Текст книги "Pulled Under"

Автор книги: Michelle Dalton

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“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 fanny packs. They’re wearing fanny packs, Ben! What does that tell you?”

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.”

“Now, before I embarrass myself, you do call it pizza, right?” he asks. “It’s not going to be another ‘pop’ situation, where it turns out I’m using the wrong word again?”

He’s funny. I like funny.

“No,” I tell him as we pull into the parking lot. “But if you really want to sound like you know what you’re doing, just say that you want a couple slices of Big Lu.”

“What’s Big Lu?”

“It’s short for Big Luigi, a pizza with everything on it. It’s the house specialty, and trust me when I say that you’re going to want to order it.”

“You’re telling me it’s good?”

“No, I’m telling you it’s life changing.”

“Life-changing car wash pizza?” he says as we get out of the car. “This should be interesting.”

Luigi’s still has the shape and design of a car wash, which is part of its charm. (It’s also part of the legal requirements that protect it.) As we walk up to the counter to order, I’m suddenly extremely self-conscious. I’ve never been on a date before—and I’m not sure this would even qualify as one—but I am walking into Luigi’s with a guy and I don’t know all the protocols. In fact, I don’t know any of the protocols. There’s no line, so we go straight to the counter.

“I’ll have a couple of slices of Big Lu and a—” He almost says “pop,” but he catches himself and says “soda.”

Then he says something that surprises me.

“And whatever she wants.”

I wasn’t expecting him to pay for my lunch, but I think it’s a check in the “it’s kinda, sorta like a date” column.

“I’ll have the same,” I say.

The cashier rings it up, gives us two cups and a number to take to our table. Ben makes another “is it soda or pop?” joke as we get our drinks, and then we sit down in a booth. I have been in Luigi’s a thousand times before, but I have never felt more like a fish out of water in my entire life.

“How long have you lived in Pearl Beach?” he asks.

“Born and raised,” I answer. “Third generation. By the way, we usually call it PB.”

“More lingo,” he says with a nod as he sips his drink. “So far I’ve learned ‘soda,’ ‘Big Lu,’ and ‘PB.’ Pretty soon I’ll be fluent, which is important considering that I’m a native.”

I give him a look. “I think you’re getting ahead of yourself. You ordered two slices of pizza. That hardly makes you a native.”

“No, no, no,” he tells me. “It’s legit. I was born here.”

“You were born in Pearl Beach?” I ask skeptically.

“Nope,” he says. “I was born in PB. See, I’m using the lingo.”

I laugh. “Now you’re messing with me.”

“Actually, I’m not. I was born the summer after my father finished law school. This is where Mom grew up, and since his job didn’t start until the following January, they came here and stayed with my grandma. That way they could save money and my dad could study for the bar exam. I lived here for the first six months of my life.”

“Well then, I guess that means there’s an islander in there somewhere,” I joke. “We’ve just got to shake off some of the Wisconsin that’s covering it.”

“Watch what you say about Wisconsin,” he says with mock indignation. “That’s America’s Dairy Land.”

“I didn’t mean to imply anything negative.”

“You better not. There are a lot of important things that come out of Wisconsin.”

“Is that so?” I say playfully. “Like what?”

“Okay,” he replies, perhaps a little caught off guard. “I’ll list some of them for you.”

He pauses for a second, and I impatiently cross my arms.

“Harley-Davidson motorcycles . . . and custard.”

“Custard?”

He makes the happy delicious face. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had the custard at Babcock Hall.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“And the Green Bay Packers. Everybody loves the Packers.”

I shrug.

“And don’t forget milk. Without which we would not have our wonderful smiles.”

He flashes a smile, and I have to admit that I am sold.

“You’ve got me there,” I say.

I don’t know if it’s because of the back and forth nature of the conversation or all the endorphins released by the incredible aroma of pizza that fills the air, but I’m actually feeling more relaxed.

“So we’ll accept that Wisconsin is amazing and wonderful. But since you’re stuck with us for the summer, what exactly does your job with the Parks and Recreation Department entail?” I ask.

