Making Waves
Page 1
MAKING WAVES
Making Waves
RAZORBILL
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Young Readers Group
345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700,
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland
(a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre,
Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale,
Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © 2012 Pretty Tough Sports LLC
ISBN: 978-1-101-56182-9
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available
Printed in the United States of America
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
To Justin Michael
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
“Freshman year is o-v-e-r!” my best friend, Zoe Murphy, chants as we step out onto the slate pool deck after school lets out early for our first official day of summer vacation. Just a few hundred feet away, the Pacific Ocean stretches toward the horizon to Hawaii and beyond.
“Race you to the first chair,” I say, taking off across the people-peppered deck. As I suck in the thick salty air, I pass country club members fanning themselves with hundred dollar bills.
Well, not exactly. But pretty close.
I reach the nearest canvas lounge chair in a matter of seconds and turn around expecting to spot Zoe right behind me. I’m surprised to find her strolling lazily across the stone path as if it’s no big deal to be here at the Beachwood Country Club.
I guess for her, it isn’t.
Personally, I can’t believe I’m back at the beach. My beach. The one where I learned to swim as a kid. And that to top it all off, I’ll be working here for the entire summer.
As I wait for Zoe to catch up, I run my fingers along the cool canvas chair and take in the sounds I’ve yearned to hear since I tore open my BCC congratulations letter two days ago. Seagulls cry above me and I can make out the faint cheers of a volleyball game to my right. I stare out at the surf crashing against the sand and imagine how great it will feel to be out there lifeguarding every day. It’s been my dream since I was a little kid playing on this very beach.
My reverie is interrupted when Zoe finally catches up to me. “What are you looking at?” she asks, glancing briefly at the waves before turning to face me.
“Oh, nothing,” I quickly reply. If she can look out at the ocean as if it’s “just another” seaside scene, then I doubt I can make her understand how amazing it feels to be back at the beach I used to visit all the time before it was taken over by the club. “What’s up with you this morning? Not in the mood to race?” I ask, shifting the conversation back to her.
“Not worth it. Abby Berkeley always wins,” Zoe falls into the lounge chair next to me. “It’s getting old.”
“Whatever.” I gingerly sit down on the reclined chair, my thoughts drifting to the time when I didn’t win: when I discovered that Brody—the guy who I thought was the best ever, the one who I met at the swim meet in May, the one who I stayed up all night talking to, the guy whose lingering kiss sent shivers down my spine—wasn’t interested in me.
Zoe sighs as she soaks in the Malibu sun. The noise forces me to remind myself that, as much as I don’t want to admit it, Brody is a thing of the past. I need to concentrate on the stuff that matters now. Like my lifeguarding job.
I glance over in Zoe’s direction. She stretches her gymnast-sized legs out, her toes barely reaching the other end of the chair.
“So I guess you don’t want to go surfing?” I ask, eager to let the water drive away all thoughts of Brody.
“Not yet. Soon,” she replies. “For now I just want to relax. After that all-night cram session for this morning’s history final, I’m grouchier than Oscar.”
“Oscar, really? Someone is watching a little too much Sesame Street.”
“Me? You’re the one who babysits like crazy,” Zoe retorts.
She’s right. I am the one to usually take the jobs. And lately, Zoe and I have been offered so many babysitting gigs that we’d been hoping to turn our sitting jobs into some serious summer cash and maybe even an official business. But with the club forcing me to work at the snack bar as a condition of my lifeguarding, the big question is whether I’ll still have time to babysit.
Zoe places a pesky strand of brown hair behind her left ear and peeks out at me from beneath her Dior sunglasses. “Something wrong?” she asks.
I decide now’s not the time to concern myself with trivial things like the Sunset Snack Bar. “I still can’t get over how crazy it is that we’re about to attend our first official lifeguard meeting!” I exclaim, hoping my glee will mask my worries. “You know, two o’clock is rapidly approaching.”
“It is. And have I told you what a pioneer you are? I think you’re the first non–club member to ever man a lifeguard chair here. You should be so prou—” She stops herself mid-word. “Wait. That came out wrong. I didn’t mean …”
I hold up my hand. “Seriously, Zo? We’ve been friends long enough for you to know it takes a lot more to offend me. I live with three big-mouthed brothers,” I say, fiddling with the navy visitor badge on my bag. “And honestly, even if you do decide to become all hoity-toity this summer because we’re at your fancy-schmancy club, it’s still better than dealing with the drama of softball season.”
“Well, you know …” Zoe pauses, lowering her sunglasses to the bridge of her nose as a joke. “I’ll try to keep the snootiness in check.
