Waking Up to Boys (13 page)

C
helsea sat tensely on the contestants’ bench, sweat pouring down her back so that her best competition wetsuit clung to her body even though she hadn’t even gotten in the water yet. All around her, the resort was bustling with color and noise: Bright advertisements from the Challenge’s sponsors covered every inch of the metal bleachers set up along the lakeshore, announcements blared over loudspeakers, motorboats sputtered to life, and the deeply tanned, visor-bedecked crowd chattered excitedly in the stands.

The chaos had descended on the resort the morning before as contestants, fans, reporters, and their friends and family began arriving in droves. They backed up traffic on the long winding driveway and clogged the
lobby with their overstuffed luggage and loud voices, occupying every room and cabin to bursting.

Chelsea’s parents were ecstatic—business had never been so good! But as she ran around helping her parents with the extra workload, Chelsea was also keeping an eye on the influx and beginning to get very, very nervous. Her arm had just come out of the cast a few days before and still felt very weak. Everyone had been telling her all summer that she’d be crazy to still do the Challenge after her injury, and she was finally starting to believe them. Plus, there was the tiny matter of not having told her parents yet that she was competing. Chelsea knew that as soon as they called her name over the loudspeaker, she was in for it.

“Monica Kaplan!”
boomed the loudspeaker, and Chelsea watched the small freckled girl with spiky blond hair give her boat driver the signal to go. Chelsea sat forward on her seat. Monica was a relative newcomer to the competitive wakeboarding world, but she already had a formidable reputation as a force to be reckoned with.

Monica got up quickly and cut through the water like a Japanese fighting fish in her aqua-and-neon-pink wetsuit. Her first series of jumps was quick, light, and precise; Chelsea could see that the hype around her was well-deserved. It had been that way with many of the women who had gone before, too: They were simply better than Chelsea had expected.

Don’t think that way,
she told herself sternly.
You still have a couple of tricks in your back pocket that you haven’t seen a single one of them do.

Monica executed a brilliant backflip with a surprising twist right at the end, followed by a series of quick surface turns that made her look more like a ballerina doing pirouettes than someone hanging on to a rope behind a speeding motorboat. At the end of her routine, the crowd in the stands broke into raucous applause and catcalls. Chelsea turned and saw that many of the spectators had gotten to their feet to give Monica a standing ovation. Sweat drenched the small of Chelsea’s back as the tiny doubt that had been there since the morning before blossomed.

She tried to clear her mind by running through her routine in her head, but got distracted as Monica’s scores blasted out over the speakers: 43.26, 39.51, 39.69, 44.87, 40.04. They were the highest scores yet in their division. Chelsea began chewing on the insides of her cheeks.

Monica returned to the bench, her pale cheeks flushed. Droplets of water shimmered in her still-spiky hair.

“Good job out there,” Chelsea congratulated her with grudging admiration. “You looked great.”

“Thanks!” Monica seemed genuinely pleased. “You’re up next?”

Chelsea nodded through what seemed like buckets of sweat pouring from every gland in her body. She felt like she might hyperventilate.

“Good luck, then,” Monica said, reaching out to give her a high five.

At that moment Chelsea heard her own name screaming through the distortion of the speakers. She took a deep breath, got up, and headed for the boat.

“Ready?” the driver asked as she strapped her feet into the bindings on her board.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she replied, striving for a cheerful tone. The truth was, as nervous as Chelsea felt, just being near the water made her feel a little bit calmer. She knew that no matter what happened, she was doing what she was meant to do.

“Let’s do this!” the driver said, starting the motor. Chelsea’s head didn’t even have a chance to stop spinning before she was in the water and swimming out to the full length of the rope behind the boat. In those brief moments of buoyancy, her head cleared and she found herself entirely focused on the task at hand.

Chelsea quickly became a combination of animal and machine, with the sleek strength of a panther as well as the speed and precision of an electrical conduit. She flew through her first series of moves. Her mind raced mere moments ahead of her body as she calculated the weight and velocity of each jump and turn.

She could hear the crowd
ooh
and
aah
as she landed, and the sound boosted her courage. She had the rare and spectacular feeling of flying on the water, as if she had grown wings and her feet weren’t touching anything at all. Going into her grand finale, she knew she was going to hit it out of the park.

She braced herself as she was about to go into her final trick—the one that nobody had ever seen her perform successfully before, but that she knew deep in her heart she could do.

