Chasing Xaris Read online

  I grabbed the fluffy robe Gran had bought me and flung my arms into it. Glancing in the mirror, I wrapped a towel around my head to hide the cut on my temple. If I didn’t move my head too much, the towel would stay in place.

  “Come in.” I stepped into my room as Grandpa opened the door. “Just about to shower,” I said, too loudly.

  Grandpa’s large frame took up most of the doorway. He wasn’t overweight, just really tall with broad shoulders. Plus, guys always looked bigger in Hawaiian shirts, and those were Grandpa’s go-to casual wear.

  “What’s up, Grandpa?” I asked, pulling the robe tighter over my rash guard.

  Grandpa gestured for me to sit on the bed. “I just read an email from the college counselor at your school.”

  I swallowed and moved to the bed.

  “She emailed you?” I asked, sitting.

  “She responded to my email, yes,” Grandpa said. “I wrote her to see how you were progressing.”

  “Oh. Well, is everything okay?”

  “You tell me.” He turned my desk chair toward the bed and sat down with a heavy sigh. “She said that you haven’t expressed interest in any specific school, but I thought you had already settled on a college.”

  My cheeks warmed.

  “The University of Florida is the top school in the state,” Grandpa continued. “Your mother went there… until she married your father. And so did I. You don’t get that kind of alumni networking everywhere, Chandler, and it will help so much with your career plans.”

  I nodded. I understood that college and alumni and networking meant everything to Grandpa. He had chosen a career in finance, with the suit and office and all that. But I so didn’t see that for me. If I had my way, I’d move to California, get a job, and surf bigger waves. Maybe enter some contests. Maybe pick up a sponsor.

  “Chandler, do you understand what I’m saying?” Grandpa asked.

  I wondered what it would be like to tell Grandpa about California. His brown eyes were kind but so intimidating. My gaze dropped to his hands. Fuchsia paint lined his fingernails.

  “Grandpa, you know what painting means to you?” I asked quietly.

  He frowned. “Yes.”

  “That’s what surfing means to me,” I said. “I was sort of thinking about California.”

  “For college? That’s awfully far, Chandler. And making a school choice based on a hobby isn’t a wise decision. I’ve never let painting interfere with my career.”

  I heard the stubborn tone in his voice and knew further talk was useless. He wouldn’t understand. He would have, though, years ago. He used to spend every weekend in gardens, his canvas in front of him, his face in a trance. Now he only painted a few hours a week and only indoors, from pictures.

  “I know that surfing is important to you,” Grandpa said. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But a degree from UF will open so many doors. And Winnie is set on UF, isn’t she? Don’t you want to go to school with your best friend?”

  “Of course,” I replied automatically.

  “Good.” He stood and patted my shoulder. “You have such a bright future, Chandler.”

  “Thanks.”

  With a nod, he left and closed the door behind him.

  The seconds ticked by. I slumped in my chair and stared at the polished wood floor, vaulted ceiling, and iron furniture. Still so foreign. Still so… not me.

  I’d spent hours researching California. I’d looked at the best surf breaks, restaurants that were hiring, apartments for rent. But even then, I had known that moving to California was more fantasy than reality. I couldn’t abandon my life to start another—it would hurt my grandparents too much.

  UF wouldn’t be so bad. I’d still be able to surf on the weekends. And if I could surf I’d survive.

  My thoughts drifted to the way I’d felt on my board that morning. Like I was soaring. But then I remembered everything after. The shark, Ari diving into the water, all the blood.

  I opened my laptop and typed in, “Old Florida legends shark slayers.” Unfortunately, the websites I found were either about harrowing shark attacks or proud fishermen with their mammoth catches. I tried other phrases but still didn’t find anything. At least, nothing that sounded familiar or could be linked to Ari.

  With a sigh I checked my email and saw Winnie had sent me rough drafts of a few stories she’d written for her online jewelry store. What made Winnie’s jewelry unique were the stories she paired with each item. She made up most of the stories herself, and since Winnie watched lots of suspense movies, her tales usually involved family secrets and dramatic deaths.

