nuh-uh.” Davy lifts his crutch and points it in Porter’s direction.

Only, it’s not a crutch. It’s the shotgun from the bonfire.

I freeze. So does Porter; he was in the middle of bounding over the counter.

“Saw you riding around in the parking lot earlier,” Davy says to me. “Thought maybe you were coming over to apologize. But you drove right past me.”

Shit! How could I have not noticed Davy’s big yellow truck?

“Put the gun down, Davy,” Porter says in a casual voice that sounds a little forced. “Come on, man. That’s insane. Where did you even get that thing? If someone saw you walking around with that, you could end up in jail. Don’t be stupid.”

“Who’s going to see me?”

“Anyone who walks in here,” Porter says. “Dude, we’re open. My folks are on their way back from the beach. They just called. They’ll be here in two minutes. And you know Mr. Kramer comes in here every morning. He’ll call the cops, man.”

Davy thinks about this a second and waves the gun toward me.

Breathe, I tell myself.

“Cowgirl here can go lock the door. I want a private conversation, just the three of us. I’ve got a beef with the two of you. An apology is owed, and maybe a little cash out of the register while you’re at it. Payback for pain and misery suffered. What you did to my knee.”

I don’t move.

“My parents are just down the street,” Porter repeats, this time sounding angry.

Davy shrugs. “Guess you better hurry with the register, then. Go lock the door, cowgirl.”

I flick a glance at Porter. He’s breathing heavy. I can’t read his face all that well, but what I do know is that he’s absolutely miserable and conflicted. Funny thing is, for the first time in forever, I’m not. I’m scared and worried, yes. And I hate the sight of that goddamn gun with an unholy passion I can’t measure.

But I am not afraid of Davy.

I am furious.

I just don’t know what to do about him.

Eyes guarded, I plod to the front door and lock it. The windows are enormous; I can see his reflection in the glass, so I watch him the entire way there. Watch him watching Porter, because that’s where he’s pointing the shotgun now. And why wouldn’t he? Porter’s the one who kicked his ass. Porter’s the one who nearly jumped the counter. Porter’s an athlete, nothing but muscle. Even a rational, sober person would consider Porter the bigger threat.

Davy’s not sober.

I take my time strolling back to them, and I think about my dad’s warnings about oversteering, and about how I exploded in the Hotbox—twice. I think about all my Artful Dodger skills and how they’re partly inherited from my CPA dad, and his love of details and numbers, and partly inherited from my attorney mom, and her love of finding loopholes. I think about how my dad said I’m going to be okay because I’m willing to try to get better.

But mainly I think about that day last month when those two punks tried to steal the Maltese falcon from the Cave. They underestimated me too.

Davy gives me a brief look, enough to see that I’m approaching but giving him a wide berth, head down. “Locked up tight?”

“Yep,” I say.

“All right,” he says, pointing the shotgun at Porter. “Register. Empty it.”

Lowest of lows. Robbing your best friend’s family. I know Porter’s thinking it, but he says nothing. His jaw is tight as he presses a few buttons on the computer screen. “Haven’t started it up yet,” he explains. “Can’t open the drawer until the program’s running. Hold on a sec.”

Bullshit. He must have put the drawer in himself, so the computer’s on. He probably has a key to the drawer. But Davy’s too stoned to realize this, so he waits. And while he does, Porter’s eyes dart toward mine. And in that beautiful, singular moment, I know we’re both linked up.

Trust is a golden gift, and this time, I’m not wasting it.

I shift my focus to Davy. The counter is in front of him, and behind him is a rack with some short, squat bodyboards on it—a third the size of a surfboard, but “way lamer,” as Porter once joked.

I wait. Come on, Porter. Give me an opening.

As if he’s read my mind, he suddenly says, “Oh, lookie here. The computer is finally waking up, Davy.”

Davy’s head turns toward Porter.

I step back, slip around, and slide one of the bodyboards off the stand. As I do, it makes a sound. Crap! It’s also a lot lighter than I hoped. Oh, well. Too late now, because Davy’s turning around, cognizant that I’m closer than he expected. I don’t have a choice.

Right as his gaze connects with mine, I grip the board in both hands, rear back, and smack him in the side of the face.

He cries out as his head whips sideways. His step falters, and he stumbles.

The shotgun swings around wildly and clips me in the shoulder. I grab it and try to wrestle it out of his hand. It suddenly breaks free, and I fly backward with the gun—but that’s because Porter has hurdled over the counter.

Porter slams Davy to the floor as my back hits the rack of bodyboards, knocking them over. I scramble to stay on my feet and hold on to the shotgun, but fail.

I fall on my face.

“Porter!” I’m swimming in a sea of foam bodyboards. The boys are struggling on the floor, and all I can see is Porter’s arm pounding like a piston and Davy’s trench coat flapping and tangling around his legs.

And then—

A loud whimper.

Heart knocking against my rib cage, I shove the bodyboards aside and jump to my feet.

Porter is lying on the floor.

Davy is below him, facedown. One cheek is turned against the wood. One eye blinking away tears.

“I’m sorry,” Davy says hoarsely.

“Me too,” Porter says, pinning Davy’s arms to the floor. “I tried, man. Someone else is going to have to save you now.”

Porter looks up at me and nods. I set the gun on the floor and kick it out of the way. Then I dig my phone out of my pocket and dial 911.

“Uh, yeah,” I say into the phone, out of breath, swallowing hard. “I’m at Penny Boards Surf Shop on the boardwalk. There’s been an attempted armed robbery. We’re okay. But you need to send someone to come arrest the guy. And you also need to call Sergeant Wanda Mendoza immediately and tell her to come to the scene right now.”

I may go back to hating you. It was more fun.”

—Cary Grant, North by Northwest (1959)

27

Turns out, Davy’s shotgun was stolen. He also had a hella bunch of heroin and other narcotics in his coat. Wanda says since he’s a month from turning eighteen and he’s been arrested before, he might be tried as an adult and serve some time in prison. Right now, he’s being detoxed in a jail cell. Wanda says his attorney will try to persuade the judge to put him a state-run rehab facility for a couple of weeks while he awaits trial. No guarantee that will happen, though.

I get all this information the day after the events in the surf shop, so I relay it by text to Porter and let him know. We haven’t really had any time to talk, what with all the chaos. His family showed up a few minutes after the cops and were understandably freaked. Mr. Roth was so angry at Davy, he had to be restrained until Mrs. Roth could talk him down. Wanda called my dad, who immediately left work and rushed over to the surf shop to make sure I was okay. It was a whole fiasco.