Текст книги "Pulled Under"

Автор книги: Michelle Dalton

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

“Saltwater taffy!” he announces. “That means you—”

“Yes. That means I went into the wilderness that is the boardwalk.”

“With all those tourists?” he says, as though they were dangerous animals.

“What can I say? I’m dedicated. The taffy is to remind you of the differences between the tourist beach and the locals’ beach. It was also my sweets backup in case the cake didn’t turn out.”

He unwraps a piece of candy and pops it in his mouth. “I know you say it’s a scam, but I still stay it’s delicious.”

“I’m a little nervous about this next one,” I tell him. “If you don’t like it, you can return it. I promise it won’t hurt my feelings. But if you like it, it’s the final stage in your wardrobe makeover.”

“I can hardly wait,” he says as he opens the package.

It’s a wool beanie with a Surf Sisters logo on it.

“I love it!” he says, much to my relief.

“I hear there’s snow up in Wisconsin. So I wanted to make sure you can stay warm and have a little beach with you at the same time.”

He tries it on and turns his head from side to side to model it for me. “How’s it look?”

“Very nice,” I say, in the understatement of the night. “Now, this last gift was hard to get. Consider it a birthday-slash-graduation present.”

“Graduation from what?”

“Summer school,” I say as I hand it to him. “You asked me to help you blend in, and after months of hard work, well . . . you’ll see.”

Even in the wrapping paper you can tell that it’s obviously a T-shirt, but he plays it up, holding it next to his ear and shaking it as though he were trying to figure out what it is.

“I have no idea what it is,” he says. “It could be anything, but I hope it has Surf City written on it.”

I slug him in the arm. “Another joke like that and you’re going to have that cake all over your face.”

He opens it, and when he sees what it is, he has the exact expression I was hoping for.

“I thought these were only for the locals,” he says as he holds up an Islander T-shirt from the Islander Ice Cream Shop.

“I had a long talk with the owner,” I explain. “Sophie and Nicole were there too, and we convinced him that you were a legit local. It helps that you were born here.”

“I love it so much,” he says as he holds it up to look at it closely. “I promise to wear it only on special occasions.”

He turns to look at me, and for the moment at least, most of the distance that has been between us lately is gone. And it’s not because of presents or anything superficial like that. It’s because we’ve reconnected with the special moments from the summer. It’s like the cutback; I turned and went back to the power source of our relationship.

Now, if only I could figure out exactly what that relationship was.

I take it as a good sign when we walk down to the beach to check on the sea turtle nest. We hold hands, and once again it feels natural and easy. There’s no sign of activity around the nest, but the ocean seems more turbulent than usual. There’s another tropical storm in the Caribbean, and it’s sending bigger waves our way.

“I hope those keep up for the King of the Beach,” I say.

“Are you nervous about it?” he asks.

“What? Nervous about competing against the best surfers in the state? Just a little.”

“You can’t let them intimidate you.”

“It’s pretty hard not to,” I answer.

He thinks for a moment. “You should do that thing they tell you to do in order to relax before you give a speech. You know, you’re supposed to imagine that everyone’s in their underwear.”

“They’re already going to be in bathing suits,” I point out. “Underwear’s not that different.”

“Good point,” he says as he tries to think of a different tactic. “Then you should imagine they’re in grass skirts and coconut bras.”

This makes me laugh. “Well, that might do the trick.”

“I like it when you laugh,” he says. “I get to see that wrinkle in your chin. I’ve missed it.”

I hold my chin up in the moonlight for him to see it.

“I’m sorry about everything,” he says.

As he says this, he gives my shoulder an extra squeeze. I think back to what Sophie said, about telling him that I love him and giving him a chance to say it to me. Instead, I decide to fight that urge as we continue walking on the beach. It’s taken a while, but I’m beginning to learn that sometimes it’s best not to say anything at all.

Brrrrrrrrpppppppp!

The blast of an air horn rattles through the house, waking me from a very enjoyable sleep. Either I’ve traveled in a time machine back to World War II and we’re under attack, or my dad is being totally dadlike.

Brrrrrrrrpppppppp!

Yeah, it’s Dad.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he says as he pokes his head in my door. “It’s King of the Beach Day!”

“I thought Mom confiscated all of your air horns,” I say as I wipe the sleep from my eyes.

“I had this one hidden for special occasions!”

