Текст книги "Pulled Under"

Автор книги: Michelle Dalton

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

“I will,” I say, trying to put on a brave face.

I watch him walk away, and although I know he can’t hear me, I just have to say it aloud, so I whisper.

“I love you.”

August

I’m pathetic.

I know this. But knowing it and being able to do something about it are two totally different things. It’s been five days since Ben left, and no matter where I go, I’m constantly reminded of him. Right now we’re closing up the shop, and as I lock the front door, I notice the poster he brought in the first day we met. Just the sight of it makes me want to cry, so you can guess how much fun I’ve been to be around. Nevertheless, Sophie and Nicole have not wavered in their repeated attempts to lift my spirits. You have to love their tenacity.

“Ladies, the dance floor is ours,” Sophie announces as she turns up the volume on the sound system. “Let’s crank it.”

Sophie is obsessed with nineties dance music, and she loves to blast it while we clean up. As a result, she’s gotten Nicole and me hooked too. The first song on the playlist is another example of how she keeps trying to make me smile.

Right about now, the funk soul brother

Check it out now, the funk soul brother

Despite the fact that it is basically just the same two lines repeated over and over and that its name is completely baffling, I love “The Rockafeller Skank.” I know, it makes no sense, but the beat is irresistible. Which is no doubt why Sophie is leading off with it.

Sophie sings along behind the counter as she sorts the day’s receipts, and Nicole busts a shoulder shimmy and dances with the push broom while she sweeps the floor. I, however, maintain my groove-free status as I mope and restock the clothing racks.

“Who’s up for Mama Tacos tonight?” Sophie asks, raising her voice but still moving to the beat. “I could destroy some nachos.”

“Count me in,” says Nicole. “How ’bout you, Iz?”

I shake my head and mumble some excuse that gets drowned out by the electronic rhythm.

“What?” she says, this time raising her voice.

I try again, but they don’t hear me.

Finally I just blurt out, “No thanks!”

Sophie presses stop. The room goes quiet, and suddenly our fun little surf shop becomes one of those cop show interrogation rooms.

“Why not?”

“I’m just not very hungry,” I say defensively. “And I’ve got to get up early to train.”

“Which is it?” asks Nicole.

“What do you mean?”

“You gave us two excuses,” she says as she stops sweeping. “Which one’s the real one?”

“First of all, they’re not ‘excuses.’ They’re answers. And both happen to be real.”

Nicole turns to look at Sophie; they share a brief psychic-twins moment. Then she turns back to me and says, “You’re shutting us out, Izzy. I don’t know why, but you are.”

“Just because I’m not in the mood for nachos? That means I’m shutting you out?”

“Now you’re ‘not in the mood.’ That’s excuse number three. Who are you trying to convince? Us or you?”

She walks over until she’s standing just across the rack from me. “You haven’t hung out with us once this week. We get that you’re busy when you’re with Ben. We’ll cut you that slack. But since he’s out of town, we thought the three of us would do some stuff together.”

“Yeah,” says Sophie. “We kind of figured we could cheer you up.”

“I don’t need cheering up,” I say curtly. “I’m fine.”

Nicole goes to reply, but instead she just shakes her head and resumes sweeping. “Whatever.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve known you forever,” she says. “Whatever this is, it’s not fine.”

“Well, you’re entitled to your opinion.”

She looks at me and nods. “And you disagree?”

“Very much so.”

“Then why don’t we take this to the register.”

I cannot stress how much I am not in the mood for having my love life taken to the register. “Let’s not. The last thing I need right now is the two of you ganging up on me.”

“Excuse me,” says Sophie. “You feel terrible. We understand that. But if you think we would ‘gang up’ on you, then we’ve got real problems, because that’s not who we are.”

I know she’s right and I regret saying it, but the truth is there’s nothing they can say that will make me feel better. Plus, I worry if I tell them everything that’s on my mind, it will only make things worse.

“It was a poor choice of words,” I offer. “I apologize.”

“It’s us,” says Nicole. “You don’t need to apologize. You just need to talk.”

I don’t respond. I just keep rehanging shirts that were left in the fitting rooms. I figure they’ll give up, blast some music, and let me get back to my mope-a-thon. But they wait me out. There’s no music or questions, just the sound of the hangers as I slide them on the rack. Finally, I give in.

“You really want to know what’s bothering me?” I say.

“We really do,” says Sophie.

