by Trish Cook
Dusty waved a tall, dark-haired guy over and had a little conference with him out of hearing range. A minute later, Dusty introduced him to Brina. “Cody, meet your new best friend. New best friend, meet Cody.”
Instead of slobbering in response to his good fortune, Cody looked bored. “You owe me, dude. Don’t trash my board.”
“Trace, I’m gonna let you in on the secret of surfing,” Dusty said as he showed me a few moves on the sand. “But before I do, you have to promise not to tell anyone.”
“I promise.”
“OK, here it is,” he said, looking around to make sure no one was listening. “Get up and stay up.”
“Thanks,” I said, punching him in the arm.
“That really is the secret, Trace. If you can do that, you’re surfing.”
“Can we get in the water now?” I said. “I’m totally psyched.”
“Not until you start sounding like the real deal,” Dusty said. “So you’re amped.”
“What?”
“Amped,” he said again. “That’s how we say it around here.”
“OK, I’m totally amped,” I corrected myself.
“Now you’re talking.”
Following Dusty’s lead, I did the stingray shuffle into the water and paddled out into the waves. But as hard as I tried to stay on my feet my first hundred tries, I ended up taking doughnuts. Dusty said that was surfer lingo for getting eaten by wave after wave.
“Dude, keep trying,” he said, encouraging me every time I wiped out. “Next time you won’t get pitched for sure.”
“I am not quitting until I get up at least once,” I muttered, gritting my teeth. My competitive streak had kicked in big-time, and I was damned if I was gonna let the whole beach see me fail. I paddled back out behind Dusty and waited until just the right moment.
“C’mon, Trace,” he called to me when it hit. “This one has your name all over it.”
Dusty and his board went gliding along the water. Unbelievably, I was right there beside him. I was actually riding the wave—a real live surfer chick, stuck in the Midwest for only a couple more months until I could completely transform into my new persona.
“That was totally stylie, Trace,” Dusty said when we reached the shore. I figured it was another one of those surfer sayings, along the lines of “That rocked.”
“What a fantasy,” I said, grinning like a complete idiot.
“My specialty,” Dusty said, his eyes sparkling underneath those long blond bangs.
“Surf lessons or fantasies?”
“Both,” he said, tucking a clump of wet hair behind my ears. “So how ’bout me and you go out tonight?”
“Awesome,” I said, no hesitation. A little dinner couldn’t hurt anyone, could it? I needed to eat, right?
“See you at eight, then,” Dusty said, leaning over and giving me a salty kiss on the cheek.
“Cool.”
I ran up the beach toward where I had left Brina. She was still in the same spot, looking sullen. “Did I just see you two kissing?” she asked me.
“Uh, no,” I said. “He was just congratulating me for finally catching a wave.”
“Right,” she said, not believing it for a minute. “So, I take it you had fun today?”
“It was one of the most amazing experiences of my life.”
“Sorry I can’t say the same.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, the smile fading from my face.
“What’s wrong is either I’ve lost my touch completely or I’m a big flop in California,” Brina said. “Not one single guy even talked to me. I was totally bored.” She lifted her sunglasses and gave me a good staring at. “And you were gone a long time.”
I was about to say something like “Welcome to my world” when Brad and Sully plunked themselves down next to us. “Any luck?” Sully asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“No,” said Brina at the same time. “How about you guys?”
“We struck out,” admitted Brad.
“We batted less than zero,” Sully said, laughing. “No surfboard, no play around here.”
“That’s why Trace is the only one who scored,” said Brina. “She’s now an official surfer chick, with her very own surfer dude.”
Sully put his arm around me and whispered in my ear, “Told ya you looked great.”
Brina gave us a disgusted look and started gathering her stuff for the turtle trek back to our hotel. “I am so outta here,” she said. “California sucks.”
Ain’t role reversal a bitch? I thought, and hoped Brina could weather having me in the spotlight for once.
I met Dusty at Javier’s, a crowded little Mexican joint, that night. “So how long are you here for?” he asked as we chowed down on a bowl of fresh-baked chips and guacamole.
