The Art of Falling in Love

by Haleigh Wenger

  “Boo.”

  Foster’s eyes flash open at the same time as he takes a small jump backward and lets out an adorable squeak. His mouth twists from confusion to joy in a split second.

  My cheeks swell with my smile. “Sorry, did I scare you?”

  His laugh is low as he shakes his head. “You could never scare me.” He grabs my hand that’s still floating in midair and laces his fingers through mine.

  I shrug. “I’ve never heard someone who’s not scared scream so loud.”

  His hands pull to my sides and I screech with laughter. “Not...ticklish...seriously...you’re the...worst!” I scurry away from him, back a few feet, until I can catch my breath. “That was a totally unnecessary sneak attack.” I tilt my head, eyes narrowed, lips tight.

  Foster’s eyes gleam. He’s completely enjoying this. I may have started it by scaring him, but I’m not going to admit it out loud.

  “So, um, where’s your stuff?” I point to where his surfboard rests in the sand. I was supposed to meet him to sculpt, not surf. We’re supposed to be creative, but a surfboard is too big to sculpt with.

  He raises one side of his mouth, turning to glance pointedly at the ocean behind us. I blink back at him. “Are you being weird on purpose? Is this some sort of relationship test? Like if I can’t guess what you’re trying to say, you dump me?”

  He throws his head back and groans. He bends to pick up his surfboard, which he walks over to me, stroking it with one hand. “No. I thought we could take a break from sculpting practice today. And maybe help you earn your status as a reverse snowbird.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “I can’t be a reverse snowbird. Texas is just as hot as Florida. And I already told you: I don’t surf.” I glare down at his gleaming board like it’s a weapon and not a form of recreation.

  “Okay, but that was when you were a little kid, right? Maybe, just maybe, you could handle it now that you’re seventeen and all grown up?” He says the last part in a baby voice, wearing a smirk that makes me want to punch him. Or kiss him.

  Maybe a little of both.

  I push my bottom lip out and turn to face the waves. The water's calm today. There’s no breeze to cut the thick humidity, the waves are only making miniscule ripples, and there’s hardly anyone else here. If I’m going to try it, it might as well be today.

  “Okay,” I say. “But I have two conditions.”

  Foster shakes his head. His hair bounces across his face and whips water through the air like a dog after a bath. He must already have been in the water before I got here. “I would expect nothing less from you. What do you want?”

  “First—and most important—if I say I’m done, I’m done. No trying to convince me to give it another chance, okay?”

  I inhale and wait for him to answer before I go on.

  He nods, locking his gaze with mine. Those steady blue eyes I’m positive couldn’t lie even if he wanted to reassure me. “Okay, I promise.”

  “Good. The second condition is that after we do this,” I point to the shiny board mocking me in his arms, “we do something I want to do.”

  He shrugs. “Cool. Let’s go.”

  “I wanted to borrow my buddy's board for you to use today. He's the one who lets me store my stuff at his parent's house. But I guess they're out of town or something." He rubs a hand on his neck and focuses on the wave behind me as it approaches.

  “This is fine,” I say. “Sharing a board with you has its perks.”

  We’re scrunched together on the middle of his surfboard, my chest against his solid back and both of us in tight, waterlogged swim suits. We paddle out to where the waves are big enough to ride. They’re tame today in comparison to what they usually are—thank goodness. Foster had me practice on his board on the sand for a good thirty minutes before we got into the water, just to get the feel for it. Considering the fact that I fell off the stationary board a few times, I’m not sure I got the feel the way he was hoping I would.

  He stretches out an arm to point to the incoming wave, and we turn and paddle forward, our arms propelling us through the water in sync.

  “Ready?”

  I shake my head, but he’s already focused entirely on the wave. I grip the sides of the board until my knuckles turn white. Suddenly, Foster’s slapping my leg and pointing. He pops up without looking back. I climb to my knees and bend them until I’ve reached a crouched standing position. Foster turns the board, and we both lean our hips with the water as we glide toward the shore.