“I think I’m responsible for anything that no one else wants to do,” he says with a laugh. “There’s a lot of scrubbing and cleaning. More than a little mowing. And, starting Monday, I’m one of the counselors for the summer day camp. That should be great—four days a week with a bunch of screaming kids trying to torment me.”

“I did that,” I tell him.

“You were a counselor?”

“No. I was one of the screaming kids who tormented the counselors. It was a lot of fun.”

“The schedule’s insane,” he says. “Every day it’s something different. We’ve got kick ball, soccer, swimming, and we’re even going to the golf course once a week.”

“Don’t forget Surf Sisters,” I say.

“We’re going to Surf Sisters?” he asks.

“On Tuesdays campers will learn respect for the ocean, beach safety, and the fundamentals of surfing,” I say, quoting the brochure.

“I thought that was at a place called Eddie’s Surf . . . something or other.”

“Steady Eddie’s Surf School,” I say.

“That’s it.”

“Surf Sisters is actually run by two sisters, and Steady Eddie was their dad,” I explain. “They are one and the same.”

“That’s great news,” he says with a smile. “Does that mean you’re going to be our surfing instructor?”

I try to hide my disappointment as I tell him no.

I leave out the part about how I was supposed to be the instructor but pawned it off on Sophie because I didn’t want to deal with all of those screaming kids. Of course, it had never dawned on me that I would want to deal with their dreamy counselor.

“That’s too bad,” he says. “We could have chased them together.”

This development puts me in a funk for a little while, but it’s nothing that two slices of Big Lu can’t cure. During the rest of the conversation we talk about his hometown and high school. I figure if I let him do most of the talking, I will not put my foot in my mouth, as I’ve been prone to do in the past. This strategy seems to work, because we keep talking even after we’ve finished eating, which is pretty cool.

I try to resist my natural instinct to overanalyze every little detail, but I can’t help but look for any hint that he might be interested in me. He’s good about eye contact; it’s not piercing and creepy but he stays engaged. Never once does he make more than a casual glance at the game playing on the big screen TV behind me. Better yet, there are a couple of sharky girls at the next table. They’re cute and giggly, and I think more than a little loud on purpose trying to get his attention, but he seems oblivious to them.

“Don’t you think?” he says, and I realize that I have no idea what he’s talking about. (How’s that for irony? My analyzing how engaged he is made me zone out.)

“Totally,” I say, hoping that it makes sense based on the question. Fearful of continuing to talk about a subject of which I am unaware, I decide to change the topic. “So how’d you end up here for the summer?”

It didn’t seem like a trick question when I asked it, but his expression makes me rethink this. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”

“No, it’s nothing secret, just a little sad,” he says. “My parents are getting divorced and it’s really ugly. There are lawyers and screaming arguments, and my mom was worried that it might scar me for life, so she arranged with Uncle Bob for me to come down here and work with him.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that. A few of my friends have had their parents get divorced, and it was hard on them. I’m so lucky that mine are happy together.”

“The worst part,” he says, “is that my dad is being a total jerk. I don’t get it. He’s being so mean to her, and I wish I were up there because I want to be there for her. But she thought this would be best for me.”

The discussion about his parents brings down the mood of the conversation, and before I can come up with a new topic, he gets a phone call. The conversation is short, and when it’s over, he says, “Duty calls.”

He takes one last sip of his soda and stands up.

“What’s the problem?”

“There’s a pavilion at the playground where they like to have birthday parties,” he says.

“I know it well,” I say. “I believe I celebrated birthday number seven there.”

“Apparently some of the kids learned an important lesson about what happens to your digestive system if you eat massive amounts of cake and ice cream immediately before going full speed on the merry-go-round.”

“And you’ve got to clean it up?” I ask with a grimace.

“Like I said, my job is pretty much to do whatever nobody else wants to do.” He shrugs. “Let me take you wherever you were headed?”

“It’s not far, I can walk,” I say. “I don’t want to make you late.”

“I’m pretty sure it will still be there,” he says.

“Okay, I’ll take a lift to Surf Sisters.”

As we walk out to his truck, I manage to send a clandestine text to Nicole and Sophie. Make sure you can see the parking lot in three minutes. Trust me!

