Pulled Under (Sixteenth Summer)

by Michelle Dalton

  “Well, if that’s the case,” he says, “I think my vast experience doing menial chores for Parks and Rec makes me more than qualified. Do you have any playground vomit that needs cleaning up?”

  “No,” she says, pleased by his response. “But the night’s still young, so you might want to check in with me later.”

  Despite this confidence, I’m sure Ben feels a little more comfortable when a few more guys show up. This includes Mickey’s husband and—surprise, surprise—Nicole’s longtime crush, Cody Bell.

  “Did Nicole invite him?” Sophie asks.

  “She must have,” I say. “Probably today at the parade.”

  Sophie beams with pride. “Aren’t my girls growing up?”

  I shoot her a look and hope that Ben hasn’t overheard. Sophie, meanwhile, walks over toward Nicole and Cody. From past experience I know that’s she going in as a wingman to make sure that Nicole doesn’t get too nervous.

  “What was that about?” Ben asks.

  “Just Sophie being Sophie,” I say before I quickly change the subject. “Wanna see the roof?”

  “Sure.”

  I guide Ben into the storeroom, where I pull a set of folding stairs down from the ceiling. A generation ago these led to the attic, but the roof has been remodeled and includes a full wooden deck with a wraparound railing and spectacular 360-degree views.

  “I get to go up here every two hours to update the surf report,” I tell him as we reach the top and open the door to the deck. “My reward is the view.”

  “Okay, wow!” he says when he steps out and sees what I’m talking about.

  Night has fallen over the ocean; the lights along the boardwalk and the pier are coming alive as the moon casts a silvery wash across the water. It is incredibly romantic, and when I see that we are all alone, I sneak a quick but meaningful kiss.

  “That’s why you wanted to be the first ones up?” he says.

  My smile confirms my guilt, although I admit to nothing.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “So what did you think of Independence Day Pearl Beach style?”

  “Different from Wisconsin, that’s for sure.”

  “How do you guys celebrate up there? Milking cows? Churning butter?” I joke.

  “I’m going to ignore that because today you came to my rescue,” he says. “I know you’re not a big fan of being in the spotlight, so marching in a parade could not have been fun.”

  “Fun? No, it was not fun. It was terrifying.” I’m only half joking, but we both laugh.

  “I do appreciate it.”

  Pretty soon everyone else makes their way up onto the roof, and we all enjoy some yummy teriyaki chicken skewers that Mickey’s husband picked up at Chicken Stix, a kebab shack a couple blocks down the beach. As you’d expect from a Surf Sisters get-together, it’s pretty low key and mellow. The funny thing is that no one is talking about the one thing that’s on everybody’s mind. Then, a few minutes before the fireworks are scheduled to begin, Mickey takes a sip from her glass of wine and addresses us all.

  “We’d like to thank you for coming tonight. Back when Mo and I were young girls—way before there was an actual deck up here—our dad would bring us out on the roof every Fourth of July. We’d lie with our backs against the wooden shingles and watch the fireworks go off. We thought we had the best view on the island, and I think you’d have to agree that we were right. So, as we celebrate this tradition one final time, I’d like to propose a toast to the man who started it.”

  She holds up her glass, and everyone else holds up whatever they’re drinking. (For me it’s sweet tea.) “To Steady Eddie.”

  “Steady Eddie,” everyone says with enthusiasm.

  “King of the Beach,” adds Mo.

  It’s the last part that punches me in the gut. I think about the Surf City float in the parade with its King of the Beach sitting on a throne surrounded by Kayla and her friends. It represents the opposite of everything that Steady Eddie embodied. The opposite of everything I believe in. This is the thought that nags me as we watch the fireworks.

  The show lasts for about twenty minutes and really lives up to its billing as spectacular. I love the way the colored lights reflect off the water. Standing on the roof, I see that the boardwalk sparkles almost as much. It’s great, but even still, I can’t get rid of that nagging feeling.

  “What are you thinking?” Ben asks toward the end.

  “That it looks beautiful,” I respond.

  “No, I mean, what are you thinking about?” He gives me a look that says he knows something is on my mind. “Be honest—is it a problem that I’m here?”

  Apparently, I’m not only bad at reading signs but also at giving them.

  “Absolutely not,” I say, trying to speak loud enough so that he can hear but soft enough so that no one else can. “It’s amazing that you’re here. Amazing.”

  “Are you sure? ’Cause it doesn’t look like it.”

  “I’m more than sure. It’s just that I’m upset about all of this.” I gesture to the others on the deck with us. “I wish there was something I could do.”

  He goes to say something, but then he stops himself. Instead, he just looks at me and smiles. Then he puts his arm around my shoulder and squeezes me in closer for a moment.

  Maybe it’s the nostalgic display of fireworks, or maybe it’s the wonderful realization that I, shy Izzy Lucas, am cuddling with my fabuloso boyfriend—I still can’t believe that part—that makes me wonder what it would be like if I actually was the type of person who had the courage to compete in the King of the Beach. Better yet, what if all of us girls entered and shredded the waves as one last great send-off for Surf Sisters?