“He’s only been gone for five days and I’m fully mental. What happens a month from now when he’s gone for good? And what happens a month after that when this shop closes? What am I going to do? Where am I going to go? I can’t just sit in my room and cry all the time.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing, sweetie?” asks Sophie. “Have you been crying in your room at night?”

“Maybe,” I grudgingly admit. “But I’m serious. What should I do? I can’t figure it out.”

I look at them and wait for answers. I can see that Nicole is carefully considering her words before responding, “I don’t know.”

I wait for more, but she doesn’t say anything else. “‘I don’t know’? That’s your answer?”

“That’s the truth,” she says. “I don’t know what you should do. But I do know that whatever it is, you’re going to do it with me. You’ll be with me at school and wherever it is that we decide to hang out once this place is gone, and we’ll figure it out together.”

“It’s awful,” Sophie adds. “Ben’s great and he’s totally into you. You’re such a cute couple, so we get that it’s not fair. But don’t forget that you were already awesome before he came into your life. And you’ll still be awesome after he goes back home. Maybe even more so because he’s opened up parts of you that we’ve never seen.”

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like the fact that pre-Ben Izzy would never have entered the King of the Beach,” says Nicole. “She should’ve, but she wouldn’t have. Ben gave you confidence. He made it so you believe in yourself.”

This is something that I had not thought of. “You might be right about that.”

“Of course we are,” says Sophie. “We’re your best friends. We know things about you that you don’t even know about you.”

“Is that so?” I ask, amused.

“Yes, it is,” she says. “Like for instance, right now I know that you’ve still only told us part of what’s bothering you. We already knew that you missed him and were unsure about the future. This is not that kind of moping. This goes deeper. What else is it?”

Somehow the vibe has gone from interrogation room to confessional. They really are great friends, and I know that I can tell them anything. Still, I have to take a couple of deep breaths before I can say it.

“I love him.”

They raise their eyebrows at this announcement, but neither says anything, so I continue.

“It’s not a crush. I don’t just like him. I am in love with him. And I know that I have no experience and don’t know what I’m talking about. But I also know what I know. I love him and I can’t even tell him.”

“Why not?” asks Nicole.

“He broke up with his last girlfriend because she was in love with him and he didn’t feel the same way in return. He said he didn’t think it was fair to her. I can’t take that chance. It’s bad enough that I’m going to lose him at the end of the month.”

It’s amazing how relieved I am to have that off my chest. I can’t tell Ben, but I can tell the two of them. Saying it out loud makes it seem real and not just something floating around in my mind.

“If you really feel that way, then I think you should tell him,” Sophie says. “You should at least give him the chance to say it back to you. But that’s for you to decide, not us. That’s well beyond the powers of whoever controls the register.”

“Does that mean you’re ruling in my favor?” I ask.

“You’re guilty of shutting out your best friends. There’s no doubt about that. But I’m going to let you off with a warning and a reminder that we’re your biggest fans. All we ever want to do is make things better.”

“Okay, I know that. I won’t forget.” I’m relieved to have shared my secret and relieved that she’s not going to make me do something stupid. “I also appreciate the fact that you resisted your recent trend of overstepping your bounds when you’re on the register.”

“I’m not done yet,” she says.

I shake my head and turn to Nicole. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

“This court also finds you guilty of another crime, and I’m afraid it’s one that cannot simply be ignored.”

“And what is that?” I ask.

“Failure to dance to ‘The Rockafeller Skank.’”

This makes me laugh for the first time all week. “Please tell me it’s another warning.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” she says. “We are going to stay here until we see . . . the Albatross. And don’t just go through the motions. We want to see it performed with the passion and pageantry it deserves.”

The Albatross is a goofy, over-the-top dance we came up with one night when we were doing inventory. It involves strutting around while holding your arms fully extended like wings. It’s exactly the type of thing that you do when you’re being silly with your friends, yet under no circumstance would you do anywhere else.

Sophie presses play and the music starts blaring again.

They just stand there with their arms crossed, looking at me expectantly.

“No way,” I say. “You can stare at me all you want,” I continue. “Because I am not going to do this.”

They turn the music up even louder.

That’s it. I can fight it no longer.

At first I just tease it a little and bounce my knees, then I bust out a big smile and the arms extend as I start the strut. They clap and holler, and pretty soon the three of us are grooving. It’s fun and a great emotional release. I get so into it that I even close my eyes, which is dangerous when performing the Albatross.

