Alex, Approximately
: Chapter 11

“I just want somebody I can have a decent conversation with over dinner.”

—Tom Hanks, Sleepless in Seattle (1993)

“What’s the matter?” Porter asks as we head down the boardwalk. Then it hits me: like the Ferris wheel, the ticket booth for the Bumblebee Lifts is next to the stupid whale tours window. I didn’t think this through.

“Crap. I really don’t want him to see me again,” I say.

Porter is confused for a second. “Patrick? Why would he care?”

My answer is a long, sad sigh.

“All right, all right,” he grumbles, but I don’t think he’s genuinely irritated. I’m more convinced he feels sorry for me, and that might be worse. “Go stand at the gate over there. I’ll be right back.”

I don’t have the energy to argue. I drag my feet to the chairlift entrance and wait while a stooped, Filipino man—name tag: Reyes—with a raspy voice helps a few stragglers off one of the lifts. Other than one other touchy-feely college-aged couple, it doesn’t look like anyone else is waiting to get on. I don’t blame them. Tendrils of fog cling to the swinging seats, which look much like ski lifts, painted yellow and black. The fat wires that carry the lifts over the boardwalk to the rocky cliffs rest on a series of T-shaped poles; one wire carries the ascending lifts, one wire holds the descenders. Big white lights sit atop each pole, but halfway up the line the fog is so thick that the lights just . . . disappear. I can’t even see the cliffs today.

“Mornin’,” the Bumblebees’ operator says when I greet him.

“What do you do if something happens to one of the lifts?” I ask. “How can you see it?”

He follows my eyes, cranes his neck, and looks up into the fog. “I can’t.”

Not reassuring.

After what seems like an extraordinarily long time, Porter returns, breathless, with our tickets and a small, waxed bag. “Yo, how’s it hanging, Mr. Reyes?” he says merrily to the operator.

“No food allowed on the Bees, Porter,” the elderly man rasps.

Porter stuffs the bag inside his jacket and zips it halfway up. “We won’t touch it until we get to the cliffs.”

“All right,” the man relents, smiling, and he extends an arm to escort us onto the next lift.

Before I can change my mind, we’re boarding a swaying chair behind the groping college-aged couple. Each seat accommodates two people, snugly, and though we’re covered by a plastic yellow-and-black striped bonnet above, it leaves our torsos exposed. This means (A) the coastal wind whips through the chairlift against our backs, and (B) we have a perfect view of the lovey-dovey couple ahead of us and their roaming hands. Terrific.

The operator pulls a handlebar down that locks us in around the waist. I sneak a glance at Porter. I didn’t expect to be sitting so close to him. Our legs are almost touching, and I’m wearing a short skirt. I make myself smaller.

“Fifteen minutes up,” the operator says as he walks alongside our slow-moving chair, “fifteen minutes back down, whenever you’re ready to return. Enjoy yourselves.”

And we’re off. My stomach lurches a little, which is stupid, because we’re not even off the ground yet; these Bees need more zippity-do-dah.

“You all right, there, Rydell?” Porter asks. “Not afraid of heights, are you?”

“Guess we’ll replace out,” I say as my dragging toes leave the ground and we begin to take flight, ever-so-slowly.

“You’ll love it,” Porter assures me. “It’ll be great when we hit the fog in a few minutes.”

Once the lift operator ambles away to the gate, out of sight, Porter unzips his jacket a few inches and sticks his hand inside. A second later, he’s pulling something out. It’s cream colored and about half the size of a golf ball. I smell vanilla for one glorious second before he shoves the whole thing in his mouth.

His eyes close in pleasure as he chews. “Mmm. So good.”

“What is that?” I ask.

“Illegal to eat on the Bees,” he reminds me, slipping his phone out of his shorts pocket. “You sure you want to break the rules?”

I skipped breakfast. I was too nervous about meeting Patrick. What a dork. I still can’t believe that all happened. It’s like a bad dream that I can’t shake. And now Porter’s got warm vanilla wafting up from his jacket, right in my face.

“What the hell, Porter?” I whine. “It smells really good.”

