Текст книги "Pulled Under"

Автор книги: Michelle Dalton

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“No,” they reply.

I notice one girl in back is too shy to shout out with the others. She reminds me of me at her age, so I point to her and ask, “How do you ride a boogie board?” As I ask the question, I rub my hand over my stomach.

“On your belly?” she says with a little uncertainty.

“That’s right, you ride it on your belly. Before camp is over we’re going to have all of you standing up on surfboards. But for today we’re going to just stay on our bellies and ride these. Okay?”

“Okay!” they shout, and this time she shouts with them.

We break the campers into smaller groups and take them out into shallow water a few at a time. This lets them get used to the dynamics of waves and builds their confidence for riding on a board. It’s also unbelievably fun.

Most of them pick it up instantly, and I quickly become a fan of the shy girl, whose name is Rebecca. I notice the change in her attitude with every bit of success, and it reminds me even more of the nine-year-old version of me.

The only one who struggles getting the hang of it is Ben. First he has trouble catching a wave, and when he finally does get one, he lies too far up on the board and winds up going face-first into the sand. The kids all get a kick out of this, and the thing that’s great about Ben is that he does too. A lot of guys would get embarrassed and try to act cool, but he just goes with the goofy, and the kids love it.

By the middle of the session I am certain that it’s more than a crush for me. I really like him and I would love for him to like me. But the problem is that I just can’t tell if he’s even remotely interested.

He’s relaxed when we talk, which makes it seem like he is, but then he’s all goofy with the kids, too, so maybe that’s just him. Furthermore, he seems to have no idea that Kayla is a shark in surf clothing and seems mighty comfortable talking to her, too. I don’t have the body or confidence to do what she’s doing and begin to think that I may be in beyond my depth.

In fact, I don’t get a good read on the situation until the lesson is done and we’re all carrying our boards back up to the shop. Ben walks next to me.

“This was great,” he says. “The kids loved it. I loved it. Obviously, I need a lot of practice and coaching, but it was great.”

I can’t tell if he’s opening the door for me to offer to help him get that practice and coaching or if he’s just making conversation. I walk quietly for a moment before I start to stammer, “Well, you know . . . if you really want to get better . . . I could always—”

And that’s when Kayla drops in, just like Sophie warned me she would. She sidles right up next to him and grabs him by the elbow with an effortlessness that is as impressive as it is evil.

“Ben, you are so great with these kids,” she says, all dimples and boobs. “Don’t you think so, Iz?”

I cannot believe that she is calling me “Iz,” like we’re old friends or something. Of course there’s nothing I can do about it but agree.

“Terrific,” I say. For a moment she and I lock stares, and I know that war is at hand. Before I can say anything else, one of the campers comes running up to Ben.

“Ben, Ben, Ben,” he says excitedly. “You won’t believe it. There’s this dead fish and its guts are exploded all over the place. It’s totally disgusting.”

“Well, if it’s TOTALLY disgusting,” he says with an exaggerated expression, “then I have to see it.”

They hurry off and leave me alone with Kayla. Neither of us says another word for the rest of the walk. We’re just a shark and a dolphin swimming side by side across the sand.

You’re my daughter and I love you,” my dad says with total tenderness before he flashes an evil grin and adds, “But first I’m going to demolish you, and then I’m going to destroy you.”

Welcome to game night with the Lucas family. Always fun, always competitive, always full of trash talk. At the moment we’re in the middle of a particularly intense game of Risk, and Dad is about to attack my armies in Greenland. He’s feeling good about it until my mom interrupts.

“You know that ‘demolish’ and ‘destroy’ mean the same thing,” she says, tweaking him.

He stops just as he’s about to roll the dice. “What?”

“You can’t destroy her if you’ve already demolished her. Your threat doesn’t make sense.”

“Donna?” he whines. “I’m going for an intimidation thing, and you are literally raining on my parade.”

“You mean ‘figuratively,’” she says. “Or is there actual rain falling on a parade I don’t know about?”

“You’re doing it again,” he says, getting flustered. “You’re doing it again.”

“I’m sorry, but I think if you want to be a global dictator, the least you can do is use proper grammar.”

My parents totally crack me up. They’re both teachers at Pearl Beach High School. Mom is the chair of the English Department, hence the grammar, and Dad teaches history and coaches cross-country, which explains the competitiveness. At school I might have a slight tendency to avoid them, but they’re actually very cool and fun to hang out with. During the summer we usually play board games around the kitchen table a couple nights a week.

