Reaching over, I take a hold of Ari’s guitar case and pull it closer to my side.
“Not going in the water, Prude?”
I look up to see Jackson Stult smirking at me. Now that he has my attention, he laughs and makes a show of smacking his own forehead. “Never mind, that was a stupid question. I mean, you’re pretty much allergic to fun, aren’t you?”
“Nope, I’m just allergic to morons,” I say, before adding in a deadpan voice, “Achoo.”
He snickers and waves as if this has been a delightful interaction before wandering over to join some of his equally obnoxious friends down the beach.
His words sting, even though I know they shouldn’t. After all, this is pretty much everything I know about Jackson Stult: One, he cares more about his designer jeans and fancy brand-name shirts than anyone else I’ve ever met; and two, he will do anything for a laugh, even if it comes at someone else’s expense. Which it often does.
I would be more offended if he actually liked me.
But still.
Still.
The sting is there.
But if ruining my night was Jackson’s plan, then I refuse to allow it. I lie back on the blanket, staring up at the orange-glowing clouds that drift by overhead. I try to immerse myself in the good things about this moment. Laughter pealing over the beach. The steady crashing of the waves. The taste of salt and the smell of smoke as the fire gets started. I’m too far away to feel the heat of the flames, but the blanket and sand are warm from baking under the sun’s rays all afternoon.
I am relaxed.
I am content.
I won’t think about biology projects.
I won’t think about spineless bullies.
I won’t even think about Quint Erickson.
I let out a long, slow exhale. I read somewhere that regular meditation can help hone your focus, making you more efficient and productive over time. I’ve been trying to practice meditation ever since. It seems like it would be so easy. Breathe in. Breathe out. Keep your focus trained on your breaths.
But there are always thoughts that invade the serenity. There are always distractions.
Like right now, and that terrified screech suddenly cutting across the beach.
I sit up on my elbows. Jackson is carrying Serena McGinney toward the water. He’s laughing, his head tipped back almost maniacally, while Serena thrashes and struggles against him.
I sit up more fully now, my brow tensing. Everyone knows Serena is afraid of the water. It became common knowledge when she refused to participate in mandatory swim class in ninth grade, even going so far as to bring a note from her parents excusing her from any pool activities. She doesn’t just have a slight aversion, like I do. It’s an outright phobia.
Her screams intensify as Jackson reaches the water’s edge. He’s carrying her damsel style, and until now she’s been flailing her arms and legs, trying to get away. But now she turns and clutches her arms around his neck, yelling—Don’t you dare, don’t you dare!
My eyes narrow. I hear one of his friends call out, “Dunk her! Do it!”
I swallow. I don’t think he’ll do it, but I don’t know for sure.
“Come on, it’s barely ankle deep!” Jackson says. Playing to his audience.
It’s clear that Serena does not think it’s funny. She’s gone drastically pale, and though I know she must be hating Jackson right now, her arms are gripping his neck like a vise. “Jackson Stult, you jerk! Put me down!”
“Put you down?” he says. “Are you sure?”
His friends are rooting for him now. A sick chant. Do. It. Do. It. Do. It.
I scramble to my feet and cup my hands around my mouth. “Leave her alone, Jackson!”
His eyes meet mine, and I know I’ve made a mistake. It’s a challenge now. Will he or won’t he?
I plant my hands on my hips and try to convey through osmosis that if he has any dignity at all, he will leave her alone.
He laughs again, an almost cruel sound. Then, in one fluid motion, he releases Serena’s legs and uses his hand to reach back and unhook her arms from his neck. While she’s still scrambling to wrap her knees around him, he hurls her as far as he can out into the waves.
Her scream pierces my ears. His friends cheer.
It’s not that deep, but when she lands on her backside with a splash, the water comes nearly to her neck. She scrambles to her feet and bolts from the water, her dress coated in sand and clinging to her thighs. “You asshole!” she shrieks, shoving Jackson in the stomach as she rushes past him.
He barely moves, other than to reach down and brush away the smear of sand she left on his shirt. “Hey now, this is dry-clean only,” he says, his voice rich with amusement.
Serena storms away, trying to tug the damp skirt away from her hips. As she passes me, I see furious tears building in her eyes.
My teeth are clenched as I turn back to Jackson. His arms are raised victoriously. Not far away, still knee-deep in the water, Ari is watching him with evident confusion.
