“Really?” says Sophie. “You’re going to call me names right before sentencing?”
“Oh,” I say, realizing my mistake. “I didn’t mean you two girls.”
“Too late,” Sophie laughs. “Isabel Lucas, sometime in the next two weeks you must . . . have a meal with whatever-embarrassing-nickname-we-ultimately-decide-to-call-him Ben.”
“A meal? Are you drunk with power? Nicole stalked a guy across six counties and all she has to do is talk to him. Why is my sentence worse than hers?”
“Because she has a whole school year coming up with Cody,” Sophie explains. “But Ben said he’s only here for the summer. That doesn’t leave you much time.”
Before I can beg for mercy, she rings the register, making it official.
Pearl Beach is a barrier island, eight and a half miles long and connected to the mainland by a causeway bridge. I’ve spent all sixteen years of my life as an islander, and when I think of home, I don’t think of my house or my neighborhood. I think of the ocean.
That’s why, despite the fact that it’s summer vacation and I should be fast asleep, I’m awake at six thirty in the morning putting on my favorite spring suit—a wet suit with long sleeves and a shorty cut around the thighs. The combination of last night’s storm, the rising tide, and a slight but steady wind should make for ideal surf conditions.
It’s a two-block walk from my house to the beach, and when I reach the stairs that lead down from the seawall, the view is spectacular. Purple and orange streak through the sky and the sun is barely peeking up from the water.
The only remnants of the storm are the tufts of foam that dance across the sand like tumbleweeds and the thin layer of crushed shells that were dredged up from the ocean floor and now crackle beneath my feet. The early morning water temperature shocks the last bit of sleep from my system, and as I paddle out on my board, there’s not another living soul in sight. It is as if God has created all of this just for me.
I inherited my love of surfing from my dad. When I was little, he’d take me out on his longboard, and we’d ride in on gentle waves as he held me up by my hands so that I could stand. We still surf together a lot of the time, but this morning I slipped out of the house by myself so that I could be on my own and think.
It bothers me that I got so flustered the other day when I met Ben. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it, but the truth is when it comes to guys, I’m not a shark or a dolphin. I’m a flounder. I just don’t have the practice. I’ve never had a boyfriend or been on a date. I’ve never even been kissed. Part of this is because I’m introverted by nature, and part of it is because I’ve grown up on an island with all the same boys my whole life. Even if one’s kind of cute now that we’re in high school, it’s hard to forget the middle school version of him that used to call me Izzy Mucus and tell fart jokes.
Ben is different. My only history with him was less than five minutes in the surf shop. And, while I wasn’t about to admit it to Nicole and Sophie, during those five minutes I was definitely guilty of “crush at first sight.” I don’t know why exactly. It’s not just that he’s cute. I’m not even sure if most girls would classify him as cute. It’s just that there was some sort of . . . I don’t know what to call it . . . a connection, chemistry, temporary insanity. Whatever it was, it was a totally new sensation.
And now, because Sophie snuck onto the register when I wasn’t looking, I have to try to convince him to share a meal with me. It’s a total abuse of power on her part, but I meant what I said about us taking traditions seriously at Surf Sisters. The girls won’t hold it against me if I’m not successful. But if I don’t give it a real try, I’ll never hear the end of it.
I sit up on my board with the nose pointed to the ocean and straddle it so that I can watch for waves. I see a set of three coming toward me and suddenly all thoughts of boys and crushes wash out of my mind. I lie out on my stomach and slowly start to paddle back in. I let the first two swells pass beneath me, and the moment I feel the third one begin to lift me, I paddle as fast as I can, trying to keep up.
Just before the wave starts to break, I feel it grab hold of the board and I pop up on my feet. This is the moment that takes my breath away. Every time. This is when it’s magic. In one instant you’re exerting every ounce of energy you have, and in the next it feels like you’re floating through air as you glide along the face of the wave. You stop thinking. You stop worrying. You’re just one with the wave, and everything else melts away.
The ride doesn’t last long. No matter how well you catch it, the wave always crashes against the shore and snaps you back to reality. But those few moments, especially at times like this when I’m alone, those few moments are perfect.
If only boys were as predictable as waves; then I’d know just what to do.
The Bermuda Triangle is a section of the Atlantic Ocean where ships and planes mysteriously vanish into thin air. It’s totally bogus and based on some ridiculous alien conspiracy theory. But it inspired my dad to come up with The Izzy Triangle. He likes to say, “It’s where daughters disappear for the summer.”
Unlike the Bermuda Triangle, however, this one has some truth to it. If you’re looking for me anytime from June through August, the odds are you’re going to find me in one of three places: the beach (surfing), my room (reading), or Surf Sisters (hanging out or working). In fact, I’m not exactly sure when I officially started working at the shop. I was just there all the time, and I slowly started to chip in whenever they needed help.
That’s where I’m heading now, even though it’s my day off. I surfed this morning and finished my latest mystery novel, so I figure I should do something that involves other humans. (Introvert, push yourself!) Besides, both Sophie and Nicole are working, and once their shift’s over, we’re catching a movie.
The problem is that I know they’ll be ready to pounce on me the second I walk through the door. It’s been a few days since the Ben Incident (Sophie wants to call it the Bencident, but I refuse to let her), and they’ll want to know if I’ve made any progress with him. If I say that I haven’t, they’ll give me a hard time and start talking about how I’m going to run out of time. That’s why I decide to take a calculated risk and stop by the bandshell on my way to the shop.
The bandshell is our town’s outdoor stage. It’s at the north end of the boardwalk and where we have little concerts and annual events like Tuba Christmas and the Sand Castle Dance, which we all make fun of but secretly love. It’s also where the Parks and Recreation office is located. I figure Ben probably spends most of his time parking and recreating, so the odds are pretty good that he won’t be in the office. If I drop by, I can at least tell the girls that I tried to see him. Even if he happens to be there, I don’t have to actually talk to him. I can act like I’m there for some other reason and tell the girls that I saw him, which would technically be true.
The office is in a plain cinder block building right behind the bandshell. Its only architectural flourish is a mural painted on one side that’s meant to look like The Birth of Venus, except instead of Venus it has a pearl. Written above it is the slogan PEARL BEACH, GEM OF THE OCEAN. It’s so tacky that I actually think it’s kind of perfect.
When I open the door, I’m greeted by an arctic blast of air-conditioning. And when I look around the office and see that Ben’s not there, I have a sinking feeling. I realize I was maybe secretly hoping he would be. This fact surprises me and is just another indication that all of this really is new for me.
Just as I’m about to turn and leave, I hear a voice call my name. “Izzy?”
I look over and see Ms. McCarthy behind a desk. She lives down the street from us and is good friends with my mom. I totally forgot that she works here.
“Hi, Ms. Mac. How are you?”
“Good,” she says. “What’s brings you by?”