Pulled Under

I cringe. “You heard that.”

“She has the kind of voice that carries,” he says. “But it’s okay. It didn’t hurt my feelings or anything. I really don’t know what to wear on the beach. And I did think that the boogie board was a surfboard.”

“I know.”

“And I call things by the wrong name.”

“Yeah.”

“If I’m going to spend the summer here, I don’t want to feel like I’m an alien from some far off planet.”

“Okay, but what’s the favor?”

“Can you teach me all that stuff? Can you teach me what to wear? Where to go? How to tell the difference between a surfboard and a boogie board?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’d be happy to.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. When’s your next day off?”

“Saturday,” he says.

“Perfect,” I tell him. “I’m off this Saturday too. Why don’t we meet here at eleven?”

There’s that smile, and then he says the most remarkable thing of all.

“It’s a date.”

On Saturday morning I wake up early to surf the stretch of beach closest to my house. The waves are better down by the pier, but I’m not really looking for a workout. I just want to clear my mind and have a chill start to the day.

As I paddle out I keep thinking about something that Nicole said to me last night. She came over to the house to hang out and, big shocker, talk turned to Ben. Considering our mutual cluelessness about boys, it was pretty much a blind-leading-the-blind conversation. That is, until she said, “The girl you are on a surfboard is the girl you have to be with him.”

At first I laughed at the whole profound quality of it. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized she was on to something. My problem is that the girl I am on a surfboard has literally been surfing longer than she’s been walking, while the girl I am with boys has barely taken baby steps. I have no idea how to convert one into the other.

I try to figure it out as I sit on the board, dangling my legs in the water. Unfortunately, my brainstorming session is as flat as the surf. This morning the ocean looks like a lake, and after fifteen minutes with little more than a ripple, I decide to call it a day. But just as I start to bail, the surf gods surprise me with a sudden gift. I turn to take one last look and see a swell forming in the distance. It’s going to be big and it’s all for me.

My board is already lined up perfectly, so all I have to do is lie flat on my belly and start paddling. I go slowly at first and then pick up the pace when it gets close. As I feel the wave come up beneath me, I try to study my technique. Maybe it’s as simple as Nicole said, and all I have to do is look for hints of how I am on the surfboard to figure out how I should be with Ben.

I feel a rush as the wave catches the board, and I get up on my feet. I analyze every detail—the face of the wave, the placement of my feet, and the way my hand reaches back toward the white water breaking off the crest. I adjust my weight to test my center of gravity and bend my knees to lower my butt closer to the deck. I study everything . . . for about three seconds.

Then I pearl.

Pearling is what you call it when the nose of your board digs under the water and throws you flying over the front. This particular one is a textbook example, and before I even realize what’s happening, I slam face-first into the water. It’s more disorienting than scary. One moment I’m riding a wave and the next I’m getting slapped around by Mother Nature. When I’m underwater it feels like a weird combination of slow motion and superspeed as the force of the wave pushes me down from the surface.

I get kicked around for a few seconds until it passes over me. Then I wade up to the tide line and plop down on the sand to catch my breath. The back of my shoulder stings where it scraped against some shells, and there’s a dull throb around my ankle because it got yanked by the tether line attached to the surfboard. But overall my body isn’t hurt nearly as much as my pride.

I’m not embarrassed because I wiped out. Everybody does that. It’s just that I did it like some newbie trying to catch her first wave. I’m not even sure what went wrong. Since I was so carefully analyzing each step, you’d think I’d be able to figure it out. But as I run through my mental checklist, it seems like I was doing everything right.

That’s when it hits me.

The reason I pearled is because I was analyzing each step. I was thinking too much. Normally I don’t think at all. I just do it. I mean, you can’t fight a wave; you can only go where it takes you. Maybe boys are the same way. Instead of analyzing every little detail and looking for signals with Ben, I should just see where it takes me. I should just be myself.

Okay, so this might not be the most original realization, but it sure is new for me. Normally when I’m around guys, I’m trying to be anyone but me. But I remind myself that Ben’s the one who suggested hanging out today and that he’s the one who used the phrase “It’s a date.” He might actually be into me.

That thought gives me a rare burst of confidence as I walk home with my board under my arm. Earlier I was worried about how the day would unfold, but now I’m thinking it might work out fine. Of course, that could just be because I bumped my head pretty bad when I was underwater, but I’m going to go with it.

It also helps that I’ve eliminated wardrobe drama this time. Unlike the day when I taught the campers, I don’t need to spend time obsessing about what I should wear. Nicole and I took care of that last night. I picked out a loose pink halter to wear over the top of my bathing suit and a pair of old denim shorts that seem cool but not in a trying too hard sort of way.

As I look at myself in the mirror I feel . . . cautiously optimistic. I also feel a throbbing in my shoulder. I twist to see if there’s any noticeable swelling but stop when I hear footsteps on the porch. My room’s in the front of the house, which means I’m always the first to know when someone’s coming to the door. It sucks when you’re trying to sleep in on a Saturday morning, but it’s great at times like this, when you want to make sure you’re the one answering it instead of your parents.

I move out into the hall and wait for Ben to knock.

And I wait.

And I wait.

Through the door I can hear the sounds of deep breathing and loud footsteps walking from one side of the porch to the other. It sounds like he’s panting and pacing, which doesn’t really make sense. It’s not like he can be nervous about hanging out with me. Or can he be?

I peek through the window and can’t believe my eyes.

“Dad!” I exclaim as I fling the door open.

My father’s doing huge lunges across the porch and checking his pulse by holding three fingers against his wrist. He’s also wearing ru

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Cooling down,” he says between deep breaths. “At my age you’ve got to stretch to keep from tightening up.”

I think about adding a tip that at his age he should also rethink the concept of short-shorts, but there’s not time. I check my watch and it’s exactly eleven o’clock. Ben’s going to be here any second.

“Do you have to stretch here?” I ask.

“I guess I could do it in front of the Bakers’ house, but I think that would look a little strange.”

“Spoiler alert: It looks strange anywhere,” I say as I scan the neighborhood for Ben. “And why are you wearing a banda

Dad stops for a moment and gives me a confused look. “Is there something going on that I should know about?”

“No, there most definitely is not,” I say. “Now, would you please get inside before you ruin it?”