The Mermaid's Secret Read Online Free Page A

words: too big. I try to push it down deep.
    Another two guys paddle to the lineup. Jay Delgado and Tyler Ferguson. They are the opposite of old-school; they’re pricks. In addition to being a self-loathing misogynist with (I suspect) a small penis, Jay has a special hatred for me on account of the fact that Sheriff busted his alkie old man twice on DUIs. Now, Mr. Delgado has to ride a bicycle around town, even in the winter, one of the many aimless drunks of Ne’Hwas who can’t be trusted to drive a car. They should put that in the brochures.
    Jay’s family tried to fight the charges, arguing police discrimination. The DUIs stood.
    Jay looks at me, unable to hide the surprise in his eyes that I’ve made it out here. “Playing with the big boys today.”
    I keep my eyes on the horizon. “I’m just here to surf.”
    â€œYou don’t belong out here. You’re out of your league.”
    â€œI made it out, didn’t I?” I say. I can’t let Jay get in my head. I need to focus on the waves.
    â€œThis isn’t the kiddie pool, Dreary Creary. Don’t expect me to pull you out when you get thrown down by one of these monsters,” Jay says.
    â€œDon’t expect me to save your ass, either,” I snap.
    Jay laughs. “Right. Like that’s ever going to happen.”
    I could point out that I’m the only one with a surfing championship under my belt, but I know how hollow that sounds. I was seventeen. My glory days of surfing are far behind me. I straighten up on my board and try to look tough.
    â€œWhere’d you pick up that sled—the Salvation Army? 1962?” Jay says.
    I steal a glance at Jay’s brand-new custom board. It’s bright yellow and shaped by some famous surfer in Hawaii, or so I’ve heard. “That thing come with training wheels?” I say.
    Tyler pipes in. “Dude, it’s custom. Don’t dis the sled.”
    â€œYou’re not on your period, are you, Jess?” Jay says. “You’re not going to attract sharks, are you?”
    Tyler howls. Almost falls off his board laughing.
    â€œScrew you,” I say. Back when I started surfing, I thought I was joining a special tribe. A great big, happy cult that shared in their mystical love of the ocean, but without the typical cult drawbacks like drinking acid-laced Kool-Aid or worshipping aliens. I quickly learned that Nipon surfers are more like a pack of wolves. You have to earn respect from the alpha male here, and then maybe, just maybe, you can earn a place in the lineup.
    Freddie and Josh aren’t part of the pack, but they don’t exactly welcome you with open arms, either. Freddie looks our way, hands turned up on his board like a surfing Buddha. He rolls his eyes. Doesn’t engage. Here to surf.
    â€œPaddle home, girl,” Jay says.
    I ignore him. There’s only one way to get him off my back, and that is to catch a wave.
    When the next set appears, talking stops. All eyes are on the waves.
    No one takes the first wave, or the second. I watch the third. Its crest forms a light pyramid, which means it’s peaked, rather than closing out. This is the type of wave you want. I study it for another few seconds and realize I’m too far out. I’ll have to paddle in fast to be in position.
    I spin my board around so I’m facing shore and look over my shoulder. It’s a behemoth. Bigger than any wave I’ve ever ridden. Double overhead. I start paddling.
    After six or seven strokes, I feel myself rising and I put it into full gear, windmilling both arms. Paddle, paddle, paddle. The wave lifts me up, but it doesn’t grab hold. It’s faster than I am, and it passes below me before I can build enough speed to catch it.
    Now I’m on the back side of the wave and my arms are like jelly, and another big wave is coming at me.
    I either have to go for it or turn around and paddle to get behind it. In waves