You mimic everything Jean Paul does, and count along with him, hoping your French accent isn’t too terrible. You know your quatre doesn’t sound like his, for sure.
“Good, now faster!” he says.
You go faster, even though your shoulder muscles are starting to hurt from un—the push-up maneuver. Once Jean Paul is happy with your stand-up speed, he wraps the surfboard’s Velcro ankle strap around your leg. You shiver when his fingers brush your skin.
“Now, the ocean!” he says. “I’ll hold your board, and when a small wave is coming, I’ll tell you when to stand and let you go.”
You take a deep breath. You totally got the hang of standing on land, but standing in the water seems like another thing entirely.
“It’s okay if you fall,” Jean Paul says. He must’ve seen the fear on your face. “Besides, I named you a sea goddess. You were born for this, Amphitrite.”
You screw your courage to the sticking place, the way your tennis coach/ninth-grade English teacher always told you to do before a match. “All right, Poseidon,” you say. “I’m ready.”
“Fantastique!” Jean Paul says.
He leaves his surfboard in the sand and heads into the ocean. You follow behind him, your board Velcroed to your leg.
“This is good,” he tells you when the water is about waist deep. “Now, you lie down on your board, and get ready, and I’ll tell you when to go.”
He hangs on to the back of your surfboard and you balance on it like it’s a raft, but you’re not relaxed at all. Your arms are tense, your palms ready to push up at a moment’s notice.
“Okay,” Jean Paul says. “It’s coming . . . and . . . go!”
You count in your head, un, deux, trois, quatre, and you’re up! You’re totally standing on a surfboard! You’re surfing! And then just as quickly as you’re up, you feel the board wobble and you’re not balancing quite right, and you go tumbling into the water. But as you pop up, you know there’s a huge grin on your face, because that felt awesome. It felt more than awesome. For a few seconds there, you really were Amphitrite, goddess of the sea.
“You okay?” Jean Paul shouts. “That was great for your first time! You made it up! That’s more than a lot of people can do.”
You walk through the water back to where you started. “I’m great!” you say. “Fantastique!”
“You are,” he says, laughing. “You want to do it again?”
“Definitely,” you tell him.
You climb on board and wait again, and then Jean Paul lets go and the wave comes and you’re up again, and down again. You do it over and over and over, more times than you can count, but you can’t seem to stay up for more than a few seconds.
“What am I doing wrong?” you ask Jean Paul.
“It’s here,” he says, touching your stomach. “Your core.”
You feel butterflies right where he’s touched you.
“And keep your legs loose. Not too tight. You need to feel the board and compensate.”
You take a breath. “Okay, one more time,” you say.
You’re pretty sure you’ve gone way over your half-hour lesson, but Jean Paul hasn’t said anything, so you don’t, either.
You climb on the board and get ready. He lets you go, you count to four—in French—and you’re up! You concentrate on keeping your legs loose and your core tight. The board moves, and you compensate. You do! It moves again, and you’re still standing. Your arms are out at your sides for extra balance, and you ride the wave all the way to shore. When you hit the sand, you jump off the board.
You turn around to look for Jean Paul, and you see him running toward you.
“C’est magnifique!” he says, as he lifts you up in his arms. “Amphitrite, that was perfect!”
You wrap your arms around his shoulders, and he kisses you on the cheek before he puts you back down again.
“That felt fabulous!” you tell him.
He looks at you out of the corner of his eye. “Riding the wave, or being in my arms?” he asks.
You laugh. “Both,” you admit.
“I thought perhaps you would say that,” he says. “But I want my arms to feel better than surfing, so let’s try again.”
Your heart hammers in your chest as he lifts you up once more, but this time he presses his mouth to yours and catches your bottom lip between his teeth. He teases you with his tongue, and then slides it into your mouth. You wonder if in addition to being a sea god, he’s also a kissing god.
Tasha was right, you only live once, and you’re so glad that during this one time you live you get to be wrapped in the arms of a sexy French surfer and kiss him on the weekend after your sixteenth birthday.
CONGRATULATIONS!
YOU’VE FOUND YOUR HAPPY ENDING!
Click here to go back to chatting with Tasha at the beach.
- - - - -
Click here to go back to the beginning and start over.
“SURE,” you say. “I’ll keep you and Gonzo company. But I hope we don’t run into too many cars.”
Nik smiles. “Me, too,” he says. His grin is wider than it was before, and you notice that his teeth are remarkably white and straight. You wonder for a second if he wore braces and decide that he probably did. Then you decide that you like that. Braces humble a person. Make it so a person never gets too cocky.
“Let me just quickly text Tasha, in case she wakes up while I’m gone,” you say. You pull out your phone and write:
Found boy to flirt with. Neighbor. Nik.
Be back sometime.
Then you unlatch the lock on the gate and let yourself out. Gonzo jumps up on your legs and grabs the hem of your bathing suit cover-up in his teeth.
“Gonzo! Stop it!” Nik says, tapping the dog on the nose.
Gonzo lets go of your cover-up.
“He’s feisty!” you say, and Nik blushes again.
