Page 2 of Between the Boards
My heart skips the same way it always does when he says things like that, and I ignore it the same way I always do. I’m a romantic at heart, and even the tiniest bit of flattery from someone can make my heart race, but it’s meaningless.
“That’s rich coming from one of the nicest guys I know,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes, “who also happens to look like theposter boy for all of surf culture. You could get any girl you want without a second thought.”
Colton has the perfect summer tan, dirty-blond waves, and the brightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen—like staring straight into the summer sky. Not to mention, he’s got a shiny set of abs to go along with his whole surfer-boy look.
This time he laughs, but it’s softer—almost flattered.
“Not any girl,” he mumbles before clearing his throat and looking at me again. “Why do you think you’re not poster girl material?”
“Are you kidding me?” I scoff. “Just look at me.”
“I am,” he says in a low voice, his eyes dragging slowly over my face, and something sharp settles at the base of my spine.
“Then you’d see that I don’t look anything like the typical female surfers that are on all the posters. I’m tall, my hair is wildly curly, and I’m…”
“You’re what?” he asks when I trail off.
I shrug. “I’m coloured.”
My mom is a tall, beautiful woman from Sweden with pin-straight blonde hair, pale skin, and the greenest eyes. My dad, a six-foot surfer from Cape Town, South Africa, has dark twists, dark skin, a clean shaved beard and mustache, and the most intimidating resting face known to man.
And while I love them both more than anything, they don’t quite understand what it’s like to be biracial. To feel like I don’t belong to the White community or the Black community. Like I’m floating somewhere in between—this grey space where I’m never quite sure where I fit in, or who I’msupposedto be.
Colton’s brows furrow as he studies my face. “You think because of your skin colour you’re not poster girl material?”
I hesitate, searching for the right words. “I guess it’s just…you don’t really see many people—especially women—who look like me in this sport, and definitely not on many posters.”
“You belong here,” Colton says firmly. “And anyone who can’t see that is an idiot.”
When I don’t reply, he continues. “It doesn’t matter what shade your skin is, Kairi. I bet there are hundreds of thousands of kids out there that look up to you because you look like them. You’re paving the way.”
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Maybe.”
“No, not maybe.” He almost sounds offended. “You are.”
I pick at the chipped pink nail polish on my big toe, avoiding his eyes. I know Colton means well, and maybe what he’s saying is true, but it doesn’t make the feeling go away. If it weren’t for Gabriel, I wouldn’t be landing the sponsorships that I do. Hell, I don’t even land a quarter of what Maliah used to when she was still surfing.
Plus, it’s deeper than just representation on posters. It’s the products too. Like salt spray that isn’t made for curly hair, leaving my hair dry and frizzy; after-surf detanglers that assume you can just scrunch your hair and walk away; thick white zinc that leaves my skin looking ashy instead of protected.
Surf culture loves the idea that girls can paddle in, rinse off, and look effortlessly perfect—beachy waves, glowing skin, sun-bleached highlights…but my version involves deep conditioning and a full hour of detangling.
“Anyway,” I say, deciding to move on from this topic. “Like I said…Zale will never see me as anything more than a friend.”
Colton watches the waves for a long time before speaking again. “Do you really want to be with him that badly?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe I just want to be with someone who chases me for once…instead of me always being the one doing the chasing.”
He fiddles with the bracelet around his wrist before he exhales slowly. “How about I coach you then?”
I turn toward him, brow lifting. “Coach me?”
He nods. “I’ll show you how to get him, and other guys, to chase after you if that’s what you really want.”
I frown. “But you hate Zale.”
“I don’thatehim,” he says, folding his arms behind his head and leaning back into the sand. “I just don’t particularlylikehim.”
I scoff. “And what do you get out of it?”
