Pulled Under (Sixteenth Summer) (2 page)

“Two weeks?” she protests. “I need at least a month so I can plan what I’m going to say and organize my—”

“Two weeks,” I say, cutting her off.

She’s about to make one more plea for leniency when the door flies open and a boy rushes in from the rain. He’s tall, over six feet, has short-cropped hair, and judging by the embarrassed look on his face, made a much louder entrance than he intended.

“Sorry,” he says to the three of us. There’s an awkward pause for a moment before he asks, “Can I speak to whoever’s in charge?”

Without missing a beat, Nicole and Sophie both point at me. I’m not really in charge, but they love putting me on the spot, and since it would be pointless to explain that they’re insane, I just go with it.

“How can I help you?”

As he walks to the register I do a quick glance-over. The fact that he’s our age and I’ve never seen him before makes me think he’s from out of town. So does the way he’s dressed. His tucked-in shirt, coach’s shorts, and white socks pulled all the way up complete a look that is totally lacking in beach vibe. (It will also generate a truly brutal farmer’s tan once the rain stops.) But he’s wearing a polo with a Pearl Beach Parks and Recreation logo on it, which suggests he’s local.

I’m trying to reconcile this, and maybe I’m also trying to figure out exactly how tall he is, when I notice that he’s looking at me with an expectant expression. It takes me a moment to realize that my glance-over might have slightly crossed the border into a stare-at, during which I was so distracted that I apparently missed the part when he asked me a question. This would be an appropriate time to add that despite the dorkiness factor in the above description, there’s more than a little bit of dreamy about him.

“Well . . . ?” he asks expectantly.

I smile at him. He smiles at me. The air is ripe with awkwardness. This is when a girl hopes her BFFs might jump to her rescue and keep her from completely embarrassing herself. Unfortunately, one of mine just came back from college looking to tease her little high school friends, and the other thinks I was too tough on her during the sentencing phase of our just completed mock trial. I quickly realize that I am on my own.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

“Which part?” he asks, with a crooked smile that is also alarmingly distracting.

When it becomes apparent that I don’t have an answer, Sophie finally chimes in. “I think you should just call it a do-over and repeat the whole thing.”

She stifles a laugh at my expense, but I ignore her so that I can focus on actually hearing him this go-round. I’m counting on the second time being the charm.

“Sure,” he says. “I’m Ben with Parks and Recreation, and I’m going to businesses all over town to see if they’ll put up this poster highlighting some of the events we have planned for summer.”

He unzips his backpack and pulls out a poster that has a picture of the boardwalk above a calendar of events. “We’ve got a parade, fireworks for the Fourth of July, all kinds of cool stuff, and we want to get the word out.”

This is the part when a noncrazy person would just take the poster, smile, and be done with it. But, apparently, I’m not a noncrazy person. So I look at him (again), wonder exactly how tall he is (again), and try to figure out who he is (again).

“I’m sorry,
who
are you?”

“Ben,” he says slowly, and more than a little confused. “I’ve said that like three times now.”

“No, I don’t mean ‘What’s your name?’ I mean ‘Who are you?’ Pearl Beach is not that big and I’ve lived here my whole life. How is it possible that you work at Parks and Rec and we’ve never met before?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” he says. “Today’s my first day on the job. I’m visiting for the summer and staying with my uncle. I live in Madison, Wisconsin.”

“Well,” I hear Sophie whisper to Nicole, “that explains the socks.”

Finally, I snap back to normalcy and smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Ben from Wisconsin. My name’s Izzy. Welcome to Pearl Beach.”

Over the next few minutes, Ben and I make small talk while we hang the poster in the front window. I know hanging a poster might not seem like a two-person job, but this way one of us (Ben) can tape the poster up while the other (me) makes sure it’s straight.

Unfortunately when I go outside to look in the window to check the poster, I see my own reflection and I’m mortified. The rain has caused my hair to frizz in directions I did not think were possible, and I have what appears to be a heart-shaped guacamole stain on my shirt. (Beware the dangers of eating takeout from Mama Tacos in a cramped storeroom.) I try to nonchalantly cover the stain, but when I do it just seems like I’m saying the Pledge of Allegiance.

