Pulled Under

“It’s pretty,” Ben says, looking out at endless ocean.

“It’s better than pretty,” I say as I close my eyes and feel the sea mist against my face. “It’s perfect.”

There’s that word again—“perfect.” It’s the same word I used to describe him yesterday morning, and I wonder if he makes the co

We’re both quiet for a little while, and I can tell he’s thinking of what to say. I decide to beat him to the punch.

“I’m pretty sure I know why you wanted to talk,” I offer. “And I’d just like to apologize for all the melodramatic baggage I laid on you yesterday. I also want to apologize for giving you the cold shoulder lately. You deserve better.”

“First of all, you don’t need to apologize for anything,” he says. “And secondly, that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

I take a deep breath. This is it.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“You’ve told me great things about the beach and surfing. You’ve told me where to eat and how to dress.”

“But . . . ,” I say. “This sounds like it’s leading to a ‘but.’”

I open my eyes and turn to him. He’s looking right at me.

“But,” he says, “you’ve told me almost nothing about yourself. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk about you.”

This catches me off guard. Completely off guard.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you know all kinds of things about me. You know about my parents getting divorced. You know about me breaking up with my ex-girlfriend. You know about my school and my uncle and that I run cross-country. But the only thing I know about you is that your favorite ice cream flavor is mint chocolate chip.”

“That’s probably the most interesting thing about me.”

He shakes his head. “You should think more of yourself, Izzy. I’m sure there are an endless number of interesting things about you, and I’d like to know some of them.”

I rack my brain trying to think of any worth telling, but I come up blank.

“I’m sorry. It’s all just so . . . ordinary.”

“That ca

“Okay, I’ll prove it. You’ve met my parents and I’m an only child, so that means you know my entire family. I get good grades at school, but I’m pretty anonymous when I walk through the halls. That’s partly by choice and partly due to the high school version of Darwin’s natural selection. I haven’t told you about breaking up with my ex-boyfriend because I’ve never had a boyfriend. So, now you’re all caught up.”

“You’ve never had a boyfriend?”

I find this particular bit of information to be supremely embarrassing, so I turn away and look back at the water as I answer. “No.”

“Why not?” he asks. “What’s the problem?”

“I guess I’m just a loser,” I say sharply.

“No. I mean, what’s the problem with the boys in this town? How is it possible that you’ve never had a boyfriend? Does the salt water get in their brains? Does the sun make them stupid?”

“You’ve seen Kayla,” I say. “My school is loaded with girls who look like that.”

He thinks about this for a moment. “Okay, I’ll admit that Kayla is hot—”

“You think?” I say sarcastically.

“But she’s not in your league. You’re smarter, fu

“All things that a girl wants to hear. I’m sure she goes to bed every night cursing my really good personality.”

“You do have a really good personality,” he says. “But if you want me to be shallow, I’ll point out that you’re also better looking than her.”

I give him the look. “That’s completely untrue and you know it.”

“That’s fu

I’m not sure if I’ll ever have another such opportunity in the future, so I savor this for a moment before I respond.

“Really?”

“Really, and I’ll prove it,” he says, throwing my line right back at me. He covers his eyes with his left hand. “Ask me to describe Kayla.”

I’m skeptical of where this is going, but I don’t have much choice. “Describe Kayla.”

“Big boobs. Long legs. Great hair.”

I haven’t mentioned it yet, but he’s right—Kayla’s hair is spectacular. “Okay,” I reply. “You’re kind of proving my point.”

He shakes his head but still keeps his hand over his eyes. “Now ask me to describe you.”

I don’t really see how this can turn out well, so I don’t say anything. He doesn’t let that stop him.

“You have a wrinkle in your chin,” he says.

“Wow, a chin wrinkle sounds way better than big boobs.”

“You have this amazing wrinkle in your chin,” he says, ignoring my sarcasm, “that only appears when you smile. It’s so irresistible that I keep telling stupid jokes just so that you’ll laugh and I can see it again.”

I reflexively run my finger along my chin.

“And your eyes defy description,” he continues. “When I met you, I thought they were blue. Then, when we went to Luigi’s, I could have sworn they were brown. And yesterday morning . . . I’m certain they were green. Every time I see you, the first thing I look at are your eyes so I can see what color they are.”

Let me reiterate that this type of conversation is new to me, and it has me feeling a little breathless.

“And when you get embarrassed your cheeks turn red.” He uncovers his eyes and looks right at me. “Like they’re doing right now.”

Of course the fact that he says this makes me blush that much more.

“The first time I saw it was when I asked you how the poster looked and you started to say ‘awful’ but tried to change it to ‘awesome,’ and it came out ‘awfslome.’”

“You noticed that?”

He nods. “I notice everything about you.”

“Well, I can’t help but notice that all the things you just pointed out—wrinkly chin, inconsistent eye color, and the oh so sexy blushing—are in fact flaws. So again I say that you’re kind of proving my point.”

“You ca

“Well, I admit that you manage to present them in a way that’s kind of amazing, but—”

“Maybe this analogy will work for you. Before you got to the garage, Mo showed me all the different types of surfboards. She really opened my eyes. Who knew there were so many?”

“I knew,” I joke, but he ignores it.

“Girls like Kayla are like factory boards. Shiny. Smooth. Pretty. They look great but they look alike.”

“And girls like me?” I ask.

“There aren’t girls like you, Izzy. There is a girl like you, singular. You’re like this custom board that Mo showed me. She shaped it herself, and it has all these little details and indentations that make it special and unique. They’re features, not flaws.”

I look at him and am totally speechless. On the list of the greatest things that anyone has ever said to me, this is the entire list. Nothing else is even close.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, you could say something about who you are. For once don’t make me do all the talking.”

“I’m really not trying to be difficult; I just can’t think of anything.”

“Tell me why you won’t surf in a contest.”

“I already did. It’s just not my scene.”

“Sorry, wrong answer,” he says as he makes a game show buzzer noise. “There’s got to be more to it than that. Is it because you’re shy? Is it because you think you’ll lose?”

“Maybe . . . but there’s more to it than that,” I try to explain.

I think about this for a moment, and he waits patiently for an answer. I look out at the water and try to put it all into words.

“For me surfing is completely pure. It’s just me and the water and my board. It’s almost spiritual. Actually, it is spiritual. There’s no one watching, no one judging. It doesn’t matter who’s popular or who’s pretty, and it’s not about being better than anybody else. It’s just about the quest for perfection.”