“Phew,” I said to Sunny. “That was close. We better try not to let the kids get wind of this. Oh, and we probably shouldn’t take them swimming today, just in case. But I’m almost sure there aren’t any sharks. Aren’t you?”
She nodded. “But it might be good to wait a day and see what the beach patrol says. I’ll tell Alyssa. She’s done reading that story — maybe I can get her alone for a minute.”
Sunny ran off to talk to Alyssa, but I just stood and watched the crowd, which continued to grow. Several more police officers were there now. A couple of them were talking to the surfers who had gathered, and three others were walking down the beach — probably looking for clues. Then I saw two officers dragging something up off the beach, toward a police van. I squinted to get a better look. “Oh!” I said out loud, when I figured out what they were dragging. It was Thrash’s surfboard. There was no mistaking it. And it sure was mangled. The fins looked broken and the nose (that’s the front part) had a huge dent. Suddenly I felt a little sick to my stomach.
What if Thrash were really dead? How awful. I studied the waves crashing on the shore. They didn’t look lethal. They were smooth and regular, and people surfed on them every day. Oh, sure, I had heard about small accidents happening once in a while, but I had never heard of anyone who had been hurt badly, let alone … For a minute, I thought about quitting my surfing lessons. After all, if Thrash could get killed riding the waves, anyone could. But then I got a grip on myself. I was just a beginner, I reminded myself, and I never tried anything fancy. I only went in the water when the surf was mild and regular, the way it was that day. And there were always lots of people around, watching out for each other. I knew I would be okay.
“Dawn!” I heard Sunny call. I jumped. I had been thinking so hard that I had almost forgotten about my responsibilities with the kids.
“Coming!” I said. I took one last look at the waves, and one more down the beach, toward the crowd. Then I joined Sunny.
“I spoke to Alyssa,” she said. “She agrees with us, so we’re going to keep the kids out of the water. We’ll hold relay races and play Mother May I instead of swimming. Want to help me set up a course for the races?”
“Sure,” I replied. Sunny and I worked for a few minutes, but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking about what had happened to Thrash, and I decided I had to find out more. “Sunny,” I said. “I want to go down there and find out what the police are saying. Is that okay with you? If Alyssa says I can go? I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
“Sure,” said Sunny, giving me a curious look. “Hey, you — you didn’t have a crush on him or anything, did you?”
“Definitely not,” I said. “I only talked to him once! I just thought he was an interesting person.” I couldn’t believe I was saying “was” instead of “is.”
I walked over to Alyssa and asked if I could be excused from my duties for a few minutes. I promised to stay and work a little late that day, instead of running off to surf. She agreed, and I headed down the beach.
As I drew closer to the crowd, I could see that the police were still talking to the surfers. Surfers who weren’t being questioned were standing around in groups of two and three, talking among themselves. I walked by one of those groups, hoping to hear what they were saying. Most of the good surfers were like minor celebrities on the beach, so I knew their names.
“Man, that dude was radical,” said T.J., a guy with spiked brown hair and a dangling earring.
“Totally,” agreed Wanda, who’s one of the best surfers — male or female.
“He used to be,” said this guy named Gonzo, who was wearing wildly patterned jams. “But he was over the hill. I mean, I can bust moves he never even thought of. I was going to beat him bad in that competition, and he knew it. I bet you anything he just left town so he wouldn’t have to face the humiliation.”
This other guy named Spanky, who wears a nose ring, nodded in agreement.
I raised my eyebrows. That was an interesting theory. In a way, I hoped it was true, because it would mean Thrash wasn’t dead. But I hated to think he might not be the best surfer around. I figured Gonzo was probably just jealous.
I tried to listen to the police for a while, without looking too conspicuous, but I didn’t pick up much information. To tell the truth, they didn’t seem very worried about Thrash. I overheard one officer refer to him as “that bum,” and another speculate that he had probably just moved on to the next beach.
I thought that was pretty interesting, too, and I wanted to poke around some more, but I knew my time was up, so I jogged back to the kids and joined Sunny as she supervised the relay races.