“I’m sorry. Really, I don’t know what’s gotten into him.” Nik wraps Gonzo’s leash around his hand a few times so that the dog can’t move more than a few inches away from him.
“So how long have you had Gonzo?” you ask, figuring that’s as good a place to start as any.
“Actually not that long,” Nik tells you. “He’s an old guy—seven or eight, they think—but he was a rescue. A car must’ve done something bad to him, or maybe his previous owner did, I don’t know. Sometimes I wish there was a doggie therapist he could talk to who could help him out.”
You laugh. “I love that idea! When I was a kid, I had a crazy hamster. He could’ve used a hamster therapist, I bet.”
“I’ve met quite a few crazy hamsters,” Nik tells you as you walk down the street. “Maybe it’s the wheel. You know, going round and round and round and getting nowhere might make me a little crazy, too.”
“Poor guys,” you say, holding in your laughter. “And don’t forget about the goldfish, swimming in circles all day!”
Nik has a very serious look on his face. “I know! They must get so dizzy. And exhausted!”
You look back at him equally seriously. And then the two of you burst out laughing.
“Are you into animals?” you finally ask after the laughter subsides.
He stops to scratch Gonzo behind the ears before he says, “Yes.” And adds, “Actually, I’m going to major in animal science in college next year. I want to be a veterinarian.”
“No way,” you say, mostly because that’s one of the coolest future job plans you’ve heard.
“Way,” he says, with a laugh. “What about you? Do you know what you want to major in?”
You shake your head. “I’m only in high school. I’ll be a junior next year,” you tell him. “I’m not sure yet.”
He nods. “It’s a serious decision. I mean, not like life or death serious. Actually, that was the wrong word. It’s importan
t, not serious.”
Now it’s your turn to nod. You decide that you like the fact that Nik searched around until he found the exact right word to explain how he felt about the college-major decision. And you like how much he likes animals. And how funny he is. And how he’s incredibly handsome. Sexy even. In fact, he’s one of the all-around coolest guys you’ve ever met.
“Did you always want to be a vet?” you ask him.
A car goes by, and Gonzo barks like it’s going out of style. Nik rubs him on the head, but it doesn’t seem to make a difference.
“I always wanted to work with animals,” Nik said. “And my dad’s a human doctor, so being an animal doctor seemed to make sense. Though I think my dad’s a little disappointed I don’t want to follow his path.”
“Parents get disappointed in the weirdest things,” you say. It’s kind of amazing how much Nik is sharing with you, but it doesn’t feel strange. It feels as if he should be telling you all of this, as if you’ve known each other for ages, not just a few minutes. So you respond in kind.
“I can tell my dad’s really bummed that I don’t like golf,” you say. “Or math. The two things he spends the most time doing are two things that make me so bored I’d rather watch grass grow than talk about them. He pretends he’s not disappointed, but I can tell he wishes it were different. That I was different.”
Nik nods. “I know how you feel. I think parents want to see themselves in their kids so badly that they forget they’ve created a different, new person.”
“Sometimes I wish I had a brother or sister who loved math and golf, and then I wouldn’t feel so bad that I don’t.” You’ve never admitted this to anyone, not even to Tasha, but it feels good to say it to Nik. There’s something about him that makes you want to tell him all your secrets. He seems like he’d understand. And would never make fun of you, even if your secrets were silly.
“That would be nice,” he says, and you can tell he’s thinking about having a brother or sister who wanted to be a people doctor so he wouldn’t have to feel bad.
You’ve reached the end of the street, where it runs into a marina. “I guess we should turn around,” Nik says to you.
“Yeah, I guess,” you answer, but you’d rather he invite you to have an ice cream cone with him at the marina. You think about extending the invite yourself, but decide not to, mostly because you’d be too embarrassed if he said no. Even if he turned you down in the nicest way possible.
You start walking back up the street, and another car goes by. This time you crouch and pet Gonzo, trying to calm him down, and it seems like maybe it’s working.
“Are you a secret dog whisperer?” Nik asks, squinting at you.
“You got me,” you say.
Gonzo pulls against his leash, trying to jump into your arms. You pet him again and then stand. “Want me to hold that for a while?” you ask, indicating the leash.
Nik shrugs. “Sure.” He slips the leash off his hand and onto yours. When his fingers touch your fingers, you feel a tingle go through you, like getting splashed with ice-cold water on a crazy hot day.
You look at Nik and notice the soft pinkness of his lips against his white teeth and olive-dark skin. You wish for a moment that you were a good artist, because if you were, you’d draw him right then.
As soon as Nik lets go of the leash, you wrap your fingers around it tight, letting Gonzo run a few feet ahead of you two.
“Nik,” you say. And then stop. You’re not sure what you want to say exactly, but there’s something about him, something kind and caring and vulnerable that makes you want to get to know him better. It makes you want to call your parents and ask if you can stay at the beach the whole summer, just so you can spend time with Nik.
“Yeah?” he asks, looking at you with a question in his eyes.