  “What are you smiling about?” Ben asks.

  I didn’t realize I was smiling, but I dare not even say it aloud. Instead I answer, “Nothing . . . everything.”

  Moments later, the grand finale starts to blanket the sky with color and light, and the noise drowns out any possibility of him pursuing the subject further. Surprisingly, I can’t shake the daydream of all of us competing. As a team. As Surf Sisters.

  “Hmmmm,” I say out loud for no particular reason.

  As I look at the fireworks, my mind keeps turning it over. Then, when the final ribbons of color fade into the night and the smoke and smell of powder waft over us, I wonder if this is something we should do. I have found a boyfriend. I have marched in a parade. Could I possibly compete in the King of the Beach? Could all of us? We could go out with a fight. Our very own grand finale.

  The party has reached its end, and people are beginning to hug one another and say good-bye. I start to breathe faster as I wage an internal debate. There’s no way to go to the register to get a verdict on this one. I have to make this decision all on my own. And as it is with most decisions you dread, the difficulty isn’t so much figuring out the answer, which is obvious, but deciding if you can face the consequences.

  “Wait!” I say as the others start to leave. They all stop what they’re doing and all eyes turn to me. I freeze for a moment as I reconsider my decision one last time.

  “What’s the matter, Iz?” asks Mo.

  “What’s the matter?” I say, incredulous. “The store’s closing. That’s the matter.”

  Her eyes are watery and consoling at the same time. “I know, sweetie.”

  “We can’t just let it happen,” I say. “We can’t just keep coming to work and act like we’re happy as we count the days until it’s over. It’s not fair to Steady Eddie and it’s not fair to you.”

  Mo wraps me in a hug as tears run down her face. “I don’t know what else we can do,” she says.

  “I know,” I say with a deep breath. Then it hits me. I want to do this for Surf Sisters, but I also want to do it for me. I’m tired of standing off to the side. I’m ready to be notic
ed. “We can win the King of the Beach and get your trophies back.”

  Over the next week I develop a new routine in my daily life. Today fits the profile perfectly. It starts in the morning when I wake up early and head to the beach with my surfboard under my arm. This may not seem like a change, considering that I surf most mornings anyway, but now my approach is totally different. First of all, these sessions are not about finding my Zen place and becoming one with the ocean. They are full-out training sessions. I’m working to build endurance and strength. I’m practicing technique and I’m challenging myself to develop the moves I’ll need to do to get the judges to notice me.

  Secondly, I’ve started to surf the pier. Every break, which is what surfers call a specific location, is unique. The more you surf it the better you know its secrets. The King of the Beach is held at the pier, and by the time the contest begins, I want to know each and every inch of it. The problem with surfing there, however, is that it’s the most popular break on Pearl Beach. This means there are always other surfers there, even in the early morning hours, and I have to work on my “surfs well with others” skills.

  The other girls from the shop are coming down to the pier too, but we are keeping our plans on the down low. One thing—the only thing?—working in our favor is the element of surprise. Surf City has walked away with the team championship every year for more than a decade. On the morning of the competition, their only concern will be figuring out which one of their guys is going to win the individual crown. We don’t want them to be just overconfident about the team title. We want them to think it’s automatic.

  That means we don’t arrive together. We don’t wear any Surf Sisters gear. And we never talk about the contest. In fact, we don’t really talk much at all. Well, except for one of us.

  “So,” Sophie says as we sit side by side straddling our boards and waiting for the next set. “Have you told Ben that you love him yet?”

  I don’t even dignify this with so much as a glance in her direction.

  “It’s obvious that you feel that way,” she continues. “You love, love, love him.”

  “Stop it,” I say, still trying to ignore her.

  “Have you said that you can’t imagine being without him and that you’re going to follow him back to Wisconsin so you can live on a big dairy farm together?”

  “Do you mind?” I say, finally turning to her. “I’m trying to surf here.”

  She nods. “And I’m trying to make you better at it.”

  I flash her my skeptical eyes. “How does annoying me make me better?”

  “I’m not only annoying you, I’m also teaching you the importance of not letting anyone distract you. You know . . . like I just did.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Before I even finish my question, she has turned and is paddling. By the time I figure out what’s happening, it’s already too late. There’s a beautiful wave coming, and she has completely shut me out and stolen my position. Normally I surf by myself or with my dad, and there are no distractions. That won’t be the case during the King of the Beach, as Sophie reminds me fifteen minutes later when we’re back in the lineup.

  “There’s no margin for error,” she says. “Wave selection plays a big part in who wins and who doesn’t. You can’t afford to miss any good ones because you’re distracted.”

  I nod my agreement and remind her that we need to keep the talking to a minimum.

  After my morning session I go home and crash in my bed for a power nap. Of course, before I do that I check to see if I have any texts from Ben. Even when he’s working with the campers, he usually manages to send off a steady stream during the day.

