The List

by Melanie Jacobson

  “Thanks for pinning that down for me.”

  “That’s why you’re paying me the big bucks.”

  “No, I’m paying you to tell me something that makes more sense than blah blah black ice blah blah.”

  “What are you paying me with? I forgot.”

  “Back talk and a bad attitude?” I offered with a hopeful grin.

  “How about I pay you back?” he asked.

  “Um, I don’t really like paybacks.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He splashed some water at me. “Shut up and get ready. There’s a good wave coming.” I did as ordered, lying down and paddling with the wave’s momentum.

  I’ve heard that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. After my next wipeout, I picked some seaweed out of my hair, wrangled my surfboard, and decided that I was crazy. I turned to look for Dave and saw him perched on his surfboard, shaking his head. Even thirty yards out, I could feel his amusement.

  “Hit the sand!” he called through cupped hands.

  I nodded, tired, and waded back to the shore, still pulling on the seaweed tangled in my curls. I can’t believe that people pay money to get wrapped with the slimy stuff in spas, but it’s a good bet those people didn’t spend much time around real seaweed. Five minutes at the beach and you’d get all the free seaweed wraps you wanted. Just maybe not where you wanted them.

  I rolled the top half of my wetsuit down to my waist and collapsed on the sand, letting my muscles recoup some of the energy spent paddling against the waves for yards at a time, trying to soak up some warmth while Dave waited for his wave to come in. The sun had already broken through the stubborn marine layer that often shrouded the coast until lunchtime. I felt my gooseflesh smooth out as the rays lazily did their job, and kept an arm crooked over my face so I could enjoy the heat without the glare.

  I must have been lying there for over ten minutes when I felt a shadow block the beams. “Move it,” I grumbled to Dave. “I’m still cold. You can’t make me go out again.”

  “Are you sure you’re not antisocial?” a voice about an octave deeper than Dave’s asked. A rich, mellow voice that brought the gooseflesh back.

  I turned my arm from a sun block into a backrest and pushed up on an elbow to see Matt Gibson standing there. He looked amused, his deep green eyes crinkling at the corners. Again. Which would be fine if I was trying to make him laugh. His dark blond hair was still dripping, so I could tell he was fresh out of the water, but I didn’t see his board anywhere. Surfboards are at low risk for theft once they’re on the sand. Code of the surf or something, I’m sure, but most people didn’t leave their boards unattended, just in case. That led me to wonder who was watching his.

  “Are you surfing with Derek?” I asked, looking around for his friend.

  “No,” he said. He inclined his head toward two kids, boys about nine and eleven, who sat hunched in the sand several yards off with an extra surfboard between them. “I’m doing a lesson for President Pearson’s grandsons, but they needed a break.”

  I sat all the way up and wrapped my arms around my knees. “I sympathize,” I said.

  He sank down beside me in one fluid move. Flicking his glance toward my secondhand surfboard, he asked, “So you’re in Huntington to surf for the summer?”

  “To learn,” I answered.

  “How’s that going?”

  “You mean after two weeks of constant practice and a cranky stingray?” I asked and then shrugged. “It’s not.”

  “A stingray? Ouch. Is that what the Band-Aid was for?”

  I nodded.

  “Bummer. Have you gotten up?” he asked.

  “No. But I’ve got a killer pearl dive technique.”

  The corner of his mouth crept up, threatening a grin. He straightened it out, but not before I saw the flash of a small dimple I hadn’t noticed before. Nice.

  “Practice is the right thing,” he said. “It’ll come to you.”

  “I guess,” I said, then climbed to my feet and tried to make the struggle to get back into my wetsuit look cooler than it had the first time. Matt stood, too, and looked at me questioningly.

  “Leaving so soon? Was it something I said?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “You said to practice. Break’s over, so I better go.”

  He nodded and reached down to hand me my board. “Good luck.”

  I offered him a tiny smile and took the board with a thank you, then headed for the waves. Once again, I could tell I had surprised him by leaving.

  Well, good. It would keep him guessing long enough to take the bait. He didn’t need to know embarrassment over my less-than-awesome seaweed hair was really driving me back to the waves.