We’re startled out of our little moment when the music shuts off abruptly. We look to the counter and see Mo standing by the sound system. I’d totally forgotten that she was working in the garage.

“Sorry to interrupt your party,” she says, clearly enjoying the moment, “but I need you guys to come out to the garage.”

We follow her outside and are surprised to see that Mickey is there too. Today was her day off, which means she must have come in through the back door while we were busy.

“What’s up?” asks Sophie.

“The King of the Beach is coming up,” says Mickey, “and we thought we should have a team meeting.”

Even though there can be as many as eight competitors on a team, so far the Surf Sisters squad is just the five of us. None of the other girls at the shop really surf much, and despite my attempts to secretly recruit during my practice sessions at the pier, so far I have struck out.

“That’s a good idea,” I say. “You want to go over practice schedules?”

“Actually, we thought we might start off by giving you guys some M&M’s.”

“None for me,” answers Nicole. “I try to eat just a few, but then I start craving more, and before you know it I’ve polished off an entire family-sized bag. It’s not pretty.”

The sisters share a look and chuckle.

“We’re not talking about the candy,” says Mickey.

It takes a moment, but I’m the first one to figure it out. “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” I say as I begin to tremble with excitement. “Do you mean . . . ?”

Mo looks at me and nods. “We figure it’s the least we can do. We may not have the best team at the contest, but you can bet we’re going to have the best-looking boards.”

Now I notice that there are three gift-wrapped surfboards lined up against the back wall. They’re giving us hand-shaped, custom made Mickey and Mo—M & M—surfboards. (This is me hyperventilating.)

“Those M&Ms?” Sophie says, pointing at them and practically crying. “You mean those M&M’s?”

The sisters laugh even more, tickled by our excitement. “Consider them your bonus for years of hard work and dedication.”

Nicole’s the last one to catch on, but when she does, her reaction may be best of all. She doesn’t say a word. She just squeals as she runs over to them, her long arms flailing in excitement.

“We wanted you to have them for the contest,” Mickey says. “But we figured you’d need some time to break them in.”

“Go ahead,” says Mo. “Open them up.”

We tackle the wrapping paper like human paper shredders and unveil three gorgeous and gleaming surfboards. Each one has an original design and color scheme. Sophie’s is cosmic seventies psychedelic, perfect for her retro tastes, while Nicole’s has a pattern that looks like a stylized sea turtle’s shell, no doubt because she’s our most ardent environmentalist. They’re both beautiful, but mine . . . mine is the prettiest of them all.

“I absolutely love it,” I say. “It’s breathtaking.”

My board has a swirl of colors that radiate from the center like the fingers of a hurricane. The colors look like little tiles in a mosaic and alternate between shades of green, blue, and brown. The phrase “The Eye of the Storm” is written in the center.

“I’m particularly pleased with how that one turned out,” says Mickey. “I took a couple of pictures for our portfolio.”

I look up at her and shake my head in awe. “It’s a work of art, Mickey. How’d you come up with the design?”

“I didn’t,” she says with a smirk. “It was your boyfriend.”

“Ben? Did this?”

“He actually wanted to buy you a custom board,” Mo starts to explain. “He asked if we could work out a payment plan because he said he wouldn’t have enough money until the end of the summer, but that he really wanted you to have it in time for the contest. He said he even knew what he wanted the design on the board to be.”

I look over at Sophie and Nicole, and they smile warmly at the thought of Ben doing this.

“We told him that we had already planned on giving you boards for the contest,” adds Mickey. “But we were curious to see his design.”

“That’s when he handed me this,” Mo says as she holds up a sheet of paper with the design sketched out on it. “I thought it was great.”

“I wonder why he wanted this design in particular,” I say.

She shrugs. “So do we. He told us that you would know.”

I have no idea.

I look down at it. It is mesmerizing. It seemingly changes color depending on how you look at it or how the light hits it. That’s when I realize what it is, and I’m so caught off guard that I reach up and cover my mouth.

“What?” asks Nicole.

I shake my head. “I can’t. It’s too . . . mushy.”

“That means you have to tell us!” Sophie says. “We could stand some mushy.”

I look at them and say, “It’s the color of my eyes.”

I have a love-hate relationship with video chatting. I love, love, love the fact that I can see Ben even though he’s 1,347 miles away. (Yes, I figured out the exact distance between our houses because, well, you know.) But I’m not particularly fond of seeing myself in the lower left corner of my computer screen as I talk to him.

