Pulled Under

She scrunches up her face. “I think I like the other one better.”

I resist the urge to say, “Then why did you ask me?” and instead go with, “That one looks cute too. Why don’t you try it on?”

She heads for the changing room, and I turn back to look for Ben. Only now he’s gone. I scan the shop and half worry that maybe I’m just imagining him now. (Imaginary boyfriend—that does kind of sound like me.)

Sophie sees my distress as she walks over. “Badger Ben just went out to the garage,” she says, referring to the room where we keep all the surfboards.

“‘Badger’ Ben?”

“You shot down all the dairy nicknames, so I thought I’d try something else. In addition to being America’s Dairy Land, Wisconsin is known as the Badger State. I figure Badger Ben has alliteration and a nice ring to it.”

I don’t pretend to understand what it is with Sophie and nicknames, but I’m a little too anxious at the moment to get into it. “How did he seem?”

“Like he was about to break your heart,” she says. “He’s probably going to tell you that he never wants to see you again and he’s ru

I gasp before I realize she’s joking.

“You might want to turn down the nervous knob,” she says, with a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Listen to the music. I picked this playlist specifically to help you mellow out.”

In the shop we usually play a steady blend of beach, Hawaiian, and reggae music, and after a while you stop hearing it and it disappears into the background of your brain. But now that I listen, I realize that Bob Marley is singing one of my favorite tunes: “Don’t worry about a thing, ’cause every little thing go

“Okay,” I say after I get the hint, and take a couple of deep breaths. “I’ll calm down.”

“Good, because you’re much better when you’re relaxed. You’re not one of those ‘performs well under pressure’ kind of girls.”

“Gee thanks, Coach. Good to know I can always get a pep talk.”

“I’m just keeping it real.”

“By the way,” I add, “‘Badger Ben’ is a no go.”

She shrugs. “I knew it the second I said it, but you gotta try these things out to be sure.”

Fifteen minutes later my shift is over and the girl has finally decided on a bikini. It goes without saying that she picked the first one I had recommended. I remind myself that it’s important for her to be comfortable with her purchase, so I don’t mind the other five we had to go through before we got back to it.

Once she’s made her purchase, I am free to go and head over to the garage. It’s been my favorite part of the shop ever since I was a kid and I’d come to look at all the boards and try to figure out which one was made just for me. We don’t have nearly the number that Surf City has in its inventory, but all of ours are choice. About half of them are custom made in the area. These cost a little more, but they are beyond sweet.

Personally, I’m saving up to buy my very own M & M, which is what we call the boards that Mickey and Mo shape themselves. They only make about a dozen a year, so they’re pretty hard to come by.

Speaking of Mo, when I get to the garage, I see her in back talking to Ben. She’s in her midfifties, but she looks much younger than that. A life spent surfing, swimming, and kayaking has kept her extremely fit. It also keeps her hair wet a lot of the time, which is why she usually just pulls it back in a ponytail.

Of the two sisters, I’m closer to her. This is no knock on Mickey; it’s just that Mo and I have more in common. Mickey’s loud and in your face like Sophie, but Mo hangs around the edges like I do. We surf alike too. Both of us favor a long, smooth style rather than a more athletic and aggressive one.

She’s showing Ben a display case that serves as a tribute to Steady Eddie, her father. It has all sorts of artifacts including surfing trophies, a lifesaving medal, and even his torpedo buoy, which is the big float that lifeguards carried back in the day.

“He won every surf contest in the state,” she says, beaming with pride.

“What about King of the Beach?” Ben asks, referring to our local contest. “Did he win that one too?”

Mo laughs. “Seven times—more than anyone.”

“Awesome,” says Ben. “Where’s the trophy for that?”

“At Surf City,” she says. “It always goes to the current champion.”

“That’s kind of unfair,” says Ben.

“I don’t know,” she replies. “It’s in their store, but Dad’s name is on it seven times. Mickey and I think of it as covertly advertising our store over there.”

“Why don’t you ask her who’s won it the second most times?” I say, interrupting.

“We’re in the middle of a conversation, Izzy,” she says, deflecting the comment.

“Go ahead and ask her,” I say again.

“Who won the second most times?” he asks.

She’s reluctant to answer, but Ben and I wait her out, and she finally concedes, “Mickey and I have each won it four times.”

“You were King of the Beach?” Ben asks.

She nods.

“The only two girls to ever win it,” I add, because I know that Mo won’t.

“That means between you two and your dad, you guys have your name engraved on it fifteen times.”

“I never thought of it that way, but I guess so.” Mo is uncomfortable receiving praise, so she redirects the conversation. “Ben, why don’t you show Izzy what you learned?”

“Oh, yeah. Watch this, Iz.” One by one he points to a row of surfboards, identifying each one by type as he goes. “This is a shortboard, this is an egg, this is a fish, and this one . . . is . . . a gun?”

“That’s right, a gun,” Mo says. “Now which one is the quad?”

“The fish,” he says, pointing toward it. “Because it has four fins.”

“Perfect.”

“Very impressive,” I say.

Feeling good about his surfboard IQ, he turns to Mo and adds, “I can do more than identify. I also know that you have to keep them in direct sunlight so that the condensation doesn’t contract the foam.”

Mo starts to correct him, but I shake her off and she lets it slide. Instead she turns to me and says, “I understand you’re going to be teaching Ben the fine art.” She always refers to surfing as “the fine art.”

“Yes, I am,” I say.

She gives us the once-over and nods her approval. “Good choice.”

I don’t know if she’s saying that I’m a good choice as a teacher for him or if he’s a good choice as a guy for me. Knowing Mo, it’s probably a combination of both.

“I’ll be happy to take any pointers that you may have too,” he tells her. “After all, you are a four-time King of the Beach. Or is it Queen?”

“King works,” she says with more than a little pride. She thinks about it and says, “My advice is that you should remember to fall in love with your heart and not with your brain. . . .”

I start to stammer something about it being way too early to use the L word, but catch myself when she continues.

“So pick a board that speaks to you right here.” She taps him in the center of the chest. “And always listen to what Izzy tells you. The girl has the gift.”

“I’ll do that,” he says.

Mo smiles and leaves us in the garage. For the first time since my dad interrupted us yesterday morning, we are alone. I look at him. He looks at me. And I realize I have no idea what to say. You’d think that since I’ve been obsessing over this moment for the last six hours, I might have come up with an opening line.

“Hi.” (Clever, huh?)

“Hi,” he says. “Is your shift over?”

“Yep,” I say. “Although I do have to be home for di

He thinks this over for a moment. “An hour, huh? That doesn’t really leave us enough time to run the eight miles I was hoping to get in, so do you want to just go out on the pier and look at the ocean instead?”

“It’s one of my favorite things in the world.”

The Pearl Beach Fishing Pier is rare in that it’s equally popular with tourists and locals alike. It stretches out from the southern end of the boardwalk and is exactly one quarter mile long. When Ben and I get there, it’s low tide and the beach is at its widest. That means we have to walk nearly a third of the length of the pier before we’re actually over the water. There are people fishing from both sides for most of the way, but none at the far end. There’s also no railing at the end, which allows boats to tie off and lets us sit down on the edge and dangle our feet over the water.