Pulled Under (Sixteenth Summer) (20 page)

“I’m so sorry,” I say.

“You and your dad have . . . What’s the name of the place where you went surfing?”

“Sebastian Inlet.”

“Right. Sebastian Inlet. It’s your special place. I bet just seeing it on a map makes you think of him and smile, right?”

“Yeah.”

“My parents had that. There’s a place in Michigan called Mackinac Island. It’s beautiful, with old Victorian buildings. Very romantic. They went there when they were dating and liked it so much they had their wedding there. They even went back a few times for their anniversary. It was their special place.”

“It sounds really nice,” I say.

He looks up at me, and I see tears welling up in his eyes. “When we were going through everything with the judge, I found out that Dad already took his new girlfriend there. They even stayed in the same bed and breakfast where he and Mom got married. Why would he do that? I mean seriously, how messed up is that? Isn’t it enough that he broke her heart? Isn’t it enough that he has totally ruined everything? He has to go back and ruin the past, too?”

I reach across the table and take his hand, gently rubbing my thumb across his fingers.

“I wonder if she wishes that she never saw Mackinac Island in the first place,” he says. “At least then it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

The conversation stops when the waiter brings our food, and I feel terrible for Ben and how he’s feeling. Once we’re alone again, I ask him a question.

“Do you wish you hadn’t come into the shop that day to give us the poster?”

He doesn’t hesitate at all. “Of course not.”

“Neither do I,” I tell him. “Even though I know it’s going to hurt when you go home, I would not trade this summer for anything in the world.”

He looks deep into my eyes. “Really?”

“Not one second of it . . . Well, maybe the meltdown on the beach the other day . . . and the fight on the porch . . . but other than that, not one second.”

For a moment I think he’s going to cry, but he holds it off and smiles.

“Neither would I.”

“We don’t have to put a label on this. We don’t have to say that we’re girlfriend and boyfriend. But I still want to spend as much time as I can with you before you go home. I’ve been a better version of me ever since I met you.”

Now he reaches across and takes both of my hands.

“Me too.”

O
n Saturday I have him over to the house, and for the first time since he returned from Wisconsin, he seems like the old Ben.

“Are you ready for a surprise?” I ask as I greet him at the door.

“I guess so,” he answers cautiously.

I get behind him and cover his eyes, which is not easy considering how tall he is. I guide him down the hallway and through the kitchen, and we only run into two chairs along the way.

“Happy Birthday!” I yell as I pull back my hands and reveal my miniature surprise party. There’s a cake, a pizza, and three presents.

“This is surprising,” he says with a crooked smile. “Especially because . . . it’s not my birthday.”

“I know that,” I answer. “But tomorrow is the King of the Beach and we’re both going to be really busy, so I thought we’d celebrate a day early. Besides, Mom and Dad are out, so I get you all to myself. No charades. No parents liking you more than they like me.”

“You got me presents?” he says.

“And I baked a cake. There are a couple cracks on the top layer, but where other people might see that as a negative, I see it as a place to hide bonus frosting.”

He leans over to give me a kiss, but it’s just a peck. Our relationship is undefined, and at this point I’m determined not to push it any.

“Everything has a special meaning,” I say as we sit down. “The pizza’s a Big Lu from Luigi’s Car Wash. . . .”

“In honor of our first meal together.”

“Exactly.”

“And the presents . . . They have special meaning too?”

“Why don’t you open them and find out?”

First I hand him a flat, rectangular box. I have a slight panic attack as he starts to unwrap it, because I’ve never bought anything for a guy who isn’t named Dad. I’m not sure if I found the right mix.

“Saltwater taffy!” he announces. “That means you—”

“Yes. That means I went into the wilderness that is the boardwalk.”

“With all those tourists?” he says, as though they were dangerous animals.

“What can I say? I’m dedicated. The taffy is to remind you of the differences between the tourist beach and the locals’ beach. It was also my sweets backup in case the cake didn’t turn out.”

He unwraps a piece of candy and pops it in his mouth. “I know you say it’s a scam, but I still stay it’s delicious.”