I slide my phone back into my pocket and ignore the vibrating of reply texts no doubt asking for an explanation.

“Thanks for rescuing me from boardwalk pizza,” he says as we drive down Ocean. “Luigi’s is without a doubt the best pizza I’ve ever had.”

“It was the least I could do,” I say. “And thanks for buying me lunch. You didn’t have to do that.”

“You can buy next time.” As he says it he flashes that oh-so-distracting smile, and I’m feeling good.

“Next time.” I like the sound of that. Of course, I’m not sure how to read the smile. Is he smiling because he’s polite? Is he smiling because he likes being with me? Or is he smiling because he just ate the best pizza in the world?

When he pulls up to Surf Sisters, I look through the windshield and can see that Nicole and Sophie are both looking out the window. They’re dumbfounded when they realize that it’s me in the truck with Ben, and it takes everything I’ve got not to react. It also makes me even more self-conscious as I try to come up with the perfect farewell line that will keep him thinking of me.

“Well,” I say with a goofy grin, “have fun cleaning up the vomit.”

Apparently that’s the best I could come up with. My first ever may or may not be a date ends with me turning to a guy and talking about vomit. I am so smooth.

“I’ll do my best,” he says. “Thanks again.”

I get out of the truck, wave good-bye, and watch him drive away.

I’m still not sure what to make of it all, but that does nothing to dampen the feeling of total triumph that I have as I walk into the store. For a moment the two of them stare in disbelief.

“Is there a problem, girls?”

“No,” Sophie says, trying to suppress a grin but failing miserably. “Where were you?”

“You know, just eating pizza at Luigi’s with Ben. No big.”

“Are you serious?” asks Nicole.

I smile and nod. “Absolutely.”

“Okay,” Sophie says, getting excited. “There are questions that need to be answered. Many questions.”

“No, there aren’t,” I say, trying to project cool for once in my life. “There’s just one question that needs to be answered.”

“What’s that?” she says.

I turn to Nicole, who’s working the register. “I’d like an official judgment on this. Which beach girl totally kicks ass.”

Nicole grins as she says it. “That would be Izzy Lucas.”

And she rings the bell on the register to make it official.

Since the shop is busy, the girls don’t get to grill me for information until after their shift ends and we’re all riding to the movie theater. Sophie’s driving and Nicole’s in the passenger seat. (One perk of being a six-foot-tall girl is that you always get the front seat.) She wedges herself sideways to look at me in the back.

“Explain again how this happened?” she asks.

“First I stopped by the Parks and Rec office to see if I could ‘bump into’ him there,” I say. “And I found out that he was taking his lunch break on the boardwalk.”

“I’m surrounded by stalkers,” Sophie interjects as she gives me a wink in the rearview mirror.

“So I went walking along the boardwalk and saw him in line at Beach-a Pizza.”

“BP?” says Nicole. “That’s disgusting.”

“Which is exactly what I told him,” I continue. “So I suggested that he should try Luigi’s and that was that. We were on our way.”

“Very nice,” says Nicole.

“See what happens when you actually talk to the guy,” Sophie says, giving Nicole a raised eyebrow.

“Can we get back to Izzy?” she protests, not wanting another lecture on how she should talk to Cody. “What’s Ben like?”

“I don’t know,” I answer. “I mean, he seems great. He’s funny. Kind of goofy but in the totally good way.”

“I love that,” Nicole says. “Give me cute and goofy over slick and sexy any day.”

Sophie gives Nicole another look but decides not to press her on Cody. Instead, she looks at me in the mirror for a second and asks, “Does that mean you’re into him?”

I think about it for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Nicole grins. “Her lips say ‘maybe,’ but the redness in her cheeks says ‘hell yeah.’”

We’re all laughing as Sophie parks and we get out of the car.

“Tell me that you picked this movie because it’s supposed to be good,” she says to Nicole. “And not because you think ‘you know who’ will be here.”

“He’s not going to be here,” Nicole says. “He already saw it last Saturday with some of the guys from Interact.”

Sophie stops. “And you know this how?”

