Twenty Boy Summer

by Sarah Ockler

  “Admit it.” I sit on the edge of her bed. “Admit that you’re embarrassed about this stupid sunburn, and that’s the only reason you won’t go.”

  “Anna, I just don’t feel like breaking the rules, okay?” She looks at me with feigned severity, starting a chain reaction of hysterical laughter. I lean over her, palms outstretched, and threaten a good slap to the tender skin on the back of her arms if she doesn’t relent.

  “Okay, you win!” she says, still laughing. “It burns! It burns!”

  “And?” I say, looming closer with my stinging hand. “And I look like a tourist!”

  Satisfied with Frankie’s newfound humility, I fetch the giant blue bottle of lidocaine from the fridge, granting her temporary relief from her own stupidity.

  Later, after we’ve settled into bed and accepted our fate as wholesome, rule-abiding beach community citizens for at least one more night, Frankie advises me to play it cool with Sam.

  “Sam and Jake are only four and five on the list. We don’t want them to think we’re actually interested, Anna,” she says, probably scanning her memory for another Johan reference with which to demonstrate her sexual expertise.

  “Right,” I say. “Because I’m not. Interested, I mean. I’m just saying, is all.”

  fifteen

  Thanks to Frankie’s ultraviolet oversight, we’re forced to hole up inside the house playing card games and eating ice cream out of the carton the entire next day. Even Uncle Red and Aunt Jayne are having more fun than us, running in the morning, swimming in the afternoon, sitting out back and reading in the last hours of sunlight. I’m going a little stir-crazy.

  I don’t want to mention it to Frankie again, lest she accuse me of being overeager, but I can’t stop thinking about Sam (who by now has probably found some other tourist girlfriend who doesn’t blow off his invitations for surf lessons and smoothies. Mental note: if Frankie survives tenth-degree sunburn, kill her).

  Frankie finally announces her triumphant return to civilization at eight the following morning, waking me up to begin the long and painful process of primping for a dip in the ocean.

  Maybe it’s the sunshine, or the salty ocean air, or the laid-backness of California, or thoughts of winning Sam back from the beautiful new beach princess he probably found in my absence yesterday, but this time, I’m all Frankie’s. I check my regular self at the door and let her work her voodoo magic. I pay attention. I watch and listen and ask questions on her hair-blowing and makeup-mixing techniques as though my entire future depends on it. I let her gel me and tease me and color me up until I look at least ten years older. We paint our nails, select our sandals carefully, and even coordinate our beach bags with our blanket. No mortal boy can resist coordination and cuteness like this!

  We practice our strut up and down the back deck until Red and Jayne leave for a day of real golf, promising to meet back at the house for a late lunch together.

  “Remember, Anna,” Frankie says as we cross the yard to the stairs and the beach below. “Shoulders back, stomach in, boobs out.” I do as she instructs, sucking and pulling and contorting the right parts at the right times as I follow her down to the alcove and pray to the God of Most Embarrassing Moments that I don’t trip.

  As we approach the curve in the shore that curls around to our spot, I’m momentarily relieved to see two guys goofing around in the water. But as we get closer, I realize our spot in the alcove has been completely overrun with other tourists, Sam and Jake not among them.

  “I knew it,” I say, dropping my bag before we get close. “They gave up on us.”

  Frankie picks up my bag and hands it back to me. “Come on, Anna. It was one guy. Get over yourself.”

  But even she can’t hide her disappointment as she scans the water and shore for her beloved California blond.

  “Should we go back?” I ask, trying hard not to sound too deflated. I know we only just met them, but still.

  “I guess.”

  “Wait!” I practically shout. “Maybe they’re at the smoothie place? Sam said it’s not far from here. We could —”

  “You and your smoothies!” Frankie laughs. “I thought you weren’t interested.”

  “I’m not. I just — I mean — don’t you want to learn how to surf?”

  She looks hard at me, trying to gauge the lameness of my thinly disguised argument. Then, laughing, she grabs up the rest of her beach stuff and leads us onward, past the alcove, farther than we’ve ventured before.