” She pushes her sunglasses back to their original position. “But let me just say ‘amen to that, sister.’ Basketball was bad this winter, but softball was really the worst. Between everything that went on with Amber and Kylie, and my brother and Kylie’s big breakup, the season was messier than …” Zoe’s voice trails off, her eyes drifting to my knee.
“I know. I know. You can say it. Messier than the spill I took at the school softball game last month.” I grimace just thinking about the pain.
“Thank God it wasn’t your ACL,” Zoe replies, leaning over to squeeze my hand.
“No, thank goodness my bestie was there with me!” I grin from ear to ear and jump out of the chair, nearly knocking it over. “And, you know, that my knee is feeling better,” I add sheepishly. I swiftly put the chair back into place, hoping that the BCC secret police don’t notice my super classy maneuver. “Now, enough of this. Wanna hit the waves?”
“Always.” Zoe pops out of her chair and motions for me to follow her toward the beach.
I squat down and carefully place my friendship necklace in my bag. Zoe leaves her matching one around her neck as she sets off for the water. We’ve been wearing the necklaces ever since one day in fourth grade when Zoe surprised me at school. They’re from Tiffany’s. Not that I care.
Practically skipping with excitement, we make our way to the ocean. Along the way, we pass a sparkling Olympic-sized pool with a separated lap section, a smaller round kiddie pool, and a Spanish-tiled Jacuzzi. At the kiddie pool, a stunning blonde woman waves at Zoe while balancing a plump baby on her lap.
Zoe smiles and waves back. She whispers “possible client” to me as we walk down the marble steps past the Sunset Snack Bar. I can’t help but notice that my future place of employment looks nothing like the snack bar at my local swim club. That was pretty much just an orange umbrella over an ice cream–filled metal refrigerated box.
Zoe, meanwhile, doesn’t even glance, much less gawk, at anything, not even the attached beverage bar offering everything from fresh fruit smoothies to ice-blends and exotic drinks.
When we reach the far end of the complex—and with it the Murphy’s private cabana—Zoe grabs her brother Zach’s longboard from its resting place against the white wooden siding and hands it to me.
I attach the longboard’s velcro band around my ankle and find myself thinking about the last time I surfed … the day after I met Brody. I gulp and quickly begin rubbing wax over the board, hoping that Zoe won’t notice the frown that has just fallen across my face.
Naturally, I look up to find Zoe staring at me curiously. “I’m going to take a wild guess here and say that you’re thinking about your one night stand,” she says, raising her eyebrows conspiratorially.
“What?! I’ve never had a one night stand,” I screech. I’ve always heeded my brothers’ warnings about guys. I’d never cross that line. I gather up my board and abruptly leave the cabana.
“Come on, Abby. You know what I mean.” Despite our height difference, Zoe keeps pace with me stride for stride. “Do you think you’ll ever see him again?” she asks, looking up at me.
“Who?” I ask, acting oblivious.
“You know who. Your mystery boy.”
I don’t respond right away and for a few seconds we march to the water in silence. Passing a group of B-Dubbers playing volleyball, we each manage to muster a wave—our basketball bud Tamika is among the players—but neither of our hearts is really in it.
“Abby, seriously,” Zoe implores. “Do you think you’re destined to meet again?”
“Doubtful.” I feel the familiar sting in my stomach as I charge ahead of Zoe.
Once we reach the surf, we wade in ankle-deep water for a few seconds, wetting our boards. I shake my leg, dislodging a piece of brown kelp from my ankle.
“That sucks that he left early for college.”
I lay my board on the surface of the water. “I should have listened to my brothers. They’re the ones who always told me that guys are only after one thing. And let’s face it, after what happened with Nick—you know, making out and never calling me again—it’s obvious that they’re right.”
“I don’t know. Given what you told me about how you and he-who-shall-not-be-named shared a ‘deep, emotional connection’ and how you ‘stayed up all night talking for hours that felt like mere moments’ and how ‘when you looked into his eyes, you finally believed in sappy love songs’—given all that, it just doesn’t seem to me that he’s the kind to kiss and bail.”
“Why? Nick did.” I say, ducking underneath a shallow wave. The chilliness of the water catches me by surprise and I quickly pop to the surface.
“The guy who you told me about doesn’t sound a lot like Nick. What makes you think that he’d do the same thing?” Zoe pulls herself onto her board.
“Because he’s a guy. And because once he realized that he wasn’t going to score, he made up some lame-o excuse so he didn’t have to see me again. Anyway, enough of this, I’ve moved on.” I squeeze the edges of my board.
