Pulled Under (Sixteenth Summer) (7 page)

I start walking out toward the boardwalk and he follows me.

“But I haven’t figured out anything,” he says. “I just noticed the difference. I don’t know why they’re different.”

We keep talking as we snake our way through the clumps of people on the boardwalk. “You don’t have to know why. You just have to know that it’s true. We all have different theories on why.”

“Really? What’s yours?”

“My theory is unimportant,” I tell him.

“Maybe so,” he says. “But I want to hear it anyway. I don’t just want to figure out what the beach is about.”

“What do you mean?”

He looks at me. “I’d like to figure you out too. I find you . . .
intriguing
.”

I worry that this makes me blush, so I look down as I smile.

“Okay,” I say. “Come over here and look out at the ocean.”

We walk over to the railing that overlooks the water.

“I think it’s because tourists are like waves. But maybe that’s just me. I always think everything is somehow related to surfing.”

“How are tourists like waves?”

“When a wave comes at the beach it looks like the
water
is coming toward the land.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not really. It’s mostly an optical illusion. The wave is a force of energy that travels through the water and makes it rise and fall. It also pitches forward and falls back a little, but the actual seawater basically stays in the same place. And once the wave is gone, the water is all back where it started. Tourists do the same thing. They come rushing toward town and it’s all so very exciting, but they’re not here for long. That means they have to squeeze everything into that short period of time. They’re so rushed that they’re willing to go into a gift shop and buy shells with real money when all they have to do is walk along the beach and pick them up for free. That’s loony tunes. So to me they’re like waves that come crashing on the shore, and we’re like the water. They have fun. They rise and fall. But it’s not relaxing. And once they’re gone, we go back to normal, like nothing ever happened.”

“That’s . . . deep,” he says, taking it all in. “Are you always so philosophical?”

“Hardly. I just spend a lot of time thinking about waves.”

“Okay, so what’s our next stop?”

“Next we are going behind enemy lines,” I say as we start walking down the boardwalk again. “But you have to promise me that under no circumstances will you buy anything while we’re there.”

“If it’s another ice cream shop, I might not be able to resist. That junior sundae just triggered the hunger without fully satisfying it.”

“It has nothing to do with food, but I mean it. You
have
to promise.”

“All right, I promise not to buy anything,” he says. “But where am I not buying anything?”

Just saying the name brings a scowl to my face. “Surf City.”

S
urf City is huge. It’s a surf shop on steroids. And like steroids, everything about it is phony, especially the girls. Their boobs are big, their tank tops are small, and their knowledge of surfing is comically inept. Take for example the girl at the door who greets us in Hawaiian. You know, because even though we’re five thousand miles away from Hawaii, it just sounds so surfy.

“Mahalo!”

Of course she has no idea that
mahalo
means “thank you” and not “hello.”

“Ma-hello to you, too,” I say back, with a tinge of snark as I shake my head.

I lead Ben up to a second-floor landing so we can fully survey the landscape. The lower level is filled with swimwear, clothing, and accessories while the upper has surfboards in every color of the rainbow. Every inch of it’s gleaming, and everywhere you look there’s another walking, talking Malibu Barbie.

“Welcome to the belly of the beast,” I say as I look out over it. “Pure evil.”

Ben takes it all in for a second and turns to me. I can tell he’s conflicted about something but doesn’t know how to say it.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Spit it out.”

“You love surfing, right?”

“More than you know.”

He looks out across the store again and then back at me. “Then why isn’t this your favorite place on earth? I mean, the name says it all. This is Surf City.”

I don’t reply with words so much as I emit a low growl.

“Okay, let me rephrase that,” he says. “I know this place is like the worst place in the world, but since I’m just a cheesehead from Wisconsin, could you help me develop the right vocabulary to fully describe how awful it is?”

“I’d be happy to. First of all, it’s owned by a faceless corporation and only exists to make money. It just happens to be that they make it selling surfboards. There’s no love of the ocean or surfing in its DNA. I mean, just look at the boards. They’re arranged by color, like that’s the most important feature. It’s like if you went into a bookstore and all the books were arranged according to how many pages they had.