He sticks his hand with the horn through the door, and I cover my ears just in time before he sounds another alarm.

Brrrrrrrppppppppp!

“Can’t I get a few more minutes of sleep?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says. “But your bacon pancakes will get cold.”

That wakes me right up. “You made bacon pancakes? You should have led with that and not the stupid air horn.”

My dad makes amazing pancakes that have pieces of bacon mixed in with the batter. This lets you get the full spectrum of breakfast tastes in every bite. He makes them for me every year on my birthday. He’s obviously stoked about the contest.

“Steady Eddie taught me how to surf,” he says between bites. “I can’t believe I get to compete on his team. This is a huge day for me.”

We discuss strategy about picking the right waves and what we think the judges will be looking for. Then, after breakfast, we load the boards into the back of the Bronco and drive over to the pier.

All of the competitors are required to attend a meeting before the contest begins. It’s held in a giant tent, where we have to sign in and pick up an information packet. Ben’s working and I’m competing, so to make sure no one thinks there’s any favoritism we keep the contact professional.

“Isabel Lucas,” I say when I reach the front of the line.

“Which division are you competing in?” he asks. I can see that he’s anxious to hear my answer.

“Main Event.”

He flashes a broad smile.

“Excellent,” he says as he checks my name off a sheet. “You are competitor number twenty-seven. Please sign here and pick up an information packet.”

We both smile at our little charade. When I’m done signing, he adds, “Good luck today.”

“Thank you.”

I look down at the sign-up sheet and see that there are more than seventy competitors in the tournament. Over half of them are in the Main Event. Only the top eight finishers earn points, and that suddenly seems a whole lot more difficult.

Ben’s uncle Bob, who is the Parks and Recreation director, addresses everybody at the meeting. He introduces the five judges and explains the basics of the competition. He goes into detail about how the surfers will be scored. Basically, each round lasts twenty-five minutes, and while you can ride up to six waves, only your top two scores will be counted. This was part of my strategy discussion with Dad. The important thing is to get two solid scoring rides in early. That way you have a chance to take some bigger risks on the final waves.

Once he’s gone over all of the basics, Bob announces, “I need at least one representative from every team to stay, but everyone else can leave.”

Even though I’m not the captain, I hang around to keep an eye on what happens next. The next five minutes could be the most important part of the day. There are a total of five teams in the team competition. In addition to Surf City and us, there is a team sponsored by a surf shop in Cocoa Beach, and two made up of friends who have joined forces.

Mickey is our captain, and she’s the one representing us in the meeting. She stands away from the others and I don’t know if this is her way of trying to protect our strategy or her way of avoiding Morgan Bullard. He’s the manager and captain of the Surf City team and—surprise, surprise—he’s a total jerk.

“I need everybody to turn in your final team rosters to the young man behind the table,” Uncle Bob says, pointing to Ben.

Once again Mickey lags behind the others, trying not to show our hand.

“Why don’t you save yourself some trouble, son, and start engraving these names on the trophy,” Bullard says with a cocky wave as he slaps the Surf City roster on the table in front of Ben. “Everyone else is competing for second place.”

Ben looks over the roster as Bullard starts to walk away.

“Excuse me, sir,” he says, calling him back and making me cringe. “You have eight people registered for the Main Event.”

“That’s right,” he says. “And I guarantee you that one of those eight is going to win.”

“I want to make sure that you’ve read the rules,” Ben says. “All of them.”

I don’t know where this is going, but I’m a little nervous. Mickey shoots me a raised eyebrow look.

“Surf City has won this trophy twelve years in a row,” Bullard scoffs. “I’m pretty sure we’ve got the rules down.”

“Then why did you forget to sign here?” he says, turning the roster back to him. “It needs your signature for the roster to be finalized.”

Bullard is beyond annoyed as he scratches his name across the bottom of the paper. “I wrote nice and big to make sure you could read it,” he says. “Are you happy now?”

Ben looks up to him and smiles broadly. “Extremely, sir.”

Mickey is the last one to turn in a roster, and when she does, Ben looks it over carefully. He is obviously delighted, and I can tell that we’ve done what he was hoping we’d do. I linger around after the others leave and talk to Ben for a moment.

“Did any of the other teams enter surfers in all the different divisions?”

“No,” he says. “Everyone on the other teams is entered in the Main Event. Surf Sisters was the only team to figure out the advantage of entering all the divisions.”