  But instead of making it all the way in, the waves pick up, and the board shudders underneath our feet. A wall of water beats over me, and I lose my footing in an instant. Warm water fills my mouth as my head is pulled under. I'm screaming, but no sound comes out. It's another full second before survival kicks in and I kick my legs as hard as possible, inching my body upward.

  When I break the surface, I cough and sputter until my chest calms enough to breathe normally. My eyes are blurred and sting from the salt water.

  “Yeah!” Foster's grinning and flashing me a thumbs-up from the shore, just a few feet away. My chest sinks. All that and I was never even in real danger of drowning. He’s already run across the tide in a fit of...adrenaline, maybe? I trudge toward him and sit dumbly on the surfboard he's dragged along the sand, feeling less energized than when we started. He frowns at my lack of enthusiasm and walks to me.

  “You okay?”

  “That. Was. Terrifying.” My face burns even as I admit it. Especially considering he already teased me for being a baby in the water. And he’s right. Nearly drowning as a kindergartner shouldn’t have a hold over an almost high-school senior.

  He kneels next to me; one leg succumbs to the gloppy wet sand. “Did you hate it? Was the wave too big? I tried to start small, but I should have known it would be too much.”

  I touch his knee. “Please stop.” His rambling just makes me feel worse. “It’s not your fault. I’m just too much of a wimp for surfing, okay? I tried to tell you.” I chew on the inside of my cheek and train my eyes on the hem of my suit.

  He tries to pretend like it doesn’t matter. His voice is well-practiced, but it’s not fooling me. I can sense the disappointment. “Okay, well we had a deal. What did you have in mind?”

  “Here.” I tear a sheet of paper from my sketchbook and slide it over along with a pen. We’re sitting on the bench closest to the parking lot. Foster’s hair is gold in the shimmery midday sun, and I wish I had more than my oldest pens with me to do it justice.

  He raises an eyebrow. “What are we doing exactly?” We’d changed into dry clothes, and I had come back from the beach bathroom with my activity—the pens and sketchpad I keep in my car.

  “We’re drawing each other. Practically sketching 101.” I tap my pen against the sheet of paper in my hand and consider him.

  He rubs the back of his neck. “Just a warning: I’m awful at drawing. I have no talent whatsoever.”

  “You’re telling me you’re creative in every other aspect besides drawing? I’m not buying it.” I shake my head as I start sketching an outline of his face. First the shape of his hair, the parts that dangle just past his ears, and then the shadowing on his eyes.

  “You’ll see,” he says. He’s absorbed in his drawing too. I sneak a look out of the corner of my eyes and see him studying me intensely, his face tight and solemn. Butterflies flutter through my stomach. I’ll never get over the fact that he seems to be just as into me as I am to him. When we're together, it's like he actually sees me. He's not just looking at my face, but staring through all of my walls. And better yet, he likes what he sees. His cheeks flush pink when he looks up and sees me.

  “Are you trying to cheat?” He snatches up his paper and presses it against his T-shirt. His eyes widen in mock indignation.

  I roll my eyes. “I’m not cheating. I was thinking how cute you are, but you kind of ruined it.” I scoot away from him just as he tries to lean over for a kiss. I tap my pen against my paper and po
int a finger at him. “Set a timer. Sixty seconds.”

  He raises his eyebrows and does as I say, setting his phone timer to one minute. We both focus on our pens and draw as fast as we can while still watching the other person. When the clock runs down, we set our papers on the bench facedown, our pens to the side.

  “You go first.” Foster toys with a corner of my paper but trains his eyes on me until I nod my approval.

  “Okay, but it’s not my best work.” It’s not—it was a shaky rush job, but I know he won’t mind. It’s more nerve wracking to show him one of my sketches than it was to be squeezed together on a surfboard in the middle of open water. My hands shake a little as he flips it over and brings the drawing closer to his face.

  “It’s perfect,” he finally says.

  I slump my face into one palm and watch him from my uncovered eye. “Really? You don’t hate it?”

  He laughs and wraps an arm around my shoulders. “I don’t hate it. It’s so good. I mean, I knew it would be good, because it’s you, but when I look at it I can tell you really get me.” He slaps a hand onto the sketch. “This is the same me I see in the mirror every morning.”

