Page 12 of Britta & the Beach Boy
I go back to the sofa in the front room and scroll through TikTok. We both know she’ll be longer than two minutes, and I’m not going anywhere without her, so I might as well enjoy some Coffee Tok. I’m laughing at a barista I follow, sharing her Most Ridiculous Drink of the Day when a message appears on my screen.
This is Archie. Event is on. Be there by 7 am tomorrow if you’re coming. No obligation. Just let me know.
I read the text a second time, scoffing at hisno obligation.Will getting up early to drive a couple hours to watch people surf all day be the most fun I’ve ever had? Doubtful. But there’s no way I’m not going. If Archie’sno obligationis his passive-aggressive way to tell me not to come, I am officially obligated to show him his passive-aggressiveness won’t work on me. I’ve played more than one hockey game where I was the only girl on the ice and up against guys twice my size. I don’t back down.
Stella comes down the hallway wearing the outfit I picked out, her hair in a made-to-look-messy ponytail, and her face done up to look like she doesn’t need to wear make-up, when clearly, she is. Basically, she looks California native, while I look…basic.
I grab my wallet from the kitchen table and stuff it in my back pocket while she slings a designer purse Georgia gave her across her shoulder. I could take a lesson from her, but I’ve never worried too much about fitting in here or anywhere else. I won’t be here long enough for it to matter.
“Okay, listen to this,” I say to Stella as we walk outside, then read her Archie’s text. “Is there subtext there? Or am I readingtoo much into it? I get the sense he still doesn’t want us to go, even though Dex does.”
We stop at the bottom of the stairs, deciding which direction to go before Stella slides her arm through mine and turns me right. “I think the only question you should be asking is how early we’d have to leave to get there by seven am.”
“True.” I speech-text the question to Archie as we wait at the crosswalk for the light to change.
It’s nine in the morning, but cars are already backed up as far as I can see. Our apartment is a block from the beach in one direction and a block from Pacific Coast Highway in the other. Even with summer coming to a close, Georgia and Cassie warned us traffic would be bad on sunny days, especially when waves are good. I haven’t looked at the ocean yet, but the sun is out and the traffic is bad, so the waves must be good.
Shops, restaurants, nail salons, and bars are packed tight on both sides of Pacific Coast Highway, and a million distinct smells waft from open doorways as we stroll past. Stella and I haven’t done a lot of exploring around the neighborhood yet, but my pulse is pounding in a much different way than it did an hour ago.
I’m energized by everything there is to look at. Within walking distance of our apartment, there are restaurants that serve a dozen different foods: Japanese, Mexican, Vegan, Columbian. Every one is different, and I want to try them all, especially the New Zealand ice cream. What even is that?
Then there are the people.
Paradise was settled by Danish immigrants back in the day, and it’s still full of a lot of blond-haired, blue-eyed people whose names end in -sen—including mine and my family’s. There’s some diversity—Latino families, the Native Americans who were the original settlers, and one Asian family. But not compared tothis. In the twenty feet we walk, I hear at least three different languages, and I can’t identify any of them.
The people who pass me on the sidewalk and the street have every shade of hair and skin color. I’ve never seen so many different people in one place. Some walk toward the beach, surfboards tucked under their arms. Others are on big-handled bikes blasting music from handheld speakers. A BMW with its top down pulls up to the light and the dad driving blasts some old eighties song while the teenagers in the backseat look close to dying of embarrassment.
The whole scene excites me in the same way Memorial Day weekend does in Paradise when the summer tourists show up. Some of them have been coming long enough that I know them now. Others are new, and I get to intersect with their lives for a brief moment. I may never see them again; we likely won’t remember each other, but because our paths crossed, we’re part of each other’s lives forever. I love that thought. When Paradise feels too small, I remember that I’m connected to something much bigger, even if it’s only by a gossamer thread.
“I think that’s the main square. There will be coffee there.” Stella points right toward the beach and the wide street perpendicular to it. It’s closed to cars and parking, paved with bricks, and lined on both sides by restaurants with outdoor seating and stores providing every beach accessory possible. People mill around, lingering to pet dogs or window shop.
The atmosphere reminds me of Paradise’s town square during the summer, especially the week of Huckleberry Days when there’s a farmer’s market and craft fair. I’m about to follow Stella to the square when I look the opposite direction and see people walking down the hill, carrying to-go coffee cups.
I wave Stella back. A man with shaggy hair and no shirt who looks like he just rolled out of bed walks past me and pulls the lid off his coffee cup. As he does, I get a whiff of something nutty,almost spicy, and slightly chocolatey that can only come from a good medium roast coffee bean.
“Excuse me.” I tap his shoulder and he turns, holding the same to-go cup I’ve seen other people carrying. “Where did you get that?”
He glues his gaze to my chest, then nods and smiles. But just before I’m sure I’ve made a huge mistake and will never speak to a stranger in LA again, he says, “Post Malone. Cool, man.”
I look down and remember what I’m wearing, then return his smile. “Yeah, I ran into him once in Utah while I was wearing this shirt, so he signed it for me.”
“Very cool.” He’s still nodding, but he drags his eyes and points up the street. “Annie’s. Best coffee in LA, and I’ve tried them all.”
“Thanks!”
He wanders away, and I grin at Stella. “Bingo!”
“That could have gone very bad, you know.”
“What?” I’m already following my nose in the direction my fellow Post Malone fan pointed.
Stella scurries to keep up with me as the light changes and I cross the street. “Talking to a complete stranger in the middle of LA. He could have been a creeper or a kidnapper or…worse.”
“Would have been worth it. You heard him. Best coffee in LA.” My phone pings, and I pull it from my pocket to see a message from Archie answering my question about what time to leave in the morning.
Pretty early. No later than 5 am. It’s okay if you can’t make it.
I show Stella my screen. “There’s nothing passive about that. He’s being aggressively aggressive.”
