“He’s not going to be here,” Nicole says. “He already saw it last Saturday with some of the guys from Interact.”
Sophie stops. “And you know this how?”
“I’ve already been convicted of stalking and as such am protected by double jeopardy,” she says. “So lay off.”
Sophie and I share a look and shake our heads. Nicole really does need to do something about this.
“All I’m saying is that I pushed Izzy and it paid off,” Sophie replies. “I’d like the same good fortune to happen to you.”
“Slow down,” I say. “We’re not sure that it ‘paid off’ for me. Ben and I had pizza, but I have no idea if he likes me or not. He may just like the pizza.”
“Didn’t you see any signs?” asks Sophie.
“Yeah,” says Nicole. “I’ve heard there are supposed to be signs.”
“The signs were mixed,” I reply. “At some points it seemed like he was into me and at others not so much. It doesn’t help that his parents are going through an epic divorce. I think it may have soured him a bit on the whole idea of relationships.”
We reach the ticket window and Sophie turns to me.
“By the way, you’re buying my ticket.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you owe me . . . big time.”
I think about this for a second. “Because?”
“Because, despite it being a major hassle, I went through the computer and swapped shifts with you every Tuesday for the rest of the summer.”
It takes me a moment to realize what she’s saying.
“You mean . . .”
“You’ll be teaching all the summer campers how to surf, which should give you plenty of opportunities to read signs from Ben.”
I wrap her up in a giant hug, and because she’s so small it lifts her off the ground.
“You’re pretty awesome sometimes, you know that?”
“No,” she says. “I’m incredibly awesome all of the time. And as soon as you two realize that, your lives will improve dramatically.”
Needless to say, I am more than happy to buy her ticket.
On Tuesday morning I spend a ridiculous amount of time trying to select my surfing attire. Normally, this is automatic: wet suit in the cold months, spring suit on chilly mornings, bikini and a rash guard when it’s hot. My rash guard has two purposes. It’s a swim shirt that protects my skin from all the wax and sand on my surfboard. And, bonus, it keeps me from falling out of my bikini top whenever I wipe out.
Of course, normally I’m only interested in what’s most comfortable and functional for surfing. Today, however, is not normal.
Instead of hitting the waves to find the perfect ride, I’ll be teaching a bunch of grade school kids how to surf. That means they’ll be staring at me while I do a lot of leaning and bending over. The last thing I want to do is give them a little show-and-tell. But I’ll also be in front of Ben, and it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if I actually looked, you know, cute.
After countless combinations, I finally settle on a pair of rainbow-striped board shorts that have a stylish cut but still cover everything I need covered and a baby blue Surf Sisters rash guard that I put on over a black bikini top. As I take one final look in my bedroom mirror I empathize with all of the women who ask me to help them find a swimsuit. Still, to my surprise, the combination actually looks cute, and in a rare moment of self-confidence I’m willing to say I’ve gone from flounder to dolphin.
At the beach, Sophie helps me set up before the campers arrive. She’s doing a good job of keeping it light and funny so I don’t stress out. She can ride you relentlessly, but when you need it, she’s nothing but your biggest cheerleader. We’re laughing about something when we hear the faint sound of mass whistling approaching us.
I look up just in time to see Ben leading a makeshift platoon of campers over a sand dune and right at us. They are whistling a silly tune as they pretend to march, and it is irresistibly cute.
My guess is that Ben didn’t spend nearly as much time worrying about his wardrobe as I did. He’s traded in his coach’s shorts for a flowery Hawaiian print bathing suit but has maintained the rest of his signature look with a tucked-in polo, white socks, and running shoes. You’d think it was a uniform or a job requirement, except both of the other counselors are wearing swimsuits and T-shirts.
“He’s wearing shoes and socks,” Sophie says to me. “He’s wearing them on the beach.”
“Yeah,” I respond. “I’m going to have to work on that.”
I recognize the other counselors from school. The guy’s name is Jacob. Even though he’s a star soccer player, he runs with the brainy crowd and stays pretty low key. I wouldn’t say we’re friends, but I’ve always liked him and we get along well. The girl is a different story.
Kayla is a total alpha, a shark to my dolphin. She lives to make sure that girls like me know that we’re not nearly as sparkly as girls like her. For example, just so everyone realizes how unbelievably awesome she is, she’s wearing a way too tight Surf City top that shows off her curves—and I imagine also restricts her breathing. Surf City is a megaretail store on Ocean Ave. where girls like Kayla, wearing short-shorts and tank tops, sell overpriced T-shirts and surfboards to tourists who don’t know any better. They are our sworn enemies.
“Watch out for that one,” Sophie says with a nod toward Kayla. “If she so much as gets a hint you’re into Ben, she will totally drop in on you.” “Dropping in” is what surfers call it when someone tries to catch a wave that you’re already riding.
Although the Kayla development puts a slight damper on my mood, things take a turn for the better when Ben sees me and flashes that smile of his.