“I’ve already been convicted of stalking and as such am protected by double jeopardy,” she says. “So lay off.”

Sophie and I share a look and shake our heads. Nicole really does need to do something about this.

“All I’m saying is that I pushed Izzy and it paid off,” Sophie replies. “I’d like the same good fortune to happen to you.”

“Slow down,” I say. “We’re not sure that it ‘paid off’ for me. Ben and I had pizza, but I have no idea if he likes me or not. He may just like the pizza.”

“Didn’t you see any signs?” asks Sophie.

“Yeah,” says Nicole. “I’ve heard there are supposed to be signs.”

“The signs were mixed,” I reply. “At some points it seemed like he was into me and at others not so much. It doesn’t help that his parents are going through an epic divorce. I think it may have soured him a bit on the whole idea of relationships.”

We reach the ticket window and Sophie turns to me.

“By the way, you’re buying my ticket.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you owe me . . . big time.”

I think about this for a second. “Because?”

“Because, despite it being a major hassle, I went through the computer and swapped shifts with you every Tuesday for the rest of the summer.”

It takes me a moment to realize what she’s saying.

“You mean . . .”

“You’ll be teaching all the summer campers how to surf, which should give you plenty of opportunities to read signs from Ben.”

I wrap her up in a giant hug, and because she’s so small it lifts her off the ground.

“You’re pretty awesome sometimes, you know that?”

“No,” she says. “I’m incredibly awesome all of the time. And as soon as you two realize that, your lives will improve dramatically.”

Needless to say, I am more than happy to buy her ticket.

On Tuesday morning I spend a ridiculous amount of time trying to select my surfing attire. Normally, this is automatic: wet suit in the cold months, spring suit on chilly mornings, bikini and a rash guard when it’s hot. My rash guard has two purposes. It’s a swim shirt that protects my skin from all the wax and sand on my surfboard. And, bonus, it keeps me from falling out of my bikini top whenever I wipe out.

Of course, normally I’m only interested in what’s most comfortable and functional for surfing. Today, however, is not normal.

Instead of hitting the waves to find the perfect ride, I’ll be teaching a bunch of grade school kids how to surf. That means they’ll be staring at me while I do a lot of leaning and bending over. The last thing I want to do is give them a little show-and-tell. But I’ll also be in front of Ben, and it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if I actually looked, you know, cute.

After countless combinations, I finally settle on a pair of rainbow-striped board shorts that have a stylish cut but still cover everything I need covered and a baby blue Surf Sisters rash guard that I put on over a black bikini top. As I take one final look in my bedroom mirror I empathize with all of the women who ask me to help them find a swimsuit. Still, to my surprise, the combination actually looks cute, and in a rare moment of self-confidence I’m willing to say I’ve gone from flounder to dolphin.

At the beach, Sophie helps me set up before the campers arrive. She’s doing a good job of keeping it light and funny so I don’t stress out. She can ride you relentlessly, but when you need it, she’s nothing but your biggest cheerleader. We’re laughing about something when we hear the faint sound of mass whistling approaching us.

I look up just in time to see Ben leading a makeshift platoon of campers over a sand dune and right at us. They are whistling a silly tune as they pretend to march, and it is irresistibly cute.

My guess is that Ben didn’t spend nearly as much time worrying about his wardrobe as I did. He’s traded in his coach’s shorts for a flowery Hawaiian print bathing suit but has maintained the rest of his signature look with a tucked-in polo, white socks, and running shoes. You’d think it was a uniform or a job requirement, except both of the other counselors are wearing swimsuits and T-shirts.

“He’s wearing shoes and socks,” Sophie says to me. “He’s wearing them on the beach.”

“Yeah,” I respond. “I’m going to have to work on that.”

I recognize the other counselors from school. The guy’s name is Jacob. Even though he’s a star soccer player, he runs with the brainy crowd and stays pretty low key. I wouldn’t say we’re friends, but I’ve always liked him and we get along well. The girl is a different story.

