“Dinner looks awesome,” I say, reaching for the gravy bowl. I smile widely, hoping that a cheery exterior can mask my big deceit.
I’m still torn about whether I should tell my parents about training with Brody. He was right. It has really been helpful. And, at my insistence, totally platonic.
But I don’t think my family would understand why I need the additional insider assistance. It’d be impossible for them to accept that my technique—unlike Lexi’s and some other guards from the club—is at a disadvantage because I haven’t trained with Olympic medalists. They’d probably just laugh at me and tell me to practice some more at our local rec center.
But I can’t just do some laps and be all set. I’m desperate for the scholarship and someone needs to show that Lexi girl what’s up. I don’t care that she probably only won during that conditioning session because she cheated; I can’t risk it happening again.
“Thanks,” my mom says, setting another dish at the head of the table in front of my father. “You let me know when you’re ready and I’ll show you how to make the turkey.”
“As soon as Frankie joins me for the cooking lesson,” I say, pointing at my younger brother’s empty seat. “Where is Frankie?”
“Frankie! Dinnertime!” my dad bellows down our short hallway.
As I pour the brown gravy over my turkey, my mom takes her seat across from my father and between Alex and me.
“So, Alex, I heard wonderful news. Is it true that the police department might be hiring next year?” My mom beams as she reaches for the gravy. “That would be just in time for graduation.”
My middle brother, Alex, looks up from shoveling potatoes into his mouth. After his recent buzz cut, his blue eyes are particularly prominent, matching his police academy cadet uniform. “We’ll see. Not getting my hopes up especially with all the recent layoffs.”
My dad shakes out a cloth napkin and shoves it into the top of his starched white shirt. “Times are tough, son.”
“And that’s exactly why I’m starting my landscaping business after graduation. No way am I risking my life on the streets just to have the state lay me off.” My youngest brother pulls out the chair next to me. His wild curly hair is extra poofy today.
“Nice of you to finally join us, Frankie,” my dad says curtly.
Ever since Frankie grew out his hair and announced his plans to cut lawns for a living instead of joining the academy, my dad hasn’t exactly been pleased with his youngest son.
The static of the scanner cuts in. Four. Seven. Eight. Six.
“Where’s Robby?” I ask, attempting to pull the conversation away from my favorite—equally “rebellious”—sibling.
Just then Robby rushes in.
Three. Fifty-one. Alpha.
Robby’s leather belt squeaks as he leans over and kisses my mother. “Sorry, Ma. I got a call.” He removes his police hat before he sits down.
My dad stops as he’s about to shovel turkey into his mouth, eyeing me as if for the first time. “You’ve been home late for the last few nights. I feel like I haven’t seen my little girl in ages. What’s my fish been up to?”
“Yeah, Nemo.” Frankie chuckles next to me. “What have you been up to?”
I smack him in the side. “Nice fro, clown,” I say, pointing to his dirty blond ringlets. “I’m good, Dad. Just working hard, that’s all. Putting in extra time so I can win the scholarship I told you about.”
“Did you put in a twelve-hour shift yesterday? I don’t even make my guys work that hard and they’re grown men.” My dad wipes his mouth with the napkin.
I concentrate on cutting my turkey. “Just a long day. That’s all.”
“What, are they running some sort of sweat shop?” My dad snorts. “I still don’t understand why you want to be a part of all that.”
“Let us know if they’re overworking you, Abs,” Robby chimes in. “Don’t let those people push you around. And if you don’t feel comfortable sticking up for yourself, let us know. We’ll take care of them.”
“Yeah. Not gonna happen to a Berkeley.” Alex stabs his baked potato with a knife.
I keep my eyes on my plate and wait for the onslaught to pass. Eventually, my brothers will begin arguing with each other. And then, I’ll be left to ruminate over whether there’s any chance of making this training thing work for much longer without crashing and burning like Brooke. That, and how nice it’s been to see Brody’s green eyes every day.