“How’s that look?” he asks when I go back in.

I’m still thinking about my shirt, so I start to say “awful,” but then realize he’s talking about the poster he just hung, so I try to turn it into “awesome.” It comes out somewhere in the middle, as “Awfslome.”

“What?”

“Awesome,” I say. “The poster looks awesome.”

“Perfect. By the way, I’m about to get some lunch and I was wondering . . .”

Some psychotic part of me actually thinks he’s just going to ask me out to lunch. Like that’s something that happens. To me. It isn’t.

“. . . where’d you get the Mexican food?”

“The what?”

That’s when he points at the stain on my shirt. “The guacamole got me thinking that Mexican would be
muy bueno
for lunch.”

For a moment I consider balling up in the fetal position, but I manage to respond. “Mama Tacos, two blocks down the beach.”

“Gracias!”
he says with a wink. He slings the backpack over his shoulder, waves good-bye to the girls, and disappears back into the rain. Meanwhile, I take the long, sad walk back toward the register wondering how much Nicole and Sophie overheard.

“I noticed that stain earlier and meant to point it out,” Nicole says.

“Thanks,” I respond. “That might have been helpful.”

“Well, I don’t know about you guys,” Sophie says. “But I think Ben is ‘awfslome’!”

So apparently they heard every word.

“And I think it’s awfslome that our little Izzy is head over heels for him,” she continues.

“I’m sorry,” I respond. “What are you talking about?”

“What we’re talking about,” says Nicole, “is you full-on crushing for Ben from Wisconsin.”

“Is Wisconsin the dairy one?” Sophie asks.

“Yes,” says Nicole.

“Then I think we should call him Milky Ben,” Sophie suggests.

“We are not calling him Milky Ben!” I exclaim.

“Cheesy Ben?” she asks.

“We’re not calling him
anything
Ben.”

“See what I mean?” Nicole says. “She’s already so protective.”

“You’re certifiable. All I did was hang a poster with him. That qualifies as head over heels crushing?”

“Well, that’s not all you did,” she corrects. “In addition to the guacamole and the ‘
awfslome,
’ there was the part when you were so dazzled by his appearance that you couldn’t hear him talking to you. That was kind of horrifying, actually.”

“I know, right?” says Sophie. “Like a slasher movie. Except instead of a chain saw, the slasher has really bright socks that blind you into submission.”

“You guys are hilarious,” I say, hoping to switch the topic of conversation.

“Are you denying it?” Nicole asks, incredulous.

“It’s not even worthy of denial,” I reply. “It’s make-believe.”

“Um . . . I’m going to have to challenge that,” she says. “I think I’m going to have to go to the register.”

“You can’t go to the register,” I say. “Besides,
I’m
on register.”

“Really?” says Sophie. “’Cause it looks like I am.”

It’s only then that I notice that Sophie slipped behind the counter while I was helping Ben.

“Wait a minute,” I protest. “This is a total conspiracy. I’m being set up.”

Sophie doesn’t even give me a chance to defend myself. She just goes straight to the verdict. “Izzy Lucas, you have been found guilty of crush at first sight.”

“You should make her talk to him like she’s making me talk to Cody,” Nicole suggests, looking for some instant payback. “Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

“No,” I reply. “But I know two girls who might qualify.”

“Really?” says Sophie. “You’re going to call me names right before sentencing?”

“Oh,” I say, realizing my mistake. “I didn’t mean
you two girls
.”

“Too late,” Sophie laughs. “Isabel Lucas, sometime in the next two weeks you must . . . have a meal with whatever-embarrassing-nickname-we-ultimately-decide-to-call-him Ben.”

“A meal? Are you drunk with power? Nicole stalked a guy across six counties and all she has to do is talk to him. Why is my sentence worse than hers?”

“Because she has a whole school year coming up with Cody,” Sophie explains. “But Ben said he’s only here for the summer. That doesn’t leave you much time.”

Before I can beg for mercy, she rings the register, making it official.

P
earl Beach is a barrier island, eight and a half miles long and connected to the mainland by a causeway bridge. I’ve spent all sixteen years of my life as an islander, and when I think of home, I don’t think of my house or my neighborhood. I think of the ocean.