That afternoon I couldn’t put Thrash out of my mind. When I returned home, I ran straight for the newspaper to see if I could find any news about the accident. There was an article on the front page! I read it eagerly, wondering what clues had been found to the mystery. And then my eye hit on one paragraph that was so interesting I read it three times. It quoted a police detective, who discussed the possibility that Thrash’s board had been tampered with. He didn’t say who might have done it, or even if he was sure it had happened, but he did say it was a possibility. From that moment on, I knew I had to find out the truth, whatever it took. I needed to learn whether Thrash’s death had been an accident — or if he had been murdered.
I heard from Mary Anne the day after I received her letter. She told me the whole story. Marilyn and Carolyn Arnold are eight-year-old identical twins. The BSC sits for them pretty frequently. When we first started sitting for them, Mrs. Arnold insisted on dressing them alike and treating them almost as one person. They had the same haircut, and they shared a room which was split down the middle into identical halves. Since then, they’ve worked hard to establish separate personalities. Each girl always had her own interests — Marilyn plays piano, for example, and Carolyn likes science — but now they’re even more distinct. Marilyn grew her hair out, and she likes to wear simple, comfortable clothes. Her room (each twin has her own room now) is yellow. And Carolyn got a cool new haircut and some trendy clothes, and her room is blue, with a cat motif.
Anyway, as I was saying, when I spoke to Mary Anne I heard what happened to the twins that Saturday morning. Mary Anne had a sitting job at the Arnolds’, starting at ten that morning. She arrived at a quarter to (we’re always punctual, since it’s good for business, and we even try to be a little early when we can), and Mrs. Arnold greeted her at the door. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re early,” she said. “Now I can get going a little early, too. My meeting should be over around four, so I’ll be home soon after that.” She bustled around, getting ready to leave. “The girls are in the basement, and I know they can’t wait to show you what they’re doing down there.”
Just then, Carolyn came pounding up the stairs. “Mary Anne!” she cried. “Wait till you see our gymnastics stuff!”
Mary Anne smiled. “Gymnastics stuff?”
“Me and Marilyn are taking lessons, and we love it,” Carolyn explained. “So Mom and Dad got us all this neat equipment!”
Mrs. Arnold smiled at Mary Anne. “We’re so happy that they have an interest in common,” she said. “Just remember,” she added, turning to Carolyn, “the rules about playing down there, okay?”
Carolyn made a face. “Of course,” she said. “And we’re not playing. We’re working on our routines.”
“Right,” said Mrs. Arnold. “How could I have forgotten?” She grinned at Mary Anne over Carolyn’s head. “I better run,” she said, bending to kiss Carolyn. “Be good.”
“I will,” Carolyn answered impatiently. “Come on, Mary Anne.” She grabbed Mary Anne’s hand and dragged her toward the basement door.
Mary Anne let herself be pulled. She was curious about what kind of equipment the Arnolds had bought. Was their basement really big enough for a vaulting horse and parallel bars?
“See?” Carolyn asked, when she and Mary Anne reached the bottom of the stairs.
“
Isn’t this cool?” said Marilyn, running to them. “We have mats, and a balance beam, and everything!”
“I see,” said Mary Anne. She looked around, impressed. The Arnolds had made the basement into a mini-gymnastics center. Besides the mats and the balance beam (which was a low one, barely six inches off the floor), a big mirror leaned against one wall, and a cassette player, obviously secondhand, sat on a table. “You’re all set up here, aren’t you?”
Marilyn and Carolyn grinned. Then Marilyn ran to the balance beam. “Look what I can do!” she cried, ready to step up on it.
“No, watch me!” said Carolyn, heading for the mats as if she were about to start somersaulting backward.
“Hold on,” said Mary Anne. “I can’t watch both of you at the same time. You’ll have to take turns. Also, didn’t I hear your mom mention something about rules?” She folded her arms and waited.
“Oh, right,” said Marilyn.
“The rules are easy,” said Carolyn. “Just like in our real gym.”
“Tell me about them,” said Mary Anne.
“Well, only one person is supposed to go at a time,” said Marilyn, blushing a little.
