“Dad?” I say, suddenly worried. “What are you doing?”
He takes a picture of the game board and gives me a look. “Just in case someone accidentally ‘bumps’ into the table while I’m gone, I want to make sure we can put all the pieces back where they’re supposed to be.”
Rather than reply, I just shake my head and let them leave.
“I really am sorry to just drop in like this,” Ben says once they’re gone. “But I don’t know your phone number and I need to ask a favor.”
“Sure,” I say, trying to sound confident and cool, neither of which remotely describes my current state of being. “But if you didn’t know my phone number, how’d you figure out where I live?”
“I stopped by the shop to see if you were working, and one of your friends was there. She told me how to find you.”
“Would that be the really tall one?”
“No, it was the one who says I wear the wrong clothes on the beach.”
I cringe. “You heard that.”
“She has the kind of voice that carries,” he says. “But it’s okay. It didn’t hurt my feelings or anything. I really don’t know what to wear on the beach. And I did think that the boogie board was a surfboard.”
“I know.”
“And I call things by the wrong name.”
“Yeah.”
“If I’m going to spend the summer here, I don’t want to feel like I’m an alien from some far off planet.”
“Okay, but what’s the favor?”
“Can you teach me all that stuff? Can you teach me what to wear? Where to go? How to tell the difference between a surfboard and a boogie board?”
“Sure,” I say. “I’d be happy to.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. When’s your next day off?”
“Saturday,” he says.
“Perfect,” I tell him. “I’m off this Saturday too. Why don’t we meet here at eleven?”
There’s that smile, and then he says the most remarkable thing of all.
“It’s a date.”
On Saturday morning I wake up early to surf the stretch of beach closest to my house. The waves are better down by the pier, but I’m not really looking for a workout. I just want to clear my mind and have a chill start to the day.
As I paddle out I keep thinking about something that Nicole said to me last night. She came over to the house to hang out and, big shocker, talk turned to Ben. Considering our mutual cluelessness about boys, it was pretty much a blind-leading-the-blind conversation. That is, until she said, “The girl you are on a surfboard is the girl you have to be with him.”
At first I laughed at the whole profound quality of it. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized she was on to something. My problem is that the girl I am on a surfboard has literally been surfing longer than she’s been walking, while the girl I am with boys has barely taken baby steps. I have no idea how to convert one into the other.
I try to figure it out as I sit on the board, dangling my legs in the water. Unfortunately, my brainstorming session is as flat as the surf. This morning the ocean looks like a lake, and after fifteen minutes with little more than a ripple, I decide to call it a day. But just as I start to bail, the surf gods surprise me with a sudden gift. I turn to take one last look and see a swell forming in the distance. It’s going to be big and it’s all for me.
My board is already lined up perfectly, so all I have to do is lie flat on my belly and start paddling. I go slowly at first and then pick up the pace when it gets close. As I feel the wave come up beneath me, I try to study my technique. Maybe it’s as simple as Nicole said, and all I have to do is look for hints of how I am on the surfboard to figure out how I should be with Ben.
I feel a rush as the wave catches the board, and I get up on my feet. I analyze every detail—the face of the wave, the placement of my feet, and the way my hand reaches back toward the white water breaking off the crest. I adjust my weight to test my center of gravity and bend my knees to lower my butt closer to the deck. I study everything . . . for about three seconds.
Then I pearl.
Pearling is what you call it when the nose of your board digs under the water and throws you flying over the front. This particular one is a textbook example, and before I even realize what’s happening, I slam face-first into the water. It’s more disorienting than scary. One moment I’m riding a wave and the next I’m getting slapped around by Mother Nature. When I’m underwater it feels like a weird combination of slow motion and superspeed as the force of the wave pushes me down from the surface.
I get kicked around for a few seconds until it passes over me. Then I wade up to the tide line and plop down on the sand to catch my breath. The back of my shoulder stings where it scraped against some shells, and there’s a dull throb around my ankle because it got yanked by the tether line attached to the surfboard. But overall my body isn’t hurt nearly as much as my pride.
I’m not embarrassed because I wiped out. Everybody does that. It’s just that I did it like some newbie trying to catch her first wave. I’m not even sure what went wrong. Since I was so carefully analyzing each step, you’d think I’d be able to figure it out. But as I run through my mental checklist, it seems like I was doing everything right.
That’s when it hits me.
The reason I pearled is because I was analyzing each step. I was thinking too much. Normally I don’t think at all. I just do it. I mean, you can’t fight a wave; you can only go where it takes you. Maybe boys are the same way. Instead of analyzing every little detail and looking for signals with Ben, I should just see where it takes me. I should just be myself.