  “Operation Smoothie in full force,” she announces, digging out her camera. “Let the lost albatross countdown begin.”

  We walk side by side, weaving our way through increasingly dense crowds of oiled-up tourists, keeping a running commentary for the video. Just when I’ve seen all the pasty old men in Speedos I can handle, Frankie spots the sign for Smoothie Shack.

  We charge up the sand, energy and hopes renewed by the fading wooden sign with its chipped green-and-yellow lettering. Sam is standing behind the counter and he smiles when he sees us, making the entire hike totally worth it.

  “I’m done in ten,” he shouts across the counter. “Hang out, okay?”

  Frankie stashes the camera in her bag and we find a booth near the counter. After the long walk through all the pasty people and soggy-diapered little kids, we’ll camp out here all night if we have to.

  Ten minutes later, Sam joins us with three banana coconut something-or-others — his favorite. He sets down the drinks and slides into the booth next to me.

  “Hey. What did you do to your — I mean, you look different.” My cheeks go immediately hot. Not that your average onlooker can tell, given all the makeup I’m wearing. “Frankie and I were just messing around this morning.”

  “Oh,” he says, tying the paper from his straw into little knots. “It looks nice, I mean. I just can’t see you, that’s all.”

  I make a mental note to ditch the makeup tomorrow.

  Then I get mad at myself for letting some boy that I just met dictate what I do with my own face.

  Then I get mad at myself for getting mad at myself and remember that I, too, prefer the natural look.

  See? This is exactly why I don’t want to get involved with anyone.

  “Where’s Jake?” Frankie asks, trying to sound as if she doesn’t care. I make a kissy face across the table when Sam isn’t looking. She totally cares.

  “He’s teaching today. We’re supposed to meet up in an hour. Come with me.” He nods as though it’s already settled. “We thought you ditched us.”

  I want to set the record straight. “Frankie had a —”

  “Anna,” Frankie cuts in, shooting a severe stare my way. “You don’t have to report our whereabouts to him.”

  “Let me guess,” Sam says. “Sunburn?” He laughs, thankfully impervious to her attitude. I imagine he’s seen his share of girls like Frankie. Most guys dismiss the less appealing parts of her external personality in favor of the much more appealing parts of her body, but every once in a while there’s a guy like Sam. To Frankie, it’s truly vexing.

  “It’s a base,” she announces. “Anyway, we had other plans.”

  “Right, Pinkie,” Sam says. “I wasn’t really asking. Just pointing out that you ditched us.”

  Frankie opens her mouth to rebut, but Sam’s too quick. He tells us about the stretch of beach where we’re meeting Jake, and how the water’s a little rougher there than at the alcove, but it’s close enough to the public part of the beach that the lifeguards can still get to you in an emergency.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I have a feeling you two can handle it.”

  Back in Frankie’s good graces, Sam clears our table and drops his apron behind the counter. “Let’s go,” he says, holding the door for us.

  Outside, he grabs his body board from where he stashed it behind the restaurant and leads us about ten minutes farther down the beach.

  The spot where we meet Jake is on the outer edge of the touristy part. It’s more
open than the alcove, so there are a few other surfers in the water, but we have plenty of room to spread out.

  Jake is near the water, waxing his board. When he sees us coming, he runs up to Frankie and picks her up in just the sort of attention-doling hug Frankie expects.

  “Damn, girl!” he says as he sets her down. “Did you fall asleep in the sun?”

  “It’s a — you know what? Yes,” Frankie says. “I fell asleep in the sun. Can we move on now?”

  I toss Frankie a bottle of sunblock as we get ready for Surfing, Part Deux. This time we kneel on the boards and ride a few waves to the shore with Sam and Jake close behind. The water is much choppier than the alcove — mostly because of the speedboats racing through just a few hundred yards away. I half expect Frankie to fake an undertow incident, just so she can be gallantly rescued, but she’s so focused on Jake and surfing and laughing with her mouth open and head thrown back that she all but forgets most of her standard Frankie tricks. I even catch a few glimpses of the old Frankie. Sure, she still exudes the confidence of a girl who could attract a swarm of lifeguards and medical personnel with a broken nail, but she’s not doing it on purpose.

