“When?” Alton asked.
“In Cancun when I went for spring break with my sorors.”
“Okay,” Alton acknowledged carefully. Now he was clearly sensing Zola’s tension. “But this isn’t some small beach in South America. This is the big time. Real waves.”
“She okay,” Abdul said, cutting in with his broken English. “Padang Padang good waves.”
“See. I can handle it,” Zola said.
“You know it’s not safe for you,” Alton added, concerned. “Why are you doing this?”
“If you go surfing, I’m going surfing, too,” Zola replied, crossing her arms over her breasts with some newfound energy surrounding her.
Alton and Adan looked at Zena for a response, but she shook her head. She certainly didn’t want to be on Adan’s side.
“Don’t look at me,” she said. “I’m not her mama.”
“But you know she’s not a good swimmer,” Alton argued.
“No. I know she’s not the best swimmer, but she’s a good swimmer. She can surf like anyone else. She can do anything she puts her mind to,” Zena added.
Zola looked over at Zena with a new awareness in her eyes.
“Well, ladies,” Adan resolved, wisely turning back around to face the road ahead, “I guess we’re all surfing, then.”
Alton sighed and stared at Zola. “I can’t believe you. You’re not ready,” he said.
Zola reached over and slid her hand onto Zena’s lap, where no one could see. Zena felt Zola’s need for warmth and covered her sister’s hand with her own.
* * *
Abdul was right. The surf point at Padang Padang was like nothing Zena had seen: white sand stretching for miles against rolling waves that hit the shore unbroken and rough. Walking the strand to the surf shop, she watched bummy and new and professional surfers look out at the tide with privilege and expectation at a new wave coming in seconds. The beach was packed with sunbathers, too. Families of tourists had set up camp with beach umbrellas and coolers filled with overpriced imported beer they’d purchased from street vendors.
Zena saw how someone could spend her life out here with the sun and wind and waves. This was someone’s heaven.
In the dressing room at the surf shop, Zola was struggling to get into her wet suit. She stumbled about on the wet clay floor. There was no ceiling. The sun overhead felt like a heating lamp.
“Getting a little thick, huh? Maybe you need a bigger size,” Zena said. She was already in her suit, smiling and sitting on a bench as she watched Zola struggle.
“Maybe you need to kiss my thick ass,” Zola joked before giving the suit one final tug to get the zipper up. She exhaled to let her stomach loose and turned to look at herself in the mirror. “There we go,” she said. “All ready.”
“Got that right. Let’s go show these Douglass boys how it’s done,” Zena said, standing to leave the locker room.
“Hey, Z. You remember what you said in the van?”
“What?” Zena stopped to look at Zola.
“About me—about me being able to do whatever I put my mind to.”
“Yes.”
“Did you mean it?” Zola asked.
“Why are you asking me this? Of course I do. Don’t I always say that to you?”
“No. Not the way you said it just now.”
“Come on,” Zena said. “I’m always telling you that I believe in you.”