“Abs, I know you don’t want to hear this, but it wasn’t really a lame excuse. He said he was going to Michigan and that he didn’t want to carry on a long-distance relationship in college. That’s a pretty good reason.”
“Yeah, a pretty good reason to get with college girls.”
“Now you really do sound like your brothers.” Zoe says, straddling her board.
“Well, unfortunately, unlike them I’m not a cop. I can’t have him arrested.”
“You really think they could have him arrested?”
“Yeah.” Lying across the board, I begin to paddle through the chilly waves.
“On what grounds?” Zoe’s board rises and falls along with a gentle wave.
“Overall jerkiness and refusal to commit.”
“If those are your grounds, then they’d have to arrest almost every guy out there!”
“Well, then maybe I’m onto something.” I lift myself up so that I’m sitting on my board.
“You’re ridiculous. At least the conference wasn’t a total wash. You stayed at a nice hotel. You got to go to San Fran. And you went home with first place medals for both butterfly and breaststroke. That’s something.”
“Yeah, I guess….” I stare at a couple of surfers in the distance as the current moves me gently forward.
“I bet you probably wouldn’t have gotten the job here this summer if you hadn’t done so well there. Like I said, you’re the first …”
“Non-member to lifeguard at the club. Don’t remind me.”
“I would think that knowing you, you’d see that as a call to arms, a reason to be the best lifeguard in the place.”
“Oh, I am. Don’t be confused about that. If there’s any way to prove that I’m the top swimmer here, I’m going to do it.” I sit up straighter.
“You’ll be happy to know that there is.”
“There is?”
“Yeah, they hold a yearly competition, the Last Blast.” Zoe leans forward and paddles my way. “We had the joy of watching Zach compete last year when he was a lifeguard.”
“Really? Sweet. If you’d just told me that to begin with—the competition part, not the Zach part—then I wouldn’t have wasted your time talking about B—” I cut myself off.
“Ooh, a first inish …” Zoe claps her hands in excitement. “Have I mentioned how ridiculous it is that you won’t tell me the guy’s name? Let me take a guess: Is it Ben? Brad? Brent? Brandon? Bernard?”
“Bernard? Really? You think the boy of my dreams is named ‘Bernard?’” I ask, adjusting the band on my ankle that attaches me to the longboard.
“Never mind. That’s not important. What’s important is that you need to talk to someone about him. Just because your family is super into ‘keeping it all inside’ doesn’t mean that you should too. And to tell you the truth, I’d rather hear how you feel about some super sweet guy than hear you babble endlessly about winning.”
“I don’t babble.”
“You babble.”
“Well, I like winning.” I shrug.
“I know. You’ve made that clear since kindergarten.”
“Fine, so if you don’t want me to talk about how I’m going to crush the competition this summer—and I am—and if I don’t want to talk about you-know-who, then what do you want to talk about?”
“How about how there’s plenty of fish in the sea?” Zoe glances around and points behind her to a surfer in the distance. “Like that guy,” she says.
I don’t turn around to see who she means. “Zoe, I told you, I don’t want to hear about guys.” I spot a wave and furiously paddle, deciding that if I’m going to be out in the ocean, I might as well have fun. As the wave pushes me forward, I spring to my feet, shifting my weight to balance on the board. Riding the momentum, I drop into the barrel and glide as if I’m skimming air, feeling the familiar adrenaline rush kick in.
And that’s exactly when I see him. The surfer Zoe was talking about.
He looks exactly like Brody.
I lose my balance and crash into the water.
So much for moving on.
Chapter Two
Zoe and I catch four-to-five-foot waves for about an hour, during which I look over my shoulder at least ten times to confirm that the surfer in question is just a Brody look-alike.
Eventually, we decide to call it quits so that we’re in time for the information session. We paddle side-by-side back to shore until the water becomes too shallow. Then we gather up our boards and step out onto the warm sand, the grains crunching beneath our toes.
“You’re so amazing in the water. With you here, the other lifeguards will probably just give up their whistles and buoys and call it a day,” Zoe announces as the crashing of the ocean waves gives way to the sounds of our Beachwood Academy classmates enjoying their first few hours of summer vacation.
“Thanks,” I say, avoiding washed up kelp. “I didn’t realize how much I missed this beach.” I look around at the members lounging on beach chairs. In the distance, I can see moms swimming in the pool with their kids, their coiffed heads held high above water. Beyond them, a few execs—who are clearly home early to enjoy the cloudless Southern California day—sit at the bar with chilled martinis beside them.