  Unfortunately for me, by the end of our lesson, Sam has gotten neither less attractive nor less attentive. Against my better judgment, which seems to be conspicuously absent these days, I accept the hard reality that I maybe might possibly be just the slightest tiniest littlest bit kinda sorta interested in him.

  Which means of course that he’s hereby off the list of contenders for Last Boy to See My Virginity Alive. I certainly can’t endure the kind of impossible embarrassment required during the ditching of one’s albatross with someone I might actually like.

  We have to meet up with Red and Jayne for lunch but agree to find Sam and Jake again tomorrow.

  Tomorrow quickly turns into the next day, which turns into the next one, and the next one after that. Soon, Frankie and I are running back and forth every day between morning and afternoon surf sessions for long lunches with Uncle Red and Aunt Jayne. I think Frankie’s parents appreciate the time alone, but it’s also important that we don’t give them any reason not to trust our daily reports about the nonexistent, really friendly local girls that we supposedly hang out with all day, just down the beach.

  By the end of the first week, we settle into a routine. Meals and other random activities with Red and Jayne, as required of the good daughter and her angelic best friend, and mornings and late afternoons with Sam and Jake. In our short time together, the four of us become the kind of impossibly close that only happens with people you barely know — people who live hundreds of miles and entire states away from you.

  People who don’t know your secrets.

  Frankie and Jake are all over each other in a sickening sort of way that makes old married people visibly uncomfortable. The only thing keeping them from venturing into the final frontier — Johan-soccer-field-style — is lack of opportunity. Even with Frankie’s penchant for public spaces, daylight hours on the beach are just too crowded.

  Sam wants to kiss me, I can feel it. It’s that look he gives me sometimes — a look I’ve seen before, and one I’m not sure I’m ready to see again — not wholly. My body is composed of various parts and nerve endings that would love to see it again. But thankfully, my logical side keeps winning out, reminding me how good ideas can quickly turn bad, helping me change the subject or turn away whenever that look starts to creep into Sam’s eyes.

  Frankie thinks I’m crazy.

  “I don’t get you, Anna. I really don’t,” she says at the end of our first week with Sam and Jake. We watch them do tricks in the water as we lie on our blanket in the hot sand. “Don’t you like him?”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “But what? Don’t you want to ditch the A.A.?” She looks concerned, as though my response might impact the outcome of her entire life.

  “I guess, but…”

  “You guess?”

  “Frankie, I really do like Sam.” I keep my voice low so he can’t hear. “It’s just not something you can force.”

  She stares at me. “Then I can’t help you, Anna. You’re going to have to lose your virginity all by yourself.”

  I look at her and laugh. “If only it were that simple.”

  Sam and Jake join us on the blanket, dripping cold water on our legs. Before Sam can ask if I want a soda from his cooler, Frankie and Jake are locked at the mouth.

  “Prisoners of lust,” Sam says, handing me a Coke.

  Prisoners — oh, no!

  “Frankie, shit! Alcatraz!” We totally forgot that we promised Uncle Red we’d take the afternoon tour. According to Sam’s watch, we’re already twenty minutes late.

  “Shit!” Frankie unsticks herself from Jake and ties up her sarong.

  We say quick goodbyes, shove all of our stuff into our bags, and take off down the beach, running through the sweaty, undulating mob of tourists on the stretch between Smoothie Shack and our rental house.

  We show up for the Alcatraz outing forty minutes after the previously agreed upon meeting time, apologetic and out of breath. Red and Jayne are sitting at the kitchen table, keys in hand, camera bag packed, waiting. Frankie makes up some story about having lunch with “Jackie” and “Samantha” at Jackie’s beach house and totally losing track of time, which was easy to do considering both our cell phones sat idly on the bedside table all morning. My face burns as she expertly weaves our tale. I focus on my pink toenail polish, waiting for Red and Jayne to tell us how worried they’ve been and how disappointed they are that we’ve taken advantage of their leniency on this trip.