Kayla is a total alpha, a shark to my dolphin. She lives to make sure that girls like me know that we’re not nearly as sparkly as girls like her. For example, just so everyone realizes how unbelievably awesome she is, she’s wearing a way too tight Surf City top that shows off her curves—and I imagine also restricts her breathing. Surf City is a megaretail store on Ocean Ave. where girls like Kayla, wearing short-shorts and tank tops, sell overpriced T-shirts and surfboards to tourists who don’t know any better. They are our sworn enemies.

“Watch out for that one,” Sophie says with a nod toward Kayla. “If she so much as gets a hint you’re into Ben, she will totally drop in on you.” “Dropping in” is what surfers call it when someone tries to catch a wave that you’re already riding.

Although the Kayla development puts a slight damper on my mood, things take a turn for the better when Ben sees me and flashes that smile of his.

Even Sophie can’t help but notice. “Well, what he lacks in fashion sense, he makes up for with dimples,” she says, accompanied by a friendly nudge of her elbow. “That’s my cue to let you two be all alone . . . you know, except for the screaming kids and the conniving camp counselor.”

She smiles and gives a friendly wave to Ben and the campers as she walks back up toward the surf shop.

Just as they’re about to reach me, Ben holds his hand out like a stop sign. “Campers, halt!”

The kids make exaggerated stops, some even going so far as running into each other in slow motion before crashing onto the sand. Apparently, his goofiness has already infected them.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to be teaching this class,” he says.

“There was a change in plans,” I answer, trying to sound mysterious but probably coming across as clueless.

He thinks about this for a second and nods. “Very nice.”

He turns to address the kids, and from the way they hang on his every word I can tell that they love him.

“I want all of you to say hi to Izzy.”

“Hi, Izzy!” the kids shout in unison.

“Hi, everyone!” I say back. “Are you ready to learn how to become slammin’ surfers?”

There are cheers, and I realize that even if it wasn’t for Ben, I should never have tried to avoid this. Kids are great and I love teaching them about the ocean. I can’t help but flash back to my own summer camp when I came here for the same lessons. My dad had already taught me the basics, but this was when I really got the bug. It’s also when I first started to hang out at Surf Sisters.

“Before we do anything,” I continue, “I want you all to repeat these three words. Slip! Slop! Slap!”

“Slip! Slop! Slap!” they shout in unison.

“Who can tell me what these words mean?”

When no one else raises a hand, Ben jumps right in.

“Slip, slop, slap,” he says. “That’s what happened to me when I tried to stand up in a bathtub this morning.”

The kids laugh.

“Good guess,” I say. “But not what I was going for. This is why they’re important. If you’re going to be in the sun for a while, you should always ‘slip on a shirt,’ ‘slop on some sunscreen,’ and ‘slap on a hat.’”

I open up the two big boxes that Sophie helped me set up and start handing out rash guards, Steady Eddie surf caps, and plenty of sunscreen.

“We love the sun, but we have to respect it,” I say. “Too much of it is bad for your skin. Isn’t that right, Kayla?”

All eyes turn to Kayla, whose richly tanned skin is a pretty good indication that she does not follow this advice.

“That’s right,” she says unenthusiastically as she stares daggers at me.

Once everyone is fortified against the sun, I get them all in a big circle so that we can stretch. I don’t know if it’s coincidence or conniving, but Kayla winds up directly across from Ben so that he has an unobstructed view of her doing her stretches. And, as much as I hate her, even I have to admit she looks pretty spectacular while she’s doing them.

Once we’re all stretched out, I hold up a thick foam board about three feet long and ask, “Who can tell me what this is?”

Without missing a beat, Ben answers, “A surfboard!”

The kids all laugh because they think he’s joking, but I can tell by his expression that he thought he had the right answer. I quickly come to his rescue.

“Ben’s trying to trick you guys, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” they shout, and Ben smiles and plays along.

“This is way too short to be a surfboard, isn’t it, Ben?”

“Absolutely,” he says with a grateful smile. “Way too short. Even for short people like these guys.”

“So, who, other than Ben, can tell me what it really is?”

A few of the kids call out, “A boogie board.”

“That’s right,” I answer. “A boogie board. It’s also called a body board, and although you use it to ride waves, you don’t stand up on it like a surfboard. Do you?”