Okay, so this might not be the most original realization, but it sure is new for me. Normally when I’m around guys, I’m trying to be anyone but me. But I remind myself that Ben’s the one who suggested hanging out today and that he’s the one who used the phrase “It’s a date.” He might actually be into me.
That thought gives me a rare burst of confidence as I walk home with my board under my arm. Earlier I was worried about how the day would unfold, but now I’m thinking it might work out fine. Of course, that could just be because I bumped my head pretty bad when I was underwater, but I’m going to go with it.
It also helps that I’ve eliminated wardrobe drama this time. Unlike the day when I taught the campers, I don’t need to spend time obsessing about what I should wear. Nicole and I took care of that last night. I picked out a loose pink halter to wear over the top of my bathing suit and a pair of old denim shorts that seem cool but not in a trying too hard sort of way.
As I look at myself in the mirror I feel . . . cautiously optimistic. I also feel a throbbing in my shoulder. I twist to see if there’s any noticeable swelling but stop when I hear footsteps on the porch. My room’s in the front of the house, which means I’m always the first to know when someone’s coming to the door. It sucks when you’re trying to sleep in on a Saturday morning, but it’s great at times like this, when you want to make sure you’re the one answering it instead of your parents.
I move out into the hall and wait for Ben to knock.
And I wait.
And I wait.
Through the door I can hear the sounds of deep breathing and loud footsteps walking from one side of the porch to the other. It sounds like he’s panting and pacing, which doesn’t really make sense. It’s not like he can be nervous about hanging out with me. Or can he be?
I peek through the window and can’t believe my eyes.
“Dad!” I exclaim as I fling the door open.
My father’s doing huge lunges across the porch and checking his pulse by holding three fingers against his wrist. He’s also wearing running shorts that are a little too short for my comfort level, a sweat-covered T-shirt, and a smiley face bandanna. I did not make that last part up. He’s actually wea
ring a smiley face bandanna.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Cooling down,” he says between deep breaths. “At my age you’ve got to stretch to keep from tightening up.”
I think about adding a tip that at his age he should also rethink the concept of short-shorts, but there’s not time. I check my watch and it’s exactly eleven o’clock. Ben’s going to be here any second.
“Do you have to stretch here?” I ask.
“I guess I could do it in front of the Bakers’ house, but I think that would look a little strange.”
“Spoiler alert: It looks strange anywhere,” I say as I scan the neighborhood for Ben. “And why are you wearing a bandanna with a smiley face? Did you lose a bet?”
Dad stops for a moment and gives me a confused look. “Is there something going on that I should know about?”
“No, there most definitely is not,” I say. “Now, would you please get inside before you ruin it?”
At first he’s completely baffled, but then a look of comprehension comes over him.
“Too late.” He nods down the block to where Ben is walking toward our house. “I think I figured out why you’re stressed. His name is Ben, right?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Howdy, Ben!” he calls out.
Howdy? Seriously? When did we become cowboys?
“Howdy, Mr. Lucas,” Ben says as he reaches the walkway. “Hi, Izzy.”
“Hi,” I respond, trying to smile at him while simultaneously giving my dad the cue to disappear.
Dad doesn’t seem to get the hint, because he’s continuing to stretch and has now moved on from lunges to deep knee bends.
“Just ignore me,” he says, as if that were possible. “I have a whole stretching routine I have to do after I run.”
“Me too,” Ben says. “It drives my teammates crazy.”
“Teammates?” my dad says.
“I run cross-country at my school.”
“What a small world!” Dad says. “I coach cross-country at PB High.”
Do you ever wish that life were like a DVR? I do. That way I could hit pause and rewind this in hopes of it playing out a different way.
“We should run together,” Dad suggests.
“That would be great,” Ben replies. “I signed up for a 10K next month and I need to train for it.”
“The Rocket Run?”
“That’s it.”
“I’m running it too,” my dad says. “We can train together and then keep each other company during the race.”
I mean, this is seriously not how I had envisioned the day unfolding. But just when I think it can’t get any worse, Ben says three words that break my heart.
“It’s a date.”
When he said it to me about our day together, I took it to mean that it was an actual date. But now I’m beginning to wonder if it’s just something he says.
Finally Dad finishes stretching and asks, “So what do you two have planned for today?”
“A major makeover,” Ben says. “Izzy’s going to teach me the ways of Pearl Beach. She’s going to help me blend in with the natives.”
I am totally ready for Dad to finish me off with some joke like “How would she know?” But that’s not what he says.
“So you’re a runner . . . and you’re smart,” he says. “That’s a good combination. You guys have fun.”