  My fingers paused over the keyboard. Maybe I had read the shark slayer legend on Winnie’s website.

  I clamped my eyes shut, anxious to remember, but my mind stayed annoyingly blank. I considered calling Winnie right then, but I’d get more details from her in person.

  I shut my laptop and headed back to the bathroom. After I’d showered, I inspected the gash on the side of my face at the mirror. It wasn’t deep, which surprised me considering how hard my board had hit me.

  I put on a band-aid to cover the cut, dusted some bronzer on my cheeks, and framed my brown eyes with liner. Then I pulled on an outfit Gran purchased for me. Her wardrobe picks usually involved a khaki skirt and frilly shirt combo, but I wore them anyway to make her happy.

  I grabbed my backpack and headed downstairs.

  “Morning, love,” Gran said as I rushed into the kitchen. Wisps of blond-white hair fell down from her bun, framing her tanned face like ribbons. The Weather Channel played on the TV in the background.

  “Thanks.” I sat down at the round table, and Gran brought me a plate of blueberry French toast, her specialty.

  “What happened?” Gran asked with wide eyes. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I wiped out and my board got me.”

  Gran kept staring at my band-aid. “Maybe I should take you to the emergency room.”

  “Gran, I swear I’m okay. It’s just a little scrape.” I picked up my fork and dug into my French toast, hoping Gran would abandon her inquiry.

  “Would you like me to look at it?” Gran asked.

  “No, I’m good.”

  Gran stood by the table, just inches away, for what felt like an hour before returning to the counter to grab a pitcher of milk.

  “So what does your day look like?” She poured me a glass and set it by my plate.

  “Just a regular Wednesday,” I said.

  “And how’s Winnie?”

  I took a sip of ice-cold milk. “Good.”

  Gran nodded as if this were fascinating news.

  I felt guilty for not expanding, but Gran wanted to have a heart-to-heart every morning.

  “She’s adding headbands to her store,” I added.

  “How nice.”

  I swallowed my last bite and gulped down the rest of my milk. “’Kay, I have to go,” I said. “Thanks for the breakfast.”

  Gran stood with me and met me at the door. “There’s a sixty percent chance of rain after one, so you know what that means.”

  “Right.” I grabbed an umbrella from the stand. Gran believed any percentage over fifty might as well be a hundred. She’d be downright irritated if it didn’t start raining promptly at one.

  “Love you, Chandler,” she said.

  “Love you too,” I replied as Gran folded me into one of her long, lavender-scented hugs.

  I patted her back with one hand, hoping she couldn’t sense my discomfort. Gran’s hugs still felt funky—too tight. Her whole presence in my life felt too tight, actually. And she kept spending less and less time on her volunteer work, and more time at the house with me.

  I released Gran, but she held on for another moment before finally letting go. I forced a smile and headed into the garage. While I still wasn’t used to my grandparents or their lofty way of life, I did love their birthday present—a sand-colored Prius.

  Ten minutes later, I pulled
into the parking lot of Sunrise Park High School and searched for Winnie’s old VW Beetle. But I didn’t spot it as I circled the lot.

  Why did this have to be the one morning Winnie wasn’t early? Curbing my annoyance, I parked and hurried on campus to wait.

  Our school’s sprawling, one-story building sat on a bright green plot of grass. Palm trees lined a sidewalk that cut through the front lawn toward the main entrance. I strolled down the cement path past a gang of surfers by the picnic tables.

  “Chandler!” Jordan called from one of the tables.

  He waved, all smiles, and I felt a rush of warmth. Which triggered a throb from my chest. I grimaced. This could not be happening again.

  I waved at Jordan and kept walking. It felt better to keep him at a distance—I’d already learned that rule. Why had I broken it this morning?

  But then I felt a tug on my arm, pulling me to a stop.

  I whirled around and glanced from Jordan to the picnic tables at least fifteen feet away.

  “Dude, you are really fast and really quiet,” I said. My voice sounded breathless.

  “Impressed?” he asked.

  “Surprised,” I said.