“Gracie did mention that you’ve got a mean sweet tooth when it comes to pastries.” He’s flipping through his phone, digging out another ball of whatever it is he’s got. I think it’s a vanilla mini muffin. I smell coconut, too. That might just be him, though.

“See if I tell her anything again,” I complain, kicking my feet as we lift a little higher off the ground.

“Here we go,” he says, replaceing something on his phone. “New quiz. Let’s make a deal.”

“NO QUIZZES.”

“I’ll be nice this time,” he says. “Promise.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because I’ve got a pocketful of moon muffins,” he says with a slow smile.

I don’t know the hell that is, but I really want one. My stomach growls.

“Wow, Rydell. You have a dragon living inside there, or what?”

My head lolls forward as I make little weepy noises. I finally give in. “Okay, but if you piss me off while we’re stuck on this stupid flying bumblebee, just know that my nails are sharp, and I will go for your eyes.” I flash him my freshly painted ruby reds, filed to a vintage almond shape.

He whistles. “Pointy. That’s one glam manicure. And here I was, thinking you were aloof. Sugar brings out the demon in you. Porter likey.”

I get a little flustered, but not enough to stop wanting the muffins.

“So here’s how this works. First”—he pulls out one of his prizes—“this is a moon muffin. Local Coronado Cove specialty. Fresh out of the oven over at Tony’s Bakery right there.” He points backward. “You think you like those sugar cookies at work? Well, you’re going to love this.”

He holds it in the tips of his fingers. I snatch it up, give the sniff test, and then tear it in two, ignoring him when he acts like this is a mistake. I taste it. Totally lovely. Spongy. Light. Dusted in vanilla sugar. “Yum,” I tell him.

Porter makes a victory face. “Told you. Okay, quiz time. This one is for both of us. It’s a . . . friendship quiz. We both have to give answers and see how we match up. To see if we’ll make compatible friends or bitter enemies.”

“Pfft,” I say around a mouthful of moon muffin, brushing crumbs off my boobs. “Enemies. Quiz over; give me another muffin.” I wiggle my fingers in his face.

He laughs and bats away my fingers. “No muffin until we answer the first question. Ready? Question one.” He starts reading. “ ‘When we fight, (A) it’s like World War Three, and takes days for us to speak again; (B) we fight hard but make up fast; (C) we never fight.’ What do you think? A, B, or C?”

God, what is it with him and quizzes? Grace wasn’t wrong; he’s obsessed. “Not C, that’s for sure,” I say. “But not A, either. I guess we’re B. We fight hard, but we make up fast. But that’s mainly because you bribe me with food. Keep that up, and we’ll be okay.”

“B it is.” He holds out another muffin without looking up from his phone. I take it while he reads the next question. “ ‘Our favorite way to spend our downtime is: (A) surrounded by friends at parties, the more the merrier; (B) always on the go, never staying still; (C) chilling alone.’ ”

“I’m guessing you’ll say one of the first two things, but I’m more of a C kind of girl. Does that ruin our score?”

“Nope. I’m C too, actually.”

Umm, okay. I’m not sure I believe that. Then again, it’s his day off, and he’s hanging out in a video store by himself, which isn’t how I pictured him. “Oh, look!” I say, gazing down my side of the chairlift. “We’re almost above the Ferris wheel now.”

The boardwalk looks weird from here, just small bursts of color, and the tops of buildings. Cars rush by on my left, but who wants to look at the town? Unfortunately, I can’t help but glance forward and catch the couple in front of us with their hands all over each other. I think there’s more than kissing happening—wow. I quickly look away.

“These lifts sure are slow, aren’t they?” I complain.

“I’ve taken naps on here,” Porter says. “No lie. Next question. ‘If one of us has a problem, we will: (A) keep it to ourselves; (B) immediately come to the other for advice; (C) drop hints and hope the other figures it out eventually.’ ”

“Put me down for selection A.” Delicately, I dip my hand into Porter’s gaping jacket until my fingertips hit the waxed-paper bag and replace another muffin. It isn’t until I’m pulling it out that I look at Porter’s face and hesitate.

“No, please, go on,” he says. “Do help yourself.”

I give him a self-conscious grin. “Oops.”

“You always go around sticking your hands down boys’ clothes?” he asks.

“When they’re full of baked goods.”