“And the other person is supposed to spot the person who’s tumbling or walking the beam,” added Carolyn, who wore an identical blush.
Mary Anne nodded. “What does ‘spotting’ mean, exactly?” she asked, even though she was pretty sure she knew.
“It’s, like, if Carolyn’s doing a somersault, I stand near her so I can help her over if she has trouble,” said Marilyn.
“Or, if Marilyn’s on the balance beam, I walk beside her so she can use me for help if she needs it,” said Carolyn. “Even professionals use spotters,” she added. “It’s the first thing we learned about.”
“Well, good,” said Mary Anne. “Now you just need to remember to do it, every time. Right?”
“Right,” chorused the twins.
“Okay,” said Mary Anne. “Let’s see what you can do. Who wants to go first?”
“Me!” said both girls. Then they looked at each other and giggled. “You can go,” said Marilyn. “I need a little rest, anyway.”
The twins are like that, sometimes. They get along well, and they know how to share things. I think that must come from growing up with another person right there all the time. If you didn’t learn to share, you’d go nuts because you’d be fighting every minute.
Carolyn poised herself on the mat while Marilyn stood nearby, watching carefully. Then she turned a whole series of back somersaults, and, Mary Anne told me later, she did them very well. When she was done, she stood up with a proud look on her face, pulling herself into the posture that gymnasts go into when they’ve finished a routine: arms up, chest out, feet together. Mary Anne clapped loudly.
“Now me,” said Marilyn. She walked to the balance beam, mounted it, and began to step along it carefully with her arms out for balance. Carolyn walked next to her, and once Mary Anne saw Marilyn reach down and steady herself by touching Carolyn’s shoulder. After a fairly impressive front “walkover” (she started in a back bend and then pushed up and over), Marilyn finished her “routine,” jumped off the beam, and flung herself into the “finish” posture.
Mary Anne applauded. “Great job, girls,” she said.
“That’s not even our real routine, either,” said Carolyn. “We have this whole thing we worked out, with music.” She ran to the cassette player and pressed a button. An old rock song, “Tutti Frutti,” came on, and Carolyn ran back to the mats to show Mary Anne the “real” routine. She mounted the balance beam, and Marilyn stood beside her.
Just then, Mary Anne heard the phone ring. “You guys be careful,” she said. “I’ll be right back.” She ran up the stairs to answer the phone. While she was taking a message for Mr. Arnold, she noticed that the music in the basement stopped and started a couple of times. And then, as she was hanging up, she heard a sharp, short yell from downstairs. “Uh-oh!” she said. She raced back to the basement and found Carolyn lying on the floor, crying.
Marilyn was crying, too. “It’s my fault,” she howled. “I was supposed to be spotting her, but the tape player wasn’t working right so I tried to fix it.”
“I was doing a walkover, and then I fell!” wailed Carolyn. She wriggled her foot. “Oh, my ankle. It hurts!”
Mary Anne bent to look at the ankle. It was already swelling. “Oh, boy,” she said. “Can you stand on it?” She tried to help Carolyn up, but Carolyn collapsed in a heap.
“I bet it’s broken,” said Marilyn, still crying.
Mary Anne thought Marilyn might be right, but she didn’t say so. Instead, she and Marilyn helped Carolyn up the stairs and into a chair, propping her ankle up on another chair. Mary Anne got ice out of the freezer, wrapped it in a plastic bag, and told Carolyn to hold it on her ankle. Then she called home. “Sharon,” she said to my mom. “I need help.”
“I’m on my way,” my mom replied, when Mary Anne finished explaining what had happened.
Next Mary Anne called Mrs. Arnold at her meeting and told her they were heading for the emergency room. By the time my mom, Mary Anne, Marilyn, and Carolyn reached the hospital, Mrs. and Mr. Arnold were there, too.
Carolyn’s ankle wasn’t broken, fortunately. But it was badly sprained, and she was sent home with crutches and told to stay off it for a while. As they were all leaving the hospital, Mary Anne heard Marilyn say something that took her by surprise. She told me on the phone that night that she thought the twins’ relationship was going to be closer than ever from now on. Maybe too close.