  It’s the highest compliment someone can give an artist. Which is technically cheating, since Foster is an artist himself, so he knows exactly what to say to feed my ego. Still, I blush and lean into him, inhaling the smell of warm sunshine.

  “Okay, now I’m ready to see your sketch.” I don’t wait for him to turn the paper. I grab for it and hold it away from him while I look.

  It’s me, but it isn’t. He lied about having no drawing skills; how typical. I recognize my slightly wavy short hair, the too-serious look I’m often told I wear, the tank top I’ve recycled too many times this summer. But the eyes are wild. They’re big, and even in black and white they appear to be sparking with color and way more full of life than mine. Everything about the girl in his sketch is fiery and fierce. I’m neither of those things, but I guess no one told him that.

  “You hate it.” It’s not a question, but a statement. Like he’s so sure I’m angry that he’s already apologizing.

  “I don’t,” I say. “I’m just confused and slightly flattered that this is how you see me.”

  He kisses my cheek, just a gentle press of his lips against my skin. “If I were a better artist, maybe I could convince you it’s how everyone sees you.”

  I can’t think of a single thing to say to that. Maybe it’s exhaustion from the ocean or maybe it’s the wild look in the drawing’s eyes. But I’m feeling more reckless than usual. Something's swelling deep within me, and Foster at my side is drawing it out.

  “I know it’s getting late, but do you think we have time to catch one more wave?” I swallow, nerves piling up at the mere thought. But I’m feeling braver now than before. Like I can do anything. I can be the girl in the drawing—if I want.

  Twenty-Nine

  “Are you sure you can’t come with us?” Mom is not above begging, but I still shake my head and shoot her a look.

  “Mom. I can't miss the qualifying round. It's mandatory. But tell Becca I say hi.” As if there weren't enough nerves surrounding today, now I have to convince my parents for the third time this week how important today’s contest is.

  She sighs, her shoulders dropping. "And you'll stay the night at Carolina's house and only come back here in the morning?"

  I nod. "Yes, that's the plan. Don't worry."

  Next to me on the couch, Foster nods too, for extra measure.

  Livvy rolls her eyes back in her head and groans way louder than necessary. Visiting Becca, Mom’s best friend from college who lives a few hours away with her twin girls, is not Livvy’s idea of a good weekend. But she has to go because my parents don’t trust her without an adult around. Me, on the other hand, they trust enough to leave for the whole weekend. I’m not sure if it’s that I’m older or just that they’d never expect me to do anything wild, even though their being gone leaves me alone with Foster.

  Becca just had knee surgery, and her doctor husband has a hard time getting away from work, so Mom volunteered to come up and help for a weekend. And then Dad and Livvy got dragged along. It just happened, and then it was perfect, for me at least. Time to myself for an entire weekend is just what I need to de-stress from all of the family drama this summer.

  I wrinkle my nose at Livvy and turn to my parents, eyelashes batting and voice dripping with honey. “I’ll miss you guys, but everything will be fine here. Besides, you deserve a fun trip."

  Mom puts a hand to her chest, like my words have pierced her soul. Dad raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure you’ll be alright? You stay at Carolina's every night, okay? No sleepovers at the beach house.” Dad leans over for a side hug, and I nod into his chest. I'm pretty sure he's staring Foster down over my shoulder.

  “Yes, absolutely. You guys have fun, and we'll see you Sunday night.”

  Mom hugs me until I'm forced to peel my body away from hers. She follows Dad and Livvy out the door and calls over her shoulder. "Good luck at your sandcastle event today, you two."

  We watch from the window as their car pulls away from the driveway and turns down the street. Home free. I plop back down onto the couch and let my head rest against the back cushions. Foster collapses next to me. As much as I love my family, space from them is nice.

  Foster and I go out for breakfast. We have plenty of time to sit and contemplate our waffles before we need to sign in at the beach. We've been preparing for weeks, but I feel sick when I think too much about what’s at stake. The scholarship, the bragging rights. But especially Opa. He wanted this for me, and that's enough to make it important.

  “We’ve got this,” Foster says. He nods at me over our plates, both of which are swimming in blueberry-flavored syrup, but it isn’t convincing enough to settle my upset stomach.