Even Sophie can’t help but notice. “Well, what he lacks in fashion sense, he makes up for with dimples,” she says, accompanied by a friendly nudge of her elbow. “That’s my cue to let you two be all alone . . . you know, except for the screaming kids and the conniving camp counselor.”
She smiles and gives a friendly wave to Ben and the campers as she walks back up toward the surf shop.
Just as they’re about to reach me, Ben holds his hand out like a stop sign. “Campers, halt!”
The kids make exaggerated stops, some even going so far as running into each other in slow motion before crashing onto the sand. Apparently, his goofiness has already infected them.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to be teaching this class,” he says.
“There was a change in plans,” I answer, trying to sound mysterious but probably coming across as clueless.
He thinks about this for a second and nods. “Very nice.”
He turns to address the kids, and from the way they hang on his every word I can tell that they love him.
“I want all of you to say hi to Izzy.”
“Hi, Izzy!” the kids shout in unison.
“Hi, everyone!” I say back. “Are you ready to learn how to become slammin’ surfers?”
There are cheers, and I realize that even if it wasn’t for Ben, I should never have tried to avoid this. Kids are great and I love teaching them about the ocean. I can’t help but flash back to my own summer camp when I came here for the same lessons. My dad had already taught me the basics, but this was when I really got the bug. It’s also when I first started to hang out at Surf Sisters.
“Before we do anything,” I continue, “I want you all to repeat these three words. Slip! Slop! Slap!”
“Slip! Slop! Slap!” they shout in unison.
“Who can tell me what these words mean?”
When no one else raises a hand, Ben jumps right in.
“Slip, slop, slap,” he says. “That’s what happened to me when I tried to stand up in a bathtub this morning.”
The kids laugh.
“Good guess,” I say. “But n
ot what I was going for. This is why they’re important. If you’re going to be in the sun for a while, you should always ‘slip on a shirt,’ ‘slop on some sunscreen,’ and ‘slap on a hat.’”
I open up the two big boxes that Sophie helped me set up and start handing out rash guards, Steady Eddie surf caps, and plenty of sunscreen.
“We love the sun, but we have to respect it,” I say. “Too much of it is bad for your skin. Isn’t that right, Kayla?”
All eyes turn to Kayla, whose richly tanned skin is a pretty good indication that she does not follow this advice.
“That’s right,” she says unenthusiastically as she stares daggers at me.
Once everyone is fortified against the sun, I get them all in a big circle so that we can stretch. I don’t know if it’s coincidence or conniving, but Kayla winds up directly across from Ben so that he has an unobstructed view of her doing her stretches. And, as much as I hate her, even I have to admit she looks pretty spectacular while she’s doing them.
Once we’re all stretched out, I hold up a thick foam board about three feet long and ask, “Who can tell me what this is?”
Without missing a beat, Ben answers, “A surfboard!”
The kids all laugh because they think he’s joking, but I can tell by his expression that he thought he had the right answer. I quickly come to his rescue.
“Ben’s trying to trick you guys, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” they shout, and Ben smiles and plays along.
“This is way too short to be a surfboard, isn’t it, Ben?”
“Absolutely,” he says with a grateful smile. “Way too short. Even for short people like these guys.”
“So, who, other than Ben, can tell me what it really is?”
A few of the kids call out, “A boogie board.”
“That’s right,” I answer. “A boogie board. It’s also called a body board, and although you use it to ride waves, you don’t stand up on it like a surfboard. Do you?”
“No,” they reply.
I notice one girl in back is too shy to shout out with the others. She reminds me of me at her age, so I point to her and ask, “How do you ride a boogie board?” As I ask the question, I rub my hand over my stomach.
“On your belly?” she says with a little uncertainty.
“That’s right, you ride it on your belly. Before camp is over we’re going to have all of you standing up on surfboards. But for today we’re going to just stay on our bellies and ride these. Okay?”
“Okay!” they shout, and this time she shouts with them.
We break the campers into smaller groups and take them out into shallow water a few at a time. This lets them get used to the dynamics of waves and builds their confidence for riding on a board. It’s also unbelievably fun.
Most of them pick it up instantly, and I quickly become a fan of the shy girl, whose name is Rebecca. I notice the change in her attitude with every bit of success, and it reminds me even more of the nine-year-old version of me.
The only one who struggles getting the hang of it is Ben. First he has trouble catching a wave, and when he finally does get one, he lies too far up on the board and winds up going face-first into the sand. The kids all get a kick out of this, and the thing that’s great about Ben is that he does too. A lot of guys would get embarrassed and try to act cool, but he just goes with the goofy, and the kids love it.
By the middle of the session I am certain that it’s more than a crush for me. I really like him and I would love for him to like me. But the problem is that I just can’t tell if he’s even remotely interested.
He’s relaxed when we talk, which makes it seem like he is, but then he’s all goofy with the kids, too, so maybe that’s just him. Furthermore, he seems to have no idea that Kayla is a shark in surf clothing and seems mighty comfortable talking to her, too. I don’t have the body or confidence to do what she’s doing and begin to think that I may be in beyond my depth.