Tonight is the second time we’ve tried it. The first time had mixed results. Halfway through the conversation I noticed that my eyebrows bounce up and down when I get excited and that there’s some strange sniffle flare that happens with my nostrils while I’m in deep listening mode. When I tried to correct these things, I overcompensated, and by the end of the conversation I felt like I was having some sort of bizarre face spasms. It was like the time I tried to examine everything I do when I surf and it made me pearl over the front of my board. I’ve solved the issue by taping a small piece of paper over the image. Now all I see is Ben.

“Hi,” I say. “How ya doing?”

“I’m okay, I guess,” he says. “Better now that I see you.”

Tonight is especially tricky. I’m still walking on air because of the incredibly romantic gesture Ben made with the surfboard design, but he spent half the day in a courtroom talking to a judge about his parents’ divorce. My goal is to keep things positive and be as low maintenance a girlfriend as possible.

“I love my surfboard! The design is . . . perfect.”

“I can’t wait to see it,” he says.

“You don’t have to wait. I brought it for show and tell.”

I pick up the surfboard and try to hold it in front of the computer so he can get a look. The problem is, because I’ve taped over the part that lets me see what he’s seeing, I have trouble telling if it’s in the right spot or not.

“I’m going to try it out first thing in the morning,” I say. “I want to break it in before the King of the Beach.”

“Speaking of which,” he replies, “have you read through the rules like I suggested?”

“Yes,” I answer. “We all have.”

“And?”

“And . . . the truth is . . . none of us can figure out what you’re talking about.”

Ever since the trip to the airport, Sophie, Nicole, and I have read and reread the rules of the King of the Beach. Ben seems to think there’s some great secret hidden in them, but we’ve given up finding it.

“It all seems pretty cut and dry,” I continue. “We enter a team. Every surfer earns points based on how well he or she finishes in the individual competition. The team with the most points wins the title.”

“Yes, but . . .”

There’s a pause on the other side, and I try to read the expression on his face. I can’t tell if he’s angry, frustrated, or something else.

“I’ll just tell you,” he says, with a distant tone to his voice. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned this week, it’s that my ideas of fairness and cheating are outdated.”

The divorce proceedings must be going even worse than I thought. He’s never said it outright, but I’ve gotten a strong indication that his father cheated on his mother. I don’t want to get lumped in with that vibe.

“Stop right there,” I say. “Your ideas of fairness are no different from mine. I don’t want you to help us by cheating. Never in a million years would I ask you to do that.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s just been . . . bad up here. It’s kind of shaken my confidence.”

“Well, in two days you’ll be back down here,” I say, trying to boost his spirits. “And we are going to have an amazing time. You can be confident about that.”

There’s a brief pause, and I wonder if he’s about to deliver some bad news. I’ve secretly been worried that because it’s so late in the summer, his parents might just have him stay up there and not come back at all. Instead he says, “I’ve missed you even more than I thought I would. And that’s saying something, because I thought I’d miss you a lot.”

I let this sink in for a moment and smile.

“I miss you . . . so much,” I say. “And, I would never want you to go against your sense of right and wrong. I promise you, if there’s something to be found in the rules, I will find it.”

We talk for a little bit more, but I can tell he’s worn out, so I wish him sweet dreams and blow him about a thousand kisses. When we end the call, there’s a brief moment when the image on the screen freezes and the look on his face kind of breaks my heart. He seems so troubled, and I want to be able to ease that pain but have no idea how. Then it disappears, and I’m left staring at my computer screen.

I begin to obsess over the call the instant it’s over. I’m not sure why, but I feel uneasy about it. Everything he said was positive. Not only does he miss me, but he misses me a lot. And he can’t wait to see me again. Still, there’s a knot of uncertainty in my stomach. I give myself a little mental pep talk and pull up the Parks and Recreation Web site and go to the link for the King of the Beach. It’s just past midnight and I am determined to find whatever he thinks is important in the rules.

There are more rules than you’d expect. The King of the Beach is part of what’s known as the Summer Series. There are contests held all over Florida, and surfers earn points by competing in those contests, which count toward the series championship as well. Because of that, there are twenty-three pages of rules I have to scour through. They address everything from eligibility to how each surfer is judged to guidelines set by the series sponsor and ones specific to the contest in Pearl Beach. I read them as closely and carefully as I can, but nothing strikes me as important.