  I braced for the sting of the cold water and plowed in. Matt was a catch, and I had every intention of hooking him.

  Chapter 4

  I shrugged into my white button-down shirt and black pants and slid on a pair of serviceable black shoes to complete my work uniform. The Monday dinner crowd at Hannigan’s, the steak house where I waited tables, demanded a lot of energy and patience but tipped well. Since Monday nights were sacrosanct at my house growing up, it surprised me how many people ditched their kitchens in favor of a restaurant meal after their weekends. It meant skipping the ward Family Home Evening activity every week so I could work, but I didn’t miss those anymore than I did the ones from my childhood. As much as I love my family, those lessons were little more than a weekly giggle fest where my siblings and I squirmed impatiently through my dad’s teaching efforts and waited for the activity portion of the evening: a cutthroat game of UNO followed by dessert. Singles ward FHEs were the same; everyone put up with the lesson so they could get down to the real business of eating refreshments and flirting with one another. I’d rather make some extra money.

  I figured a night of, “How would you like your steak prepared?” beat the FHE grind if it meant two hundred bucks in tips. Besides, the food was way better at Hannigan’s. I had yet to run across a stale Little Debbie brownie or second-rate chips and salsa.

  The night ended up even busier than I expected. I ran from the time I got in the door and started refilling salt shakers until my last customer left and I tipped out the busboys. As soon as I was on my bed and recording my haul in my little budget book ($175, thank you very much, table full of rich businessmen at eight o’clock), Celia walked in and plopped down on her bed across from me. Settling against the wall, she yawned and said, “You missed out tonight.”

  I waved a fistful of cash at her. “I don’t think so.”

  “Seriously. Matt was at FHE. He asked about you.”

  I glanced up. “You have my attention now.”

  “He wanted to know where you were,” she said.

  “Did he ask in a way that suggested he was wrecked because I wasn’t there?”

  “Uh, no. He said, ‘Hey, Celia. You here with Ashley again?’ and I said that you had to work at Hannigan’s.”

  “And that was it?”

  “Then he said he liked my shirt and went to get food.”

  Her shirt was a fitted tee with the logo for The Board Shack, a local surf shop, scrawled across the front. “Maybe I should borrow that shirt some time, then.” I eyed it with a speculative gleam.

  “Go get your own. He owns the shop. Maybe you could bump into him while you’re buying it.”

  “He owns it? But he’s . . . young.” It surprised me that I hadn’t heard this tidbit before.

  She shrugged. “It’s not very big, but it seems to do all right. It’s right off Main. You should go check it out. If he asked about you, he obviously wants to see you.”

  “He kind of asked about me. I want him begging to know where I am.”

  “I didn’t realize you were such a game player,” Celia said.

  “It’s unavoidable,” I responded. “It doesn’t do me any good to tell him that he really wants to get to know me. He’s got to figure it out for himsel
f, and I have to help him by giving him opportunities to realize it.”

  “It wasn’t a criticism,” she said. “I’m not any better. I just stalk a guy until he asks me out because I’ve worn him down.”

  I rolled my eyes, knowing better. I’d witnessed Celia go on dates with two different guys already since I’d been here. “That’s all I’m doing. I just keep a really low profile about it so he never figures out he’s being stalked.” I started sorting my tips by denomination, my little pile of ones growing the fastest. “Right now he’s trying to figure out why I keep walking away from him instead of wondering why I’m always around.”

  “And this will work because . . . ?”

  I grinned. “Eventually, he’ll be the one coming around trying to figure me out.”

  “That’s a little bit genius,” she said. “Did your sisters teach you that?”

  “No. That’s pretty much the technique that always gets my attention because I’m vain and shallow.”

  She shook her head. “No, you’re not. You’re just pretty and not lame enough to be all fake modest about it. Being pretty is something you should be proud of, anyway.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Celia looked surprised by my opinion.

