Pulled Under (Sixteenth Summer)

by Michelle Dalton

  “It’s nice,” she says. “But I like it more with the skirt than the jeans.”

  “That’s a relief. I was worried the jeans would look better and then I’d have to make it through a whole meal without spilling anything on them.”

  “But it’s okay to spill something on the skirt?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.

  “No, but the white denim is just asking for it. That looks amazing on you, by the way.”

  Nic’s trying on a floral baby doll dress with black leggings that really take advantage of her height.

  “You sure? They’re not too tight?”

  I shake my head. “You know what Sophie says.”

  “There’s no such thing as too tight,” we both answer in unison.

  The one drawback of life on Pearl Beach is that the nearest mall is almost an hour away. The two of us have made the trip because we’ve found ourselves in an unexpected situation. Namely, for the first time in our lives we have boyfriends. As a result we’re both looking for a little wardrobe pick-me-up. Of course we don’t have much money to spend, so we’re only looking on the sale racks.

  “It was a lot easier when I stuck to dark colors and solids,” Nicole says. “You know, in order to blend in while I stalked him.”

  “Good times,” I say as we head back into our stalls. “Speaking of which, how are things now that you and Cody actually talk?”

  “Way more fun,” she says. “Although we’re taking it kind of slow. We only go out once, maybe twice a week.”

  “Are you okay with that?”

  “Absolutely,” she says. “The slow helps because it’s all so new to me. I feel like I need relationship training wheels.”

  “That makes two of us. I don’t think I can count on that turtle rescuing me every time I start to spiral out of control.”

  “Yeah, not so much.”

  We step back out and now she is wearing a graphic tank top and a high-low skirt that looked like nothing special on the rack but incredible on her.

  “I should never shop for clothes with you,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “Because of the whole six-foot-supermodel thing. I feel like Stumpy McGee.”

  “Who’s Stumpy McGee?” she says with a laugh.

  “I don’t know. I just made her up. But he cannot pull off any of the looks that you’ve been rocking.”

  “Well, you’re not Stumpy McGee because everything you’ve tried on looks adorable. Besides, I could never get away with wearing those,” she says, pointing at the pair of boyfriend jeans I’m trying on.

  “Sure you could,” I say. “Except on you’d they’d be capris.”

  We both laugh and I realize that this is the beauty of having a lifelong best friend. You can give each other garbage, boost each other’s confidence, and look out for each other all in consecutive sentences.

  I remember learning how to ride a bike, and I’m still learning how to drive. (I’ve got my permit, but I do not feel a rush to get my license.) But I don’t remember learning how to surf. It was too long ago, and that’s a shame because if I did remember, it might help me teach Ben. Today is his first lesson on his new board, and he wants to make it memorable.

  “It’s time we go out where the grown-ups surf,” he says.

  Up until now, he’s been using my dad’s board and I’ve done the same lessons with him that I do with the summer campers. We’ve stayed in shallow water, and he’s only caught waves after they’ve broken. It’s a great way to learn, but now he’s ready to go out beyond the white water. At least, he thinks he’s ready. Just in case he’s not, I’m right alongside him reminding him of each step along the way.

  First we wade out into the water until it’s waist deep, and then we lie out on our boards and start paddling. The part that surprises people the most is how hard it is to paddle. It looks like it should be easy, but it’s not. You have to get used to balancing, and you have to work hard to go against the tide.

  “Don’t forget to duck dive,” I tell him.

  Duck diving is what you do when you paddle into a wave that’s coming right at you. The way you’re supposed to do it is to speed up right until you’re about two feet away and then push the board down under the water and let the wave pass over you. If you forget, the wave slams your board into you.

  Apparently he didn’t hear me, because he forgets.

  “My bad,” he says. “I was supposed to do something there, wasn’t I?”

  “Duck dive!” I say, louder this time as another wave approaches. Now he picks up speed, and although it’s not particularly graceful, he manages to get under the wave and pop out on the other side.

  “Like that?” he asks.

  I ignore the lack of grace and focus on the positive. “Yes. But next time try holding the rails tighter and push down with your whole body.”

  “Got it,” he says.

  We dive under a couple more waves before we get out beyond the break to where the water is calm. The look on his face is priceless. He is loving it.

  “Now you need to straddle your board like this,” I say, demonstrating.

  “Do I look at the ocean or at the beach?” he asks.

  “Did you not listen to any of the lessons I gave you?”

  “I tried,” he says. “But it’s hard to pay attention because you’re so pretty.”

  This makes me laugh. “You look out at the ocean until you see the wave you want. Then you turn and start paddling.”

  “Got it,” he says.

  I look over at him and see that he’s struggling to find the right balance. His butt keeps sliding from one side of the board to the other and he overcorrects to keep from falling off.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it.”

  He squirms a little more and then finally settles into position. Kind of.

  “This is . . . what’s the word you use . . . ‘radical’?”

  “I think they stopped using that a couple decades ago,” I say. “But I know the feeling. Now remember, you don’t have to stand up the first couple times. You can catch the wave and ride it lying down. It’s good practice and helps you get the hang of it.”

