Despite all the subterfuge and mental distractions, the big news of the morning is the lesson. We keep the soft boards—large, padded surfboards—on the sand and practice our paddling and pop-up techniques. Then we hit the water and put them into practice. I can’t express how exciting it is to see the kids’ faces light up the first time they get up on their feet and ride a wave. Even though we’re only in three feet of water, it’s exhilarating for them.
My favorite is Rebecca, the shy girl I noticed the first day. She has continued to come out of her shell a little more each week. Today she stays up on the board the longest of anyone, and I can see in her the same spark I had when I was her age at this camp.
Throughout it all, Ben and I exchange quick glances and whispered comments. Our hands touch a couple of times as we help kids get up on their boards, and once when I’m not looking his way, he uses a boogie board to splash me, which gets a big laugh from everyone. Even with my compromised sign-reading ability, it all seems kind of flirty.
We finally have a brief moment right after the lesson when the kids are taking an orange slice and bottled water break. I look over and see that Kayla is still dealing with Hurricane Sophie, which means she won’t be able to drop in on me again like she usually does.
“They did great today,” I say.
“You did great today,” he replies. “The way you love it so much connects with them. They want to feel the same way because it’s so real.”
There’s an awkward pause, so I just jump headfirst into the situation.
“Speaking of real . . . ,” I say, unleashing the worst segue in history, “did that really happen yesterday?”
He smiles and nods. “It did. In fact, I think it was maybe going to happen again when we were interrupted.”
“By ‘interrupted’ you mean when you had to take an eight-mile detour with my dad?”
“Kinda, yeah,” he says. “I have to say I did not see that coming. I was hoping that maybe we could talk about it. . . . You know, without so many people around.”
“That can be arranged.”
“How about after work?”
“Sure. My shift ends at six thirty.”
“Great, I’ll meet you at the shop,” he says. “You’re not going to make me go running with your dad again?”
I shake my head. “I promise.”
“Good, ’cause I’m planning on wearing my flip-flops so I blend in with the locals. And those things really make you blister around the three-mile mark.”
Our eyes linger for a moment, and I say, “See you at six thirty.”
“See you then.”
He rushes off to make sure the kids pick up all their orange peels and water bottles, and I start stacking up the surfboards to carry back up to the shop. I see Kayla finally break free of Sophie and head our way, but she’s too late. Today’s score is Dolphin 1, Shark 0. And the dolphin is now in it to win it.
Although Sophie and Nicole seem to think that all the signs they saw on the beach were positive, I’m still approaching the situation with total caution. All I really know is that Ben’s coming to talk with me after work. Maybe he’s planning to say that the kiss was a mistake, or that while he likes me, he doesn’t like me like me. It’s all so hard to figure out.
I spend most of the day watching the clock, and at 6:13 I’m in the middle of my “do you see yourself as a shark or a dolphin?” routine with a girl looking for a bikini when Ben comes into the store. He smiles and waves, and since I don’t want to be rude to the customer, I respond on the sly with a half smile and a raised eyebrow that I hope looks cool and not like a nervous twitch.
“Which do you like best?” the girl asks, holding up two swimsuits.
I give her my undivided attention, consider both suits, and point to the one in her left hand. “That one.”
She scrunches up her face. “I think I like the other one better.”
I resist the urge to say, “Then why did you ask me?” and instead go with, “That one looks cute too. Why don’t you try it on?”
She heads for the changing room, and I turn back to look for Ben. Only now he’s gone. I scan the shop and half worry that maybe I’m just imagining him now. (Imaginary boyfriend—that does kind of sound like me.)
Sophie sees my distress as she walks over. “Badger Ben just went out to the garage,” she says, referring to the room where we keep all the surfboards.
“‘Badger’ Ben?”
“You shot down all the dairy nicknames, so I thought I’d try something else. In addition to being America’s Dairy Land, Wisconsin is known as the Badger State. I figure Badger Ben has alliteration and a nice ring to it.”
I don’t pretend to understand what it is with Sophie and nicknames, but I’m a little too anxious at the moment to get into it. “How did he seem?”
“Like he was about to break your heart,” she says. “He’s probably going to tell you that he never wants to see you again and he’s running off to marry Kayla.”
I gasp before I realize she’s joking.
“You might want to turn down the nervous knob,” she says, with a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Listen to the music. I picked this playlist specifically to help you mellow out.”
In the shop we usually play a steady blend of beach, Hawaiian, and reggae music, and after a while you stop hearing it and it disappears into the background of your brain. But now that I listen, I realize that Bob Marley is singing one of my favorite tunes: “Don’t worry about a thing, ’cause every little thing gonna be all right. . . .”
“Okay,” I say after I get the hint, and take a couple of deep breaths. “I’ll calm down.”
“Good, because you’re much better when you’re relaxed. You’re not one of those ‘performs well under pressure’ kind of girls.”
“Gee thanks, Coach. Good to know I can always get a pep talk.”