“Just the weekend,” I said, smiling. My sunburned cheeks felt too tight for my face. “We’re actually heading up to UCLA Monday morning and then catching a flight home later in the day.”
“Too bad,” he said. “I would’ve loved to hang out with you some more.”
“Maybe we can in a few months,” I said. “I’m probably coming out this way for college in the fall.”
“I hope I can last that long,” he said, flirting like crazy.
When we were finished eating, Dusty paid the check and we headed down to the beach. The moon was nearly full, so everything looked sparkly and magical. After we’d walked a while, Dusty sat down and patted the sand next to him. “See that star up there?” he said. “It’s the one Aquinnah and I always wish on.”
Well, at least I didn’t have to feel bad about having a hometown honey. “Your girlfriend, huh?” I asked him.
“God, no,” Dusty said, laughing. “I wouldn’t be here with you if I had a girlfriend, would I?”
“I guess not,” I mumbled.
“Aquinnah’s my five-year-old stepsister.”
“Kids are great,” I said, feeling like a total scum.
“Hot out here,” Dusty said, pulling off his T-shirt and revealing a Chinese symbol tattooed on the top of his back.
I traced the outline of the writing. “What’s it mean?” I asked, my heart ricocheting around in my chest.
“Peace,” Dusty said, taking my face in his hands and kissing me. Oh, my God, it felt good. I wished there were no stupid rules about not sleeping with every guy you met, the minute you met them. Unfortunately, my conscience kept reminding me that there were. In fact, it was just barely letting me enjoy the very beginning of this sandy make-out fest.
Dusty laid us down gently in the sand, kissing me the whole time. His hand slithered up my shirt so expertly I barely noticed what was happening. The delicious shivers running up and down my body gave him away.
“Wait,” I said, trying to talk and kiss at the same time.
“What?” he said, still going for it. “You have surf rash?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “And guilt rash, too.”
Dusty sat up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I kind of have a boyfriend.” All night, Zander’s words about not falling for a surfer guy had been haunting me. And I figured he must be over the shock of my “I love you” by now.
“So what are you doing here with me, then?”
“I guess I feel like I have one foot stuck in the past and one stuck in my future,” I told him. “So the present isn’t even factoring in right now.”
Dusty rubbed his temples. “You are really confusing me, Trace.”
“Let’s just say you’ve made it really easy to forget everything going on back home,” I said. “I’m sorry if I led you on.”
“I liked where we were going,” he said. “But I think I’ll live.”
As we walked back up the beach to the main drag, I asked Dusty, “Where’d you get inked?”
“Place up the road,” he said. “Why? You looking for some?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Let’s do it.” First surfing, then mashing on the beach, and now tattooi
ng. I was turning into a regular risk freak out here. And I liked the new me—all except for the cheating part. That felt pretty crappy. I dug around in my purse looking for my cell phone. “Mind if my friends join us?”
“Why not?”
Ten minutes later Brina, Sully, and Brad met us in front of the Laguna Ink Spot. “I’m getting my belly pierced tonight,” Brina said, totally fired up.
“I am getting a shamrock right here,” Sully said, patting the top of his butt.
“And I want Popeye bulging out of my biceps,” Brad said, rolling up his sleeve and flexing his nonexistent muscle.
“Hey, Paco,” Dusty said as we walked into the Ink Spot. “I rounded up some blank slates for you to work your magic on.”
“Who’s first?” Paco grunted as he lumbered toward the front of the shop. Piercings and tattoos decorated his entire body. I wondered how much more there was underneath his clothes—not that I wanted to see or anything.
“Me!” Brina squealed, raising her hand. She picked out a belly bar with a pink daisy and brought it to him.
“Lift up your shirt,” Paco said. Brina giggled nervously and did as she was told. Paco examined her belly, pulling the skin this way and that until he finally picked just the right spot to pierce.