I smile. “Let’s hope it pays off.”

A horn sounds, and I worry that it’s my dad bringing his special brand of crazy to the beach, but Ben tells me that it’s the ten-minute warning for the first competition.

“That’s Menehunes,” I say. “I’m going to go give Rebecca and Tyler a pep talk.”

“See you later!” he says as I go in search of my junior surfers. “Remember to picture them in grass skirts and coconut bras!”

“I will,” I call back to him.

Surf Sisters has staked out a chunk of beach for the staff and our families to cheer us on. Even though there would be big sales, Mickey and Mo decided to close the shop for the day so that everyone could come down and turn the event into a party atmosphere.

“Thank you for making this happen,” Mo says as I walk up.

“What do you mean?”

“Competing in the King of the Beach was all your idea,” she says, pointing to our cheering section. “You gave us something positive to think about. You saved the summer.”

She gives me a huge hug.

“Well, here’s hoping that we bring back a trophy to put up in the store.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t care if we finish last. This is a win. A huge win.”

I know what she means, but I can’t think that way. “Maybe so. But I have no intention of finishing last.”

I walk down to the water with Rebecca and Tyler.

“Are you guys nervous?”

“Nope,” says Tyler.

“No way,” says Rebecca.

Their confidence takes me by surprise. “Not even a little?”

“Why should we be nervous?” Rebecca says. “We’ve practiced and we’re ready. We’re going to go out and do our best. If we win, we win. If someone beats us, then they probably deserve it. There’s no shame in that.”

Just like back in the Fourth of July parade, I think I just got schooled by the nine-year-old version of me.

“I like that.”

“Besides,” she continues with a confident gleam in her eye, “no one’s going to beat us.”

“Come on, Bec,” Tyler says as they head out into the water. “Let’s show ’em how it’s done.”

They wade into the ocean, and I am blown away. Sophie’s been coaching them, and more than a little of her confidence has worn off on them. They back it up with their actions. Tyler rips off a couple of long rides to finish second, and Rebecca shows off the skills of someone at least four of five years older and wins the Menehune title going away.

They are swarmed by our cheering section when they come back up to the beach. After I give each of them a hug, I head over to the scoreboard and wait for the fireworks. Our secret is about to get out, and I want to be there for any reaction.

When Rebecca’s and Tyler’s scores are posted by our team name, we’re moved up into first place in the standings. It takes about a minute or so before we see Morgan Bullard hotfooting it through the sand straight toward the scoring tent.

“How is it possible that Surf Sisters already has points on the scoreboard when the competition hasn’t even started yet?” he bellows at Ben’s uncle.

“The competition has started,” Uncle Bob replies calmly. “We just completed the Menehune event, and the competitors from Surf Sisters took the top two places.”

“Menehune?” he asks. “What do a bunch of little kids have to do with the King of the Beach?”

“According to the rules, a team can earn points in any division,” Bob says.

“That’s ridiculous,” Bullard says.

“No,” says Bob. “That’s the rules.”

Bullard thinks for a moment and realizes his vulnerability. “Does Surf Sisters have anyone in the other divisions?”

Bob turns to Ben, who hands him the roster. Bob looks it over and then turns back to Bullard. “The Surf Sisters team has competitors in each of the divisions.”

I look up at Mickey and Mo and both of them are smiling.

“This is not right,” Bullard replies. “I want to move some of my boys into the Teens division then.”

“You can’t.”

I look over and see that Ben has entered the conversation.

“Your roster was finalized the moment you signed it,” he says. “You can’t change divisions.”

Now Bullard is really putting things together, and he’s not happy about it. He points an angry finger at Ben. “This boy is trying to rig this,” he says to Bob. “He did not tell us about this rule!”

“Actually,” Uncle Bob says, coming to the rescue, “this morning when he tried to make sure you knew the rules, you mocked him and treated him with disdain.”

There’s really nothing that Bullard can say in response to that, so he storms off. As he does, he passes right next to us and stops in front of Mickey and Mo. “Think you’re clever, huh? It won’t matter. My boys are still going to win this contest, and you are still going to be out of business once the summer’s over.”

The sisters don’t even reply to him. Instead, they just bust out laughing, which only makes him angrier. He walks away, and they turn to me.

“Well,” Mo says. “I think this is going to get pretty interesting.”