“Do any of the other lifeguards have to pick up second jobs?” Alex asks.
I shake my head no, bracing myself for their reaction.
My mom comes to my rescue. “I think it’s great that Abby’s working so hard at what she’s passionate about,” she says, smiling supportively at me. She breaks her roll in half.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, glancing up for a moment.
“There’s a perfectly good swim club right down the street,” my dad contradicts. He turns to my mom. “And anyway, our daughter isn’t exactly passionate about bringing hotshots their curly fries.”
“Yeah, but I’m working the beach. Our old beach. What could be better than that?” I ask.
“Working somewhere where people value you for your skills and not your ability to wait on them hand and foot.” My dad bangs his glass against the table.
“Mom, can you pass me the gravy again?” I ask, desperate for them to talk about something—anything—else.
My mom’s lips move into a relaxed grin. “Of course.” She hands me the bowl.
“Can they really do that, Dad?” Alex looks at my dad with total reverence, eager to hang on every word.
“I think it’s something that we definitely need to look into,” my dad nods. He turns to me. “Abby, forget going with Zoe tomorrow. I’m going to drop you off before my shift and talk to the manager.”
“What?!” I screech. “No. You can’t do that.” I eye my mom, silently pleading for her to save me.
She shrugs. She doesn’t like to get in the way of my dad when he gets this overzealous.
My dad lays his palm over the top of my hand. “It’s for your own protection, Abigail.”
I pull my hand back. “Before you guys get your pants in a knot about my new job, I wasn’t exactly working the whole time yesterday. Or the day before …”
“What?” My father stops chewing and wipes his mouth.
“I was with someone.” My nerves cause the words to tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“You were with someone?” Robby repeats.
“Who?” My father asks, leaning forward on his chair. His large frame casts a shadow over the table.
I calmly pour gravy over my potatoes wondering what I should say next now that I opened my mouth. I settle with, “Just someone.”
“A boy?” my mother asks.
I don’t answer, but my brothers take my silence for a big yes.
Alex piles on first. “Do you even know this guy, Abby?” he asks.
“How could you be so stupid?” Robby admonishes. “I just picked up a homicide victim the other night for hanging out with ‘just someone.’”
“Is he some rich jerk?” Frankie demands.
“Frankie, watch your mouth at the dinner table.” My mother lets out a sigh. “And will you guys give Abigail a chance to explain herself?” She looks at me. “Now tell us about this boy, honey.”
The scanner on top of the refrigerator cuts in, giving me time to think. Last Name. Gerger. George. Edward. Roger. George. Edward. Roger. One. Eight. Six. Zero. Three. Two thousand. Nine. Lexus.
I don’t manage to come up with anything. “His name is Brody.” I swirl my gravy with my fork.
“Brody?” Alex drops his knife. “That’s a sissy name.”
I squeeze my fork.
My dad leans briskly back on his chair and rubs his hands over his face as if trying to wake from a dream—or really, a nightmare.
“Sounds like that douche from that show The Hills,” Frankie adds.
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“Is he like that, Abby? I swear if he touches you …” Robby says.
I ignore them. “He’s the guy I met at a swim meet last month. He’s sweet. He’s actually been …”
“And he’s a member of that ridiculous club you’re working for?” my father asks, knowing full well the answer.
“Yeah.” I shrug.
My dad grabs his napkin from his collar and throws it onto the table. “Here we go. This is exactly why we should have never agreed to send you to Beachwood Academy. I should have listened to my gut and not let your mother talk me into it.”
Robby pulls out the small notebook he uses for work and flips it open. “How do you spell his last name?”
“You are not doing a background check on my boyfriend ….” I stutter. “I … I … I mean, a guy I know.”
“Boyfriend? Brody’s your boyfriend!” My mom places her hands in front of her mouth. “You must invite him over.”
Fat chance.
“Wait a second. At the invitational?” My dad asks, mumbling to himself something about a hotel and minors.
