The Pearl Beach High School Marching Panthers have been playing “A Little Less Conversation” for as long as anyone can remember. I wouldn’t be surprised if they began playing it the day after Elvis released the song. This is not a complaint, mind you. They play it because they completely knock it out of the park every time.
Just as we do at football games, we all sing along. It builds to a climax when we shout, “Come on, come on! . . . Come on, come on! . . . Come on, come on!” That’s when the trumpets reach their crescendo and the whole band starts marching again at our urging.
I really kind of love everything about Pearl Beach, if you haven’t noticed.
This is the first time I’ve seen Nicole perform since she switched to drums, and you’d never know that she hasn’t been playing them her whole life. She is so focused she doesn’t even notice us jumping up and down waving at her.
There are more Shriners—this group is on tiny motorcycles—and then the mayor rides by waving at everyone from the back of an antique car. Next we see Ben and the kids from summer camp marching alongside the float for the Parks and Recreation Department.
The kids are wearing various athletic uniforms and carrying sports gear to represent the many activities that the department sponsors. Apparently, though, some of them have gotten tired and handed their gear off to Ben. At the moment he’s carrying a surfboard, a baseball bat, a football helmet, and a bag of golf clubs. Considering that they’re only halfway through the route, you’ve got to wonder how much more he can carry.
“He’s going to pass out before the end of the parade,” jokes my mom.
I don’t know the proper protocol when your boyfriend (can I call him that? I think so) marches past you in a parade, so I just smile and do a coy fingers only wave when I see him. He’s trying to say something to me, but I can’t hear him over the revving engines from the tiny motorcycles.
“What?” I ask.
He rushes over to us, short of breath and frantic. “I need your help. Can you take this?” he says as he hands me the surfboard.
“You want me to take it to the shop and hold it for you?”
He gives me an incredulous look. “No, I want you to carry it alongside me and march in the parade.”
“You want me . . . in the parade?”
He looks desperate. “Yes!”
“You really don’t get the whole ‘introvert’ thing, do you?”
Before he can answer, he has to chase after a kid dressed as a football player who’s wandering off in the wrong direction.
I stand on the curb frozen by fear. I’m totally mortified by the idea of marching in a parade in front of, you know, people. That’s when I feel a hand push me from behind and make the decision for me. I stumble out into the street and it’s too late—I am in the parade. I turn around expecting to see that it was Sophie but am surprised to discover that it’s my mom.
“He asked you to help and he’s really cute,” she says. “Have fun.”
Fun?
I’m a little bit like a deer caught in the headlights until I see Rebecca, the shy girl from the surfing class. She’s dressed in a soccer uniform, holding a ball in one hand and waving to the spectators with the other.
“Hey, Izzy,” she says when she sees me there. “Isn’t this great?”
I’m not sure, but I think I just got schooled by the nine-year-old version of me.
“You bet,” I say. “Why don’t you walk with me?”
Rebecca and I walk together for a couple of blocks and I begin to feel less self-conscious. Once that happens, I help Ben corral the kids, and we start doing a little routine in which we stop, stutter step, and start marching again all in unison. They get a kick out of it, and it stops them from wandering off so much. By the time we reach the bandshell, we’ve got the step down and I’m actually enjoying myself.
“Thank you,” he says as we reach the parking lot. He just drops all the gear that’s been handed to him.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
I give him a moment to catch his breath, and once he does, I ask, “Do you have time for lunch?”
He looks around at the mass of kids. “I need to wait here until their parents pick them up.”
I think it through. “How about if I get the food and meet you back here? Hopefully by then you’ll be free.”
“That sounds great,” he says.
I head over to Angie’s Subs. Luckily Angie’s daughter is a friend and she helps me sidestep the mob. I order a foot-long Italian Special with extra Peruvian sauce (I don’t know what’s in Peruvian sauce, but wow!), and twenty minutes later Ben and I are splitting it in the arctic chill that is the Parks and Rec office. He clears off some space at the end of his desk, and we set up our little dining area.
“What would you like to drink?” he says as he holds up two bottles of water. “Water or water?”
I play along and scratch my chin as I consider my choice. “Water, please.”
“Excellent choice.” He hands me one of the bottles and sits down across from me. “So what do you think of my fancy desk?” He raps the metal top with his knuckle.
“I like it,” I say. “It’s not only cheap, it’s also messy.”
“It’s not messy,” he says defensively. “This may look disorganized, but all of these stacks mean something to me. That one’s for summer camp. That one has all the permission slips, and those two are for the King of the Beach and the Sand Castle Dance.
“By the way, in case you change your mind”—he takes a sheet of paper off one of the piles and dangles it in front of me—“here’s an application for the King of the Beach.”
I know he’s trying to be supportive, but the thought of competing in the King of the Beach is simply terrifying to me. I wish he’d stop pushing it. The Sand Castle Dance, however, is a completely different matter.
“Enough with the King of the Beach,” I say, ignoring it. “You have a better chance getting me interested in the Sand Castle Dance. It’s kind of like our summer prom and a pretty big deal for us.”
He nods as he swallows a bite of his sandwich. “I know. I hope I can get a good date. You think Kayla would go with me?”
“That’s not even funny,” I say as I slug him in the shoulder.
“Ow, ow, ow,” he says, rubbing it. “I was only joking.”
“Well, now you know better than to tell stupid jokes.”
He rubs it some more, and I realize I packed a harder punch than I had intended.
“Do you know why I am working so hard preparing for the Sand Castle Dance?”
“No,” I say. “And I’m not sure I care.”
“You should care. I’m working so hard because I made a deal with my boss. If I take care of all the prep—which includes finding the band and arranging the decorations—then I don’t have to work that night. I get to spend the whole evening at the dance with . . . wait for it . . . my girlfriend.”
I just let that word linger in the air for a moment. It’s got kind of a musical ring to it.
“How do you know I want to go?” I say. “The word on the street this year is that it’s being planned by a guy who doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s probably going to be lame.”
He gives me a look. “I’m going to let that slide. But only because you got this incredible sandwich.”
“Speaking of dates,” I say, trying out yet another unskillful segue, “what are your plans for fireworks tonight?”
“Some oohing, some aahing, nothing special planned,” he says. “I thought you had to work.”
“About that . . .”
I tell him all about Surf Sisters and the surprise announcement. He seems truly upset that the store’s going to close, and I can tell he’s trying to figure out a solution. He’s not going to come up with one, but he wins points with me for trying. I also tell him about the plan to watch the fireworks from the roof of the shop.
“So, you wanna be my date?”
“You and me on a date?” he says playfully. “In front of all the girls at Surf Sisters?”