In fact, I don’t get a good read on the situation until the lesson is done and we’re all carrying our boards back up to the shop. Ben walks next to me.
“This was great,” he says. “The kids loved it. I loved it. Obviously, I need a lot of practice and coaching, but it was great.”
I can’t tell if he’s opening the door for me to offer to help him get that practice and coaching or if he’s just making conversation. I walk quietly for a moment before I start to stammer, “Well, you know . . . if you really want to get better . . . I could always—”
And that’s when Kayla drops in, just like Sophie warned me she would. She sidles right up next to him and grabs him by the elbow with an effortlessness that is as impressive as it is evil.
“Ben, you are so great with these kids,” she says, all dimples and boobs. “Don’t you think so, Iz?”
I cannot believe that she is calling me “Iz,” like we’re old friends or something. Of course there’s nothing I can do about it but agree.
“Terrific,” I say. For a moment she and I lock stares, and I know that war is at hand. Before I can say anything else, one of the campers comes running up to Ben.
“Ben, Ben, Ben,” he says excitedly. “You won’t believe it. There’s this dead fish and its guts are exploded all over the place. It’s totally disgusting.”
“Well, if it’s TOTALLY disgusting,” he says with an exaggerated expression, “then I have to see it.”
They hurry off and leave me alone with Kayla. Neither of us says another word for the rest of the walk. We’re just a shark and a dolphin swimming side by side across the sand.
You’re my daughter and I love you,” my dad says with total tenderness before he flashes an evil grin and adds, “But first I’m going to demolish you, and then I’m going to destroy you.”
Welcome to game night with the Lucas family. Always fun, always competitive, always full of trash talk. At the moment we’re in the middle of a particularly intense game of Risk, and Dad is about to attack my armies in Greenland. He’s feeling good about it until my mom interrupts.
“You know that ‘demolish’ and ‘destroy’ mean the same thing,” she says, tweaking him.
He stops just as he’s about to roll the dice. “What?”
“You can’t destroy her if you’ve already demolished her. Your threat doesn’t make sense.”
“Donna?” he whines. “I’m going for an intimidation thing, and you are literally raining on my parade.”
“You mean ‘figuratively,’” she says. “Or is there actual rain falling on a parade I don’t know about?”
“You’re doing it again,” he says, getting flustered. “You’re doing it again.”
“I’m sorry, but I think if you want to be a global dictator, the least you can do is use proper grammar.”
My parents totally crack me up. They’re both teachers at Pearl Beach High School. Mom is the chair of the English Department, hence the grammar, and Dad teaches history and coaches cross-country, which explains the competitiveness. At school I might have a slight tendency to avoid them, but they’re actually very cool and fun to hang out with. During the summer we usually play board games around the kitchen table a couple nights a week.
“What if I say this?” he offers, having fun with it. “First I’m going to invade your country, and then I’m going to destroy it?”
He looks at her hopefully, but she just shrugs and replies, “It’s not great.”
“Why? What’s wrong with it?”
“Why invade the country if you’re going to destroy it? I think you may mean that you’re going to invade the country and destroy her army, but that’s not what you said. Your command of pronouns is about as strong as your armies in northern Africa.”
He’s trying to think up a comeback when the doorbell rings. “Saved by the bell,” he says. “Literally.”
“Thank you,” she re
plies. “In that instance ‘literally’ is correct.”
She stands up and adds, “I’ll go answer the door so you can keep up your attacks on Greenland and the English language.”
“English teachers,” he says under his breath as he shoots me a wink.
Just as he’s about to roll the dice, I hear a familiar voice talking to Mom at the door and signal Dad to stop.
“Wait a second. Is that Ben?”
“Ben?” my father asks. “Who’s Ben?”
Suddenly visions of embarrassment dance through my head. I turn to him and give my most desperate face. “Don’t be you. Don’t tell bad jokes. Don’t tell embarrassing stories. Just once, try to be normal.”
“I am offended,” he says indignantly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I give him a look and he returns it in kind.
“Really?” I ask.
“Really.”
I hear them walking toward the kitchen and I know I’m running out of time. “If you’re good, I’ll promise not to attack you in northern Africa and we can gang up on Mom in Asia.”
“Deal,” he says with a grin.
We shake on it just before Mom walks into the room with Ben.
“Hi, Izzy,” he says sheepishly.
“Hey, Ben,” I say, trying to figure out why he might be here. “Mom, Dad, this is Ben. He’s down for the summer from Wisconsin. Ben, these are my parents.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says. “I’m sorry to interrupt your game.”
“That’s okay,” says Mom. “We were just about to take a break.”
“We were?” asks my father, no doubt disappointed that his plans for global domination keep getting interrupted.
“We were,” she says, “so that you and I could head over to the Islander and get some ice cream.”
“That’s right,” he replies, suddenly pleased. “We absolutely were going to get some ice cream.”
Without missing a beat Mom picks up her purse and beelines for the door with Dad right behind her. Just before he leaves, though, he turns around and pulls out his phone to take a picture.
Pulled Under (Sixteenth Summer) Page 4