Pulled Under (Sixteenth Summer)

by Michelle Dalton

  “You mean besides the name?” I lean closer and whisper. “It tastes like cardboard with ketchup on it.”

  “It seems pretty popular,” he says. “Look at all the people in line.”

  “Yes, look at them,” I reply, still keeping my voice low. “They have pale skin, wear shoes with their bathing suits, and fanny packs. They’re wearing fanny packs, Ben! What does that tell you?”

  He thinks it over for a moment and shakes his head. “I don’t know, what does it tell me?”

  “That they’re tourists,” I say. “Only tourists are waiting here. The people who live in Pearl Beach are not in line. You’re living here for the summer. Don’t you think you should get pizza where we get it?”

  “But you live here,” he says. “Why are you in line?”

  This one catches me off guard. It’s not like I can say, “Because Sophie was on the register and I have to eat with you or be subjected to extended hazing.” I pause for a second before blurting, “Because I wanted to rescue you and show you where we go.”

  “Rescue me?” He likes this. “You’re like my knight in shining armor?”

  “More like light wash denim . . . but it’s something like that.”

  “Well, you were right about Mama Tacos,” he says, reminding me of the horror that was the guacamole-stain recommendation. “That was delicious. I’ll trust you again. Where do you think we should go?”

  “Luigi’s Car Wash,” I say.

  “I meant for pizza,” he says.

  “So did I.”

  “Sounds awful!” He hesitates for a moment. “Let’s go!”

  It suddenly dawns on me that I may have just asked a guy out on a date.

  As we’re driving down Ocean Ave. in an old blue Parks and Rec pickup truck, I get my first true up-close look at him since the Bencident. (Sophie can’t call it that, but I can.) I’m trying not to stare, but as I give him directions I at least have an excuse to be looking his way.

  I will amend my earlier statement in which I said I wasn’t sure that all girls would classify him as cute. I think your boy vision would have to be seriously impaired not to rate him at least that high. He has strong features and permanent scruff that gives him a ruggedness I find irresistible. But the clinching feature is still the smile. It’s easy and natural, with teeth so bright they might as well be a commercial for the virtues of Wisconsin milk.

  “Explain to me why we’re getting pizza at a car wash,” he says, flashing those same pearly whites.

  “It’s complicated,” I reply. “Back when my parents were growing up, it really was a car wash. But at some point Luigi realized that he could make more money selling pizzas than washing cars, so he decided to convert into a pizza joint.”

  “But it’s still called Luigi’s Car Wash?”

  “That’s the complicated part. Technically it still is a car wash,” I try to explain. “It’s right on the beach and oceanfront property is really valuable. Developers would love to get rid of Luigi, tear down the building, and put up a condominium or a hotel or something awful like that. But as long as he keeps the name the same and as long they wash a few cars every week, it’s protected by an old law that was in effect when he first opened.”

  Ben laughs and gives me a skeptical look. “I was perfectly happy eating boardwalk pizza, which I have to say sounds way more legit than car wash pizza. Why do I feel like I’m being set up for some kind of practical joke?”

  “You’re not. I promise.”

  “Now, before I embarrass myself, you do call it pizza, right?” he asks. “It’s not going to be another ‘pop’ situation, where it turns out I’m using the wrong word again?”

  He’s funny. I like funny.

  “No,” I tell him as we pull into the parking lot. “But if you really want to sound like you know what you’re doing, just say that you want a couple slices of Big Lu.”

  “What’s Big Lu?”

  “It’s short for Big Luigi, a pizza with everything on it. It’s the house specialty, and trust me when I say that you’re going to want to order it.”

  “You’re telling me it’s good?”

  “No, I’m telling you it’s life changing.”

  “Life-changing car wash pizza?” he says as we get out of the car. “This should be interesting.”

  Luigi’s still has the shape and design of a car wash, which is part of its charm. (It’s also part of the legal requirements that protect it.) As we walk up to the counter to order, I’m suddenly extremely self-conscious. I’ve never been on a date before—and I’m not sure this would even qualify as one—but I am walking into Luigi’s with a guy and I don’t know all the protocols. In fact, I don’t know any of the protocols. There’s no line, so we go straight to the counter.

  “I’ll have a couple of slices of Big Lu and a—” He almost says “pop,” but he catches himself and says “soda.”

  Then he says something that surprises me.

  “And whatever she wants.”

  I wasn’t expecting him to pay for my lunch, but I think it’s a check in the “it’s kinda, sorta like a date” column.

  “I’ll have the same,” I say.

  The cashier rings it up, gives us two cups and a number to take to our table. Ben makes another “is it soda or pop?” joke as we get our drinks, and then we sit down in a booth. I have been in Luigi’s a thousand times before, but I have never felt more like a fish out of water in my entire life.

  “How long have you lived in Pearl Beach?” he asks.

  “Born and raised,” I answer. “Third generation. By the way, we usually call it PB.”

  “More lingo,” he says with a nod as he sips his drink. “So far I’ve learned ‘soda,’ ‘Big Lu,’ and ‘PB.’ Pretty soon I’ll be fluent, which is important considering that I’m a native.”