That’s why, despite the fact that it’s summer vacation and I should be fast asleep, I’m awake at six thirty in the morning putting on my favorite spring suit—a wet suit with long sleeves and a shorty cut around the thighs. The combination of last night’s storm, the rising tide, and a slight but steady wind should make for ideal surf conditions.

It’s a two-block walk from my house to the beach, and when I reach the stairs that lead down from the seawall, the view is spectacular. Purple and orange streak through the sky and the sun is barely peeking up from the water.

The only remnants of the storm are the tufts of foam that dance across the sand like tumbleweeds and the thin layer of crushed shells that were dredged up from the ocean floor and now crackle beneath my feet. The early morning water temperature shocks the last bit of sleep from my system, and as I paddle out on my board, there’s not another living soul in sight. It is as if God has created all of this just for me.

I inherited my love of surfing from my dad. When I was little, he’d take me out on his longboard, and we’d ride in on gentle waves as he held me up by my hands so that I could stand. We still surf together a lot of the time, but this morning I slipped out of the house by myself so that I could be on my own and think.

It bothers me that I got so flustered the other day when I met Ben. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it, but the truth is when it comes to guys, I’m not a shark or a dolphin. I’m a flounder. I just don’t have the practice. I’ve never had a boyfriend or been on a date. I’ve never even been kissed. Part of this is because I’m introverted by nature, and part of it is because I’ve grown up on an island with all the same boys my whole life. Even if one’s kind of cute now that we’re in high school, it’s hard to forget the middle school version of him that used to call me Izzy Mucus and tell fart jokes.

Ben is different. My only history with him was less than five minutes in the surf shop. And, while I wasn’t about to admit it to Nicole and Sophie, during those five minutes I was definitely guilty of “crush at first sight.” I don’t know why exactly. It’s not just that he’s cute. I’m not even sure if most girls would classify him as cute. It’s just that there was some sort of . . . I don’t know what to call it . . . a connection, chemistry, temporary insanity. Whatever it was, it was a totally new sensation.

And now, because Sophie snuck onto the register when I wasn’t looking, I have to try to convince him to share a meal with me. It’s a total abuse of power on her part, but I meant what I said about us taking traditions seriously at Surf Sisters. The girls won’t hold it against me if I’m not successful. But if I don’t give it a real try, I’ll never hear the end of it.

I sit up on my board with the nose pointed to the ocean and straddle it so that I can watch for waves. I see a set of three coming toward me and suddenly all thoughts of boys and crushes wash out of my mind. I lie out on my stomach and slowly start to paddle back in. I let the first two swells pass beneath me, and the moment I feel the third one begin to lift me, I paddle as fast as I can, trying to keep up.

Just before the wave starts to break, I feel it grab hold of the board and I pop up on my feet. This is the moment that takes my breath away. Every time. This is when it’s magic. In one instant you’re exerting every ounce of energy you have, and in the next it feels like you’re floating through air as you glide along the face of the wave. You stop thinking. You stop worrying. You’re just one with the wave, and everything else melts away.

The ride doesn’t last long. No matter how well you catch it, the wave always crashes against the shore and snaps you back to reality. But those few moments, especially at times like this when I’m alone, those few moments are perfect.

If only boys were as predictable as waves; then I’d know just what to do.

T
he Bermuda Triangle is a section of the Atlantic Ocean where ships and planes mysteriously vanish into thin air. It’s totally bogus and based on some ridiculous alien conspiracy theory. But it inspired my dad to come up with The Izzy Triangle. He likes to say, “It’s where daughters disappear for the summer.”

Unlike the Bermuda Triangle, however, this one has some truth to it. If you’re looking for me anytime from June through August, the odds are you’re going to find me in one of three places: the beach (surfing), my room (reading), or Surf Sisters (hanging out or working). In fact, I’m not exactly sure when I officially started
working
at the shop. I was just there all the time, and I slowly started to chip in whenever they needed help.

That’s where I’m heading now, even though it’s my day off. I surfed this morning and finished my latest mystery novel, so I figure I should do something that involves other humans. (Introvert, push yourself!) Besides, both Sophie and Nicole are working, and once their shift’s over, we’re catching a movie.