“What if I say this?” he offers, having fun with it. “First I’m going to invade your country, and then I’m going to destroy it?”

He looks at her hopefully, but she just shrugs and replies, “It’s not great.”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Why invade the country if you’re going to destroy it? I think you may mean that you’re going to invade the country and destroy her army, but that’s not what you said. Your command of pronouns is about as strong as your armies in northern Africa.”

He’s trying to think up a comeback when the doorbell rings. “Saved by the bell,” he says. “Literally.”

“Thank you,” she replies. “In that instance ‘literally’ is correct.”

She stands up and adds, “I’ll go answer the door so you can keep up your attacks on Greenland and the English language.”

“English teachers,” he says under his breath as he shoots me a wink.

Just as he’s about to roll the dice, I hear a familiar voice talking to Mom at the door and signal Dad to stop.

“Wait a second. Is that Ben?”

“Ben?” my father asks. “Who’s Ben?”

Suddenly visions of embarrassment dance through my head. I turn to him and give my most desperate face. “Don’t be you. Don’t tell bad jokes. Don’t tell embarrassing stories. Just once, try to be normal.”

“I am offended,” he says indignantly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I give him a look and he returns it in kind.

“Really?” I ask.

“Really.”

I hear them walking toward the kitchen and I know I’m running out of time. “If you’re good, I’ll promise not to attack you in northern Africa and we can gang up on Mom in Asia.”

“Deal,” he says with a grin.

We shake on it just before Mom walks into the room with Ben.

“Hi, Izzy,” he says sheepishly.

“Hey, Ben,” I say, trying to figure out why he might be here. “Mom, Dad, this is Ben. He’s down for the summer from Wisconsin. Ben, these are my parents.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says. “I’m sorry to interrupt your game.”

“That’s okay,” says Mom. “We were just about to take a break.”

“We were?” asks my father, no doubt disappointed that his plans for global domination keep getting interrupted.

“We were,” she says, “so that you and I could head over to the Islander and get some ice cream.”

“That’s right,” he replies, suddenly pleased. “We absolutely were going to get some ice cream.”

Without missing a beat Mom picks up her purse and beelines for the door with Dad right behind her. Just before he leaves, though, he turns around and pulls out his phone to take a picture.

“Dad?” I say, suddenly worried. “What are you doing?”

He takes a picture of the game board and gives me a look. “Just in case someone accidentally ‘bumps’ into the table while I’m gone, I want to make sure we can put all the pieces back where they’re supposed to be.”

Rather than reply, I just shake my head and let them leave.

“I really am sorry to just drop in like this,” Ben says once they’re gone. “But I don’t know your phone number and I need to ask a favor.”

“Sure,” I say, trying to sound confident and cool, neither of which remotely describes my current state of being. “But if you didn’t know my phone number, how’d you figure out where I live?”

“I stopped by the shop to see if you were working, and one of your friends was there. She told me how to find you.”

“Would that be the really tall one?”

“No, it was the one who says I wear the wrong clothes on the beach.”

I cringe. “You heard that.”

“She has the kind of voice that carries,” he says. “But it’s okay. It didn’t hurt my feelings or anything. I really don’t know what to wear on the beach. And I did think that the boogie board was a surfboard.”

“I know.”

“And I call things by the wrong name.”

“Yeah.”

“If I’m going to spend the summer here, I don’t want to feel like I’m an alien from some far off planet.”

“Okay, but what’s the favor?”

“Can you teach me all that stuff? Can you teach me what to wear? Where to go? How to tell the difference between a surfboard and a boogie board?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’d be happy to.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. When’s your next day off?”

“Saturday,” he says.

“Perfect,” I tell him. “I’m off this Saturday too. Why don’t we meet here at eleven?”

There’s that smile, and then he says the most remarkable thing of all.

“It’s a date.”

On Saturday morning I wake up early to surf the stretch of beach closest to my house. The waves are better down by the pier, but I’m not really looking for a workout. I just want to clear my mind and have a chill start to the day.

As I paddle out I keep thinking about something that Nicole said to me last night. She came over to the house to hang out and, big shocker, talk turned to Ben. Considering our mutual cluelessness about boys, it was pretty much a blind-leading-the-blind conversation. That is, until she said, “The girl you are on a surfboard is the girl you have to be with him.”