She gathered every ounce of strength that she had and threw herself into the jump. She felt her body hurtle through the air once, twice, and…

She reached for the water with her toes, bending her knees in preparation for her landing. But the water wasn’t below her feet where she thought it was going to be. She had only a second to panic before she landed smack on her butt, the towrope slack in her hands.

A loud, pained gasp went up from the bleachers, and Chelsea realized in horror that she had blown it. A landing like that could take ten points off your score if the judges were feeling generous—and those ten points were enough to land her soundly behind Monica, and probably everyone else.

As she swam back to the boat, her body felt as old and unwieldy as the rock-topped mountains ringing the lake. She knew that as soon as she stepped onto dry land
she would have to stop grumbling and smear a big fake smile on her face. And, sure enough, there was the ESPN3 reporter with his microphone, an even bigger and faker smile stretching his square, tan face. He was surrounded by reporters from lesser local and sports papers, as well as a cameraman and someone dangling a boom mike right in Chelsea’s face.

“Chelsea McCormick,” he crooned in his sportscaster drawl. “That was some move you tried there. How do you feel after that baaaad digger?”

Chelsea’s grin felt fragile, like it would shatter at any moment and give way to tears. “It’s too bad I wiped out at the last moment, but I feel like I gave it my best shot and I’m proud of myself anyway,” she lied, not wanting to sound like the sore loser she actually was.

“You sure did, you sure did,” the anchor agreed. “Not many sixteen-year-old girls have attempted a seven-twenty in competition—and certainly not so soon after recovering from a broken arm. How does that make you feel?”

How was she even supposed to answer something like that? She stared into the camera for what seemed like an eternity, watching the anchor’s smile strain until it was really more of a grimace. “Well,” she finally said, “I like challenges, and this was definitely a challenge.”

“Well, it sure was, it sure was!” he replied heartily,
laughing more in relief than because he thought what she had said was particularly funny or true. “Hey, it sounds like they’re announcing your scores.”

Chelsea held her breath while the numbers crackled in huge sound waves around her head. She was definitely way below Monica—in fact, thanks to that landing, she was now closer to the bottom than the top of her division. She wanted to weep.

“Well, that’s tough luck, now, isn’t it?” The reporter patted her on the shoulder with his huge ham of a hand. “But I bet you’ll do better next year, right?”

“Of course.” Chelsea stared levelly into the camera and tried her hardest to smile. “There’s always room for improvement.”

Chelsea watched the rest of the Junior Women’s Division in a daze, her eyes glazed over. She berated herself as she watched other girls with less skill perform far easier routines than she had and still get higher scores.

She wondered if she was doomed to a lifetime of “almosts.” She had almost nailed the routine, almost had sex with Sebastian, almost made friends with her half sister, and
almost
gotten Todd to notice that she could be more than just a boarding buddy. Everything was almost there, but not quite. She was becoming
deeply, existentially tired of
almost
. Just once, she wanted things to be perfect.

“Still brooding over that landing?” Chelsea blinked to clear the haze in her head and saw Todd standing in front of her.

“No,” she said.

“Liar.” Todd plopped into the empty spot next to her. “I know you’re playing it over and over in your head, thinking about how you could have done it better…and probably wondering what kind of score you would have got if you’d only done a five-forty instead.”

“How’d you know?” Chelsea asked.

Todd shrugged. “You’re Chelsea,” he said simply. “That’s what you do. You obsess over how you should have done everything better.”

“Well, I should have,” she replied, surprised that Todd knew her that well. “If I hadn’t overcompensated on that last jump, I’d be a shoo-in for first place right now.”

Todd’s nose was wrinkled in confusion. “Why are you like that?” he asked. “It’s one thing to want to be good, but you always push yourself
so hard
, like you have to be the best or it’s nothing at all. I want to win, too, but there’s something really intense about how competitive you get.”

“Why am I so competitive?” Chelsea asked in disbelief. “Why do I always push myself so hard? Because I
have to
be the best, that’s why! I have to win so I can prove that
I’m better than you.” Chelsea clamped her hand over her mouth, shocked to hear the words even though she had long known them to be true.

The furrows on Todd’s face deepened. “But you know you’re better than me,” he said quietly. “And I do, too.”

Despite the staticky roar of loudspeaker announcements and the crowd, that moment felt silent to Chelsea. Silent, and suspended in midair like a wave still swelling before crashing into the shore.

