Pulled Under

“No,” Nicole admits after some hesitation. “I was just pointing out that you weren’t here, so you have no way of knowing what did or did not happen.”

“So you’re saying you did not follow him around?”

“Cody and I have some similar interests and are therefore occasionally in the same general vicinity. But that doesn’t mean that I follow him around or that it’s developed into . . . whatever it was that you called it.”

“Intervention-worthy stalking,” I interject.

Nicole looks my way and asks, “How exactly do you define ‘neutral’?”

I mimic locking my mouth shut with a key and flash a cheesy apology grin.

“So it’s not because of Cody that you suddenly decided that you wanted to switch to the drum line?” Sophie asks. “Even though you’ve been first-chair clarinet for your entire life?”

“You told her about drum line?” Nicole says, giving me another look.

“You’re go

“I changed instruments because I wanted to push myself musically,” Nicole explains. “The fact that Cody is also on the drum line is pure coincidence.”

“Just like it’s coincidence that Cody is the president of Latin Club and you’re the newly elected vice president?”

Another look at me. “Seriously?”

“I was proud of you,” I say, trying to put a positive spin on it. “I was bragging.”

“Yes, it’s a coincidence,” she says, turning back to Sophie. “By the way, there are plenty of girls in Latin Club and I don’t see you accusing any of them of stalking.”

“First of all, there aren’t plenty of girls in Latin Club. I bet there are like three of them,” Sophie counters. “And unlike you, I’m sure they actually take Latin. You take Spanish, which means that you should be in—what’s it called again?—oh yeah, Spanish Club.”

It’s worth pointing out that despite her time away, Sophie is not the least bit rusty. She’s bringing her A game, and while it might sound harsh to outsiders, trust me when I say this is all being done out of love.

“I had a scheduling conflict with Spanish Club,” Nicole offers. “Besides, I thought Latin Club would look good on my college applications.”

It’s obvious that no matter how many examples Sophie provides, Nicole is going to keep dodging the issue with lame excuse after lame excuse. So Sophie decides to go straight to the finish line. Unfortunately, I’m the finish line.

“Sorry, Switzerland,” she says. “This one’s on you. Who’s right? Me or the Latin drummer girl?”

Before you jump to any conclusions, let me assure you that she’s not asking because I’m some sort of expert when it comes to boys. In fact, both of them know that I have virtually zero firsthand experience. It’s just that I’m working the register, and whenever there’s a disagreement at the shop, whoever’s working the register breaks the tie. This is a time-honored tradition, and at Surf Sisters we don’t take traditions lightly.

“You’re really taking it to the register?” I ask, wanting no part of this decision. “On your first day back?”

“I really am,” Sophie answers, giving me no wiggle room.

“Okay,” I say to her. “But in order for me to reach a verdict, you’ll have to explain why it is that you’ve brought this up now. Except for Latin Club, all the stuff you’re talking about is old news.”

“First of all, I’ve been away and thought you were keeping an eye on her,” she says. “And it’s not old. While you were helping that girl find a swimsuit—awesome job, by the way . . .”

“Thank you.”

“. . . Nicole was telling me about last week when she spent two hours following Cody from just a few feet away. She followed him in and out of multiple buildings, walked when he walked, stopped when he stopped, and never said a single word to him. That’s textbook stalking.”

“Okay. Wow,” I reply, a little surprised. “That does sound . . . really bad. Nicole?”

“It only sounds bad because she’s leaving out the part about us being on a campus tour at the University of Florida,” Nicole says with a spark of attitude. “And the part about there being fifteen people in the group, all of whom were stopping and walking together in and out of buildings. And the fact that we couldn’t talk because we were listening to the tour guide, and nothing looks worse to an admissions counselor than hitting on someone when you’re supposed to be paying attention.”

I do my best judge impression as I point an angry finger at Sophie. “Counselor, I am tempted to declare a mistrial as I believe you have withheld key evidence.”

“Those are minor details,” she scoffs. “It’s still stalking.”

“Besides, you have your facts wrong,” I continue. “It wasn’t last week. Nicole visited UF over a month ago, which puts it outside the statute of limitations.”

It’s at this moment that I notice the slightest hint of a guilty expression on Nicole’s face. It’s only there for a second, but it’s long enough for me to pause.

“I thought you said it was last week,” Sophie says to her.

Nicole clears her throat for a moment and replies, “I don’t see how it matters when it occurred.”

“It matters,” Sophie says.

“Besides,” I add, also confused, “you told me all about that visit and you never once mentioned that Cody was there.”

“Maybe because, despite these ridiculous allegations, I am not obsessed with him. I was checking out a college, not checking out a guy.”

“Oh! My! God!” says Sophie, figuring it out. “You went back for a second visit, didn’t you? You took the tour last month. Then you went back and took it again last week because you knew that Cody was going to be there and it would give you a reason to follow him around.”

Nicole looks at both of us and, rather than deny the charge, she goes back to folding shirts. “I believe a mistrial was declared in my favor.”

“Izzy only said she was tempted to declare one,” Sophie says. “Besides, she never rang the register.”

“I distinctly heard the register,” Nicole claims.

“No, you didn’t,” I say. “Is she right? Did you drive two and a half hours to Gainesville, take a two-hour tour you’d already taken a month ago, and drive back home for two and a half hours, just so you could follow Cody around the campus?”

She is silent for a moment and then nods slowly. “Pretty much.”

“I’m sorry, but you are guilty as charged,” I say as I ring the bell of the register.

“I really was pla

Sophie thinks this over for a moment. “That should be your sentence.”

“What do you mean?” asks Nicole.

“You have been found guilty and your sentence should be that you have to talk to him. No backing out. No freezing. And it has to be a real conversation. It can’t be about band or Latin Club.”

“What if he wants to talk about band or Latin Club? What if he brings it up? Am I just supposed to ignore him?”

“It’s summer vacation and we live at the beach,” Sophie says. “If he wants to talk about band or Latin, then I think it’s time you found a new crush.”

Nicole nods her acceptance, and I make it official. “Nicole Walker, you are hereby sentenced to have an actual conversation with Cody Bell sometime within the next . . . two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” she protests. “I need at least a month so I can plan what I’m going to say and organize my—”

“Two weeks,” I say, cutting her off.

She’s about to make one more plea for leniency when the door flies open and a boy rushes in from the rain. He’s tall, over six feet, has short-cropped hair, and judging by the embarrassed look on his face, made a much louder entrance than he intended.

“Sorry,” he says to the three of us. There’s an awkward pause for a moment before he asks, “Can I speak to whoever’s in charge?”