“I’m sorry,” Marilyn had said, sniffing. She was talking to Carolyn. “It’s all my fault, and I swear I will never, ever, ever leave your side again.”
Sunny and I were excited about the beach party. It was sponsored by the beach club, the one that runs the children’s program. All the kids would be having a cookout on the beach while their parents attended a luau in the club dining room. (A luau, in case you don’t know, is like a barbecue, Hawaiian style.) Alyssa, Dean, Sondra, Sunny, and I had put a lot of planning into the kids’ cookout, since we wanted to make it extra special for them. Sunny had called me at least three times that Saturday, to make sure we had everything we needed. We were bringing hot dogs and hamburgers, tofu dogs and veggie burgers. We were going to make s’mores over the campfire. And we were brushing up on our favorite ghost stories, so we could tell them after darkness fell.
That evening, Sunny and her mom picked me up at Dad’s house. I had, with Alyssa’s permission, invited Jeff to our cookout, but he had decided not to come. He was planning to hang out with his skateboarding buddies, instead.
“See you guys!” I called to my dad and Jeff, as I gathered my stuff together and ran to the car. I jumped into the backseat, and Sunny turned to grin at me.
“It’s a perfect night for a beach party,” she said. “This is going to be great.”
“You girls aren’t going to go into the water, are you?” asked Sunny’s mom, looking a little worried.
“No way,” I said. “It’s too cold at night for swimming.”
“I plan to stay near that campfire,” said Sunny.
By the time we arrived at the beach, most of the kids were already there, gathered around the fire pit that Alyssa and Dean had dug. The older kids had been put to work gathering driftwood, and the younger ones were playing tag around the growing pile that would soon be a bonfire.
“Dawn! Sunny!” said Alyssa. “Just in time. Sondra was about to take some of the kids on a beach clean-up walk, and Dean is going to show another group how to make seashell chimes. Why don’t each of you join a group, and help out?”
Sunny set off with Sondra, Ruby, Stephie, and about six other kids. They were armed with rakes and shovels and bags for collecting garbage. “It’s important to keep the beach clean,” I heard Sondra saying as they walked off. “It’s everybody’s responsibility. See this?” She picked up a set of plastic rings that had once held together a
six-pack of soda. “A fish or a turtle can get tangled up in this and die.” She put it into her bag, and led the kids down the beach. I watched them go, and saw them stooping every few steps to pick things up and put them into their bags.
Dean and I led the other group of kids, which included Sara, Erick, and Ryan, in the opposite direction, to search for shells. Since we were going to make wind chimes, Dean told us to look for shells with holes in them. He was carrying a large bucket for collecting, and as the kids dropped shells in it he told us what kind they were and what type of animal had lived in them. Dean seemed to know a lot about marine life. When I asked him why, he told me he planned to be a marine biologist someday. “I want to make sure all these species survive,” he said, holding a delicate shell in his hand so I could see the colors in it.
Erick and Ryan were behaving pretty well, for once. “See what I found?” asked Erick, running to me with a shell.
“Beautiful,” I said. It was beautiful. It was white, with a creamy pink interior.
“It’s for you,” said Erick shyly. Then he ran off.
“I think somebody has a crush,” Dean said, with a grin.
I blushed and bent my head to look for more shells. Soon, we had gathered a big bucketful, and we turned back. Near the bonfire site, Dean had set up a work area. There were pieces of driftwood to hang the shells from, and fishing line to tie them with. We started the kids on their chimes, and soon we were busy helping to thread line through holes in the shells, tying knots, and advising kids on how to arrange the shells so that the wind would bump them together.
After awhile, Sunny and Sondra returned with their group. The kids were proud of all the garbage they had gathered. Each one was lugging a full bag, and Sunny and Sondra were carrying extras. “That part of the beach is a lot cleaner,” said Sunny with satisfaction.
“But we would have to do that every single day, over the whole beach, to really keep it clean,” said Stephie, a little dejectedly. “Now I understand why it’s bad to leave even just one little paper cup on the beach. What a mess!”