At first I laughed at the whole profound quality of it. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized she was on to something. My problem is that the girl I am on a surfboard has literally been surfing longer than she’s been walking, while the girl I am with boys has barely taken baby steps. I have no idea how to convert one into the other.

I try to figure it out as I sit on the board, dangling my legs in the water. Unfortunately, my brainstorming session is as flat as the surf. This morning the ocean looks like a lake, and after fifteen minutes with little more than a ripple, I decide to call it a day. But just as I start to bail, the surf gods surprise me with a sudden gift. I turn to take one last look and see a swell forming in the distance. It’s going to be big and it’s all for me.

My board is already lined up perfectly, so all I have to do is lie flat on my belly and start paddling. I go slowly at first and then pick up the pace when it gets close. As I feel the wave come up beneath me, I try to study my technique. Maybe it’s as simple as Nicole said, and all I have to do is look for hints of how I am on the surfboard to figure out how I should be with Ben.

I feel a rush as the wave catches the board, and I get up on my feet. I analyze every detail—the face of the wave, the placement of my feet, and the way my hand reaches back toward the white water breaking off the crest. I adjust my weight to test my center of gravity and bend my knees to lower my butt closer to the deck. I study everything . . . for about three seconds.

Then I pearl.

Pearling is what you call it when the nose of your board digs under the water and throws you flying over the front. This particular one is a textbook example, and before I even realize what’s happening, I slam face-first into the water. It’s more disorienting than scary. One moment I’m riding a wave and the next I’m getting slapped around by Mother Nature. When I’m underwater it feels like a weird combination of slow motion and superspeed as the force of the wave pushes me down from the surface.

I get kicked around for a few seconds until it passes over me. Then I wade up to the tide line and plop down on the sand to catch my breath. The back of my shoulder stings where it scraped against some shells, and there’s a dull throb around my ankle because it got yanked by the tether line attached to the surfboard. But overall my body isn’t hurt nearly as much as my pride.

I’m not embarrassed because I wiped out. Everybody does that. It’s just that I did it like some newbie trying to catch her first wave. I’m not even sure what went wrong. Since I was so carefully analyzing each step, you’d think I’d be able to figure it out. But as I run through my mental checklist, it seems like I was doing everything right.

That’s when it hits me.

The reason I pearled is because I was analyzing each step. I was thinking too much. Normally I don’t think at all. I just do it. I mean, you can’t fight a wave; you can only go where it takes you. Maybe boys are the same way. Instead of analyzing every little detail and looking for signals with Ben, I should just see where it takes me. I should just be myself.

Okay, so this might not be the most original realization, but it sure is new for me. Normally when I’m around guys, I’m trying to be anyone but me. But I remind myself that Ben’s the one who suggested hanging out today and that he’s the one who used the phrase “It’s a date.” He might actually be into me.

That thought gives me a rare burst of confidence as I walk home with my board under my arm. Earlier I was worried about how the day would unfold, but now I’m thinking it might work out fine. Of course, that could just be because I bumped my head pretty bad when I was underwater, but I’m going to go with it.

It also helps that I’ve eliminated wardrobe drama this time. Unlike the day when I taught the campers, I don’t need to spend time obsessing about what I should wear. Nicole and I took care of that last night. I picked out a loose pink halter to wear over the top of my bathing suit and a pair of old denim shorts that seem cool but not in a trying too hard sort of way.

As I look at myself in the mirror I feel . . . cautiously optimistic. I also feel a throbbing in my shoulder. I twist to see if there’s any noticeable swelling but stop when I hear footsteps on the porch. My room’s in the front of the house, which means I’m always the first to know when someone’s coming to the door. It sucks when you’re trying to sleep in on a Saturday morning, but it’s great at times like this, when you want to make sure you’re the one answering it instead of your parents.

I move out into the hall and wait for Ben to knock.

And I wait.

And I wait.

Through the door I can hear the sounds of deep breathing and loud footsteps walking from one side of the porch to the other. It sounds like he’s panting and pacing, which doesn’t really make sense. It’s not like he can be nervous about hanging out with me. Or can he be?

I peek through the window and can’t believe my eyes.

“Dad!” I exclaim as I fling the door open.