“Do you really mean that?” she asked finally.

“Yeah,” Todd said. “And most of the time, it kills me knowing it. I knew you were going to be good—probably better than me—from the first lesson I gave you. It hasn’t been easy, Chelsea. But you’re the best, and you deserve to win.”

With that, he got up and began walking away. “Wait!” Chelsea called after him. Her mind was still somewhere back on
you’re better than me.

Todd turned and looked at her, the expression on his face one of both pain and triumph. “What?” he asked.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To resign from the finals,” Todd told her. “I can’t compete knowing you’re the one who deserves to win.”

“Todd, what? Wait!” Chelsea called after him. But if Todd heard her this time, he didn’t turn around. Her head spun and her chest felt empty and cold. Todd had just given her what she always wanted. Why did it still feel like it wasn’t enough?

C
helsea had never felt so worn down. Every step of the way home seemed to require more than she had in her, and the tourists, spectators, and contestants spilling all over the resort only seemed to mock her failure. She kept her head down and one hand over her face, as if trying to block her eyes from the sun, so that nobody would stop her to comment on her routine on the way home. She knew she had failed. She didn’t need the rest of the world reminding her.

The screen door of her family’s log house slammed behind her as she entered, and she was halfway to the fridge in the kitchen when a large, heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder. She looked up to see her parents glaring down at her. She gulped hard. She knew what was about to hit the fan.

“We need to talk,” Mark McCormick growled. “Sit.”

Chelsea edged guiltily into one of the polished oak chairs surrounding the round kitchen table, feeling like a bad kid who’d been sent to the principal’s office.

Her mom sighed and put her hand on her cheek. “Oh, Chelsea,” she said, taking a seat next to her husband.

Chelsea sat in silence, waiting for it.

“So,” her dad began. “We couldn’t help noticing you competing out there. Care to explain?”

“I just had to,” Chelsea said quietly. She didn’t know why she hadn’t just told her parents earlier—after all, they had to find out eventually. The event was held off their resort’s beach, and it wasn’t like they weren’t going to show up.

“Against the doctor’s orders? And ours?” her mom asked.

“Yeah,” Chelsea said, gnawing at the skin around her pinky nail the way she did when she was very, very nervous. “I just couldn’t bear the thought of not competing in the Challenge. You know how hard I worked and practiced all year, and how much this means to me. Suddenly not being able to do it was like having this big, empty black hole in my life, and it was just killing me.” Passion and panic rose in Chelsea’s voice. “I know you guys care about me and want me to be safe, but this Challenge has been my life for the past year: Everything
I’ve done has been working toward it. I knew I probably wouldn’t win, but I had to compete. I just
had
to!”

“Chelsea,” her mom said warily.

But her dad was smiling. He reached out and gently ruffled her hair. “You can be so stubborn, Champ,” he chuckled. “Just like me. I remember how much my parents wanted me to be a lawyer like my dad…but the only thing I was interested in was travel. He practically disowned me when I took out a bank loan to open my first resort instead of enrolling in law school.”

“Exactly!” Chelsea jumped in. “Look, I understand if I’m in trouble. I expect it! But I had to be true to myself and do the one thing I wanted to do most in the world.”

“You are certainly in trouble,” her dad replied. “Your mother and I need to discuss an appropriate punishment, but I can assure you that your actions will have consequences.”

Chelsea looked down at the linoleum floor. “I just wanted to make you proud,” she said quietly.

“Oh, honey,” her mom said. “You make us proud every day.”

“Really?” Chelsea asked, suddenly serious. She couldn’t believe her parents would say that even after all the trouble she’d gotten into with the pool party, and then her accident, the constant sneaking around with Sebastian, and her forbidden participation in the Challenge.

“Of course,” her dad assured her. “Did you ever think we weren’t proud of everything that you’ve accomplished?”

“Well…sometimes I doubt it a little,” she admitted.

“Having Sara here must have been a real change for you,” her mom said, reading her mind the way only a parent could.

“It was different,” Chelsea replied. “Sometimes I felt like no matter what I did, it would never be as good as Sara, and…oh, I don’t know….”