There are more than twenty competitors entered in the Teens division, and even though none of them are on the Surf City team, the group is loaded with talented surfers. Sophie and Nicole stand out because there aren’t many girls, and Nic even more so because of her height. To keep the waves from getting too crowded they only go out in groups of six surfers at a time. Sophie’s in the first group, so I stand with Nicole to watch.

“Look at Sophie,” I say, pointing at her as she takes off on a wave.

The judges are looking for maneuvers that demonstrate speed, power, and flow. Sophie rips off a ride that demonstrates each as she attacks her wave with a series of cutbacks that show off her athleticism. It’s a ten-point scoring system, and she gets sevens and eights across the board. She tops that a few minutes later, and by the time the buzzer sounds ending the session, she has the second highest score in her group. She’s almost certain to make it into the finals.

Nicole doesn’t go out until the last group, which is a shame. The waiting around has made her stiff, and seeing surfer after surfer post good scores has made her nervous. I try to calm her nerves before she goes out.

“Don’t worry about the score,” I say. “Just dominate the wave and the score will take care of itself.”

Sophie and I join the rest of the group to cheer her on. She has twenty-five minutes, and despite some promising swells, she lets the first dozen waves go by without catching any.

“What’s she doing?” Sophie asks. “Why does she keep letting them pass?”

“You know Nic,” I say. “She’s waiting for the perfect wave.”

“She better not wait too long,” she says. “She’s only got fifteen minutes more.”

Just then Nicole pops up on a beautiful wave. Normally, her height works against her, but she has such a smooth ride it just makes her look that much more elegant. She does a beautiful roundabout cutback, and as she rides it up the face of the wave and attacks the lip, a cheer erupts from our group.

Moments later the judges flash a series of eights and nines, one of the highest scores of the day.

“Okay,” Sophie says, a bit relieved. “That was awesome.”

Unfortunately, when Nic paddles back out there’s a lull, and we start to worry that she’ll run out of time.

“She needs two scores,” Dad says. “She knows that, right?”

“She knows,” I answer, without taking my eyes off her.

Even from this far away I can tell she’s keeping calm. She knows the situation and she’s not going to panic. Another wave comes, and even though it’s not big, she paddles along and catches it. There’s not much to work with, but she gets the most out of it, and we all feel relieved that she’s going to post a second score.

And then the horn sounds, marking the end of the session.

Sophie’s still riding her wave, which means she didn’t complete it in time and that the judges don’t give it a score. Despite the big number on her first wave, she’s disqualified.

She stands up in waist deep water and hangs her head, waiting for a few moments before she slowly begins to wade in. Sophie and I rush down to console her.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, as tears stream down her face. “That’s incredibly stupid. I can’t believe I did that.”

“It’s okay,” says Sophie. “Thirty seconds more and you would have had it.”

“We’re still doing great,” I say, trying to boost her spirits. “We are going to win this thing.”

The good news is that Sophie did qualify for the finals, which means she’s guaranteed to earn some points for the team. As the eight finalists stand side by side to pose for a picture, Sophie’s size and gender are impossible to ignore. Not only is she the only girl, but the guys on both sides of her are nearly a foot taller.

You can tell they think they can intimidate her, which is funny if you know Sophie. A few minutes later, they’re all out on the water and one of the tall guys tries to drop in on a wave that she’s already riding. It’s a total breach on his part, but rather than pull out, she keeps her line without flinching. To avoid a collision he has to bail, and Sophie ducks under his flying board and pops back up to ride the wave to its finish.

The Surf Sisters crowd goes wild, and the judges reward her with straight nines. She finishes in third place, a great showing in such a strong division. The team is definitely in the running.

The Menehunes and Teens were both exciting, but I get goose bumps when the horn sounds to start the Legends. Mickey and Mo had both retired from competition before I was even born, so I’ve never gotten a chance to see them in this type of environment. With my dad thrown in, it’s almost more than I can handle.

Right as they’re about to start, I make eye contact with Ben. We’re keeping our distance during the competition. Still, he smiles at me, and I can tell he’s excited for this too.

“What am I looking for?” my mother asks me as we watch Dad paddle out to the lineup. She is the one member of the family who knows nothing about surfing. “How do I know if he’s doing well?”

“It’s all about showmanship,” I say. “If he makes a long ride and manages to show off a little, we should be good.”

Mom smiles. “Showing off is his specialty.”

The girls and I laugh in agreement. “It sure is.”