  “Are you kidding me?” he scoffs. “I did not rescue Blue Boy from some old garage just so I could ride him lying on my stomach. We are ready to hang ten.”

  “Do you even know what hanging ten means?” I ask with a laugh.

  He shakes his head. “Come to think of it, I don’t. But there’s not enough time for you to tell me because I believe this wave is for me.”

  It’s a great dramatic moment. Or at least it would be if he successfully turned and caught the wave. Unfortunately, all he does is turn and slide off the board. Six times in a row. Once he finally gets the turn down, he goes through a brutal thirty minutes in which he tries to catch wave after wave only to watch each one pull away and leave him behind.

  “What am I doing wrong?” he asks.

  “The moment the wave lifts your board, you’re natural instinct is to lean back, but you should actually lean forward.”

  He nods. “It’s harder than it looks.”

  “Much harder,” I say. “Do you want to take a break? We could paddle in and rest or maybe practice some more in the white water.”

  He shakes his head defiantly. “I am not paddling back. I am riding in.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “I mean it,” he says, trying to psych himself up. “I’m going to ride in . . . standing up.”

  Fifteen minutes later he actually catches a wave for about ten seconds. When he loses it, I worry that he’ll be frustrated, but the opposite happens. He’s more jacked than ever.

  “That time I really felt it,” he says. “I think I’ve figured it out. I did what you said and it worked. I just have to force myself to commit to it. I have to force myself to conti
nue leaning forward.”

  That’s what he does on the next wave and I am beyond thrilled as he catches it and takes off toward the beach. There are a couple times when he almost loses it, but I can see the exact moment when he latches on for good.

  It’s a thing of beauty.

  And then he tries to stand up. Which is not a thing of beauty.

  He actually makes it farther than I would have guessed. He’s wobbly but he manages to find his balance, kind of like a baby when it’s taking its first steps and keeps its butt real low. Then he tries to straighten out his legs and stand all the way up, and when he does, he leans too far forward and pearls. The tip of the board digs into the water and throws him into the air. He slams face first into the ocean and disappears for a moment before standing up in shallow water.

  I instantly catch the next wave and ride it right to him.

  “Are you okay?” I ask anxiously.

  “I’m not okay, I’m great,” he says.

  Then he turns and I see his face. There’s a gash under his right eye that’s bleeding and makes me gasp.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Is my nose broken?”

  “No. Your nose looks fine,” I say. “But you’ve got a bad cut under your eye.”

  “Cool,” he says, oblivious to any pain. “Did you see that ride? It was wicked fun. I totally get why you’re addicted to this. Let’s get back out there.”

  “Maybe we should, you know, take care of the cut first.”

  “Really? Can’t we stay just a little bit longer?”

  “Oh my God,” I exclaim.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “You’re already hooked.”

  I hear the knock and I bolt into action.

  “I’ve got it!”

  I hurry down the hall, but before I open the door, I pause, take a breath, and run my fingers through my hair. It’s important not to seem anxious and frantic. Especially at times like this, when you are anxious and frantic.

  “Hi,” I say as I crack the door open to reveal a smiling Ben.

  “Hey,” he says in his superspecial dreamy way. The swelling in his cheek has gone down, and I no longer worry that I’ve destroyed the masterpiece that is his face.

  I lean out and whisper, “You know you don’t have to do this. It’s not too late to run away.”

  “I want to,” he says. “Besides, I brought these.”

  He holds up a small bouquet of flowers, and I fling the door open.

  “You got me flowers?” I’ll admit it. There’s a hint of giddy in my voice.

  “Actually,” he responds with a cringe, “they’re for your mother. I wanted to thank her for inviting me to dinner.”

  “Hmmm,” I say, with raised eyebrows. “So that’s how you’re going to play it. And here I thought you always knew the right thing to say.”

  We walk down the hall toward the kitchen.

  “Ben’s here!” I announce. “He brought flowers.”

  “For me?” Dad says, looking up from the pot of spaghetti he’s stirring.

  “No,” I respond. “They’re for . . . Mom.”

  Dad cocks his head to the side and wags a wooden spoon at us, splattering some red sauce across the stove. “You better watch it, son. That woman’s married and she’ll break your heart.”

  My mother comes in from the dining room shaking her head. “Would you two give the boy a break? Sometimes I feel like I live with wild animals.”

  Without missing a beat, Dad and I both do jungle animal noises, which only makes her shake her head that much more. She ignores us and takes the flowers from Ben.

  “Thank you, Ben. They’re lovely.”

  “Thanks for inviting me,” Ben says.

  She motions to Dad and me. “It certainly would have been understandable if you had declined. How’s that cut?”

  “Better,” he says. “Thanks for that, too.”

  Mom was the one who treated the cut when we got back to the house. She checks to make sure it’s healing okay.

  “Needless to say, living with these two has made it necessary for me to develop basic first aid skills.”

  Dad and I do the jungle noises again, and Mom just shakes her head.

