“That can be arranged.”
“How about after work?”
“Sure. My shift ends at six thirty.”
“Great, I’ll meet you at the shop,” he says. “You’re not going to make me go running with your dad again?”
I shake my head. “I promise.”
“Good, ’cause I’m planning on wearing my flip-flops so I blend in with the locals. And those things really make you blister around the three-mile mark.”
Our eyes linger for a moment, and I say, “See you at six thirty.”
“See you then.”
He rushes off to make sure the kids pick up all their orange peels and water bottles, and I start stacking up the surfboards to carry back up to the shop. I see Kayla finally break free of Sophie and head our way, but she’s too late. Today’s score is Dolphin 1, Shark 0. And the dolphin is now in it to win it.
Although Sophie and Nicole seem to think that all the signs they saw on the beach were positive, I’m still approaching the situation with total caution. All I really know is that Ben’s coming to talk with me after work. Maybe he’s planning to say that the kiss was a mistake, or that while he likes me, he doesn’t like me like me. It’s all so hard to figure out.
I spend most of the day watching the clock, and at 6:13 I’m in the middle of my “do you see yourself as a shark or a dolphin?” routine with a girl looking for a bikini when Ben comes into the store. He smiles and waves, and since I don’t want to be rude to the customer, I respond on the sly with a half smile and a raised eyebrow that I hope looks cool and not like a nervous twitch.
“Which do you like best?” the girl asks, holding up two swimsuits.
I give her my undivided attention, consider both suits, and point to the one in her left hand. “That one.”
She scrunches up her face. “I think I like the other one better.”
I resist the urge to say, “Then why did you ask me?” and instead go with, “That one looks cute too. Why don’t you try it on?”
She heads for the changing room, and I turn back to look for Ben. Only now he’s gone. I scan the shop and half worry that maybe I’m just imagining him now. (Imaginary boyfriend—that does kind of sound like me.)
Sophie sees my distress as she walks over. “Badger Ben just went out to the garage,” she says, referring to the room where we keep all the surfboards.
“‘Badger’ Ben?”
“You shot down all the dairy nicknames, so I thought I’d try something else. In addition to being America’s Dairy Land, Wisconsin is known as the Badger State. I figure Badger Ben has alliteration and a nice ring to it.”
I don’t pretend to understand what it is with Sophie and nicknames, but I’m a little too anxious at the moment to get into it. “How did he seem?”
“Like he was about to break your heart,” she says. “He’s probably going to tell you that he never wants to see you again and he’s running off to marry Kayla.”
I gasp before I realize she’s joking.
“You might want to turn down the nervous knob,” she says, with a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Listen to the music. I picked this playlist specifically to help you mellow out.”
In the shop we usually play a steady blend of beach, Hawaiian, and reggae music, and after a while you stop hearing it and it disappears into the background of your brain. But now that I listen, I realize that Bob Marley is singing one of my favorite tunes: “Don’t worry about a thing, ’cause every little thing gonna be all right. . . .”
“Okay,” I say after I get the hint, and take a couple of deep breaths. “I’ll calm down.”
“Good, because you’re much better when you’re relaxed. You’re not one of those ‘performs well under pressure’ kind of girls.”
“Gee thanks, Coach. Good to know I can always get a pep talk.”
“I’m just keeping it real.”
“By the way,” I add, “‘Badger Ben’ is a no go.”
She shrugs. “I knew it the second I said it, but you gotta try these things out to be sure.”
Fifteen minutes later my shift is over and the girl has finally decided on a bikini. It goes without saying that she picked the first one I had recommended. I remind myself that it’s important for her to be comfortable with her purchase, so I don’t mind the other five we had to go through before we got back to it.
Once she’s made her purchase, I am free to go and head over to the garage. It’s been my favorite part of the shop ever since I was a kid and I’d come to look at all the boards and try to figure out which one was made just for me. We don’t have nearly the number that Surf City has in its inventory, but all of ours are choice. About half of them are custom made in the area. These cost a little more, but they are beyond sweet.
Personally, I’m saving up to buy my very own M & M, which is what we call the boards that Mickey and Mo shape themselves. They only make about a dozen a year, so they’re pretty hard to come by.
Speaking of Mo, when I get to the garage, I see her in back talking to Ben. She’s in her midfifties, but she looks much younger than that. A life spent surfing, swimming, and kayaking has kept her extremely fit. It also keeps her hair wet a lot of the time, which is why she usually just pulls it back in a ponytail.
Of the two sisters, I’m closer to her. This is no knock on Mickey; it’s just that Mo and I have more in common. Mickey’s loud and in your face like Sophie, but Mo hangs around the edges like I do. We surf alike too. Both of us favor a long, smooth style rather than a more athletic and aggressive one.
She’s showing Ben a display case that serves as a tribute to Steady Eddie, her father. It has all sorts of artifacts including surfing trophies, a lifesaving medal, and even his torpedo buoy, which is the big float that lifeguards carried back in the day.
“He won every surf contest in the state,” she says, beaming with pride.
“What about King of the Beach?” Ben asks, referring to our local contest. “Did he win that one too?”
Mo laughs. “Seven times—more than anyone.”
“Awesome,” says Ben. “Where’s the trophy for that?”
“At Surf City,” she says. “It always goes to the current champion.”
“That’s kind of unfair,” says Ben.
“I don’t know,” she replies. “It’s in their store, but Dad’s name is on it seven times. Mickey and I think of it as covertly advertising our store over there.”
“Why don’t you ask her who’s won it the second most times?” I say, interrupting.
“We’re in the middle of a conversation, Izzy,” she says, deflecting the comment.
“Go ahead and ask her,” I say again.
“Who won the second most times?” he asks.
She’s reluctant to answer, but Ben and I wait her out, and she finally concedes, “Mickey and I have each won it four times.”
“You were King of the Beach?” Ben asks.
She nods.
“The only two girls to ever win it,” I add, because I know that Mo won’t.
“That means between you two and your dad, you guys have your name engraved on it fifteen times.”
“I never thought of it that way, but I guess so.” Mo is uncomfortable receiving praise, so she redirects the conversation. “Ben, why don’t you show Izzy what you learned?”
“Oh, yeah. Watch this, Iz.” One by one he points to a row of surfboards, identifying each one by type as he goes. “This is a shortboard, this is an egg, this is a fish, and this one . . . is . . . a gun?”
“That’s right, a gun,” Mo says. “Now which one is the quad?”
“The fish,” he says, pointing toward it. “Because it has four fins.”
“Perfect.”
“Very impressive,” I say.
Feeling good about his surfboard IQ, he turns to Mo and adds, “I can do more than identify. I also know that you have to keep them in direct sunlight so that the condensation doesn’t contract the foam.”