“Dude,” says Sonia Calizo, disgusted, but loud enough that almost the whole beach can hear, “she almost drowned when she was a kid.”
Jackson sneers. “She’s not gonna drown. Jesus. It’s barely two feet deep.”
“Couldn’t you tell how scared she was?” says Ari. I’m surprised. It isn’t like Ari to confront anyone, much less a total stranger. But she also has a keen sense of justice, so maybe it shouldn’t seem surprising at all.
Either way, Jackson ignores her. His expression is still gloating, lacking any remorse.
I exhale and as Jackson takes a step toward the shore, I imagine him tripping and falling face-first in the sand. I imagine those pretty, expensive clothes of his coated in salt water and muck.
I squeeze my fist.
Jackson takes another step and I hold my breath, waiting.
Nothing happens. He does not trip. He does not fall.
My shoulders sink. I feel silly for having hoped, even for a second, that the coincidences of the past twenty-four hours could have been caused by me. How? By some cosmic retribution gifted to me by the universe?
Yeah, right.
Still, disappointment crashes over me like a wave.
Like … like that wave.
The laughter from Jackson’s friends halts as they notice it, too. A wave, one of the biggest I’ve ever seen, rears up behind Jackson, framing him beneath its frothy crown.
Seeing his friends’ expressions, he turns. Too late. The wave strikes him, bowling him over. It doesn’t stop there. The water storms up the beach, dousing his friends’ legs and rushing over their towels and chairs, sweeping cans of beer into its current.
The wave keeps coming. Heading straight toward me.
My jaw is slack. It doesn’t even cross my mind to move as I watch the wave break. The foam curls up into itself. The last vestiges of the wave’s power start to slow, from a rush of water to a steady crawl.
The edge of the water, kissed with white foam, comes to within an inch of my toes and the edge of Ari’s guitar case. It pauses, seeming to hesitate for the briefest moment, before sweeping back out to sea again.
I follow its course, stunned. When I look up, I catch Ari’s eye. She looks just as bewildered—maybe even more so. Because the strangest thing isn’t that the water came so very close to me yet left me untouched. The strangest thing is that Ari was standing so very close to Jackson, but the wave passed her by entirely.
In fact, despite the wave’s enormous size, the only people it touched were Jackson and his friends.
TEN
It takes a minute for my brain to catch up with what just happened. For the disbelief to slowly crumble and fade and then rebuild itself into something, well, almost believable.
My hand unclenches and I flex my fingers, sensing each joint. My palm is hot. My knuckles feel strained, like they’ve been clenched for hours, rather than just a few seconds.
All around me, people are hollering with laughter. It’s hysterical, watching Jackson pick himself up out of the surf. He’s drenched from head to foot. His clothes stick to him like a second skin, plastered with muddy sand. A string of seaweed hangs over his shoulder. His hair is matted to his brow.
His face is priceless.
“Ha!” a girl yells. “Karma’s a bitch!”
I blink and turn my head. It’s Serena. Her own clothes are still wet, but all signs of tears have vanished. She’s beaming. The color has returned to her cheeks.
Karma.
Instant karma.
“Holy mothballs,” I breathe as something starts to make sense. Sort of. Does it make sense? Can this be real?
I consider the evidence.
The car crash.
The spilled tomato juice.
Mr. Chavez biting his lip.
The ice cream parlor. The tourists on the boardwalk. The rude employee at the fish-and-chips stand …
And now this. A wave that came from nowhere, smashing only into Jackson and his jerk friends, even on this very crowded beach.
Surely it can’t be coincidence. Not all of it, anyway.
But if it isn’t coincidence, what is it?
John Lennon’s lyrics echo through my head. I mutter them quietly under my breath. Instant karma’s gonna get you, gonna knock you right on the head …
I reach for the back of my head, where I can still feel a small, sore lump from my fall. I go over the events of the evening before. Seeing Quint and his friend. Those guys heckling Ari while she sang. Our conversation about karma. My name being called, though no one has admitted to putting it up there. Singing the song. Dancing. Quint giving me that look of bewilderment. Slipping on the spilled beer. Hitting my head …
If it’s not coincidence, then that means that somehow, for some reason … it’s been me. I’ve been causing these things. I’ve been … exacting instant karma on people.
“Pru? Are you okay?”
My attention darts up to see Ari strolling back through the sand. She grabs a towel off the back of one of the beach chairs and wraps it around her waist. She’s still mostly dry, though sand is clinging to her ankles.