My mom ignores him. “At least now I know why you were moping all over the house after the meet.”
Robby continues his interrogation. “So this guy. He makes you feel bad about yourself, huh?” He eyes me suspiciously from across the table.
“What, are you practicing so you can make detective in a year? Knock it off.”
Frankie chuckles next to me.
“And no, he doesn’t make me feel bad about myself. It’s the opposite.”
By this time, my father’s fists are clenched. My mother glances nervously from me to him.
This is not good.
My mom makes a last-ditch attempt to save me from the squabbling. “Your father was saying that there’s a scholarship this club is offering. What’s that all about?”
“It’s an amazing opportunity. I’ve—”
“You’re not going to win.” Robby cuts me off.
I drop my fork and wrap my arms tightly across my chest. “Oh yeah? Shows what you know.” I turn to my mom. “Actually, Brody has been a big help.”
“I’m sure Brody is just dying to help you with all kinds of things,” Alex smirks. “I swear, Abby, if that guy tries anything on you, like that Nick piece of …”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. I think I’ve heard enough.” My father holds up his hand in the stop position. “Abby, as your father and as a police officer, I think I know a little something about men. And I’d bet you anything that this Brody boy is going to try to take advantage of you just like everyone else at that club.”
“That club? That club?” I stand up and violently push in my chair. “You don’t know anything about that club. All of my friends are members of that club. You guys need to seriously lay off.”
“Sweetie,” my mom says. “Don’t leave. You didn’t finish dinner.”
Robby lets out a loud breath. “Friends, huh?”
“And what do you mean by that?” I glare at Robby.
“It means that you’re fifteen years old and you don’t understand the meaning of the word friends,” he says smugly.
“Shut up, Robby.” And without thinking about how this might not help my maturity cause, I pick up my spoon and launch it at him.
Then I storm out of the kitchen and slam my bedroom door behind me.
Chapter Eighteen
“Five more!” Brody shouts.
My thighs burn worse than my sunburned shoulders as I squat and squeeze a medicine ball during another training session at Brody’s beachfront backyard. The waves crash against the sand a few yards from us. To our other side, Brody’s lap pool gleams in the Malibu Colony sun.
“Two. One,” Brody counts down.
I let out my breath, bend over, and roll the heavy rubber ball toward him. He tosses me my towel.
“Tired yet?” he asks, before beginning his own sets.
“Nope.” I wipe my face and think about how we’ve been able to pull this off. Somehow, Brody and I have settled into a routine—a routine that consists of lifeguarding at the beach, working at Sunset, and then slipping into Brody’s Jeep unseen for a two-hour training session at his house.
I almost spilled the beans to my parents last night, but still, by some great stroke of fortune, we’ve managed to conceal our plans from prying eyes.
I don’t let my blowup with my parents get to me. I pick up a plastic jump rope off the concrete and begin cardio.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I stare at the white stucco exterior of Brody’s three-story beach house. This place is truly paradise. At least from the outside. I haven’t exactly made it inside yet.
“Fifteen,” Brody says, after he finishes his reps a minute later.
“Ready for your swim?” Brody asks as he sheds his tank top. I sneak a peek at his chiseled chest and rock-hard abdominal muscles.
“Always,” I say, dropping the rope.
As Brody lowers himself into the pool, I climb out of my Nike shorts and tank, and adjust my purple two-piece. I toss them on a lounge chair, along with my running shoes and socks, and grab my swim cap and goggles.
Once I’m in the water, I tuck my hair underneath my cap. Brody skids a kickboard across the water toward me.
“A kickboard?” I ask, ready for my regular routine of freestyle laps.
“It works to strengthen your kicks,” Brody says, lying across another board.
“I know that. But didn’t I work out my legs enough today?” I play around, balancing on the board with one hand.
“This is better.”
“You think so? Why don’t I just swim laps?”
“Trust me.” He wades over.
