Soldier, Handyman, Family Man. Lynne Marshall
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Mark strode toward the beach where the sun cast a golden orange tint on the ocean. Being the middle Delaney brother, he’d opted out of the role of peacekeeper by default early on. Instead, he’d elected to become an attention-getting surfer. It’d paid off in spades, too. Popularity. Girlfriends. Respect.
He’d intended to sign up for the army right after high school, but his father and mother had convinced him to try the local community college first. He did, without an inkling of what he wanted to major in, for two years, but didn’t get a degree because the classes he took didn’t add up to one major’s requirements. Then that faraway Middle East war got personal. A good friend since grammar school had been killed in Iraq. It might not have been logical thinking, but after that he felt called to serve, so, without his parents’ blessings, he’d enlisted. After voting in a presidential election for the first time, signing up for the army had been his next major life decision. And he was still re-adjusting to civilian life.
A predictable afternoon breeze had kicked up and the water was choppy, but he smiled at the swelling of sets forming in the distance. A few of the usual guys in wet suits were out there, most of them half his age. They’d probably been there all day. One with long sun-bleached hair caught the next wave, road the crest, then wiped out.
Halfway down the beach, he passed a group of loud teenagers talking trash to someone. He turned his head to check things out. Five guys ranging from tall and buff to short and heavy, wearing board shorts and brand-name skateboarder T-shirts, were getting their jollies by bullying someone much smaller. He looked closer, saw the shaggy brown hair, the nose he was still growing into and that oversize T-shirt with Bart Simpson on the front. It was Peter with a frown cast in iron on his face, staring at his flip-flops. Obviously hating every second, he let the jerks taunt and tease him, but what choice did he have, one against five?
Mark dropped his board and headed their way. “Hey, Peter, I was lookin’ for you, man! It’s time for your surfing lesson.”
Peter looked up, surprised. So did the other kids.
He walked right up to the group as if everything was A-OK, but making eye contact with the leader let him know he understood what was going on and it was ending right now.
One perk—or pain, depending on what kind of mood he was in—of being Sandpiper’s very own surfing champion was the whole town knew him. His first-place regional championship trophy and a larger-than-life picture of him at eighteen with awful peroxided hair, at the height of his competition days, were on display at the local high school. He’d been the captain of the Sandpiper High surf team—hell, he’d been the guy to organize the team—and had led them to regional victories for two years. Then he’d moved on to statewide and a few national competitions where more was at risk, but with respectable success. From the reaction of these losers and tough-guy wannabes, even they knew who he was. Or used to be.
“We wus just horsin’ around with the new kid.”
“Didn’t know he knew you.” The tallest nudged Peter toward Mark.
“Yeah, I’m mentoring Peter. He’s a natural. See you boys around,” he said, making sure the kids understood he’d be watching them, and escorted Peter toward his board. So much for not getting involved.
“Want to tell me what was going on?” he asked when they’d retrieved the board and, out of earshot, were heading toward the ocean.
“I was just sitting on the beach, reading a book on my phone and they came out of nowhere. Started giving me a hard time. Bully a-holes.”
“Punks are always gonna be punks.”
“Nah. They think I’m a nerd because I’m different. I’m skinny and I’ve got a big nose.” His anger radiated toward Mark, making the ocean air seem thicker. They walked on.
Mark also understood, since talking to Laurel, that Peter was still grieving and working through the stress of losing his father, which also made him an easy mark. For some reason, jerks had special radar for vulnerable kids. “Hey, first off, they should talk, if that’s the reason. Did you look at them? Listen, it could be something as dumb as the fact you’re the new kid and they know you don’t have any friends yet to stick up for you, which will change soon enough.”
“And I keep getting stuck watching my sisters. It’s not exactly cool to hang out with four-year-olds.”
So that was why he’d put up such a fight earlier with Laurel. Mark figured it was worth mentioning to her. In the meantime, he’d practice treating the boy like a young friend.
“Yeah, but I bet girls love that, in an ‘aw’ kind of way.”
Peter screwed up his face, like Mark had said the dumbest thing in the world.
“What’s with the Bart shirt, man? He back in style?”
“It was my dad’s.” Peter looked at his chest as if reconsidering the meaning.
What was he supposed to say to that? The kid still missed his father. They continued on, quiet for another few moments, watching the waves as they strolled.
“Well, now that I’ve announced you’re my student, I guess we better get started. Take Bart off. You got trunks under those cargos?”
Peter nodded.
“Wearin’ sunscreen?”
He nodded again, but Mark suspected it was a fib, so he grabbed the small bottle from his back pocket. They both put it on.
“Let’s hit the waves.”
Whether it was because Peter was shaken up from what had just transpired and was grateful, or the kid had always secretly wanted to learn to surf, Mark hadn’t a clue, but highly out of character, from what Mark had witnessed of Peter so far, he did what he was told. And gladly!
After the initial “how to” lesson, and a discussion of strength and balance exercises Peter needed to do to get into shape for surfing, Mark used the time waiting for waves, both sitting on the board, to get to know a little about Peter. “Where’d you go to school last year?”
“Paso Robles Middle School.”
“What’s your favorite subject?”
“Art, I guess.”
“Are you good at it?”
“Kind of.”
“Have a girlfriend?”
He got a killer “as if” glare for that.
“Who’s your best friend?”
Peter stared down at the board, silent.
“No friend?”
“My dad was sick all the time, okay?”
Mark didn’t react to the kid spitting the words at him. He could only imagine how hard it would be to maintain a friendship when his world was wrapped tight with worry and a fatally sick father. Or maybe parents were hesitant to let their sons sleep over at Peter’s house, like cancer was contagious or something. Who knew. “Must’ve been hard.”
“I hated it. I mean I loved him, but everything was so crappy all the time.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Peter’s guard was coming down. “I hear ya. Must have been a bitch.”
“They made me go to some stupid group. We were all a bunch of losers.”
“You mean you’d all lost someone you loved?” He needed to reframe it for Peter—something Mark himself had learned when he went into group therapy—because he couldn’t let Peter get away with the negative opinion of himself and other grievers, or anyone in therapy.
The kid’s mouth was tight, in a straight line, and he looked on the verge of crying.
“This anger you’re feeling all the time is real. It’s part of grieving. When we lose someone we love, we grieve for them. Sometimes it makes us angry as hell.”