  “Well, I don’t,” I continued. “Taking credit for being pretty is like congratulating yourself for being tall. We’re just made a certain way, and it doesn’t make any sense to feel all superior because you won the DNA sweepstakes. I’d rather have someone compliment me on something I can control, like a sense of humor or good fashion sense.”

  “Uh-huh. So if Matt tells you you’re pretty are you going to kick him in the shins and make him take it back?”

  “Yes. Then I’ll steal his lunch money.”

  She shook her head. “Do you know you’re crazy?”

  I smiled and went back to sorting my money. I love money. Not the purchasing power or the status. Just the actual green bills. When I was a little kid, I had a makeshift piggy bank that had been a cheap heart-shaped Valentine box in another life. I liked the shiny pink polyester satin ribbon on it, so I kept my cash inside. About once a week, I would set up the ironing board and steam and iron my dollar bills so they were nice and flat. My sisters mocked me, but they were always first in line for a loan. I made them repay me with ironed dollar bills.

  Constant cash flow was another perk of waiting tables. It would be the perfect job if it weren’t for the customers. People got cranky if the kitchen was slow and their food wasn’t on time. Oh, and my hair always smelled like grilled onions when I got home. I didn’t like the backbreaking labor either, which explained why I was getting a master’s degree in something besides waiting tables. I tucked my money inside my backpack, ready to deposit in the morning.

  “Want to go to the beach tomorrow?” Celia asked.

  I made a face that suggested a root canal might be more welcome.

  “Not to surf,” she clarified. “Just to lay out.”

  “I can do that,” I said. I needed a break from my board.

  “Matt likes to surf by the pier,” she said. “Want to go there?”

  “The idea is stealth stalking, Celia. So maybe not by the pier.”

  “Yeah, but the volleyball nets are all by the pier and that’s good for hottie observation.”

  “Fine, but we’re going in the afternoon when Matt’s less likely to be surfing.”

  “Deal.”

  * * *

  “Once again, I have to ask if you’re crazy,” Celia griped from the sidelines of one of the sand courts the next day.

  “What?” I said, distracted by the game in front of me.

  Celia waved a hand in front of my face. “You’re really considering playing?”

  “Well, yeah. Why not?”

  “Well, let’s see, we don’t have any more Star Wars bandages for when you get hurt, and you will get hurt.”

  I waved off her concern. “No, I won’t.”

  “Because all your sports-related broken bones, sprains, and stitches were a coincidence?” she demanded.

  “Of course not. They were flukes.”

  “You got stung by a stingray your second day in the water. We’ve lived here my whole life and no one in my family has ever been stung. You attract freak accidents. Do. Not. Play,” she said before wandering toward the waves.

  Unfortunately, the lure of the volleyball courts proved irresistible, and instead of relaxing on a towel, I found myself in a hard-core sand battle with a group of very good girl players. I had made our city all-star volleyball team in high school but didn’t have time for both work and sports in college. For the last five years, I’d only played for fun. Turned out being able to hold my own in the pick-up games at the college gym was nothing like playing on the HB sand courts. Surely some people must show up and play just for giggles, but I gave it everything I had and still managed only to stop a hair shy of embarrassing myself. It wasn’t until one of my teammates congratulated me on hanging in the game that I found out half the girls playing were on a nearby university squad.

  Oh.

  I hung in through a second match and would have played through a third, but after I jumped up to block a hit, a sharp pain in my foot when I landed stopped me cold. After limping to the sidelines, I discovered a small piece of broken beer bottle stuck in my sole. Disgusted, I hobbled over to Celia, who delivered an I-told-you-so lecture while flagging down a lifeguard. He cleaned it and pronounced the cut too shallow for stitches but recommended a tetanus shot. I declined.

  “You’re going to die of lockjaw,” Celia said. “You shouldn’t have played.”

  “I got all my shots before my mission,” I said. “I won’t die of lockjaw.”

  “Well, stupidity is going to kill you eventually.”

  I ceded the field and followed her to the car.

  At home, I limped in after Celia to change. Despite the dull throb of my cut, I decided I felt good. Even if I wasn’t tall enough to deliver kills over the net, I made some pretty good saves, and I had fun.