“Lie down here,” he told her, rubbing alcohol on her stomach and marking it with a pen. Then Paco took out tongs, fastened a rubber band around them, and clamped the skin above Brina’s navel.
“Close your eyes, Brina,” I said as Paco picked up a long, gleaming needle big enough to knit with.
“Why?” she said, panicking and starting to sit up.
“Lie down,” Paco ordered again.
Brina squeezed my hand in hers so hard I thought it might explode into a million pieces. “If I die, tell my mother I love her.”
“Is this chick really your friend?” Dusty whispered to me, making a face. “She’s such a baby.”
“She really is,” I said, both claiming her as my friend and agreeing that she could be a big baby sometimes. Like now.
“Don’t worry, Brina,” Sully said, stroking her forehead until the needle poked through the top of the tongs. Brina didn’t even flinch.
“It’s all done,” Sully said, helping Brina sit up.
“It is?” Brina looked down at her belly in wonder. “And I didn’t even die!”
“It looks cute,” I said, wishing I could pierce my belly, too. But after watching that? No way.
“You pick out your designs yet?” Paco grunted at me and Sully.
“Yup,” we said at the same time. I pointed to a Nike Swoosh. I wanted to “Just do it,” and that included everything from getting into a good college to finding my dad to doing some more mashing on the beach next year—with Zander, of course, when we were both at college out here.
Sully had chosen a Notre Dame leprechaun over the more simple shamrock. “You planning on going to ND?” I asked him.
“Oh, yeah, my family’s gone there for generations,” Sully said.
“So they’ll have yet another Sullivan to look forward to in a couple of years?” Brina asked.
“Well, actually . . . ,” Sully started to say, and then trailed off.
Brad started wildly motioning to the Popeye tattoo. “I’ll have this one,” he told Paco.
“You’ll have nothing and like it, sweet pea,” Paco said. “Come back when you’re eighteen.”
“Shit,” Brad muttered under his breath, flopping down into a chair in the waiting room. He picked up a body art magazine and started leafing through it.
“OK, you two, head to the back room,” Paco said, handing Sully and me our receipts.
“You coming, Dusty?” I asked him.
“Naaah. I gotta rock,” he said. “Thanks for the fun night. E-mail me when you find out about college. And when you dump your homeboy.” He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and took off.
“He seems like a cool guy,” said Sully as we watched Dusty head out the door.
“Oh, he is,” I said, still not quite over our little scrumf on the beach. “But so is Zander, of course.”
“You get a little when-the-cat’s-away-the-mice-will-play action?”
“No,” I said, not looking at him. “OK, maybe a little. But I stopped and told him the truth before things went too far.”
“Agghhhhh,” Sully said, wincing. “The kiss of death. Admitting you have a boyfriend.”
Sully and I kept blabbing and flinching as the tattoo artists worked on us. I have to admit, Sully was way more stoic than me. “You are such a wimp,” he laughed.
“My tattoo is on bone,” I said, pointing to my ankle. “And yours is on fat. Any questions?”
“Fat, schmat,” he said. “This thing is pure muscle.”
“Well, it’s not bone, at any rate.”
Sully gave me an evil grin and winked. “Nope, for that you’d have to roll me over.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I said, blushing. My hormones had gone into overdrive. I was just going to have to control myself until I got home to Zander, and that was final. Pretty much.
CHAPTER 14
On Monday morning, Mrs. Maldonati woke us up at the crack of dawn. “We have to get on the road in an hour to make it everywhere we need to go today and still catch our plane,” she said, turning the lights on full blast and opening the curtains.
“OK, Mrs. Maldonati,” I said, throwing my feet out from under the blankets and standing up. “Owww!” I picked up the foot that now sported a Nike Swoosh, and hopped around. My ankle was throbbing so much it had its very own heartbeat.
“What’s wrong, Trace?” Mrs. M. asked, concerned.
“Just twisted my ankle is all,” I told her. “It’s no big deal.”
Brina rolled out of bed next. When she tried to pull her nightshirt from her body, it wouldn’t budge.