I lean over the board and smile coyly at Brody. “I’m getting there.” Which is true. During the past few weeks, Brody has done just what he said he would—trained me. No games. No moves. No playing. Well, maybe a little flirting.
But nothing serious. I saw how badly my family reacted when I just hinted at the possibility of something going on between me and Brody. Besides which, I don’t want to give Denise any extra ammunition.
Or Lexi for that matter. I still can’t shake the suspicion that something is going on between the two of them.
Brody adjusts my position, even though he really doesn’t need to, moving my hips with his hands until I’m balanced on top of the board. “Kick as hard as you can for an entire lap. Lean across the board and don’t use your arms at all. Rely only on your legs. Kicking is your power.”
“My coach always told me my stroke was my power,” I say, purposely being difficult.
“You’ll see.” Brody playfully splashes water on my face.
I feel foolish on the blue board, but I begin to kick, recognizing that even though it’s fun to give Brody some push back, he really is my best hope of winning the competition. Already, he’s shaved a few seconds off my one hundred meter freestyle time.
The water sprays around me like a fountain. Since I’ve already been working my legs for an hour, it feels like a weight’s attached to my ankles.
But I won’t dare admit it.
When I reach the end of the lane, I let go of the board. It pops out of the water and lands on the cement next to Brody, who’s squatting at the side of the pool watching me intently.
Brody looks up from his crouch. “Is that all you’ve got?”
I splash water on him. “You’ve been saying the same thing for the past week and a half!” I mock him with a squeaky voice. “Is that all you’ve got, Abs? Is that all you’ve got?”
He holds up his hands to block the spray. “Well, I’m waiting.”
“Waiting for what?” I ask.
“I’m waiting for you to take it to the next level.”
“You’ll see me take it to the next level, don’t you worry. Just you wait till the competition. I’ll take it to a level your girl Lexi has never even dreamed of.”
Brody lowers himself into the water. “Lexi isn’t my girl.
”
I duck underneath the water until I’m parallel to Brody.
“You are,” Brody says once I reemerge.
A chill runs down my legs. It’s all I can do not to swim into his arms at that very second. I shake myself. “Enough of this talk. Race me!” I taunt, gently pulling Brody’s dark goggles over his eyes.
Brody’s eyes flash with glee at my touch. “How about if I win, you’ll go to the Last Blast Luau with me,” he says.
“But …” I’m about to say that I don’t even think I’m allowed to go, but I stop myself. If I win the competition, they’ll have to let me go to the dance. But what will they say if I show up with Brody? I hesitate, shaking my legs underwater and adjusting my swim cap.
“Deal?” he says, moving toward the block.
“Fine.” I roll my eyes.
“Ready. Set …” He sets himself up to push off. “Go,” he shouts.
I push off the side with all my strength, submerging myself in the water. I reach out, straighten my body, and glide. My arms form a triangle as the bubbles from my nose and mouth tickle my face.
My legs slice the water like scissors, propelling me forward as my arms find a perfect rhythm. As always, I shut my eyes and sink into my zone. This race is mine. I’ll show Brody.
Sure enough, I reach the other side first. I grab the edge of the pool and pop my head out of the water as Brody’s hand comes into view.
I pull my goggles over my swim cap.
“That was easy,” I say, pumping my fist. “Abby, one. Brody, none. No Luau.”
“Not quite. I saw you tap. I was definitely done first.” Brody smugly smiles.
“No way!” I catch my breath. “Anyway, you were fighting the water. I had better form, stroke, kicks. It was all me,” I say, slithering away from the side. I grasp the blue-and-white plastic rope that divides the two lanes and resist the urge to pull him closer to me. Only a mere few inches divide us.
It seems that Brody can sense my longing because a second later, he wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me toward him.
Off in the distance, a siren screams.
I jump, pushing Brody off me in a panic.
“What was that?” Brody asks, dumbstruck as I dart to the side of the pool.
Making Waves Page 11
