by Summer Lee
I lifted weights to build up my biceps, but at gut level I knew I was not yet as strong as Chopper. He was six inches taller than me, and outweighed me by forty pounds. But I was determined to never tell a soul that I was scared; instead, I decided to work hard at getting stronger.
My cell phone rang. It was Alex again. “How about going to the Buena Park Mall instead?”
“Why?”
“My mom just got home and said she’d drive us.”
“What’s to do there?”
“We’ll eat, maybe find some girls. Wanna go?”
“Sure. Why not?” I tossed the ball into the garage.
A few minutes later, I saw Alex’s mom’s little blue car come around the corner for me.
*
Once in the mall, we headed for the food court. Going around the corner we ran smack dab into three girls.
“Hey Alex,” said a cute freckled one, immediately hugging him. Tightly. “What are you doing here?”
“Nothing much,” said my friend, always Mr. Cool. “Just getting something to eat.”
Her friends giggled as if that had been funny, and then they stood smiling at each other for awhile. Finally, the freckled girl asked, “Want to hang out with us?”
Alex looked questioningly at me. I nodded. The girls were cute.
“Sure,” he said. “Why not?”
We headed out through the mall. I walked on one side of Alex, while the freckled girl walked on the other. Her two friends trailed behind, exchanging goofy looks. I had never seen any of them before.
“So how do you two know each other?” I asked.
“We met at the beach a couple of weeks ago,” Alex said.
“So then introduce me,” I said.
Alex rolled his eyes. “Lilly,” he said dramatically, “meet my pushy friend, Brett Buyer.”
“Hi,” she said, smiling brightly.
I said hi and asked, “So where’re you from?”
“Huntington Beach,” she said. “I go to a small private school there called Hope. Actually, all three of us go there.”
I looked back at the other two girls. I didn’t have a girlfriend but was hoping to find one before fall and the eighth grade. Most of the cute girls at Buena Vista Junior High were already taken. Maybe I could get one from the private school.
Twenty minutes later, we had worked our way, inevitably to the downstairs food court, which was painted brightly in shades of green, yellow and orange.
“So how did you meet?” I asked, as we strolled in front of the rows of restaurants. I was often curious how boys and girls my age met. I was always looking for some universal rule of thumb that I could apply in my own life.
“We were both surfing,” said Lilly. “Alex cut me off. I cussed him out, and he came back to apologize.”
I turned to Alex.
“Since when do you surf?” I asked, surprised. We were friends and I didn’t know he surfed.
“I’m learning,” he said, smiling at Lilly. “I rent a board at the beach. But, you know, it’s hard getting down there. We don’t exactly live by the beach.”
In fact, we didn’t. Although we lived in Orange County, which was famous for its beaches, we lived about twenty-five miles inland. And, until we got licenses and cars, we were at the mercy of buses and parents.
“All the guys in my school surf,” Lilly announced proudly.
“The cool guys,” chimed the other two girls, nearly in unison, which produced more giggling.
I was getting the impression that Lilly and her friends thought the guys at her school were a little bit better than us, and that bugged me. We had surfers at our school, too. And there were other ways to being cool, right? Surfing wasn’t the only way. Did grownups worry about who was cool and who wasn’t?
“What kind of food should we order?” Alex asked the group.
“I prefer Mexican,” Lilly said. “Let’s get a platter of nachos.”
The other girls agreed that was a good choice. I said fine, although I was eyeballing the corn dogs over at Hot Dog On A Stick. What boys will do for girls.
Alex ordered a huge plate of nachos with cheese and jalapenos. He put the whole messy concoction in the middle of the table for all to share. Drinks in hand, we sat around the nachos. Lilly introduced the other two girls as Brenda Marcelli and Sandy Smith. I said hi. Brenda had dark hair and Sandy was blond, and both were petite and dang cute.
I might have been staring a little too long, because Sandy suddenly looked away, turning red. Embarrassed, I quickly looked up, and in doing so, saw our friend, Mark Martin, walking toward us.
He slapped me hard on the back, showing off a little for the girls.
“What are you guys doing here?” he asked.
“Just hanging out,” said Alex.
Have a seat,” I said, nearly rubbing where he had slapped me, but deciding that wouldn’t be very cool.
Mark plunked down next to the girls, grinning broadly and introducing himself. Afterward, when all the hellos were said, it got awkward having three girls and three guys together, most of us strangers, and most of us awkward. That is, everyone but Alex, who smiled easily and seemed about as comfortable as could be.
With six people sitting at one table, I ended up squished between Mark and Brenda. Sitting close to a girl was nice. More than nice. I love the way girls smell, and Brenda was no different, a touch of perfume and shampoo and something else. Something almost magical. I smiled at her and she smiled back. We could be friends.
The three girls were really quite pretty. Alex knew how to pick them, that’s for sure. Sandy wore a pink blouse that looked good with her reddish-blond hair, and Lilly was kind of cute in her blue jeans and red plaid shirt, but I didn’t think either girl was half as pretty as Brenda Marcelli in her purple shirt.
We sat and talked about the beach and surfing. Lilly did most of the talking. The rest of us just listened.
Brenda leaned over and whispered something to Lilly, who then whispered in Alex’s ear. I had a feeling they were talking about me, so I ducked my head. My face felt hot. I rearranged the napkins. Alex turned to me and said, “Let’s go wash our hands.”
Beach Angel
is available at:
Amazon Kindle
About the Author:
Summer Lee worked as a newspaper reporter before turning her attention to writing books full time. She and her husband live in Southern California. Summer Lee is the pseudonym for author, Verna Hargrove. Please visit her at www.vernahargrove.net.
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