The first one of our Legends to catch a wave is Mo. She cuts a long, elegant line across the face and looks like she was born to surf. You’d never guess she was in her fifties, especially toward the end of her ride when she does something that no one else has done all day. She gets air.

It’s not particularly high, but she rides up the face of the wave and launches. She doesn’t even reach down and grab the rail. The board stays with her like it’s glued onto her feet, and when she lands it, we are all in stunned silence.

“Did that just happen?” Sophie exclaims. “Did that really just happen?”

“Fifty-three years old and she pulls off an aerial,” I say in amazement.

“Your dad’s not going to do that, is he?” Mom asks, with more than a hint of worry in her voice.

“I don’t think so, Mom. But up until a few seconds ago I didn’t think Mo could do it either.”

Mickey comes right behind her and floats along the top of the crest before pulling a fins-free snap, a sharp turn where the fins slide off the top of the wave.

As I watch her, I wonder what’s going through her mind. I imagine she’s channeling all of her emotions about the shop into this ride. Steady Eddie would be proud if he saw his girls today. They are something special.

“Here he comes,” Mom squeals as Dad catches his first wave. “Don’t fall, honey!”

We all laugh again, but Mom couldn’t care less.

When we went to Sebastian, Dad practiced carving, and now it’s really paying off. He is, to use the eighties lingo he loves so much, totally shredding the wave. Mom’s squeals continue all the way until the judges post their scores of sixes and sevens.

“Is that good?” she asks me, uncertain.

“You bet,” I say. “That’s definitely going to put him in the top eight.”

When the horn sounds ending the round, I’m happy because of how well they did, but a little sad that it’s ending. It was great watching the three of them out there. They wade in together with big smiles on their faces. Mom wraps my dad in a huge hug that leaves her dripping wet. She couldn’t care less.

“Not too shabby for a bunch of senior citizens,” Mickey says as we all greet them. “Not too shabby at all.”

It’s no surprise that Mo and Mickey take first and second, and Dad is more than pleased with his fifth-place finish.

“My first . . . and last . . . surf contest,” he says. “Fifth is more than I could have hoped for.”

With the exception of Nicole’s misstep in the Teens division, our plan has worked perfectly. We’ve picked up points in each division and have a big lead. That’s the good part. The bad part is that Surf City is ready to dominate the Main Event and I’m the only one we’ve got left.

With so many people entered in the Main Event, there will be six different preliminary groups. The top sixteen will make the semifinals, and then the top eight will compete in the finals. I won’t go out until the fourth group, so I try to relax while I wait my turn.

I watch the other competitors to get an idea of what types of moves and tricks they’re doing, but mostly I try to visualize the waves and think about what I’m going to do. In the middle of this, Ben comes out of the scoring tent and walks over to me. Nicole and Sophie come over too, so they can hear what he has to say.

“How does it look?” I ask.

“You’re still in it,” he says. “But just making the final eight isn’t going to do it. You won’t have enough points.”

I see the disappointment on Nicole’s face and love it seconds later when Sophie puts a reassuring arm around her shoulder.

“How high do I have to finish?” I ask.

“It depends on how many from Surf City make the final, but I think you’re going to have to finish in the top five for the team to win.”

Gulp.

When it’s time for my group, I paddle out just like I have every morning for more than a month. The pier feels like my surfing home now, except for the fact that it’s filled with spectators. I try to block them all out and focus on the waves. I wash all doubt out of my mind.

When the first one comes along, I am amped and ready. The strategy is to get a solid score out of the way. I’m not going to do anything showy. I’m just going to surf smart.

I start to paddle along, and I can feel the wave grab hold of my board. I pop up and feel a surge of confidence as I race across the face of it. There’s a moment of hesitation when I’m trying to decide if I want to carve or do a cutback, and it’s in the middle of that hesitation when I pearl like a grommet, which is what we call a new and inexperienced surfer. The tip of my board digs into the water and sends me flying over the front. I slam face forward into the water.

Everything’s in slow motion as I rag-doll underwater. I cannot believe it. This was supposed to be my safe ride and I don’t even put up a score. I’m already behind. I instantly panic about time. I can’t let it run out on me like it did on Nicole. I get back on my board and paddle back to the lineup.

The other surfers smirk when they see me. It’s obvious to them that I have no business in the Main Event. As I wait my turn I feel like I have let everybody down, and I start to hyperventilate. Then one of the guys says something to me.