“Gross! I’m oozing all over the place,” she whispered to me.
“Get used to it,” I said, clamping my hand over her mouth. “Paco said it’s gonna be like that for at least six weeks. And you better keep it a secret from Mommy dearest or you are in serious trouble.”
Mrs. Maldonati popped her head back in the door of our room. “Keep what a secret?”
“Brina’s outfit,” I said, jumping in front of her and the stuck-on nightshirt.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” said Mrs. M. “I brought this lovely dress for Brina to wear today.” She held up a pink-and-green Lilly Pulitzer cotton sheath.
Brina took one look at the vile preppy garment and set her mouth into a grim line. “I am not wearing that,” she said. “Not today. Not ever.”
“Guess again,” Mrs. Maldonati told her, laying the dress out on Brina’s bed. “If you had applied to colleges when you were supposed to, you could have chosen your outfit. But things being the way they are, we’re playing by my rules.”
“I don’t even want to go to Mount My Asshole,” Brina grumbled.
“And you know what? They may not want you, either,” Mrs. Maldonati said, pointedly ignoring the crude language. “Remember, Brina, beggars can’t be choosers.”
Brina curled up her lip but knew she had no choice but to put the horrible thing on. “A little privacy, please, Mom,” Brina said, opening the door and waiting for her mom to leave.
“Oh, please,” Mrs. M. said. “Let me help you into the dress.”
“That’s OK, Mrs. Maldonati,” I told her when I saw the panicked look in Brina’s eye. “I’ll get her all zippered up for you.”
Brina’s mom looked at me, then Brina, and backed out of the room. “Yell if you need me,” she said, closing the door.
“Please shoot me and put me out of my misery,” Brina said, tears welling up in her eyes.
“Can’t,” I said, shaking my head. “You have a very important date with St. Agnes in two hours.”
“St. Ass Wipe,” Brina corrected me.
“Whatever,” I laughed. “Now be a good girl and put this heinous thing on.”
“
Bradley, could you introduce me to your mother’s friend?” Sully asked when Brina walked into the living room. With her hair pulled back into a pretty silver clip, the sleeveless Lilly dress, a white cardigan tied around her neck, and Kate Spade canvas sandals, Brina really did look like the quintessential Winnetka mom.
“Sure thing, Peter,” Brad said, laughing so hard he fell off the couch.
Brina scowled at them both. “I’m ready to go, Moth-er,” she said, drawing out the two syllables to let her mom know she was really annoyed.
We all piled into the car and drove about half a mile before Brina started whining in the backseat. “Mom, I need a latte. I won’t be able to string two sentences together without a little caffeine boost.”
“Brina, you know coffee is bad for the skin and makes you retain water,” Mrs. Maldonati chided.
“So I’ll be bloated and broken out for my interview,” said Brina. “That should go perfectly with this vile outfit.”
“Fine,” Mrs. Maldonati said, pulling over at Starbucks. “But don’t come crying to me when your stomach gets gassy like last time.”
Brina shot her mother the most evil look you can imagine.
“Brina, don’t worry,” Sully said, hardly able to contain his laughter. “I was just reading in the Insider’s Guide that coffee farts make a great impression in interviews.”
It was all too much for Brina—the horrible outfit, the fart comments, the pressure of having one last shot to get into college—and she plopped herself down on the curb and started to cry.
“I’m sorry, Brina,” Sully said, looking horrified. “I was just kidding.”
“Screw you,” she said. Sully shook his head and walked off toward Starbucks.
“You can’t tell slp to screw,” I said, trying to make Brina laugh before she totally melted.
“Didn’t I already tell you about the Sully ‘ewwww’ factor? And that he totally knows we’re just friends?”
“So far, all I’ve seen you do is flirt with him.”
“You’re completely wacked. It’s called making polite conversation.”
“You make polite conversation with somebody’s aunt Irma,” I told her. “You stay out until six a.m. on a beach flirting with hot men like Sully. And I still don’t think he gets that you’re just friends.”