  I give him a look. “I think you’re getting ahead of yourself. You ordered two slices of pizza. That hardly makes you a native.”

  “No, no, no,” he tells me. “It’s legit. I was born here.”

  “You were born in Pearl Beach?” I ask skeptically.

  “Nope,” he says. “I was born in PB. See, I’m using the lingo.”

  I laugh. “Now you’re messing with me.”

  “Actually, I’m not. I was born the summer after my father finished law school. This is where Mom grew up, and since his job didn’t start until the following January, they came here and stayed with my grandma. That way they could save money and my dad could study for the bar exam. I lived here for the first six months of my life.”

  “Well then, I guess that means there’s an islander in there somewhere,” I joke. “We’ve just got to shake off some of the Wisconsin that’s covering it.”

  “Watch what you say about Wisconsin,” he says with mock indignation. “That’s America’s Dairy Land.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply anything negative.”

  “You better not. There are a lot of important things that come out of Wisconsin.”

  “Is that so?” I say playfully. “Like what?”

  “Okay,” he replies, perhaps a little caught off guard. “I’ll list some of them for you.”

  He pauses for a second, and I impatiently cross my arms.

  “Harley-Davidson motorcycles . . . and custard.”

  “Custard?”

  He makes the happy delicious face. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had the custard at Babcock Hall.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “And the Green Bay Packers. Everybody loves the Packers.”

  I shrug.

  “And don’t forget milk. Without which we would not have our wonderful smiles.”

  He flashes a smile, and I have to admit that I am sold.

  “You’ve got me there,” I say.

  I don’t know if it’s because of t
he back and forth nature of the conversation or all the endorphins released by the incredible aroma of pizza that fills the air, but I’m actually feeling more relaxed.

  “So we’ll accept that Wisconsin is amazing and wonderful. But since you’re stuck with us for the summer, what exactly does your job with the Parks and Recreation Department entail?” I ask.

  “I think I’m responsible for anything that no one else wants to do,” he says with a laugh. “There’s a lot of scrubbing and cleaning. More than a little mowing. And, starting Monday, I’m one of the counselors for the summer day camp. That should be great—four days a week with a bunch of screaming kids trying to torment me.”

  “I did that,” I tell him.

  “You were a counselor?”

  “No. I was one of the screaming kids who tormented the counselors. It was a lot of fun.”

  “The schedule’s insane,” he says. “Every day it’s something different. We’ve got kick ball, soccer, swimming, and we’re even going to the golf course once a week.”

  “Don’t forget Surf Sisters,” I say.

  “We’re going to Surf Sisters?” he asks.

  “On Tuesdays campers will learn respect for the ocean, beach safety, and the fundamentals of surfing,” I say, quoting the brochure.

  “I thought that was at a place called Eddie’s Surf . . . something or other.”

  “Steady Eddie’s Surf School,” I say.

  “That’s it.”

  “Surf Sisters is actually run by two sisters, and Steady Eddie was their dad,” I explain. “They are one and the same.”

  “That’s great news,” he says with a smile. “Does that mean you’re going to be our surfing instructor?”

  I try to hide my disappointment as I tell him no.

  I leave out the part about how I was supposed to be the instructor but pawned it off on Sophie because I didn’t want to deal with all of those screaming kids. Of course, it had never dawned on me that I would want to deal with their dreamy counselor.

  “That’s too bad,” he says. “We could have chased them together.”

  This development puts me in a funk for a little while, but it’s nothing that two slices of Big Lu can’t cure. During the rest of the conversation we talk about his hometown and high school. I figure if I let him do most of the talking, I will not put my foot in my mouth, as I’ve been prone to do in the past. This strategy seems to work, because we keep talking even after we’ve finished eating, which is pretty cool.

  I try to resist my natural instinct to overanalyze every little detail, but I can’t help but look for any hint that he might be interested in me. He’s good about eye contact; it’s not piercing and creepy but he stays engaged. Never once does he make more than a casual glance at the game playing on the big screen TV behind me. Better yet, there are a couple of sharky girls at the next table. They’re cute and giggly, and I think more than a little loud on purpose trying to get his attention, but he seems oblivious to them.

  “Don’t you think?” he says, and I realize that I have no idea what he’s talking about. (How’s that for irony? My analyzing how engaged he is made me zone out.)

  “Totally,” I say, hoping that it makes sense based on the question. Fearful of continuing to talk about a subject of which I am unaware, I decide to change the topic. “So how’d you end up here for the summer?”

  It didn’t seem like a trick question when I asked it, but his expression makes me rethink this. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”

  “No, it’s nothing secret, just a little sad,” he says. “My parents are getting divorced and it’s really ugly. There are lawyers and screaming arguments, and my mom was worried that it might scar me for life, so she arranged with Uncle Bob for me to come down here and work with him.”

  “I’m really sorry to hear that. A few of my friends have had their parents get divorced, and it was hard on them. I’m so lucky that mine are happy together.”

