Pulled Under

“Hi, Ms. Mac. How are you?”

“Good,” she says. “What’s brings you by?”

“I’m looking for . . .” I’m halfway through the sentence before I realize that I don’t really have a good finish for it. I stammer for a second and say, “Well . . . there’s a new boy who just started working here and . . .”

“Ben?” she asks, with that knowing smile that grown-ups give when they think they know what’s up. “Are you looking for Ben?”

Mental warning bells sound as I realize that this information will get back to my mom within seconds of me leaving.

“Actually, I’m not looking for him. I’m looking for a poster. He dropped one off yesterday at the shop, and Mo, one of the two sisters who own the surf shop, wants me to pick up another one for us to hang up. You know . . . to help support the town . . . and all of its wonderful activities.”

Ms. McCarthy gives me a slightly skeptical look. “Okay. If it’s just a poster you want, there are some extras over there.”

She points to a table, and I go over and see a stack of posters.

“Yep, this is it,” I say, picking one up. “This is the reason that I came by. It’s a nice poster. Attractive and informative. Thanks so much. Mo will be really happy about this.”

I realize I’m overdoing it and decide my best course of action is to stop talking and nod good-bye.

As I head out the door, Ms. McCarthy says one more thing. “I know it’s not why you came here, but if you had come to see Ben, I would have told you that you just missed him and that he was headed down the boardwalk to get some lunch.”

I find this information very interesting, but I don’t want her—and therefore my mom—to know this, so I just make a confused expression and say, “Whatever.” I maintain this “whatever” attitude up to the instant that I’m beyond her field of vision, at which point I sprint toward the boardwalk.

The boardwalk is the main tourist strip for Pearl Beach, and it stretches eight blocks from the bandshell at one end to the pier at the other. Normally I avoid it because of the whole “it has crowds and I’m an introvert” thing, but since it’s technically on the way to where I’m going and we’re early enough in the season that the crowds aren’t too bad, I decide to walk along it.

After a couple blocks I see Ben in all of his white sock and coach’s shorts glory standing in line at Beach-a Pizza. It’s an outdoor pizza stand that has picnic table seating facing out over the ocean. It dawns on me that I can get in line, buy a slice, and if I sit at the same picnic table, we’ll be eating together. That will fulfill my sentencing requirement. Clever me.

I slip into the line and see there are a few people between us. It’s not until I’m standing there that I realize I’m still holding the stupid poster. I’d kept it so that I could prove to the girls that I really had stopped by the office, but now it just seems awkward. I’m strategizing what I should do about it when he turns and sees me.

“Hey . . . it’s you. Izzy, right?”

“Right,” I answer. “And you’re Ben.”

He smiles. “You remembered.”

“Tell me something three times and it sticks.”

He lets the people in between us cut in front of him and moves back so that he’s next to me. I know it seems small, but this instantly makes me like him more. So many people try to get you to move up to them and cut in front of other people, and I’m never comfortable with that. Of course, I’m not particularly comfortable at the moment standing in line clutching my poster. But you know what I mean.

“Something wrong with the poster?” he asks, pointing at it.

“Nope,” I say. “I just picked up another one to hang in the other window.”

Apparently he’s just as clueless about things as I am, because he buys this as an acceptable excuse.

“Good to see that the word is spreading.”

“So what are you up to?” I ask, as if there are a wide variety of reasons why someone would be standing in line at Beach-a Pizza.

“Just getting pizza and a pop.”

“A pop?” I ask, confused. “You mean a popsicle?”

“No, a soft drink. Don’t you call it ‘pop’?”

I laugh. “We say soda.”

“Okay, this is good. Now I’ve learned something,” he says. “I’m getting pizza and . . . a soda.”

“Very nice,” I respond, playing along.

“Pretty soon I’ll be just like the locals.”

“Well . . . not as long as you eat here.”

He looks at me for a second. “What’s wrong with Beach-a Pizza?”

“You mean besides the name?” I lean closer and whisper. “It tastes like cardboard with ketchup on it.”

“It seems pretty popular,” he says. “Look at all the people in line.”

“Yes, look at them,” I reply, still keeping my voice low. “They have pale skin, wear shoes with their bathing suits, and fa

He thinks it over for a moment and shakes his head. “I don’t know, what does it tell me?”

“That they’re tourists,” I say. “Only tourists are waiting here. The people who live in Pearl Beach are not in line. You’re living here for the summer. Don’t you think you should get pizza where we get it?”

“But you live here,” he says. “Why are you in line?”

This one catches me off guard. It’s not like I can say, “Because Sophie was on the register and I have to eat with you or be subjected to extended hazing.” I pause for a second before blurting, “Because I wanted to rescue you and show you where we go.”

“Rescue me?” He likes this. “You’re like my knight in shining armor?”

“More like light wash denim . . . but it’s something like that.”

“Well, you were right about Mama Tacos,” he says, reminding me of the horror that was the guacamole-stain recommendation. “That was delicious. I’ll trust you again. Where do you think we should go?”

“Luigi’s Car Wash,” I say.

“I meant for pizza,” he says.

“So did I.”

“Sounds awful!” He hesitates for a moment. “Let’s go!”

It suddenly dawns on me that I may have just asked a guy out on a date.

As we’re driving down Ocean Ave. in an old blue Parks and Rec pickup truck, I get my first true up-close look at him since the Bencident. (Sophie can’t call it that, but I can.) I’m trying not to stare, but as I give him directions I at least have an excuse to be looking his way.

I will amend my earlier statement in which I said I wasn’t sure that all girls would classify him as cute. I think your boy vision would have to be seriously impaired not to rate him at least that high. He has strong features and permanent scruff that gives him a ruggedness I find irresistible. But the clinching feature is still the smile. It’s easy and natural, with teeth so bright they might as well be a commercial for the virtues of Wisconsin milk.

“Explain to me why we’re getting pizza at a car wash,” he says, flashing those same pearly whites.

“It’s complicated,” I reply. “Back when my parents were growing up, it really was a car wash. But at some point Luigi realized that he could make more money selling pizzas than washing cars, so he decided to convert into a pizza joint.”

“But it’s still called Luigi’s Car Wash?”

“That’s the complicated part. Technically it still is a car wash,” I try to explain. “It’s right on the beach and oceanfront property is really valuable. Developers would love to get rid of Luigi, tear down the building, and put up a condominium or a hotel or something awful like that. But as long as he keeps the name the same and as long they wash a few cars every week, it’s protected by an old law that was in effect when he first opened.”

Ben laughs and gives me a skeptical look. “I was perfectly happy eating boardwalk pizza, which I have to say sounds way more legit than car wash pizza. Why do I feel like I’m being set up for some kind of practical joke?”

“You’re not. I promise.”