“No one’s concerned about matching customers with the right one. They just want you to buy any of them. And to be honest, the boards are mostly here to create an artificial atmosphere so they can sell you overpriced swimsuits, Hawaiian shirts, and sunglasses. Or, best of all, a bunch of Surf City T-shirts with their logo everywhere so you can go back home and become a human billboard as you tell everyone about your ‘radical adventure hanging ten and riding gnarly waves.’ ”

When I reach the end of my rant, I realize that it was a little more passionate than I had intended. But Ben takes it all in stride and makes a joke out of it.

“So, you’re saying you
don’t
like it?”

“Yes,” I say with a laugh. “I’m saying I don’t like it. But it’s not about what I like or don’t like. It’s about showing you how to blend in among the locals. And if you look around, you’ll notice that there aren’t any here. Only tourists. See the fanny packs and the sunburns?”

“And the white socks.”

“Pulled all the way up,” I add, shaking my head.

“I wish you told me yesterday before I went and bought all those Surf City T-shirts.”

He’s joking, but I still give him my “don’t mess with me” look. And, while I don’t like to brag, my “don’t mess with me” look is quite impressive.

“But you said that they’re
evil
. How is any of this more evil than selling saltwater taffy? That’s just as fake and you’re okay with it.”

“Seven dollars for a decorative gift box of candy is a lot different from seven hundred for a longboard,” I say.

“Seven hundred dollars?” he says with a comical laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

“Take a look.”

We walk over to a row of blue longboards, and he looks at the price tags. He shakes his head in disbelief.

“And the worst part isn’t even the money,” I say. “This is way too much surfboard for a beginner. But they’ll never tell you that. They’ll just let you walk out the store and totally bomb in the water. They’d never tell you that you can get a used fish for about seventy-five bucks that’s much better to learn on.”

“A used fish?”

“It’s a type of surfboard,” I say. “But we’ll save that lesson for later. We’re still taking baby steps.”

He laughs and we start to leave (escape?) when we pass the store’s Wall of Fame. It features action photos of some of the surfers who make up the Surf City Surf Team and a display case full of their trophies.

“Impressive,” says Ben.

“Yeah. As much as I hate to admit it, their team is amazing,” I concede. “They win most of the tournaments in the state.”

“Like King of the Beach?” he says, referring to the annual Pearl Beach tournament.

“How’d you know about King of the Beach?” I ask.

“It’s sponsored by Parks and Recreation,” he says. “I will be working there later this summer.”

“Surf City has won both trophies,” I say. “That one’s for the top team and that one’s for the grand champion. Bailey Kossoff has won the grand champion trophy two years in a row.”

“Is he a local guy?”

I shake my head. “No. They sponsor guys from around the state. That’s how they make sure to win.”

“Does Surf Sisters have a team?” he asks.

I shake my head. “There’s no money for it. These guys are like the New York Yankees. They can sign anyone who’s really good.”

“I bet they can’t sign you.”

“Well, no, they couldn’t, but since I don’t surf in contests, it doesn’t make much of a difference.”

“Why don’t you?”

“It’s just not my thing,” I say. “I like to keep my surfing between me and the ocean. No spectators, no judges.”

He raises a skeptical eyebrow but lets the topic slide.

So far the day seems to be going great. I still don’t have any idea if he’s into me or if he’s just looking for a friend, but I feel more comfortable with Ben than I’ve ever felt with a guy. He laughs at my jokes, and when I try to explain why I think tourists are like waves and Surf City is evil, he doesn’t look at me like I’m a lunatic or something. But now it’s time for the big test.

Now we’re going to Surf Sisters.

S
urf City is owned by an evil, faceless corporation,” he says as we walk along Ocean Ave. “But you said there’s actually a pair of sisters who owns Surf Sisters, right?”

“Mickey and Mo. They’re the best.”

“Mickey and Mo sound more like surf brothers than sisters.”

“That’s because the guys they used to beat in all the surf contests thirty years ago were too embarrassed to say they were getting waxed by Michelle and Maureen.”