  “The worst part,” he says, “is that my dad is being a total jerk. I don’t get it. He’s being so mean to her, and I wish I were up there because I want to be there for her. But she thought this would be best for me.”

  The discussion about his parents brings down the mood of the conversation, and before I can come up with a new topic, he gets a phone call. The conversation is short, and when it’s over, he says, “Duty calls.”

  He takes one last sip of his soda and stands up.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “There’s a pavilion at the playground where they like to have birthday parties,” he says.

  “I know it well,” I say. “I believe I celebrated birthday number seven there.”

  “Apparently some of the kids learned an important lesson about what happens to your digestive system if you eat massive amounts of cake and ice cream immediately before going full speed on the merry-go-round.”

  “And you’ve got to clean it up?” I ask with a grimace.

  “Like I said, my job is pretty much to do whatever nobody else wants to do.” He shrugs. “Let me take you wherever you were headed?”

  “It’s not far, I can walk,” I say. “I don’t want to make you late.”

  “I’m pretty sure it will still be there,” he says.

  “Okay, I’ll take a lift to Surf Sisters.”

  As we walk out to his truck, I manage to send a clandestine text to Nicole and Sophie. Make sure you can see the parking lot in three minutes. Trust me!

  I slide my phone back into my pocket and ignore the vibrating of reply texts no doubt asking for an explanation.

  “Thanks for rescuing me from boardwalk pizza,” he says as we drive down Ocean. “Luigi’s is without a doubt the best pizza I’ve ever had.”

  “It was the least I could do,” I say. “And thanks for buying me lunch. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “You can buy next time.” As he says it he flashes that oh-so-distracting smile, and I’m feeling good.

  “Next time.” I like the sound of that. Of course, I’m not sure how to read the smile. Is he smiling because he’s polite? Is he smiling because he likes being with me? Or is he smiling because he just ate the best pizza in the world?

  When he pulls up to Surf Sisters, I look through the windshield and can see that Nicole and Sophie are both looking out the window. They’re dumbfounded when they realize that it’s me in the truck with Ben, and it takes everything I’ve got not to react. It also makes me even more self-conscious as I try to come up with the perfect farewell line that will keep him thinking of me.

  “Well,” I say with a goofy grin, “have fun cleaning up the vomit.”

  Apparently that’s the best I could come up with. My first ever may or may not be a date ends with me turning to a guy and talking about vomit. I am so smooth.

  “I’ll do my best,” he says. “Thanks again.”

  I get out of the truck, wave good-bye, and watch him drive away.

  I’m still not sure what to make of it all, but that does nothing to dampen the feeling of total triumph that I have as I walk into the store. For a moment the two of them stare in disbelief.

  “Is there a problem, girls?”

  “No,” Sophie says, trying to suppress a grin but failing miserably. “Where were you?”

  “You know, just eating pizza at Luigi’s with Ben. No big.”

  “Are you serious?” asks Nicole.

  I smile and nod. “Absolutely.”

  “Okay,” Sophie says, getting excited. “There are questions that need to be answered. Many questions.”

  “No, there aren’t,” I say, trying to project cool for once in my life. “There’s just one question that needs to be answered.”

  “What’s that?” she says.

  I turn to Nicole, who’s working the register. “I’d like an official judgment on this. Which beach gir
l totally kicks ass.”

  Nicole grins as she says it. “That would be Izzy Lucas.”

  And she rings the bell on the register to make it official.

  Since the shop is busy, the girls don’t get to grill me for information until after their shift ends and we’re all riding to the movie theater. Sophie’s driving and Nicole’s in the passenger seat. (One perk of being a six-foot-tall girl is that you always get the front seat.) She wedges herself sideways to look at me in the back.

  “Explain again how this happened?” she asks.

  “First I stopped by the Parks and Rec office to see if I could ‘bump into’ him there,” I say. “And I found out that he was taking his lunch break on the boardwalk.”

  “I’m surrounded by stalkers,” Sophie interjects as she gives me a wink in the rearview mirror.

  “So I went walking along the boardwalk and saw him in line at Beach-a Pizza.”

  “BP?” says Nicole. “That’s disgusting.”

  “Which is exactly what I told him,” I continue. “So I suggested that he should try Luigi’s and that was that. We were on our way.”

  “Very nice,” says Nicole.

  “See what happens when you actually talk to the guy,” Sophie says, giving Nicole a raised eyebrow.

  “Can we get back to Izzy?” she protests, not wanting another lecture on how she should talk to Cody. “What’s Ben like?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer. “I mean, he seems great. He’s funny. Kind of goofy but in the totally good way.”

  “I love that,” Nicole says. “Give me cute and goofy over slick and sexy any day.”

  Sophie gives Nicole another look but decides not to press her on Cody. Instead, she looks at me in the mirror for a second and asks, “Does that mean you’re into him?”

  I think about it for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Nicole grins. “Her lips say ‘maybe,’ but the redness in her cheeks says ‘hell yeah.’”

  We’re all laughing as Sophie parks and we get out of the car.

  “Tell me that you picked this movie because it’s supposed to be good,” she says to Nicole. “And not because you think ‘you know who’ will be here.”