“What’s up with him?” he asks as he points toward the pier.

Sophie warned me about getting distracted, so I ignore him. I’m straddling my board and looking for swells. But then I hear a laugh. And then another. The other surfers are all looking at the pier, so finally I look over too.

It’s Ben.

He’s standing at the end of the pier wearing a grass skirt and a coconut bra. It’s just like he described to me and it makes me laugh. Sophie and Nicole are with him, and the three of them are all doing the hula.

This cures my panic attack. My friends know me well.

I take a slow breath. I see a wave coming, and now I am confident that I am dialed in. On the next wave I combine a floater, where you ride along the top, with a snap, when you shoot down off the wave, and then a roundabout cutback that is as pretty as any I’ve ever done. I finish by pumping across the wave, which is a showy form of carving, and finally end it by smacking the lip.

When I go back out to the lineup, the smirks are all gone. I can tell they wonder why they’ve never seen me before.

“What’s your name?” one of the guys asks me.

“Izzy Lucas,” I say as I straddle the board and catch my breath.

“Sweet ride, Izzy,” he replies.

“Thanks.”

My tenth-place finish in the first prelim easily puts me in the semifinal, but it’s going to take more than that to make it to the finals. We go out in two groups of eight, and I am in the second group. This is good because it lets me rest a little and work up a strategy.

“What are you thinking?” Dad asks as he comes up to me.

“You know what I’m thinking,” I tell him.

I can tell by his expression that he does. I thought I’d try the aerial in the final, but now I think I’m going to have to do it just to make it into the final eight.

“Don’t forget that you have to post two scores,” he says.

“Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”

I love the expression he gives me. It is one of total pride and confidence.

I let that confidence build inside me when I paddle out for the semifinals. Bailey Kossoff, the defending champion, is in this group. He’s quiet and focused, and I study him to see what he’s doing. He’s the first one in the group to catch a wave, and he sets the bar high with an aggressive run that flows as easy as water.

“Damn,” one of the other surfers says. “We’re just playing for second.”

I take off on the next wave, and even though I’m looking for a chance to get air, the wave doesn’t really play out that way. Instead, I execute a flawless floater along the top, then I drop down and do what’s called a vertical backhand snap. You build up as much speed as you can and then stick the board up off the top of the wave and whack it back down.

I feel good about it, but I still think it’s going to take something bigger to get me into the finals. I’m determined that it be an aerial. I try to get air on each of the next two waves I catch, and even though I’m close to landing it, I fall off each time.

I paddle back out and am concerned about the amount of time I’ve got left. I’ve only posted one score, and if I try the aerial again and fail, I might not get another chance.

I can’t think that way. I know I can do it, so I’m going to give it everything.

I catch the next wave and keep things basic with some carving while I look for the perfect spot to launch. It comes to me like a vision, and the wave unfolds perfectly. I take off into the air, and this time I don’t reach down and grab the rail. I trust the board and fly. And fly. It feels like I’m up forever. My legs buckle a bit when I land it, but I stay on the board and feel a rush of adrenaline charge through my body. I do another cutback and finish my ride.

I’m too exhausted to go back, and even though there’s a little bit of time left, I decide to call it for the round. If I have not posted high enough scores with those rides, it’s just not going to happen. I wade up to the waterline and plop down on the sand.

“When did you learn to do that?” Sophie asks as she sits down next to me. “When did you learn to catch air?”

“Just now,” I say with a laugh. “That’s the first time I landed it.”

“Well, you picked a pretty good first time,” Nicole adds. “You really got up there.”

Once I catch my breath, I get up and head over to the Surf Sisters crowd. My dad is beaming.

“I told you you could land it!”

I smile at him, but I’m still a nervous wreck.

We have to wait a few minutes for the scores to be tabulated, and when they are, I am in the final. I’ve climbed all the way up to sixth place, but that doesn’t matter now, because all the scores are reset at zero for the finals.

Before we go out, all the finalists pose together for a picture beneath the King of the Beach sign. Not only am I the only girl in the group, but I’m also the only one who’s not competing for Surf City.

I start walking over to Mickey and Mo to get some last second pointers when Morgan Bullard suddenly cuts me off.

“Morgan Bullard,” he says, extending his hand to me. “Surf City.”

“I know,” I say. “I was there earlier when you were yelling at everybody.”