“Tomorrow I’m coming to work with ten pounds of pastries in my pants,” he mumbles to himself, making an ooaff! noise when I punch him lightly in the arm.

“Next question, for the love of vanilla,” I beg. “How long is this quiz, anyway?”

“Back up—you chose A for the last one? I chose B,” he says, and I struggle to remember what the question was. “That probably screws up our compatibility factor. Last one. ‘The most important quality in a . . . uh, friendship is: (A) that we share the same interests; (B) that we like each other; (C) that we’re always there for each other, no matter what.’ ”

I swallow the last of my muffin. “What kind of question is that? Shouldn’t there be another option, like, (D) All of the above?”

“Well, there isn’t. So you have to pick one.”

“I refuse.”

“You can’t refuse.”

“Think I just did, Hot Stuff.”

He snorts at that. “But how will we know if we’re compatible?” he moans. I can’t tell if he’s only teasing me, or if there’s something more beneath the silliness.

“Gee, I don’t know. Guess we’ll have to actually be friends and replace out for ourselves instead of taking a quiz.”

He shuts his phone off dramatically and shoves it in his pocket. “No one appreciates the fine art of a good quiz anymore. Oh, here we go. Buckle your seat belt; it’s about to get weird. Hope you’re not scared of the dark, or anything. Feel free to stick your hand inside my jacket again if you need to.”

Just in time, I turn my head forward as the lift enters the thick bank of fog that’s rolling off the ocean. Porter was exaggerating. It’s not pea-soup fog. We can still see each other. But the couple in front of us is a little hazier, and except for the occasional truck or tall building, the ground below, too. And it doesn’t really have a scent, exactly, and it’s not wet, either. But it feels different in my lungs.

“Why is it so foggy here in the summer?”

“You really want to know?”

I’m not sure how to answer that. “Uh, yes, I guess?”

“Well, you see . . . fog forms over the water because it’s cold. And the Pacific stays cold here for two reasons. First, cold air from Alaska comes down along the California Current, and second, cold water comes up deep from the bottom ocean by something called upwelling, which has to do with wind blowing parallel with the coast and pushing the ocean surface southward. This stirs up the Pacific and brings up icy brine from the bottom of the ocean, which is so cold, it refrigerates the ocean air, condenses, and creates fog. Summer sun heats the air and makes it rise, and the fog gets sucked up.”

I stare at him. I think my mouth is hanging open, I’m not sure.

He scratches his forehead and makes a growling noise, dismissing the whole speech. “I’m a weather nerd. It’s because of surfing. In order to replace the best waves, you have to know about tides, swells, storms . . . I guess I just picked up an interest in that stuff.”

I glance at his fancy red surf watch peeking out from his jacket cuff with all its tide and weather calculations. Who knew he was such a smarty-pants? “I’m seriously impressed,” I say, meaning it. “Guess you’re the guy to sit next to if I need to cheat in biology.”

“I aced AP Biology last year. I’m taking AP Environmental Science and AP Chem 2 this year.”

“Yuck. I hate all the sciences. History and English, yes. No sciences.”

“No sciences? Bailey, Bailey, Bailey. It appears we are opposite in every conceivable way.”

“Yeah,” I agree, smiling. I’m not sure why, but this makes me sort of giddy.

He laughs like I told a great joke, and then leans over the bar.

“So what do you think of our California fog now? Cool, right?” He cups his hand as if he can capture some of it.

Testing, I stretch my hands out too. “Yeah, it is. I like our fog. You were right.”

We sit like that together, trying to catch the ocean in our hands, for the rest of the ascent.

At the end of the line, a waiting chairlift operator releases our bar and frees us. We made it to the top of the cliffs. Along with a tiny gift shop called the Honeypot—I really hate to break it to them, but bumblebees don’t make honey—there’s a small platform here lined by a railing and a few of those coin-operated telescopes that look out over the ocean. If it were a clear day, we’d be looking out over the Cavern Palace, but there’s not much to see now, so only a few people are milling about. It’s also breezy and chilly, especially for June.

