Caught Inside

Chapter Six

"The one who doubts is like a wave of the sea that is driven and tossed by the wind." – James 1:6

While stopped at a red light, Cole tried in vain to rub the sleep out of his eyes. He opened his mouth and let out a massive yawn. A glance at his wristwatch told him it was only 7:30 in the morning. He had driven for almost two hours already, and only now had the gang safely arrived in Huntington Beach.

"Make a right," Alana instructed from the backseat. She was on the phone with Trevor, who had been eagerly awaiting their arrival for the past fifteen minutes.

Cole turned into a metered parking lot and cruised down a small hill. "Where's Trevor?" he asked, trying to look for their friend and check out the waves in front of him at the same time.

"Turn left," Alana said. "He's parked four spots down."

The gang cheered when Trevor came into view. He jumped off the bed of his truck and waved as Cole pulled up alongside him.

In the passenger seat, Blaine cranked down the window and stuck his hand out. He and Trevor fist-bumped.

"How was the drive?" Trevor asked.

"Too long. We're all tired and itching to surf," Blaine said.

"Then let's get going!"

Cole swung into a nearby parking spot, and seconds later the gang filed out. They stretched their limbs and gazed at the gray-blue water that was the Pacific Ocean. Lines of whitewater broke up and down the coast, and hundreds of little black dots could be seen bobbing over the swells.

"Is it always this crowded?" Alana asked.

"Well, it's the weekend," Trevor said apologetically. "Northside isn't as crowded as Southside, though, so we can head that way."

There was a mad rush to grab everyone's wetsuits and surfboards. Cole helped unload belongings from the back of his Volkswagen before pulling his T-shirt off. He wrapped a towel around his waist, shimmied out of his boardshorts, and began the arduous task of getting his wetsuit on. Once he was fully clothed, he rubbed some wax on the surface of his shortboard and tucked it underneath his arm.

"Are you pumped?" Alana asked, grinning widely and jumping up and down on the balls of her feet.

"I've been waiting for this all week," Cole admitted. "The waves are a fun size and there's hardly any wind. Now all we need is reassurance that you won't get run over again."

Alana laughed. "I'll be careful."

He noticed her gaze lingering on the cuts and bruises patchworked across his face. Though his black eye was almost healed, he still had a mishmash of colors on his nose, chin, and forehead that testified to Monday's fistfight. When he had been sitting in the principal's office next to Logan that day, he'd felt buzzed from all the adrenaline. Now, he just felt guilty. He had let everyone down by jumping into that fight: himself, his father, and his friends. Mr. Anderson had given Cole a firm lecture when he'd returned home from school, but graciously allowed Cole to go to Huntington Beach with the gang since the fight technically hadn't been his fault.

Yet Cole felt like it was. Though Logan may have started their fight, Cole was still responsible for participating in it. The thought that continued to plague him was how easy it'd been for Logan to drag Cole down his level. If Cole had so easily slipped up over a stupid fight, what else would he be tempted to do?