“The way we treated Sara this summer has nothing to do with either of you being as good as the other,” Mark explained. “She’s my daughter, too, but I barely know her. I have to make up for all those years of not really being there, and that means that your mom and I have to not only get to know her, but convince her that she’s important to us. You already know you’re important to us. Don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Chelsea admitted. She had always known that her parents loved and cared about her…but it still felt good to hear them say it. “I like having Sara here, too,” she said. “It took me a while, but now I think she’s pretty great. I’m glad she’s part of our family.”

“Good,” her dad said in his no-nonsense way. “I know that sixteen is a little late to gain a sister, so I’m glad you’re handling it okay. Then again, I don’t know if you’ve ever met anything you couldn’t handle. And
honey? I’m sorry about Sebastian. I was completely wrong about him.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Chelsea smiled, hiding the sharp stab she felt in her heart. “So, um…can I have a sandwich now?” she asked. “Because I’m starving.”

She leapt up and began rummaging frantically in the fridge for peanut butter—but not without giving each of her parents a big fat hug.

After the long, hot shower she’d promised herself, Chelsea rubbed Tiger Balm into her calves and shoulders, which were always sorer after a competition than after any practice session. Then she curled up in bed, hoping for a long, deep sleep to erase the memory of the fatal wipeout. But as soon as she was under the covers, Chelsea felt wide awake. Even as the sky outside grew darker and she forced herself to close her eyes and take deep breaths, she could hear snippets of live music and raucous laughter coming from the party down at the lake.

There’s no point in going down there,
she told herself sternly.
You’ll just have to deal with everyone’s sympathy, and Todd is probably hooking up with some chick this very minute.

But despite everything, Chelsea had to admit that the party sounded like fun. Maybe she could just go
down there for a little while and check it out…if it turned out to be lame, all she had to do was turn around and leave.

She pulled on her favorite olive-green Puma track pants and matching hoodie, slipped into her Reefs, and pulled her hair into a muss-free ponytail. At the last second, she added a lace-trimmed camisole underneath the sweatshirt for just a tiny feminine touch.

The strains of Phunky Chicken, a local funk band, grew stronger as she made her way down to the dock. As she drew closer, she saw that the judges’ stand had been converted to a stage and the bleachers cleared away to make room for a temporary wooden dance floor, which was already occupied by a dense thicket of moving bodies. Paper lanterns dangling above the crowd glowed festively, and the makeshift wooden tiki bar in the corner was doing a brisk business handing out bottles of Jones Soda and Sierra Nevada, the Challenge’s beverage sponsors.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked as she approached.

“Root beer, thanks,” Chelsea said. As he slipped the icy cool bottle into her hands, the bartender did a double take, and his face widened into a smile. “Hey, you’re Chelsea McCormick!” he said. “That was one sweet routine out there. I can’t believe you nailed all those gnarly tricks with your arm fresh out of a friggin’ cast! You got bigger
cojones
than most of the guys out there!”

Chelsea’s cheeks reddened at the compliment. But she was also confused. Why hadn’t he mentioned the wipeout?

Not feeling quite ready to hit the dance floor, she took a seat at a table, sipping her soda and surveying the crowd. She saw Mel and Sienna dancing with two Australian guys who had competed in the men’s division, caught a glimpse of her dad talking animatedly with the Challenge’s head organizer, and waved to Sebastian and Nina, who were laughing together on the dance floor.

She was about to get up and join them when Monica Kaplan, wearing a Puma tracksuit almost exactly like hers, only in lavender, emerged from the crowd and slid into the seat next to her.

Chelsea reached out to slap her outstretched hand. “Congratulations on winning the division.”

“Thanks.” Monica smiled. “But I wouldn’t have stood a chance if you’d landed that last jump.”

“Oh, I don’t know if that’s true,” Chelsea said. “You were awesome—you have great style, and you nailed every trick perfectly.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have the same gonzo do-it-or-die energy as you,” Monica insisted. “You’re like a wild animal out there. I can tell there’s nothing you won’t do—you’ll probably be landing ten-eighties by the time you’re twenty. You are
seriously
talented.”

Chelsea was blown away. “But what about that digger at the end?” she asked incredulously.

Monica waved her hand dismissively. “Who even
tries
seven-twenties? That’s what I mean—you’re nuts out there, but you’re amazing. Hey, I gotta go find my little brother—I promised I wouldn’t leave him alone for too long. See you around.”

After she had left, Chelsea stayed at the table. She tried to wrap her mind around the fact that Monica Kaplan, who had been dubbed the newcomer of the season by
Wakefiend
magazine, had just gone to such great lengths to compliment her. The Challenge was turning out to be full of surprises after all.