It may sound hokey, but in person, in the moment, it’s sweet. Once Dad is inside, Ben turns to me and rubs his hands together in anticipation.
“So where do we begin?”
“That depends,” I reply. “How much of a transformation are you looking for?”
“Total witness relocation program,” he says. “Wardrobe, attitude, everything.”
“Well, then,” I say with a smile, “we better get some ice cream.”
The Islander has been serving ice cream on the boardwalk for as long as there has been a boardwalk. It has entrances on both the beach and street sides, and there is a double counter in the middle of the shop that faces each way. This counter looks like an island, which is how the shop got its name. But because PB actually is an island, locals co-opted it and they like to wear the shop’s “Islander” T-shirts as a sign of civic pride.
I order my usual, a waffle cone with two scoops of mint chocolate chip, and Ben gets a junior sundae with hot fudge and whipped cream on rocky road. There is a row of booths against the wall, and we take the one in the middle.
“I’m always up for dessert,” he says. “But I don’t see how a sundae is going to give me insight into Pearl Beach. You know, we actually have ice cream back home in Wisconsin. That whole ‘America’s Dairy Land’ thing isn’t just for the license plates.”
“We’re not here because of the ice cream,” I say.
I turn sideways so that my back is pressed against the wall and stretch my legs out on my side of the booth. He gets the hint and does likewise. Now we’re looking right at the counter.
“We’re here for the view,” I explain.
“What’s so special about a view of an ice cream counter?”
“There are two sides to Pearl Beach,” I tell him. “The tourist side and the local side. You can’t have one without the other. We need the tourists and the tourists need us.”
“Okay,” he says. “That makes sense.”
“But our beach and their beach are different,” I say. “They’re coming here for something they’ve seen in movies and on postcards. It’s kind of like the theme park version and not the real one.”
“You’re starting to lose me.”
“I’ll give you an example. Have you been to the candy shop down by the arcade?” I ask. “The one with the big mixer machines that twist taffy?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I went in there when I was handing out posters. It’s really cool.”
“Did they offer you a sample of the saltwater taffy?”
“Two,” he says with a guilty smile. “They were delicious.”
“Do you know why they call it saltwater taffy?”
He looks at me like it’s a trick question. “Because it’s made with salt water?”
“No,” I say. “It’s just regular taffy made with fresh water.”
“Then why do they call it that?”
“Because over a hundred years ago there was a candy shop on a boardwalk in New Jersey that got flooded in a storm. All the taffy got seawater on it, so the man at the counter joked that it was now ‘saltwater’ taffy. He was joking, but when people heard about it, they started buying it up. They figured saltwater taffy must be something that you can only get at the beach. And from that point on all boardwalks are expected to have saltwater taffy.”
“So you’re saying that the beach is full of con artists taking advantage of tourists?”
“Hardly,” I reply. “You like the taffy. It’s delicious. And people expect it to be here. They want to come to the beach and see the pretty candy being made in the big machines. They want to buy a decorative box of it to give to their grandma. There’s nothing wrong with that. But while tourists think of it as something to do with the beach, we think of it as something to do with tourists. It’s fake. That’s true of almost everything on the boardwalk.”
“So the locals don’t come down here?” he asks.
“Not much. Some of the kids do when they’re scamming for a quick summer vacation romance, but for the most part, the locals only come down here for two things: work and . . .”
“Ice cream,” he says, putting it together.
I nod.
“The Islander is just that good. Now, if you look toward the boardwalk entrance, most of the people you’ll see coming off the beach are tourists. But if you look toward Ocean Ave., you’ll see the locals. This table is where the worlds collide. It is the per
fect place to study them side by side and see how they’re different.”
Ben takes it all in and understands what I’m talking about.
“Okay,” he says, turning toward me. “This is kind of brilliant.”
“And don’t forget the ice cream is amazing.”
He takes a spoonful and nods his agreement. “Yes, it is.”
We spend a half hour people watching, and Ben quickly picks up on some of the basic differences. He starts off with the obvious ones, like clothes and sunburns, but eventually starts to pick up on the more subtle things, like attitude.
“All right,” he says. “I get the thing about the shoes and socks.”
“Sophie will be so relieved.”
“But here’s one thing I don’t get.” He nods toward the beach side. “All of these people are on vacation.” Then he nods to the street side and continues. “But these people all seem more relaxed.”
I couldn’t be prouder. This was the reason we started here.
“You’ve got it,” I say as I stand up. “You’ve figured out step one. That means it’s time to move on.”
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.”
Pulled Under (Sixteenth Summer) Page 5
