Washed Up

Surf's Up

Riley

Surf's Up. Noun. [surfs uhp]. The conditions of the waves and weather are favorable for surfing.

The sign says, "Welcome to Long Beach Island" and I realize I'm probably the first person to ever set foot on this island who isn't thrilled to be here, but I'd much rather be somewhere I want to be. Hiking through Yosemite, eating brunch in Paris...heck, I'd rather be eating Cheetos in my underwear in a run-down motel in the middle of Kansas than be moving to this random island to live with people I've never met.

"Positivity, Riley," I can hear my mom squawking at me while hiding behind her rose gold iPhone and perfectly manicured nails.

Positivity doesn't do squat. I prefer realism--I don't want to be here, but there's nothing I can do about it. At some point, I'm going to have to accept that I'm stranded here for the summer, but today is not that day. Cue Lord of the Rings fight music.

This summer, I'm living with the Covingtons. They sound like they should be descendants of old British royalty, but apparently they run a pizza shop, so I'm not quite sure what to expect. After I dropped out, I pleaded with Mom and Dad to let me go with them to Dubai, but they refused, saying something about "consequences." I understand consequences; my dad's in the freaking Army. A consequence is being forced to jog three miles for forgetting to rinse off your dinner plate. But I'm 20. Yes, I made a mistake. Yes, I dropped out of college. But that shouldn't be the end. I should be able to choose my own path, but I guess it would help if I knew where that path led. The poor Covingtons, stuck with me for the summer.

I can just hear Mom now. "Riley's a little..." Insert awkward laugh. "Troubled. I think spending some time with you this summer will give her a great opportunity. Maybe she can learn a little from your daughter."

With the way my mom talks about me, you would think I was a meth dealer who's pregnant with twins and has 33 piercings, but no. I'm just a girl who doesn't know where she belongs. I thought maybe I belonged at college, or maybe in Italy, but no. No place, no person, seems right for me. So here I am. Long Beach freaking Island.

I guess I just keep expecting them to let me make mistakes. It's only human, right? Wrong. Not in my family. We don't make mistakes because, as my dad reminds me time after time, "Mistakes cost lives in the Army, Riley." With no room for error, of course I'm going to fall short of their standards. I just didn't expect to get exiled as punishment for my failure.

I turn off of the bridge onto the main stretch that goes down the narrow island. From the first red light, I can already see the crest of the beach to my left and the bay to my right. I slow down in the traffic that's already congested even though summer doesn't start until tomorrow. A family of five, the three kids all under eight, traipse across the street in front of me in bright swimsuits, hauling chairs, a beach umbrella, and a cooler behind them. They throw back their heads and laugh, reminiscent of a bad TV ad for Ocean City.

I double check my phone for the location of the Covingtons' house and take in the sights as I inch through the traffic. A thousand little shops line the street, each with overpriced t-shirts, souvenirs, or food. The smell of saltwater mixed with fried fish lingers in the air and I roll the windows down. Okay, positivity. I've always loved the smell of the ocean air. In all the beaches and seas I've visited across the world, there's nothing like the smell of the Atlantic Ocean.

The moment is ruined when a big splat of seagull poop lands in the middle of my windshield. Great. I run my windshield wipers but the crap just smears all the way across. I sigh and run a hand through my hair which is already starting to frizz in the humid air. This is really not my day. Or month. Or year.