  My eyes went to his hand on my arm. I stepped back, pulling free from him.

  Jordan’s smile faltered. He shuffled his feet and pointed to my temple. “So, you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks,” I said, looking into the parking lot. Past Jordan, I saw Winnie parking her Beetle right beside my Prius.

  “Thanks for everything this morning, Jordan,” I said. “You were seriously great. I’ll pick up my board after school. See you later?”

  “Wait.” Jordan turned with me. “I officially think you should hang out at the tables again.”

  “Officially?” I smiled and glanced at the crew of surfers. How many waves had I caught with those guys? I had avoided them after the accident because I hadn’t wanted to talk about it. And then avoiding had become habit.

  Winnie was the only one I hadn’t completely shunned. She hadn’t let me. When I had ignored her calls, she had brought over her jewelry kit and set up shop in my room. She had also brought her suspense movies. As I suffered through jabbing music, she made rings, bracelets, and necklaces. She hadn’t talked much, but she had sat beside me.

  My gaze shifted to Winnie now, slapping down the sidewalk in her flip flops and tight jeans. Sunlight bounced off her brown skin and oversized bracelets clanked on her small wrists.

  I had never been so relieved to see my friend. She’d tell me all about the shark slayer story. She had to.

  Chapter 3

  “L

  ISTEN, Jordan, I have to talk to Winnie about something kind of important,” I said, nodding to my friend as she approached.

  “I still don’t get why you hang out with her,” Jordan said.

  “I swear you guys would like each other if you actually talked,” I said.

  “I swear you’re wrong,” Jordan replied.

  “Morning, Win,” he said.

  Her hazel eyes narrowed. “It’s Winnie.” She tried to look down at him, but Jordan was just as tall as her. “Still can’t handle two syllables?”

  “Nice bracelets,” I said.

  Both of them stared at me.

  “What happened?” Winnie asked, pointing to my temple.

  “Surfing accident,” I said.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. So, um, want to head to class early?”

  “I’d love to, Chandler.” She gave Jordan a sweet smile. “That’s another name with two syllables you could practice.”

  With a flick of her bobbed hair, she looped her arm around mine and led me down the sidewalk. Since Winnie was nearly six feet tall, even I had to scurry to keep up with her.

  “It was fun making out, Winnie Rollins,” Jordan yelled after us. “Let’s do it again sometime.”

  Winnie whirled around. Her glossed lips formed a perfect “o.” She snapped her head around to see who had heard. Judging from the cheers at the picnic tables, most of the surfers had.

  “’Bye, Jordan,” I said, turning Winnie away. I steered her down the sidewalk to the front doors.

  “I don’t get why you’re friends with him,” she said.

  “I swear you guys would get along if you gave each other a chance.”

  “It’s too late for that.” Winnie proceeded to explain the many ways Jordan Lane had offended her over the years as we walked through the front doors and down an open-air hallway. “And I know he was the one who put that snake in my pool.”

  “Winnie, that was like seven years ago. And the snake put itself in your pool.”

  “He talks weird,” Winnie said.

  “He talks like I do,” I said.

  “You don’t sound as weird as he does.”

  Since she meant this as a compliment, I didn’t press the issue.

  Winnie marched up to our classroom door and pulled open the door. Artificially cold air blasted my face and arms.

  “Winnie, I’ve got to ask you something,” I said.

  “Can it wait?” Winnie asked. “I have to give my report today.”

  “Oh. No problem.”

  Winnie made a beeline for her desk on the left side of the room. I followed and sat behind her in the last row. Our teacher, Mr. Whitaker, sat just behind me on a stool, bent over his book. He was so into his reading that he didn’t even notice us.

  I sank into my chair and watched people trickle into class. Jordan gave me a grin as he headed for his seat on the opposite side of the room.

  “Win,” he mock-whispered.

  Winnie’s back stiffened, but her gaze stayed focused on the note cards in her hands.

  Behind me, Mr. Whitaker sneezed.

  “Bless you,” I said, turning to look at our teacher.