  Now I had to wash the sunscreen and sand off so I could head to Institute that night. Old Testament, of course. I refused to let the begats defeat me.

  The sting of the shower spray invigorated my tired muscles. By the time I combed my favorite Aveda conditioner through my hair, I felt my energy reserves fill up again. I blew my hair dry and played up the curls, letting them run a little wild. I gave up taming them long ago. I dug through my drawer in Celia’s dresser and found my favorite jeans: a pair of Luckys I’ve had since high school, which translates to being perfectly broken in. A quick riffle through the closet produced a cute green button-down shirt. I slid into my Roxy ballet flats to complete the look. Some people might not like plaid canvas tennis shoes, but it’s like Leila always says, you just have to know how to work it.

  When I walked into Institute, it was nearly empty, except for one notable exception. Matt sat sprawled on the edge of the middle row, his scriptures sitting on top of his chair desk. There were still five minutes before class started and only a handful of other students milling about, so when he patted the seat next to him and smiled at me, I didn’t have a good excuse not to take the seat. I guess I didn’t have to run away every time he tried to talk to me in order to pique his interest.

  “How’s it going, Ashley?” he asked.

  I don’t know why, but I really like it when people use my name. Maybe I’m an egomaniac, but I think it’s more because it makes what someone says to me feel more personal. I noticed that Matt used my name pretty often, earning him another brownie point. I meant what I said to Celia about good looks not being that big of a deal. My parents gave birth to four obnoxiously attractive children. Being pretty opened some doors, but it slammed others shut. Like in dating. I’ve always gotten lots of dates, but the handful of guys who were interested in me as something besides arm candy was pitifully small. I could sense Matt looking past my exterior, trying to figure out what made me tick. Major brownie points. Big
, gooey Ghirardelli Double Chocolate Brownie points.

  “It’s going,” I said belatedly. “How are you?”

  “Tired. I caught a late set.”

  “And you still came here after surfing?”

  He shrugged. “I like Sister Powers’s class. She’s rad.”

  “Even though it’s Old Testament?”

  “Especially since it’s Old Testament. There’s some crazy stuff in there.”

  “I’ve heard. I never seem to make it much further than the Creation.”

  “So that’s why you’re here?” he guessed.

  I nodded. “I’m hoping it’ll help me get past Numbers. I want to finish reading the whole thing.”

  A few more people filed in, including a pair of perky blondes who looked disappointed to find that Matt had a seatmate already and there was no desk on his other side. One of them, the shorter one, shot me a dirty look on the way to the chairs directly behind us. Then she leaned over to coo, “Hi, Matt. Looking forward to class?”

  “Sure,” he smiled.

  “I love Sister Powers. She’s such a good teacher, and I always feel the Spirit so strong, you know? I just love that feeling so much.”

  Since she didn’t address me when she sat down, I kept my back to her and felt free to let one of my eyebrows creep up at this assertion.

  “Oh, uh . . .” Matt seemed nonplussed for a moment. “Well, that’s good.”

  The blonde beamed at him and then began to rustle around. Twisting slightly to take in the action, I watched her lining up several perfectly sharpened colored pencils and a stack of brightly colored sticky notes. Her friend sat quietly with her scriptures on her desk. The chatty blonde looked entirely too pleased with herself. Don’t judge, I scolded myself, and resolved to play nice.

  Turning for a better view of her, I smiled. “Hi, I’m Ashley.”

  “I’m Megan,” she answered coolly.

  I tried again. “I like your pencils.” Hey, it was the best I could do since she wasn’t making it easy.

  She didn’t unbend at all. “Thanks,” she said in a frost-bitten mumble.

  Sister Powers strode in while I was debating making one final effort and welcomed everyone. The quiet blonde behind me stood to play the opening hymn, and by play I mean she hit the key on the electric piano that had a prerecorded version of “How Firm a Foundation.” Some people don’t like this automated way of handling the accompaniments, but after eighteen months of painfully limping through the hymns with either no piano or a badly played one in the little branches where I served, I was a big fan of the good ole electric piano.