“I’m just keeping it real.”
“By the way,” I add, “‘Badger Ben’ is a no go.”
She shrugs. “I knew it the second I said it, but you gotta try these things out to be sure.”
Fifteen minutes later my shift is over and the girl has finally decided on a bikini. It goes without saying that she picked the first one I had recommended. I remind myself that it’s important for her to be comfortable with her purchase, so I don’t mind the other five we had to go through before we got back to it.
Once she’s made her purchase, I am free to go and head over to the garage. It’s been my favorite part of the shop ever since I was a kid and I’d come to look at all the boards and try to figure out which one was made just for me. We don’t have nearly the number that Surf City has in its inventory, but all of ours are choice. About half of them are custom made in the area. These cost a little more, but they are beyond sweet.
Personally, I’m saving up to buy my very own M & M, which is what we call the boards that Mickey and Mo shape themselves. They only make about a dozen a year, so they’re pretty hard to come by.
Speaking of Mo, when I get to the garage, I see her in back talking to Ben. She’s in her midfifties, but she looks much younger than that. A life spent surfing, swimming, and kayaking has kept her extremely fit. It also keeps her hair wet a lot of the time, which is why she usually just pulls it back in a ponytail.
Of the two sisters, I’m closer to her. This is no knock on Mickey; it’s just that Mo and I have more in common. Mickey’s loud and in your face like Sophie, but Mo hangs around the edges like I do. We surf alike too. Both of us favor a long, smooth style rather than a more athletic and aggressive one.
She’s showing Ben a display case that serves as a tribute to Steady Eddie, her father. It has all sorts of artifacts including surfing trophies, a lifesaving medal, and even his torpedo buoy, which is the big float that lifeguards carried back in the day.
“He won every surf contest in t
he state,” she says, beaming with pride.
“What about King of the Beach?” Ben asks, referring to our local contest. “Did he win that one too?”
Mo laughs. “Seven times—more than anyone.”
“Awesome,” says Ben. “Where’s the trophy for that?”
“At Surf City,” she says. “It always goes to the current champion.”
“That’s kind of unfair,” says Ben.
“I don’t know,” she replies. “It’s in their store, but Dad’s name is on it seven times. Mickey and I think of it as covertly advertising our store over there.”
“Why don’t you ask her who’s won it the second most times?” I say, interrupting.
“We’re in the middle of a conversation, Izzy,” she says, deflecting the comment.
“Go ahead and ask her,” I say again.
“Who won the second most times?” he asks.
She’s reluctant to answer, but Ben and I wait her out, and she finally concedes, “Mickey and I have each won it four times.”
“You were King of the Beach?” Ben asks.
She nods.
“The only two girls to ever win it,” I add, because I know that Mo won’t.
“That means between you two and your dad, you guys have your name engraved on it fifteen times.”
“I never thought of it that way, but I guess so.” Mo is uncomfortable receiving praise, so she redirects the conversation. “Ben, why don’t you show Izzy what you learned?”
“Oh, yeah. Watch this, Iz.” One by one he points to a row of surfboards, identifying each one by type as he goes. “This is a shortboard, this is an egg, this is a fish, and this one . . . is . . . a gun?”
“That’s right, a gun,” Mo says. “Now which one is the quad?”
“The fish,” he says, pointing toward it. “Because it has four fins.”
“Perfect.”
“Very impressive,” I say.
Feeling good about his surfboard IQ, he turns to Mo and adds, “I can do more than identify. I also know that you have to keep them in direct sunlight so that the condensation doesn’t contract the foam.”
Mo starts to correct him, but I shake her off and she lets it slide. Instead she turns to me and says, “I understand you’re going to be teaching Ben the fine art.” She always refers to surfing as “the fine art.”
“Yes, I am,” I say.
She gives us the once-over and nods her approval. “Good choice.”
I don’t know if she’s saying that I’m a good choice as a teacher for him or if he’s a good choice as a guy for me. Knowing Mo, it’s probably a combination of both.
“I’ll be happy to take any pointers that you may have too,” he tells her. “After all, you are a four-time King of the Beach. Or is it Queen?”
“King works,” she says with more than a little pride. She thinks about it and says, “My advice is that you should remember to fall in love with your heart and not with your brain. . . .”
I start to stammer something about it being way too early to use the L word, but catch myself when she continues.
“So pick a board that speaks to you right here.” She taps him in the center of the chest. “And always listen to what Izzy tells you. The girl has the gift.”
“I’ll do that,” he says.
Mo smiles and leaves us in the garage. For the first time since my dad interrupted us yesterday morning, we are alone. I look at him. He looks at me. And I realize I have no idea what to say. You’d think that since I’ve been obsessing over this moment for the last six hours, I might have come up with an opening line.
“Hi.” (Clever, huh?)
“Hi,” he says. “Is your shift over?”
“Yep,” I say. “Although I do have to be home for dinner in about an hour.”