  Even though Ben’s been hanging out at the house on a regular basis and has eaten with us on multiple occasions, this is the first time he’s “officially” been invited for dinner. My mother has some old school South in her, and she wants to make sure he knows that he’s welcome in our house. She’s even insisting that we eat in the dining room instead of the kitchen like we usually do.

  At first I didn’t get it, but judging by the flowers and the fact that Ben wore nice khakis and a button-down shirt, I think that she may have been onto something I missed. Once we put the flowers in the vase and finish setting the table, I have to admit that it does feel special.

  Ever the English teacher, Mom asks him, “Have you had to do any summer reading for school?”

  I start to answer no for him because I haven’t seen him near a book, but he surprises me.

  “I just finished The Grapes of Wrath a few nights ago. It was great. Steinbeck’s my favorite author.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I say.

  “Which part? That I just finished The Grapes of Wrath? Or that Steinbeck is my favorite author?”

  “Either.”

  He shrugs. “You never asked.”

  “I love Steinbeck too,” says my mother. “Although I prefer Of Mice and Men.”

  “That book’s too sad for me,” he says.

  “You don’t think The Grapes of Wrath is sad?” she asks.

  “Incredibly sad,” he says. “But somehow it has a sense of hopefulness about it.”

  I look across the table at my mother, and the only way to accurately describe her reaction is to say that she is actually swooning.

  “Why, yes it does,” she says, with a glow to her cheeks. “There certainly is a lucky English teacher up in Madison, Wisconsin.”

  “Did I miss the memo about book club?” I ask.

  “No,” says Dad. “It’s not really book club. He’s just kissing up to your mother.”

  Ben shoots Mom a look. “I’m not kissing up. I really do like Steinbeck.”

  “I know,” she says. “We can talk books later.”

  “Great,” he says.

  The conversation continues, and a few minutes later Ben finishes a bite of spaghetti and goes to say something but stops.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “I was going to say how great the spaghetti is, but then I realized your dad would just think I was kissing up to him, too.”

  “No, no, no. Feel free to compliment the spaghetti,” Dad says. “That’s totally different.”

  “How is that different?” I ask.

  “Because unlike the collected works of John Steinbeck, the epic greatness of my spaghetti sauce is indisputable. Go ahead, son, kiss away.”

  “I want to make it when I go back home, so can you tell me what jar it comes in?”

  My mother and I burst out laughing, and Dad’s eyes open wide in horror.

  “A jar? You think I make spaghetti sauce out of a jar? I’ll have you know my mother was born in Italy. And not the one in Epcot. The real one.”

  Dad loves giving people a hard time. He calls it “bustin’ their chops,” but I refuse to use that term because I’m not some high school boy in the 1980s. But the truth is, he loves it even more when someone is willing to bust his right back.

  “I’m just kidding,” Ben says. “It’s delicious. Is it your mom’s recipe?”

  “Actually, no,” Dad says, bursting with pride. “I invented it.”

  “I think ‘developed’ would be a more appropriate usage,” the English teacher across the table from me says. “‘Invention’ us
ually implies some sort of groundbreaking shift or advancement.”

  “Like I said,” Dad replies with his booming voice, “I ‘invented’ it.”

  Mom and I laugh because we know that Dad has just begun. He could talk about his sauce for hours.

  “I’ve spent years perfecting it. It is perfect, don’t you think, Ben?”

  “‘Perfect’ is exactly the word I would use.”

  “And I’ve never written the recipe down. I keep it all up here.” He taps his right temple. “I make it for my team the night before every big race.”

  “Then let’s hope it pays off tomorrow.”

  “It most definitely will.”

  While the inspiration for the meal may have been good manners, the menu selection was all about carbo-loading. Tomorrow Ben and Dad are driving to Cocoa Beach for the Rocket Run, a 10K road race whose name was inspired by the nearby space center. They’ve trained together a couple times a week and have turned it into some sort of male bonding thing.

  “The trick is that you have to make sure the sauce is not too heavy. My mom’s sauce is great, but if you ate it the night before a race, it would slow you down. This is light but still has enough kick to make it worthwhile.”

  “Too bad it doesn’t come in a jar,” Ben says after another forkful. “I’m sure my team back home in Madison would love it.”

  “I can teach you to make it,” Dad says out of the blue. “You’ve just got to promise not to tell anyone else. We’ll keep it between you and me.”

  “I promise.”

  Ben’s happy. Dad’s happy. I, however, am . . . not happy.

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  “What’s the matter?” asks my dad.

  “When I asked you how to make it, you said that I couldn’t be trusted.”

  “That’s because you’re terrible with secrets,” explains my father. “But I trust Ben.”

  I know this started out as a joke, but there’s a part of me that is semi-offended here. I really did ask him to teach me, and he really did refuse.

  “What makes you so sure you can trust him?”

  Dad looks at me as if it should be obvious. “Well, I’ve already trusted him to take care of the thing that I love the most in the world. I think he can handle a spaghetti recipe.”