“I’m a little nervous about this next one,” I tell him. “If you don’t like it, you can return it. I promise it won’t hurt my feelings. But if you like it, it’s the final stage in your wardrobe makeover.”

“I can hardly wait,” he says as he opens the package.

It’s a wool beanie with a Surf Sisters logo on it.

“I love it!” he says, much to my relief.

“I hear there’s snow up in Wisconsin. So I wanted to make sure you can stay warm and have a little beach with you at the same time.”

He tries it on and turns his head from side to side to model it for me. “How’s it look?”

“Very nice,” I say, in the understatement of the night. “Now, this last gift was hard to get. Consider it a birthday-slash-graduation present.”

“Graduation from what?”

“Summer school,” I say as I hand it to him. “You asked me to help you blend in, and after months of hard work, well . . . you’ll see.”

Even in the wrapping paper you can tell that it’s obviously a T-shirt, but he plays it up, holding it next to his ear and shaking it as though he were trying to figure out what it is.

“I have no idea what it is,” he says. “It could be anything, but I hope it has Surf City written on it.”

I slug him in the arm. “Another joke like that and you’re going to have that cake all over your face.”

He opens it, and when he sees what it is, he has the exact expression I was hoping for.

“I thought these were only for the locals,” he says as he holds up an Islander T-shirt from the Islander Ice Cream Shop.

“I had a long talk with the owner,” I explain. “Sophie and Nicole were there too, and we convinced him that you were a legit local. It helps that you were born here.”

“I love it so much,” he says as he holds it up to look at it closely. “I promise to wear it only on special occasions.”

He turns to look at me, and for the moment at least, most of the distance that has been between us lately is gone. And it’s not because of presents or anything superficial like that. It’s because we’ve reconnected with the special moments from the summer. It’s like the cutback; I turned and went back to the power source of our relationship.

Now, if only I could figure out exactly what that relationship was.

I take it as a good sign when we walk down to the beach to check on the sea turtle nest. We hold hands, and once again it feels natural and easy. There’s no sign of activity around the nest, but the ocean seems more turbulent than usual. There’s another tropical storm in the Caribbean, and it’s sending bigger waves our way.

“I hope those keep up for the King of the Beach,” I say.

“Are you nervous about it?” he asks.

“What? Nervous about competing against the best surfers in the state? Just a little.”

“You can’t let them intimidate you.”

“It’s pretty hard not to,” I answer.

He thinks for a moment. “You should do that thing they tell you to do in order to relax before you give a speech. You know, you’re supposed to imagine that everyone’s in their underwear.”

“They’re already going to be in bathing suits,” I point out. “Underwear’s not that different.”

“Good point,” he says as he tries to think of a different tactic. “Then you should imagine they’re in grass skirts and coconut bras.”

This makes me laugh. “Well, that might do the trick.”

“I like it when you laugh,” he says. “I get to see that wrinkle in your chin. I’ve missed it.”

I hold my chin up in the moonlight for him to see it.

“I’m sorry about everything,” he says.

As he says this, he gives my shoulder an extra squeeze. I think back to what Sophie said, about telling him that I love him and giving him a chance to say it to me. Instead, I decide to fight that urge as we continue walking on the beach. It’s taken a while, but I’m beginning to learn that sometimes it’s best not to say anything at all.

B
rrrrrrrrpppppppp!

The blast of an air horn rattles through the house, waking me from a very enjoyable sleep. Either I’ve traveled in a time machine back to World War II and we’re under attack, or my dad is being totally dadlike.

Brrrrrrrrpppppppp!

Yeah, it’s Dad.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he says as he pokes his head in my door. “It’s King of the Beach Day!”

“I thought Mom confiscated all of your air horns,” I say as I wipe the sleep from my eyes.

“I had this one hidden for special occasions!”

He sticks his hand with the horn through the door, and I cover my ears just in time before he sounds another alarm.

Brrrrrrrppppppppp!

“Can’t I get a few more minutes of sleep?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says. “But your bacon pancakes will get cold.”

That wakes me right up. “You made bacon pancakes? You should have led with that and not the stupid air horn.”