My father’s doing huge lunges across the porch and checking his pulse by holding three fingers against his wrist. He’s also wearing running shorts that are a little too short for my comfort level, a sweat-covered T-shirt, and a smiley face bandanna. I did not make that last part up. He’s actually wearing a smiley face bandanna.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Cooling down,” he says between deep breaths. “At my age you’ve got to stretch to keep from tightening up.”

I think about adding a tip that at his age he should also rethink the concept of short-shorts, but there’s not time. I check my watch and it’s exactly eleven o’clock. Ben’s going to be here any second.

“Do you have to stretch here?” I ask.

“I guess I could do it in front of the Bakers’ house, but I think that would look a little strange.”

“Spoiler alert: It looks strange anywhere,” I say as I scan the neighborhood for Ben. “And why are you wearing a bandanna with a smiley face? Did you lose a bet?”

Dad stops for a moment and gives me a confused look. “Is there something going on that I should know about?”

“No, there most definitely is not,” I say. “Now, would you please get inside before you ruin it?”

At first he’s completely baffled, but then a look of comprehension comes over him.

“Too late.” He nods down the block to where Ben is walking toward our house. “I think I figured out why you’re stressed. His name is Ben, right?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Howdy, Ben!” he calls out.

Howdy? Seriously? When did we become cowboys?

“Howdy, Mr. Lucas,” Ben says as he reaches the walkway. “Hi, Izzy.”

“Hi,” I respond, trying to smile at him while simultaneously giving my dad the cue to disappear.

Dad doesn’t seem to get the hint, because he’s continuing to stretch and has now moved on from lunges to deep knee bends.

“Just ignore me,” he says, as if that were possible. “I have a whole stretching routine I have to do after I run.”

“Me too,” Ben says. “It drives my teammates crazy.”

“Teammates?” my dad says.

“I run cross-country at my school.”

“What a small world!” Dad says. “I coach cross-country at PB High.”

Do you ever wish that life were like a DVR? I do. That way I could hit pause and rewind this in hopes of it playing out a different way.

“We should run together,” Dad suggests.

“That would be great,” Ben replies. “I signed up for a 10K next month and I need to train for it.”

“The Rocket Run?”

“That’s it.”

“I’m running it too,” my dad says. “We can train together and then keep each other company during the race.”

I mean, this is seriously not how I had envisioned the day unfolding. But just when I think it can’t get any worse, Ben says three words that break my heart.

“It’s a date.”

When he said it to me about our day together, I took it to mean that it was an actual date. But now I’m beginning to wonder if it’s just something he says.

Finally Dad finishes stretching and asks, “So what do you two have planned for today?”

“A major makeover,” Ben says. “Izzy’s going to teach me the ways of Pearl Beach. She’s going to help me blend in with the natives.”

I am totally ready for Dad to finish me off with some joke like “How would she know?” But that’s not what he says.

“So you’re a runner . . . and you’re smart,” he says. “That’s a good combination. You guys have fun.”

It may sound hokey, but in person, in the moment, it’s sweet. Once Dad is inside, Ben turns to me and rubs his hands together in anticipation.

“So where do we begin?”

“That depends,” I reply. “How much of a transformation are you looking for?”

“Total witness relocation program,” he says. “Wardrobe, attitude, everything.”

“Well, then,” I say with a smile, “we better get some ice cream.”

The Islander has been serving ice cream on the boardwalk for as long as there has been a boardwalk. It has entrances on both the beach and street sides, and there is a double counter in the middle of the shop that faces each way. This counter looks like an island, which is how the shop got its name. But because PB actually is an island, locals co-opted it and they like to wear the shop’s “Islander” T-shirts as a sign of civic pride.

I order my usual, a waffle cone with two scoops of mint chocolate chip, and Ben gets a junior sundae with hot fudge and whipped cream on rocky road. There is a row of booths against the wall, and we take the one in the middle.

“I’m always up for dessert,” he says. “But I don’t see how a sundae is going to give me insight into Pearl Beach. You know, we actually have ice cream back home in Wisconsin. That whole ‘America’s Dairy Land’ thing isn’t just for the license plates.”

“We’re not here because of the ice cream,” I say.

I turn sideways so that my back is pressed against the wall and stretch my legs out on my side of the booth. He gets the hint and does likewise. Now we’re looking right at the counter.

“We’re here for the view,” I explain.

“What’s so special about a view of an ice cream counter?”

“There are two sides to Pearl Beach,” I tell him. “The tourist side and the local side. You can’t have one without the other. We need the tourists and the tourists need us.”