At 12:45, I decide to print them out, and I then arrange them across the floor of my room. By 1:15, I’m convinced that because Ben doesn’t know much about surfing, he thinks something is more important than it is. I’m going to call it a night and go to bed, but then I see my new surfboard.

The Eye of the Storm. It’s pretty awesome and inspires me to dig some more.

At exactly 1:47 I see three words that catch my attention. I check the page numbers to make sure I have them in the right order. Then I reread the rule a few times. I go back to the Parks and Rec Web site and make sure the rules I printed are the most up to date. By 2:03, I am convinced. Those three words aren’t just significant.

They change everything.

What’s so important that we had to meet before the shop opens?” Sophie asks. “On my day off, I might add.”

“Three words,” I say.

“If those three words are ‘I love you,’ do not expect a hug.”

I have called an emergency team meeting, and despite Sophie’s attitude, I can tell that I have at least caught the attention of the others.

“What three words?” asks Mo.

I hold up a copy of the King of the Beach rules, all twenty-three pages, and wave it in the air for emphasis. “‘From . . . all . . . divisions.’”

“Now you really shouldn’t expect a hug,” says Sophie.

“There are four divisions in the contest,” I continue. “The most important one is the Main Event. Whoever wins the Main Event is named the King of the Beach. But there are three other age group contests: Menehunes for kids twelve and under, Teens for thirteen– to nineteen-year-olds, and Legends for anyone over forty-five.”

“Yeah,” says Nicole. “Why is that important?”

“Because every year the people on the Surf City team, and all the other teams for that matter, only enter the Main Event. They all want to compete for the individual title.”

“I still don’t see your point,” says Sophie.

“Listen to the rules for the team competition.” I read from the rule book. “‘Competitors will be awarded points based on their finish in their individual competitions. The team championship will be awarded to the team whose members accumulate the most total points . . .’ And here’s the tricky part, because the sentence starts on this page but continues on this one,” I say as I flip to the next page. “‘. . . from all divisions.’”

I let this sink in for a moment.

“I still don’t get it,” Nicole says.

“You can earn points for your team in any age group,” I say. “But none of the other teams ever do it. If we enter surfers in Menehunes, Teens, and Legends, we could earn a lot of points. We could build a really big lead before the Main Event even starts. We might even be able to win this thing.”

Now I see the expressions I was hoping for.

“Are you sure?” asks Mo.

“Look for yourself,” I say as I hand her the rules.

“Most teams are just made up of young guys at the peak of their skills. So of course they all enter the Main Event. It never occurred to anybody to make up a team that spanned different age groups.”

Mickey flashes a big smile. “At least not until now.”

“I think I’ve changed my mind,” says Sophie. “I deem this hug worthy.” She wraps her arms around me and squeezes so much that it lifts me off the ground.

“Sophie, you and me in the Teens,” says Nicole, thinking aloud. “Mickey and Mo in Legends. That leaves us with three spots. Who else can we get? We need some Menehunes.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” I say as I break free from Sophie’s hug. “Rebecca and Tyler are the two best surfers in summer camp. I bet they’d do it.”

“Those two make seven,” says Sophie. “We can add one more.”

“I know who would be perfect!” says Mickey with a Cheshire grin.

“Who?” I ask.

“Your dad,” she says. “Is he over forty-five?”

“By six months,” I say excitedly.

“He’d be great,” Sophie says. “He’s really good.”

“Oh my God. He’ll pass out when I tell him.”

“That gives us three Legends, three Teens, and two Menehunes,” Nicole says. “If everyone does well—”

“It still won’t be enough,” Mo says, interrupting.

We look over to where she has the rules spread out on a surfboard. She’s writing numbers on the back of one of the pages.

“Why not?” I ask.

She scratches out some more math and looks up at us. “The points count from all the divisions, but the point values are bigger in the Main Event. There’s a very real chance that Surf City will sweep that, and if they do, it doesn’t matter how well we do in the others. We’ll still fall a few points short.”

She holds up her paper to show us the math.

We all think about this for a minute and try to figure out a solution.

“We have to have someone in the Main Event who finishes high enough to score points,” Mickey says. “Those will count double because not only will we be adding them to our score, but we’ll also be subtracting points from their total points. That could put us over the top.”

“Considering we’ve got two past champions on our squad, I still like our chances,” I say. “One of you can surf in the Main Event and the other in Legends with my dad.”