I never knew California had such crazy weather. I ask Porter to tell me more about it. At first he thinks I’m making fun of him, but after not much prodding, we lean against the split-fence cedar railing, and while we polish off the last of the muffins, he tells me more about ocean currents and tides, redwood forests and ferns and ecosystems, and how the fog has been declining over the last few decades and scientists are trying to figure out why and how to stop it.

It’s weird to hear him talk about all this, and like the scars on his arm, I’m trying to fit all his ragged pieces together: the security guard at work with the lewd mouth who made fun of my mismatched shoes; the surfer boy, struggling to pull his drugged-up friend Davy off the crosswalk; the brother whose eyes shine with pride when he talks about his sister’s achievements; the guy who high-fived me when I took down the kid who stole the Maltese falcon statue . . . and the science geek standing in front of me now.

Maybe Walt Whitman was right. We all really do contradict ourselves and contain multitudes. How do we even figure out who we really are?

Porter finally seems to notice how much he’s talking and his golden face gets ruddy. It’s pretty adorable. “Okay, enough,” he finally says. “What are you nerdy about?”

I hesitate, wanting to talk about classic film as passionately as he told me about ocean rain, but then I remember the incident with Patrick and my stomach feels a little queasy. I don’t relish rehashing all that again. Maybe some other time.

“History,” I tell him, which, though a compromise, is also true. “Confession time. I’ve been thinking lately that I sort of want to be a museum archivist.”

He brightens, as if I’ve just reminded him of something. “Like, cataloging things?”

“Yeah, or I might want to be a curator. I’m not totally sure.” Admitting it aloud makes me uncomfortable. I get a little squirmy and feel the need to flee the scene, but we’re standing on a cliff, and there’s nowhere to run. “Anyway, working at the Cave may not be a dream come true, but it’s a start. You know, for my résumé. Eventually.”

He squints at me, and I tell him a little more about my museum dream—which fits in with my Artful Dodger lifestyle: behind the scenes, low stress, geeking out over old things, preserving historically valuable pieces that most people replace boring. As much as I love film, there’s no way I’d ever want to be a director. I’m realizing that more and more. Put me in the shadows, baby. I’ll happily plow through boxes of old files. “I like uncovering things that people have forgotten. Plus, I’m really good at organizing things.”

Porter smiles softly. “I’ve noticed.”

“You have?”

“Your cash drawer. Bills all facing the same way, creased corners straightened. Everything stacked and clipped together for the drop bag all perfect. Most people’s drawers are a wreck, money turned every which way.”

My cheeks warm. I’m surprised he’s paid attention to details like that. “I like things neat and orderly.” Stupid CPA blood.

“Orderly is good. Maybe you’ve got some science in you after all.”

“Pah!” I exclaim. “Nice try, but no.”

His eyes crease in the corners when he chuckles. “Guess you don’t want to work in the Hotbox forever, though, huh?”

“God no,” I say, pulling a sour face. “Not the Hotbox.”

Just mentioning it by name makes us both thirsty, so we head inside the Honeypot and grab some drinks. By the time we’re done with those, the sun’s breaking through the fog—sucking it up, now that I learned that tidbit of science—and the warming midday air smells like my dad’s backyard, of pine and redwood, clean and fresh. I breathe it in deeply. Definitely doesn’t smell like this out east.

When we finally get back on the chairlifts, we’re sitting closer. A lot closer. I feel Porter’s arm and leg, warm against mine. His board shorts are longer than my skirt, his legs longer than my legs, but when the lift sways forward, our calves press together. I stare where our bodies are joined. For the tiniest of moments, I consider pulling away, making myself small again, like I did on the ride up. But—

I don’t.

And he doesn’t.

The bar comes down, trapping us together. Arm against arm. Leg against leg, flesh against flesh. My heart beats against my rib cage as if it’s excitedly keeping time with a song. Every once in a while, I feel his eyes on my face, but I don’t dare look back. We ride in silence the entire way down, watching the town get bigger and bigger.

A couple of yards before we hit the ground, he speaks up in a voice so quiet, I can barely hear him. “What I said the other day about you having champagne tastes?” He pauses for a moment. Mr. Reyes is smiling, waiting to unhitch our bar. “I just wanted you to know that I like the way you dress. I like your style. . . . I think it’s sexy as hell.”

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