  They don’t, though. They just kind of shrug, tell us we can still make it, and ask us next time to try to stick to the plans. I would have preferred the standard parent lecture about learning to be young adults and proving our capacity for responsibility and why do we pay for cell phones if you’re not going to carry them? — the one my parents wrote many years ago and have relied on throughout the difficult teenage years. But Red and Jayne seem genuinely okay with it.

  “Don’t worry about it, girls,” Aunt Jayne says. “We’re glad you’re making friends on this trip.”

  Because somehow that means everything is going to be okay. “But I wouldn’t mind spending some girl time alone with you two tomorrow, if that’s okay,” Jayne says. “That is, if you don’t mind being seen on the beach with an old fossil!”

  “Sure,” we say, smiling like the little cherubs we are, making a simultaneous mental note to notify Jackie and Samantha that they don’t exist, that we don’t exist, and, should they discover us lounging around with aforementioned old fossil on the beach tomorrow, they should just keep on walking as though we’ve never met.

  We apologize again, change into shorts, pile into the car for Alcatraz, and promise Red that next time, we’ll stick to the plans.

  Of course, Uncle Red’s plans don’t include the part about his two little Twinkies making a break for it as soon as he and Jayne are asleep, but come eleven o’clock tonight, that’s the only plan on our agenda.

  sixteen

  “It’s time.” Frankie tiptoes into our room from her recon mission down the hall. “They’re totally out.”

  As the longtime and only voice of reason in this operation, I’m compelled to resist. “Are you sure we should do this?” I ask. “What if we get caught? What if we get all the way out there and they’re not even there?”

  “Anna, they told us they hang out there every night. Besides, we’re not gonna get caught. Mom and Dad sleep like rocks, especially after being out in the sun all day.”

  “They might wake up for water or something.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Even if they do, they won’t come in here. Just do what I do.”

  Frankie pulls the extra pillows and blankets from the closet in our room and stuffs half of them under her blankets, motioning for me to do the same.

  “Even if they open the door, they’ll think we’re sound asleep.�
��

  Voice of Reason tries to chirp up again, but when I think of Sam hanging out on the beach at night in front of a campfire, Voice of Reason, along with his close cousin, Voice of Logic, go hoarse.

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

  Frankie does one more recon and gives the thumbs-up from outside Red and Jayne’s door. We tiptoe down the stairs, avoiding the third one that always creaks, and go, leaving the door unlocked for our return.

  Meet me out back again later, okay? Matt pulled me into the hall closet before anyone else could see us.

  What if my parents hear?

  Anna, we’ve been doing this every night for weeks. They’re not going to hear. Besides, I can’t wait another twelve hours to see you.

  His mouth was hot on mine, sealing our promise before I could think of any more excuses.

  Okay, I’ll be there. Better be.

  “Anna, you with me?”

  The memory of my last sneak-out attempt with Matt fades into the salty sea air.

  “Huh?” I look at Frankie, trying to read her expression in the dark. We can’t turn the flashlight on until we’re down the stairs, safely out of visual range from Red and Jayne’s bedroom.

  “I said, watch out for rocks in the grass. You’re totally spacing out.”

  “No, I’m with you. Come on.” I grab her hand and lead us down the stairs, watching our steps carefully. Once we’re on the beach, it’s easy to navigate our way down the shore. The sound of water stays solid on our left, and the beach is glowing with the lights of roaring campfires. We can still faintly smell the hot dogs and cocoa butter from the afternoon sunbathers, but now it’s mixed with cigarettes and beer and the gentle melodies of random acoustic guitars — under age base camp. Every other gang whistles and yells as we pass, inviting us to sit by the fire and stay for a drink. Frankie loves the attention, waving and smiling at everyone, taking random video shots, but we’re on a Sam and Jake mission, not to be dissuaded from our course.