Before you can open your mouth again, a car comes racing down the street and Gonzo goes bonkers. He yaps and yaps and runs toward the car and away from the car, making circles around you and Nik. Nik bends to stop him, but Gonzo’s too fast, and you can already see the leash getting tangled in knots around your feet and Nik’s. Nik goes to take a step, but before you can warn him about the tangled leash, he trips and falls right into you. You try your hardest to keep your balance, but you wobble, and then the two of you tumble to the ground, a pile of arms, legs, leash, and dog.
The way you’ve fallen, you’re somehow on the bottom of the pile and Nik is on top, his stomach resting on yours. His chin is inches from your lips. His eyes look down at you.
“Hey,” you say to him.
“Hey,” he says back.
But neither of you moves. It’s like there’s this force field keeping you in place.
You get the feeling that Nik’s not the kind of person to make the first move, so if you want to kiss him, you’re going to have to do it yourself. You take a deep breath, tilt your chin up so your lips are aligned, and then move your head slightly forward.
Your lips meet his softly, and the tingle you felt from his fingers touching you before spreads throughout your entire body. Nik pulls himself up into a sitting position and tugs you up with him, so now you’re on the sidewalk, kissing, his arms wrapped around you.
The kiss gets deeper, and he runs his teeth along your bottom lip. In spite of the summer heat, you shiver.
“Nik,” you whisper.
He kisses you harder.
A car goes by, and Gonzo barks, but you can barely hear it. All your senses are wrapped up in Nik—the taste, the feel, the smell, the sound of him. It’s like the rest of the world has disappeared.
He catches his fingers in your hair and breaks off the kiss.
“Wow,” he says.
“Yeah, wow,” you agree.
And you know, deep down inside, the way you know to stay away from the edge of a cliff, the way you jump at loud noises, that this isn’t the only time you’re going to see Nik. You feel as if you’ve connected with him. Like he understands you. And like you understand him. You can tell that he’d be more than a good boyfriend—he’d be a good friend, too. And that if you have it your way, he’s going to be a part of your life for a long time to come.
He leans in to kiss you again, and you think, Thank goodness I didn’t kiss Tyler Grant. Tyler Grant couldn’t hold a candle to this boy.
You stand up and hold Nik’s hand. Gonzo dances around you both, looking for someone to pay attention to him, but you and Nik only have eyes for each other.
“I’m glad you came to the beach this weekend,” he whispers.
“Me, too,” you tell him, squeezing his hand. “Me, too.”
CONGRATULATIONS!
YOU’VE FOUND YOUR HAPPY ENDING!
Click here to go back to hanging out by the pool with Tasha and Jade.
- - - - -
Click here to go back to the beginning and start over.
YOU sit back down in your chaise lounge by the pool as quietly as you can so you don’t wake Tasha, but all the trying to be quiet ends up being a waste, because when you lean back, the hook keeping the backrest in place comes undone, and it clanks onto the brick patio. Tasha wakes up.
“Are you okay?” she asks, snapping up in her chair.
“I’m fine,” you tell her, as you get up to see what happened. “Minor chair malfunction, that’s all. You can go back to sleep if you want.”
She stretches, and you can already see a tan line forming at the edge of her bikini bottoms. Tasha sees it, too.
“Would you mind reapplying me?” she asks, holding out a bottle of sunscreen.
“Not at all,” you say.
Tasha squirts some sunscreen in your hand and some in her own. She starts on the front of her body, and you move to her back. “What SPF is this?” you ask her.
“Thirty,” she replies. “I always start with thirty at the beginning of the summer and then
work down to fifteen once I have a base tan.”
You wonder if that’s a real thing: a base tan.
As you rub the lotion under her bikini strap, she keeps talking. “You know, I read an article that said that all the higher SPFs—the ones like fifty and eighty and whatever—it’s just marketing. They don’t work any better than thirty.”
“Is that true?” you ask her. You’re a bit incredulous. How would the companies be allowed to say that the sun protection factor was higher if it’s really just a lie?
Tasha shrugs. “That’s what the article said. I didn’t fact-check it or anything. Want me to do you?”
You nod, and Tasha reapplies sunscreen to your back while you do your front. The fastest way to ruin a beach vacation is to get sunburned the first afternoon you’re there. You know this from experience.
When you’re done with the sunscreen, Tasha picks up a copy of Entertainment Weekly you’ve brought out. You grab a copy of People.
“Okay,” Tasha says. “Here’s the game: whichever one of us finds the least flattering picture of a celebrity in our magazine wins. Go!”
That seems sort of mean. “How about most flattering,” you say.
Tasha rolls her eyes at you. “You’re really nice, you know that?” she asks.
Sometimes you are, but not always. You don’t say that, though. What you say is, “I just wanted two chances to win.”
“Fine,” Tasha says. “Most flattering and least flattering. And winner decides where we eat tonight.”
“Deal,” you say, opening your magazine.
But before you can get too far in, you hear the gate to the street open. You turn around, and two muscular guys without shirts walk into the backyard.
“Um,” you whisper, “Tasha? Who are they? Did you order them for my birthday?”
She looks up from her magazine, and her face lights up. “Luke! Scott! Hey!” she says. Then whispers to you, “They’re the pool guys. Brothers. Their dad owns the pool-cleaning company. We’ve used their family’s company for years.”
Summer Love Page 6