He thinks this over for a moment. “An hour, huh? That doesn’t really leave us enough time to run the eight miles I was hoping to get in, so do you want to just go out on the pier and look at the ocean instead?”
“It’s one of my favorite things in the world.”
The Pearl Beach Fishing Pier is rare in that it’s equally popular with tourists and locals alike. It stretches out from the southern end of the boardwalk and is exactly one quarter mile long. When Ben and I get there, it’s low tide and the beach is at its widest. That means we have to walk nearly a third of the length of the pier before we’re actually over the water. There are people fishing from both sides for most of the way, but none at the far end. There’s also no railing at the end, which allows boats to tie off and lets us sit down on the edge and dangle our feet over the water.
“It’s pretty,” Ben says, looking out at endless ocean.
“It’s better than pretty,” I say as I close my eyes and feel the sea mist against my face. “It’s perfect.”
There’s that word again—“perfect.” It’s the same word I used to describe him yesterday morning, and I wonder if he makes the connection.
We’re both quiet for a little while, and I can tell he’s thinking of what to say. I decide to beat him to the punch.
“I’m pretty sure I know why you wanted to talk,” I offer. “And I’d just like to apologize for all the melodramatic baggage I laid on you yesterday. I also want to apologize for giving you the cold shoulder lately. You deserve better.”
“First of all, you don’t need to apologize for anything,” he says. “And secondly, that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”
I take a deep breath. This is it.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“You’ve told me great things about the beach and surfing. You’ve told me where to eat and how to dress.”
“But . . . ,” I say. “This sounds like it’s leading to a ‘but.’”
I open my eyes and turn to him. He’s looking right at me.
“But,” he says, “you’ve told me almost nothing about yourself. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk about you.”
This catches me off guard. Completely off guard.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you know all kinds of things about me. You know about my parents getting divorced. You know about me breaking up with my ex-girlfriend. You know about my school and my uncle and that I run cross-country. But the only thing I know about you is that your favorite ice cream flavor is mint chocolate chip.”
“That’s probably the most interesting thing about me.”
He shakes his head. “You should think more of yourself, Izzy. I’m sure there are an endless number of interesting things about you, and I’d like to know some of them.”
I rack my brain trying to think of any worth telling, but I come up blank.
“I’m sorry. It’s all just so . . . ordinary.”
“That cannot be,” he protests.
“Okay, I’ll prove it. You’ve met my parents and I’m an only child, so that means you know my entire family. I get good grades at school, but I’m pretty anonymous when I walk through the halls. That’s partly by choice and partly due to the high school version of Darwin’s natural selection. I haven’t told you about breaking up with my ex-boyfriend because I’ve never had a boyfriend. So, now you’re all caught up.”
“You’ve never had a boyfriend?”
I find this particular bit of information to be supremely embarrassing, so I turn away and look back at the water as I answer. “No.”
“Why not?” he asks. “What’s the problem?”
“I guess I’m just a loser,” I say sharply.
“No. I mean, what’s the problem with the boys in this town? How is it possible that you’ve never had a boyfriend? Does the salt water get in their brains? Does the sun make them stupid?”
“You’ve seen Kayla,” I say. “My school is loaded with girls who look like that.”
He thin
ks about this for a moment. “Okay, I’ll admit that Kayla is hot—”
“You think?” I say sarcastically.
“But she’s not in your league. You’re smarter, funnier, and way more interesting.”
“All things that a girl wants to hear. I’m sure she goes to bed every night cursing my really good personality.”
“You do have a really good personality,” he says. “But if you want me to be shallow, I’ll point out that you’re also better looking than her.”
I give him the look. “That’s completely untrue and you know it.”
“That’s funny, because I don’t know that,” he says. “I do know that she asked me to go to a party tonight. And I know that I turned her down so I could hang out with you.”
I’m not sure if I’ll ever have another such opportunity in the future, so I savor this for a moment before I respond.
“Really?”
“Really, and I’ll prove it,” he says, throwing my line right back at me. He covers his eyes with his left hand. “Ask me to describe Kayla.”
I’m skeptical of where this is going, but I don’t have much choice. “Describe Kayla.”
“Big boobs. Long legs. Great hair.”
I haven’t mentioned it yet, but he’s right—Kayla’s hair is spectacular. “Okay,” I reply. “You’re kind of proving my point.”
He shakes his head but still keeps his hand over his eyes. “Now ask me to describe you.”
I don’t really see how this can turn out well, so I don’t say anything. He doesn’t let that stop him.
“You have a wrinkle in your chin,” he says.
“Wow, a chin wrinkle sounds way better than big boobs.”
“You have this amazing wrinkle in your chin,” he says, ignoring my sarcasm, “that only appears when you smile. It’s so irresistible that I keep telling stupid jokes just so that you’ll laugh and I can see it again.”
Pulled Under (Sixteenth Summer) Page 8