“Okay,” he says. “That makes sense.”

“But our beach and their beach are different,” I say. “They’re coming here for something they’ve seen in movies and on postcards. It’s kind of like the theme park version and not the real one.”

“You’re starting to lose me.”

“I’ll give you an example. Have you been to the candy shop down by the arcade?” I ask. “The one with the big mixer machines that twist taffy?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I went in there when I was handing out posters. It’s really cool.”

“Did they offer you a sample of the saltwater taffy?”

“Two,” he says with a guilty smile. “They were delicious.”

“Do you know why they call it saltwater taffy?”

He looks at me like it’s a trick question. “Because it’s made with salt water?”

“No,” I say. “It’s just regular taffy made with fresh water.”

“Then why do they call it that?”

“Because over a hundred years ago there was a candy shop on a boardwalk in New Jersey that got flooded in a storm. All the taffy got seawater on it, so the man at the counter joked that it was now ‘saltwater’ taffy. He was joking, but when people heard about it, they started buying it up. They figured saltwater taffy must be something that you can only get at the beach. And from that point on all boardwalks are expected to have saltwater taffy.”

“So you’re saying that the beach is full of con artists taking advantage of tourists?”

“Hardly,” I reply. “You like the taffy. It’s delicious. And people expect it to be here. They want to come to the beach and see the pretty candy being made in the big machines. They want to buy a decorative box of it to give to their grandma. There’s nothing wrong with that. But while tourists think of it as something to do with the beach, we think of it as something to do with tourists. It’s fake. That’s true of almost everything on the boardwalk.”

“So the locals don’t come down here?” he asks.

“Not much. Some of the kids do when they’re scamming for a quick summer vacation romance, but for the most part, the locals only come down here for two things: work and . . .”

“Ice cream,” he says, putting it together.

I nod.

“The Islander is just that good. Now, if you look toward the boardwalk entrance, most of the people you’ll see coming off the beach are tourists. But if you look toward Ocean Ave., you’ll see the locals. This table is where the worlds collide. It is the perfect place to study them side by side and see how they’re different.”

Ben takes it all in and understands what I’m talking about.

“Okay,” he says, turning toward me. “This is kind of brilliant.”

“And don’t forget the ice cream is amazing.”

He takes a spoonful and nods his agreement. “Yes, it is.”

We spend a half hour people watching, and Ben quickly picks up on some of the basic differences. He starts off with the obvious ones, like clothes and sunburns, but eventually starts to pick up on the more subtle things, like attitude.

“All right,” he says. “I get the thing about the shoes and socks.”

“Sophie will be so relieved.”

“But here’s one thing I don’t get.” He nods toward the beach side. “All of these people are on vacation.” Then he nods to the street side and continues. “But these people all seem more relaxed.”

I couldn’t be prouder. This was the reason we started here.

“You’ve got it,” I say as I stand up. “You’ve figured out step one. That means it’s time to move on.”

I start walking out toward the boardwalk and he follows me.

“But I haven’t figured out anything,” he says. “I just noticed the difference. I don’t know why they’re different.”

We keep talking as we snake our way through the clumps of people on the boardwalk. “You don’t have to know why. You just have to know that it’s true. We all have different theories on why.”

“Really? What’s yours?”

“My theory is unimportant,” I tell him.

“Maybe so,” he says. “But I want to hear it anyway. I don’t just want to figure out what the beach is about.”

“What do you mean?”

He looks at me. “I’d like to figure you out too. I find you . . . intriguing.”

I worry that this makes me blush, so I look down as I smile.

“Okay,” I say. “Come over here and look out at the ocean.”

We walk over to the railing that overlooks the water.

“I think it’s because tourists are like waves. But maybe that’s just me. I always think everything is somehow related to surfing.”

“How are tourists like waves?”

“When a wave comes at the beach it looks like the water is coming toward the land.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not really. It’s mostly an optical illusion. The wave is a force of energy that travels through the water and makes it rise and fall. It also pitches forward and falls back a little, but the actual seawater basically stays in the same place. And once the wave is gone, the water is all back where it started. Tourists do the same thing. They come rushing toward town and it’s all so very exciting, but they’re not here for long. That means they have to squeeze everything into that short period of time. They’re so rushed that they’re willing to go into a gift shop and buy shells with real money when all they have to do is walk along the beach and pick them up for free. That’s loony tunes. So to me they’re like waves that come crashing on the shore, and we’re like the water. They have fun. They rise and fall. But it’s not relaxing. And once they’re gone, we go back to normal, like nothing ever happened.”