  “We’ve got this.” I’ve been repeating everything all morning because I’m too distracted to think up my own words. “I’m so nervous.” Strangely, it feels nice to admit out loud.

  Foster nods and reaches across the table for my hand. “I know, but we’ve put in the time. And our sketch is really good.” He's right. I’ve never been as prepared for anything in my life. But I’ll still be glad when it’s over.

  Carolina meets us at the sign-in table. She’s carrying a big white box of doughnuts, and she offers us one after we fill out our forms. I take a chocolate-iced doughnut even though I’m still full of waffles. I’ll need all the sugar I can get if I’m going to make it through the work we have ahead of us. Foster takes a vanilla-iced doughnut, and I grin. Does he remember the conversation we had about milkshakes? He winks at me and takes a big bite of frosting. Carolina side-eyes him before walking away, shaking her head as she goes. After doughnuts, it's time to get to work. We pass a lot of teams I recognize from all the hours spent prepping on the beach this summer. Besides Carolina, there are only two other teams made up of just one person. Not having to split the scholarship money would be nice, but the hours in the sun with no one to trade off isn’t worth it. Not to me.

  Foster starts digging a hole for our sand supply while I lay out our tools and tape our sketch to a big poster board. I also tape a stick to the poster board and shimmy the stick deep into the sand next to our numbered flag. Now we can look at our vision and execute it perfectly, or at least that's the idea.

  The first hour goes by so quickly that I wouldn’t have realized it if there weren’t judges walking around, reminding contestants of the time every fifteen minutes. The next hour consists of building the bottom level and prepping for the next level. The first step is making sure the basic shape is there. Then we can move on to the detailing. Detailing will take the longest, but it earns us the most points on the judges’ score cards.

  “We’re making good time,” I say. Foster is so focused that he doesn’t hear me, and I have to repeat myself. When he finally responds, it’s only with a barely discernible nod. For all his talk of not being very nervous, his han
ds sure are shaking a lot.

  “Crap. Crap. Crap.” Foster turns to me with wide eyes. “I forgot all of the detailing tools.”

  I glance at our stash laid out on the sand and confirm that, in fact, there are no detailing tools. Just a wide variety of shovels and buckets we use to smooth and pack the sand.

  We stare at each other as precious seconds tick past. My heart sinks into my stomach at all the work that will be lost if we don't think of something.

  “What if we just use this?” Foster holds up a small gardening shovel. He points to the narrow rubber tip on the end of the handle, eyebrows up, hopeful.

  I shake my head. “It’s still not thin enough. It will make everything look too sloppy.”

  One of the judges walks past us and reminds everyone else that there’s only one hour left. We’re doomed.

  “One hour to etch our design in this four-foot sculpture?” I put my hands to my head to drown out the noise. How can we save this? My fingers brush up against the bobby pins I’ve haphazardly stuck in my hair to keep the bangs I’m trying to grow out of my face. This is the biggest miracle of the summer thus far. I pull them out and hand one to Foster. “The best artists improvise.” His face breaks out into a grin, and we almost trip over each other racing to get to work as the clock ticks down.

  My wrists burn from the tiny motions necessary to create a gigantic statue. But by the time I’m done, there’s still ten minutes left before the official competition time ends.

  Foster steps back from the side he’s working on and considers me.

  “Did we do it?”

  I nod. It’s a proud moment, even though the judging hasn’t even begun. We wrap our arms around each other, and Foster whispers “Good job,” into my hair, arms stroking my back over my tank top.

  The judges gather together and announce the official ending of the time limit. Including the judges, everyone on the beach wanders through the maze of sculptures. The nerves set in, and at first, we sit down next to our sculpture and wait like proud parents. Thirty minutes go by, and my stomach is starting to ache from the anxiety of doing nothing but waiting. When we finished, I was sure our sculpture was the best in the contest, but every minute that passes is another minute I doubt my work. So, Foster and I decide to leave our post and check out the competition. I want to head straight for Carolina’s top-secret project, so I can finally see it completed. From where I’m standing across the beach, I can tell there’s a big crowd surrounding her sculpture.