“So, unlike you, they were willing to compete in contests?”

I give him a look, and he holds up his hands in surrender.

“Anyway,” I say, changing the subject back, “their dad was a legendary lifeguard and surfer.”

“Steady Eddie,” he says.

“That’s right, Steady Eddie. Lifeguarding doesn’t pay much, so he started up Steady Eddie’s Surf School to give lessons to people staying at the hotels along the boardwalk. Mickey and Mo’s mother wasn’t in the picture, so they were always part of the deal. They were the first girls in this area to make names for themselves as surfers, and they were determined to make sure it was easier for the next generation.”

“Which is why they opened the shop, right?”

“It just seemed like the logical next step. They turned their house into a shop, and when Steady Eddie passed away, they kept the surf school going to honor his memory. It’s part business, part civic duty, part family memorial.”

“So the shop was actually the house where they grew up,” he says. “Okay, I see why that beats some corporate megastore.”

“I was hoping you would.”

Sophie and Nicole are both working today, but they’ve sworn to be on their best behavior when we arrive. Sophie’s on register while Nicole’s walking around making sure all the customers are finding what they’re looking for. Both seem to be keeping an eye on the door as we enter.

Even though they saw Ben when he first came to the shop and again when he was with the campers, they’ve never officially met him, so I take care of the introductions.

“Ben, meet Sophie and Nicole,” I say. “Guys, this is Ben.”

They exchange hellos, and when I see Sophie about to talk, I panic for a millisecond that she might revert to her normal self and say something outlandish just to see how he reacts. But she keeps her promise to behave.

“What brings you to the shop today, Ben?” she asks.

“I want to get some new shoes and socks to wear on the beach,” he says. “Maybe knee-high socks and something in a boot. Is there such a thing as a beach boot?”

The girls both laugh, and suddenly any potential awkwardness is gone.

“Actually,” he continues, “I’m getting some hard-core beach tutoring from Izzy, and I think that means I need some wardrobe adjustments.”

“Looking for anything in particular?” asks Nicole.

“I’m guessing I need some new trunks.”

They both look at each other in total confusion.

“Board shorts,” I say, translating. “They speak a different version of English in Wisconsin.”

They laugh some more, but Ben doesn’t seem to mind.

“You don’t say ‘trunks’ either?” asks Ben. “It’s like ‘pop’ all over again.”

Because the shop is a converted house, it has a homey feel that’s very different from Surf City. The staff even picked up Mickey and Mo’s habit of referring to the different rooms by what they once were. That’s why surfboards are in the garage, women’s swimwear is in the family room, and accessories are in the kitchen, where the counter and shelf space are perfect for displaying everything from sunblock and sunglasses to key chains and waterproof wallets.

“We’re going to the dining room,” I tell the girls.

“We’re eating again?” Ben asks.

“No,” I tell him. “The dining room is where we put everything that’s on sale.”

“That’s good,” he says. “Despite its obvious glamour and prestige, the Parks and Recreation Department doesn’t pay particularly well.”

“Don’t worry,” says Sophie. “We’ve all got employee discounts.”

“Yeah,” adds Nicole. “We’ll take care of you.”

I smile because this makes me think that he’s passed his first test with them. This is confirmed about fifteen minutes later when Ben carries an armful of clothing into a fitting room and Sophie and Nicole rush over to me like football players about to tackle a quarterback.

“We approve,” Sophie says with a firm whisper.

“Definitely,” adds Nicole. “By the way, you look really cute today.”

“Thank you.”

“You owe me so bad,” Sophie adds. “Not only am I the one who made you eat with him, but I’m also the one who swapped shifts with you for the rest of the summer. Don’t forget about that.”

“I already paid you back. Don’t forget who bought your ticket at the movie.”

“I think this is worth more than a movie. This deserves—”

She’s interrupted when Ben comes out of the fitting room wearing a pair of navy blue board shorts. They look great, but we’re all a little distracted by the fact that he’s shirtless and—surprise, surprise—his muscles and abs come fully loaded. (Thank you, cross-country.) The three of us are literally speechless, a reaction that he mistakes for disapproval.