Chelsea finished her root beer and decided to hit the dance floor. As she floated through the crowd of dancers, she spotted Sara, who was laughing and beckoning to her. “Hey, come dance with us!” she called, and Chelsea joined her. Sara’s face glowed with sweat and happiness—her hair was loose around her face, and even though she was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers, Chelsea thought she looked prettier than ever. There was a new kind of twinkle in her eye, and Chelsea wondered where it came from.

It didn’t take her long to find out. As they danced, Chelsea watched Leo spin Sara around. Laughing, Sara bent her head toward Leo’s and gave him a long, passionate kiss on the lips. When they finally pulled
apart, Sara’s cheeks were flushed with pleasure and she was smiling wider than ever before.

“I thought you said you and Leo were just friends!” Chelsea whispered in her sister’s ear.

Sara just shrugged and grinned. “I thought we were, too, practically all summer,” she said. “But it turns out there was more there. I spent all summer taking a break from boys, and it turns out that Leo was spending all summer trying to teach me that they’re not
all
bad, after all.”

“Listen to that,” Leo said proudly. “Apparently, I’m a catch. Who knew?”

“Oh, stop.” Sara swatted playfully at his chest. Leo caught her hands and brought them to his lips.

“Wow.” Chelsea was genuinely happy for Sara, but at the same time, seeing her sister and Leo together left an empty, aching hole of envy in her stomach. Everyone else had someone to share things with, and she was alone. As always.

The thought made her weary and sad. “I’m going to take a little break,” she told the happy couple. “See you guys later.”

She weaved in and out of the gyrating bodies until she was at the edge of the dance floor, and surveyed the partygoers clustered together at the tables around the edge. Suddenly, it seemed like everyone was part of a couple. Mel and Sienna had each taken their respective
Aussies to a different table—Mel’s guy had his arm around her, and Sienna’s was holding her hand. Even Chelsea’s parents stood side by side as they chatted with the bartender, her mother naturally leaning into the curve of her father’s side.

Chelsea was about to leave when she saw a familiar head of dirty-blond hair wandering away from the party, toward the lake. She sprang into action, following him down the winding gravel path, watching his tall, broad frame cross through the shadows of towering pines.

The dock creaked slightly as he stepped onto it, and when she followed a moment later the cool lake breeze caressed her face, washing away any traces of sweat left from her stint on the dance floor. Empty boats bobbed gently up and down like sleeping ducks, and the music and laughter of the party were faint sounds in the distance.

“Todd.” Chelsea called his name softly, and he whirled around to face her.

“Did you follow me here?” he asked accusingly.

“Yes.” Chelsea slowly approached him until she was close enough to see the uncertainty in his eyes. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Shoot,” Todd commanded.

She wiped her sweaty palms on her track pants. “Why did you drop out of the competition today?” she asked.

Todd’s blue eyes were dark against the night sky. “I
wanted to win that Challenge,” he said. “But it wouldn’t have felt fair. You’re my real competition, and you always will be.”

“Is that all you’ll ever see me as?” Chelsea’s voice shook. “The competition?” Tears quivered in the corners of her eyes. It wasn’t fair that all he wanted was to beat her, when she wanted so much more.

“No.” Todd shook his head, his eyes flickering with pain. “I
do
see you as more. And that scares the hell out of me. How are we supposed to be competitors and also…also…”

“Also this?” Chelsea asked. She took a step toward him, placed her hands on his shoulders, and brought her lips to his. At that moment, she could have sworn that the dock lifted into the air and started floating high above the lake, so far up that she could have touched the moon. Todd’s soft, strong lips moved against hers, and he pressed her tightly to his chest, his heart beating a mile a minute against hers.

“Also that.” Todd laughed slightly as they pulled apart, his arms still around her waist. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t know how we’re supposed to be competitors and also that,” Chelsea admitted. “But I know it’s what I’ve always wanted.”

And then Todd said what were to Chelsea the two most beautiful words in the English language: “Me too.”

She wrapped her arms around him even tighter and snuggled into his chest. Neither of them said anything else for a long time after that. Just holding Todd, smelling him, and listening to him breathe was enough. Chelsea had won the one thing she’d wanted the most, and standing there on the dock with her arms wrapped around the one person she had always felt she belonged with was the best prize in the world.