  After my nap I head in to Surf Sisters and work my shift. Mickey and Mo have put me on the same shift almost every day. They said it was to help me establish my workout routine, but I think secretly they’re trying to have my hours line up with Ben’s as much as possible. (See what I mean? They totally rock.)

  The vibe at the shop is completely different from the way it was a week ago. Everyone is excited about Surf Sisters competing in the King of the Beach. I think the important part is that it gives us something positive to think about and takes our minds off the fact that the store is closing. Even the fact that we’re keeping it a secret gives the whole thing a spy vs. spy feel.

  There is one massive problem, however, that nobody’s talking about. I know I’m certainly not going to bring it up. But . . . even though I’m the one who came up with the idea and I enjoy our secret sisterhood and backroom plotting, I don’t see how we can possibly win the contest.

  The Surf City team isn’t just good. It’s amazing.

  Consider this little nugget. Surf City sponsors ten of the twenty highest rated surfers in the state. A team can submit up to eight surfers in the competition. That means two of the best surfers in all of Florida won’t even make it on their team. Meanwhile, Mickey and Mo are the only people on our team who have even been in a tournament before. And, while I don’t doubt their greatness, the two of them are over fifty and haven’t competed in decades.

  It is this sobering thought that’s going through my mind as I pull down the folding stairs and climb up onto the roof of the store. Every two hours I’m responsible for updating the surf report we put up on our Web site and on the sign that hangs outside our door. That means I get to go up on the roof with my binoculars, check the waves, and read the thermometer and wind gauge. It’s like I’m a TV weather girl, except without the hair spray and a perky nickname.

  I’m looking through the binoculars when I hear a voice.

  “How’s it looking?”

  I turn around and see that Mo has followed me up.

  “Not great. The waves are one to two feet, ankle to knee high. Small, clean lines crumbling through. The wind is five to ten knots north-northeast.”

  “Oh, to live in Hawaii,” she says, bringing a smile to both of us. “But I guess the struggle makes us appreciate it that much more.”

  She’s talking about the fact that Florida waves are nothing compared to their relatives in California and Hawaii. I love it here, but if you want to surf in the Sunshine State you have to work at it and learn how to make a lot out of a little.

  “My dad and I have talked about going out there as a graduation present,” I say. “The plan is basically to live in a tent on the North Shore of Oahu and surf until we drop.”

  “You gotta love dads who teach their girls to surf,” she says with an appreciative nod. “But don’t forget that these waves gave the world Kelly Slater.” Born and raised in Florida, Kelly Slater is considered by many to be the greatest surfer of all time. I’ve got his poster on my wall.

  “What brings you roof-side?” I ask.

  “The view,” she replies, “and you.”

  “Why me?”

  It dawns on me that we’re in virtually the exact same spot that we were standing on the night of the Fourth, when she had tears in her eyes and I got the ball rolling on this whole competition thing.

  “The last few days I’ve been out on the pier watching you girls practice,” she says.

  “Really? I haven’t seen you there.”

  “We’re supposed to be keeping it on the down low, so I’ve been hiding out,” she says with a shrug. “But there’s one thing that can’t be hidden—your talent. I don’t think you have any idea how good you are.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” she says.

  “How good do you think I am?”

  “Beyond slamming. Way better than I was at your age.”

  I give her a skeptical smile. “Nice try.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re trying to build me up for the contest,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “No, I’m trying to make sure you appreciate your talent. That you understand that it exists.”
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  Praise like this coming from Mo means a lot. Other than my father, she’s taught me more about surfing than anyone.

  “That’s hard to believe, but thanks,” I tell her. “You don’t know how much that means to me coming from you.”

  “That’s the part I thought you’d like hearing,” she says, changing the tone of the conversation. “Now I’m going to tell you something that you won’t.”

  I brace myself.

  “In a few months Surf Sisters will no longer be here. But you will still only be sixteen years old. You have a future in this sport.”

  “What’s the part that I don’t want to hear?”

  She pauses for a moment before saying it. “Surf City doesn’t have a single ranked girl on their team. Once they see what you’ve got, they’d be fools not to jump at the chance to sponsor you . . . and you’d be a fool not to take it.”

  I cannot believe what I’m hearing. This is like Santa Claus coming down your chimney and telling you that there’s no such thing as Christmas. Mo cannot be telling me to join up with Surf City.

  “There’s no way I would ever do that. Not with them. The only reason I’m even competing in the first place is because I want to beat them.”

  “Well, that’s too bad,” she says. “You shouldn’t be surfing because of them. And you shouldn’t be surfing because of us. You should be doing it for you. I’ve been watching you and I’ve noticed a complete evolution in your style. You’ve found a spark and you should see where it takes you. You know what I think about their store. But there’s no denying that their team is outstanding . . . just like you.”

  “You’re right,” I say, more confused than anything. “I don’t want to hear this.”

  I don’t wait for a response. I just walk past her and head back down the stairs.

  It was completely out of left field,” I say as I tell Ben about my conversation with Mo. “In a weird way it felt like she was dumping me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Ben says as he tries to scrape the wax off an old surfboard. “Mo loves you. The last thing she’d do is dump you.”