“That’s . . . deep,” he says, taking it all in. “Are you always so philosophical?”

“Hardly. I just spend a lot of time thinking about waves.”

“Okay, so what’s our next stop?”

“Next we are going behind enemy lines,” I say as we start walking down the boardwalk again. “But you have to promise me that under no circumstances will you buy anything while we’re there.”

“If it’s another ice cream shop, I might not be able to resist. That junior sundae just triggered the hunger without fully satisfying it.”

“It has nothing to do with food, but I mean it. You have to promise.”

“All right, I promise not to buy anything,” he says. “But where am I not buying anything?”

Just saying the name brings a scowl to my face. “Surf City.”

Surf City is huge. It’s a surf shop on steroids. And like steroids, everything about it is phony, especially the girls. Their boobs are big, their tank tops are small, and their knowledge of surfing is comically inept. Take for example the girl at the door who greets us in Hawaiian. You know, because even though we’re five thousand miles away from Hawaii, it just sounds so surfy.

“Mahalo!”

Of course she has no idea that mahalo means “thank you” and not “hello.”

“Ma-hello to you, too,” I say back, with a tinge of snark as I shake my head.

I lead Ben up to a second-floor landing so we can fully survey the landscape. The lower level is filled with swimwear, clothing, and accessories while the upper has surfboards in every color of the rainbow. Every inch of it’s gleaming, and everywhere you look there’s another walking, talking Malibu Barbie.

“Welcome to the belly of the beast,” I say as I look out over it. “Pure evil.”

Ben takes it all in for a second and turns to me. I can tell he’s conflicted about something but doesn’t know how to say it.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Spit it out.”

“You love surfing, right?”

“More than you know.”

He looks out across the store again and then back at me. “Then why isn’t this your favorite place on earth? I mean, the name says it all. This is Surf City.”

I don’t reply with words so much as I emit a low growl.

“Okay, let me rephrase that,” he says. “I know this place is like the worst place in the world, but since I’m just a cheesehead from Wisconsin, could you help me develop the right vocabulary to fully describe how awful it is?”

“I’d be happy to. First of all, it’s owned by a faceless corporation and only exists to make money. It just happens to be that they make it selling surfboards. There’s no love of the ocean or surfing in its DNA. I mean, just look at the boards. They’re arranged by color, like that’s the most important feature. It’s like if you went into a bookstore and all the books were arranged according to how many pages they had.

“No one’s concerned about matching customers with the right one. They just want you to buy any of them. And to be honest, the boards are mostly here to create an artificial atmosphere so they can sell you overpriced swimsuits, Hawaiian shirts, and sunglasses. Or, best of all, a bunch of Surf City T-shirts with their logo everywhere so you can go back home and become a human billboard as you tell everyone about your ‘radical adventure hanging ten and riding gnarly waves.’ ”

When I reach the end of my rant, I realize that it was a little more passionate than I had intended. But Ben takes it all in stride and makes a joke out of it.

“So, you’re saying you don’t like it?”

“Yes,” I say with a laugh. “I’m saying I don’t like it. But it’s not about what I like or don’t like. It’s about showing you how to blend in among the locals. And if you look around, you’ll notice that there aren’t any here. Only tourists. See the fanny packs and the sunburns?”

“And the white socks.”

“Pulled all the way up,” I add, shaking my head.

“I wish you told me yesterday before I went and bought all those Surf City T-shirts.”

He’s joking, but I still give him my “don’t mess with me” look. And, while I don’t like to brag, my “don’t mess with me” look is quite impressive.

“But you said that they’re evil. How is any of this more evil than selling saltwater taffy? That’s just as fake and you’re okay with it.”

“Seven dollars for a decorative gift box of candy is a lot different from seven hundred for a longboard,” I say.

“Seven hundred dollars?” he says with a comical laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

“Take a look.”

We walk over to a row of blue longboards, and he looks at the price tags. He shakes his head in disbelief.

“And the worst part isn’t even the money,” I say. “This is way too much surfboard for a beginner. But they’ll never tell you that. They’ll just let you walk out the store and totally bomb in the water. They’d never tell you that you can get a used fish for about seventy-five bucks that’s much better to learn on.”