My dad makes amazing pancakes that have pieces of bacon mixed in with the batter. This lets you get the full spectrum of breakfast tastes in every bite. He makes them for me every year on my birthday. He’s obviously stoked about the contest.

“Steady Eddie taught me how to surf,” he says between bites. “I can’t believe I get to compete on his team. This is a huge day for me.”

We discuss strategy about picking the right waves and what we think the judges will be looking for. Then, after breakfast, we load the boards into the back of the Bronco and drive over to the pier.

All of the competitors are required to attend a meeting before the contest begins. It’s held in a giant tent, where we have to sign in and pick up an information packet. Ben’s working and I’m competing, so to make sure no one thinks there’s any favoritism we keep the contact professional.

“Isabel Lucas,” I say when I reach the front of the line.

“Which division are you competing in?” he asks. I can see that he’s anxious to hear my answer.

“Main Event.”

He flashes a broad smile.

“Excellent,” he says as he checks my name off a sheet. “You are competitor number twenty-seven. Please sign here and pick up an information packet.”

We both smile at our little charade. When I’m done signing, he adds, “Good luck today.”

“Thank you.”

I look down at the sign-up sheet and see that there are more than seventy competitors in the tournament. Over half of them are in the Main Event. Only the top eight finishers earn points, and that suddenly seems a whole lot more difficult.

Ben’s uncle Bob, who is the Parks and Recreation director, addresses everybody at the meeting. He introduces the five judges and explains the basics of the competition. He goes into detail about how the surfers will be scored. Basically, each round lasts twenty-five minutes, and while you can ride up to six waves, only your top two scores will be counted. This was part of my strategy discussion with Dad. The important thing is to get two solid scoring rides in early. That way you have a chance to take some bigger risks on the final waves.

Once he’s gone over all of the basics, Bob announces, “I need at least one representative from every team to stay, but everyone else can leave.”

Even though I’m not the captain, I hang around to keep an eye on what happens next. The next five minutes could be the most important part of the day. There are a total of five teams in the team competition. In addition to Surf City and us, there is a team sponsored by a surf shop in Cocoa Beach, and two made up of friends who have joined forces.

Mickey is our captain, and she’s the one representing us in the meeting. She stands away from the others and I don’t know if this is her way of trying to protect our strategy or her way of avoiding Morgan Bullard. He’s the manager and captain of the Surf City team and—surprise, surprise—he’s a total jerk.

“I need everybody to turn in your final team rosters to the young man behind the table,” Uncle Bob says, pointing to Ben.

Once again Mickey lags behind the others, trying not to show our hand.

“Why don’t you save yourself some trouble, son, and start engraving these names on the trophy,” Bullard says with a cocky wave as he slaps the Surf City roster on the table in front of Ben. “Everyone else is competing for second place.”

Ben looks over the roster as Bullard starts to walk away.

“Excuse me, sir,” he says, calling him back and making me cringe. “You have eight people registered for the Main Event.”

“That’s right,” he says. “And I guarantee you that one of those eight is going to win.”

“I want to make sure that you’ve read the rules,” Ben says. “All of them.”

I don’t know where this is going, but I’m a little nervous. Mickey shoots me a raised eyebrow look.

“Surf City has won this trophy twelve years in a row,” Bullard scoffs. “I’m pretty sure we’ve got the rules down.”

“Then why did you forget to sign here?” he says, turning the roster back to him. “It needs your signature for the roster to be finalized.”

Bullard is beyond annoyed as he scratches his name across the bottom of the paper. “I wrote nice and big to make sure you could read it,” he says. “Are you happy now?”

Ben looks up to him and smiles broadly. “Extremely, sir.”

Mickey is the last one to turn in a roster, and when she does, Ben looks it over carefully. He is obviously delighted, and I can tell that we’ve done what he was hoping we’d do. I linger around after the others leave and talk to Ben for a moment.

“Did any of the other teams enter surfers in all the different divisions?”

“No,” he says. “Everyone on the other teams is entered in the Main Event. Surf Sisters was the only team to figure out the advantage of entering all the divisions.”