  Most of us called him Mr. Whit, which Winnie found hilarious. Apparently “whit” meant some version of little, and Mr. Whit was definitely not little. The stool made his tall body look even longer, like a giraffe on stilts. His customary blazer and wool scarf looked totally out of place in the eighty-degree weather. Personally, though, I liked his offbeat outfits better than the khakis and polo shirts other teachers wore.

  Mr. Whit smiled, and his brown eyes crinkled in the corners. “Gracias, Chandler.” He laid the book open on his lap, revealing a yellowed map of Florida on its pages.

  “Researching?” I asked, pointing to his book.

  “Of course,” he replied. “Research builds bridges from the past world to ours.” His gaze shifted to my band-aid. “What happened?”

  “Surfing accident,” I said.

  “I see. But you are doing well otherwise?”

  “Um…” I had narrowly escaped a shark attack and launched an investigation into my parents’ deaths. “Sure,” I said.

  “Glad to hear it,” Mr. Whit said. He pulled a gold pocket watch from his blazer and clicked it open. Its tarnished surface matched his blond hair.

  “I suppose I have to teach now,” he said, with a resigned expression.

  “It’ll go by fast,” I assured him. “And you could always let us out early.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, smiling slightly.

  He’d been my teacher last year too, so now we bantered.

  The bell rang and Mr. Whit strolled to the front of the class. He rested his arms on the oversized lectern.

  “Buenos días, class,” he said. “Today we continue our reports on famous shipwrecks. After we finish the reports tomorrow, we’ll cover Native American archeology for about two weeks. This should lead us right up to Thanksgiving break.”

  The beauty of being an upperclassman at my high school was you could take elective classes like “Archaeology.” Most of the students in here were juniors like Winnie, Jordan, and me.

  “As we’ve discussed the past few weeks,” Mr. Whit said, “underwater archaeology is exploding, thanks to advanced mapping systems and underwater robotics. The sea’s been clut
ching a myriad of historical secrets over the centuries. Now it’s our turn to reclaim them.”

  Poor Mr. Whit. He reminded me of a wistful Indiana Jones, an explorer who would rather be on an adventure than teaching in a classroom with motivational posters. He sort of looked the part, too. He was youngish, mid-thirties maybe? And he had the broad shoulders of someone who’d worked on dig sites.

  “Now, let’s continue our reports on shipwrecks. Winifred Rollins,” Mr. Whit announced.

  Winnie’s head snapped up from her note cards. “That’s me.”

  Mr. Whit’s lips twitched, suppressing a grin. “Yes, I know. Are you ready to present?”

  “Yes.” Winnie grabbed a folder and her note cards and hurried from her chair.

  Mr. Whit strode to the back of the room. “Whenever you’re ready, señorita,” he said.

  Winnie pulled up her report on the front computer and dimmed the lights.

  “I’m going to talk about The Adelle—a shipwreck with a sad story.” Winnie’s voice was low and ominous. Her gaze narrowed on Jordan. “A tragedy riddled with villains.”

  Winnie pointed to the first slide of her report. It had a black-and-white picture of a young couple.

  “Baldric and Adelle Ingram were Philadelphia socialites living at the turn of the twentieth century,” she said. “The Ingram family had made its fortune through railroads and merchant shipping, and the couple was famous for throwing lavish parties that hosted the most renowned artists of their time.”

  Even though Winnie had added overly sinister music to her slideshow, the report itself interested me. Winnie explained that Baldric was an obsessive husband who was majorly unstable. He would give Adelle diamond earrings but then beat her for not wearing them enough. Then, he’d make amends by giving her an even grander gift, like a vacation home in Atlantic City. He had even named one of his family’s steam ships after her.

  Adelle actually fell in love with the captain of that steamer, a man named Dominic Reynolds. Together, the lovers had set a plan in motion that would free Adelle from her husband. She had secretly joined Dominic on The Adelle’s next voyage from Philadelphia to Havana, Cuba with a shipment of coal. But The Adelle had encountered a tropical storm off the Florida coast and sunk. A few survivors made it to shore—Adelle and Dominic weren’t among them.