Mickey shakes her head. “I’m afraid it will have to be one of you three.”

“Why?” I ask. “You’ve both won it before. You’ve got the skills.”

“Our skills have faded,” says Mickey. “We can do some damage in the Legends, but it would be a miracle if either one of us made it out of the first round in the Main Event.”

“She’s right,” says Mo. “It needs to be one of you.”

“And if we’re going to be honest,” says Nicole, “I’m not in the same league as Izzy and Sophie. So it shouldn’t be me.”

I feel my pulse pick up pace as Sophie and I lock eyes on each other.

“That means it’s got to be you,” I say to her. “You’re much better at cutbacks and tricks than I am. You can earn a big score. You can do this.”

Sophie laughs. “You know that’s not true. You know that I am nowhere near the surfer you are. This is your time to be bold. This is your moment.”

“Well, it’s got to be one of you,” Mo says.

“How do we decide?” I ask.

Mickey smiles at me. “That’s easy. The same way we always decide disputes at Surf Sisters. We’re going to go to the register.”

“But we’re not open yet,” says Sophie. “No one is working the register.”

Mo nods. “I know that. But since Izzy is the one who first came up with the idea of competing, and since she’s the one who found this wrinkle in the rules, we’ll say that she’s officially on register. We’ll let her decide.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. Bullet dodged.

“That’s not fair,” says Sophie. “You know I’m right and you just gave her a way out.”

Mo looks at me with an intensity that’s unnerving. “I don’t know about that. There’s a lot of responsibility that goes with being on the register. If you take the tradition seriously, you don’t just make the easy choice. You make the right choice. I think Izzy takes things seriously. I think she’ll make the right choice.”

That last bit gets to me. I do take tradition seriously. I look at them one by one, and each one stares right back at me. I think about the contest. I think about the summer.

Back in June the idea of me competing in the King of the Beach would have been laughable. But so much has happened. I’m definitely not the same girl I was then. I’m not even the same girl I was on the Fourth of July. Then I start to think about the girl I want to become. No one rushes me. No one says a thing. They just wait for me to respond.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll make the decision.”

“Who’s it going to be?” asks Mickey.

There is no hesitation in my voice. “Me.”

Ben’s first day back in Pearl Beach doesn’t follow any of the romantic comedy movie plots that have played out in my imagination. There is no indie pop love song playing as we rush into each other’s arms at the airport. (I have to work so his uncle picks him up without me.) I don’t walk out of the shop after my shift and find him waiting for me across the street as he sits on the hood of a sports car. (His flight’s delayed two hours, so he’s still not back when my shift ends.) And we don’t go on a picnic and have it ruined by a sudden rainstorm only to kiss passionately after we take cover beneath an abandoned gazebo. (Okay, so I was pretty certain this one wouldn’t happen but, man, how cool would that be?)

In fact, Ben’s first day back in Pearl Beach doesn’t even include me until it’s almost over. I still haven’t heard from him by ten o’clock, so I try to call and it goes straight to voice mail. I figure (at least I hope) that it’s because his battery is dead and not because he hit ignore when my picture popped up on his phone. Without really thinking it through, I ride my bike over to his uncle’s house and knock on the door. I regret this decision the moment I see his face.

“Hi,” I say as he opens the door.

He smiles, but it feels forced. “Hey.” I can tell that he’s exhausted both physically and emotionally.

“How was your flight?” I ask.

“Long . . . like the week.”

There’s an awkward silence, and I’m not getting any encouraging signs, so I decide to cut my losses.

“Well, I was just riding home from Nicole’s and wanted to make sure you got back okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I turn around and try to speed walk over to my bike, but he runs up behind me and takes me by the shoulder.

“Wait a second,” he says. “Why are you in such a hurry?”

I turn around and try to read his face, but it’s hard in the darkness.

“I don’t know. I figured you’d be happy to see me. But you don’t seem happy. So I thought I should leave.”

“I am happy. It’s just that I’m tired and I have to get up early for work.”

(“You gave two excuses. Which one’s the real one?” I think as I remember what Nicole said to me just a couple of nights ago.)

“I completely understand. Let’s just act like this never happened. We’ll see each other tomorrow and run into each other’s arms.”

I really could use a laugh right here, but he looks serious.

“Why don’t we go for a walk?” he says. “So we can talk.”

All these signs are worrisome. I start to breathe heavily, but I try to hide it as Ben tells his uncle that he’ll be right back.