Pulled Under (Sixteenth Summer) (11 page)

“And that fun starts tonight,” Mo says. “We’re closing a couple hours earlier than planned, and we’re going to set up beach chairs on the roof so we can watch the fireworks, just like we used to with Dad. You’re all invited.”

Suddenly I think about Ben, and I must make an expression, because Mo notices it.

“What is it, Izzy?”

It seems inappropriate to ask, but I don’t know what else to say. “I was just wondering if I could bring a date.”

For the first time all morning, there are smiles around the room.

“We would love it if you brought a date.”

I
n the world of parades, ours is on the homemade end of the spectrum. We don’t have giant balloons like the Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York, and our floats aren’t lush and intricate like those in the Rose Parade on New Year’s Day. Instead we’ve got some marching bands, people from different civic groups, old guys in antique cars, and about a dozen pickup trucks pulling flatbed trailers decorated with plastic fringe, chicken wire, and tissue paper. The grand finale is the high school drama teacher dressed as George Washington waving from the back of a fire truck with all its lights flashing. It is beyond corny, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Sophie, my mother, and I stake out a spot right at the corner where the route turns off Seagate and onto Ocean Ave. This is the halfway point of the parade as it makes its way from the high school parking lot to the bandshell, and because they have to slow down and wait at the turn, most of the bands play a full song here.

While we’re waiting for the parade to begin, we tell Mom about Surf Sisters, and she’s almost as bummed as we are. This funk hangs over us until we catch sight of Dad’s band coming our way. The Founding Fathers are playing some Dixieland jazz number, and what they lack in precision and synchronicity they more than make up for with enthusiasm and ridiculous costumes.

My dad plays trombone, and I swear he picked it because it’s the goofiest looking instrument. He exaggerates his marching when he sees us, and it’s impossible not to laugh at him. We all shout and wave, and he responds with a wink and a long, drawn out blast from the trombone.

“Has he always been like that?” I ask my mom.

“Always,” she says. “He did the exact same thing when I waved at him during this parade back when he was in the high school band and I was your age.”

Sophie and I laugh at this, but as I watch Mom watching him, I can tell she’s flashing back in time for an instant. She smiles and I notice her cheeks have the same blush that Ben described in mine. It dawns on me that there was a time when my mom felt exactly the same way about Dad that I feel about Ben. I wonder if she had as many questions as I do or if she was one of those girls who had all the answers.

Our next highlight is when Sophie’s little brother marches by with the Cub Scouts. Unlike my father, there’s nothing silly about him. He’s the pack’s flag bearer and takes his responsibility with full patriotic seriousness.

“Way to go Anthony!” shouts Sophie.

He looks over at us and gives us a very grown-up nod. We respond with wild applause and cheering, and he can’t help but break into a little smile.

Behind the scouts is a group of Shriners in miniaturized sports cars. The tassels from their fez hats flap in the wind behind them as they race by and make figure eights in the street.

Next up is my least favorite float. It’s sponsored by Surf City and features Bailey Kossoff, the reigning champion of the King of the Beach surf contest. He’s sitting on a throne next to a fake palm tree, wearing board shorts, a royal cape, and a king’s crown. I’ve got nothing against him. I think he’s an amazing surfer, but I could live without all the Surf City bimbos in their bikinis who surround him and wave to the crowd. Of course Kayla is one of the girls, and when my mother sees her, she says something completely unexpected.

“I know I’m a teacher and I’m not supposed to talk about a student,” she says. “But since this is summer vacation and it’s just us girls, let me tell you something. I cannot stand that girl.”

This is completely out of character for Mom. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her say anything negative about a student in front of me.

“I’m serious,” she says. “Her mom was the same way when we were growing up. I tell you, the broom does not fall far from the witch tree.”

Sophie eats it up. “I’ve missed hanging out with you, Mrs. Lucas.”

“I’ve missed you, too, Sophie,” Mom says with a smile. “We should do this more often.”

I wonder if Mom made this unprecedented move because she has somehow become aware of my current situation. I don’t doubt that Kayla’s going to keep flirting with Ben, and my mother probably wants to give me a little boost. Before I can give it much thought though, we hear the sound of approaching snare drums.

“Here comes our girl!” Sophie says, pointing at the band.

Nicole may not always like the fact that she’s six feet tall, but it sure does help us pick her out of crowds.

“Check it out—she’s right next to Cody,” I say, noticing the lineup. “Maybe there’s something to be said for intervention-worthy stalking.”

Mom gives us a look but decides not to ask.

The band marches to the cadence from the drums until they come to a stop right in front of us. They are about to play a song, and since they’ve played the same six or seven songs at every football game we’ve ever attended, Sophie and I try to predict which one this will be.

“‘Hawaii Five-O,’” she guesses.

“‘A Little Less Conversation,’” I counter.

We only have to hear the first few notes before I’m flashing a broad smile and basking in the glow of victory. “Nailed it.”

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?”

“Yes.”

“Gee, that doesn’t sound the least bit intimidating. Isn’t there somewhere we could watch where I’d feel less out of place? You know, like in a pit of wild panthers or something like that?”

I lean across the desk and wag a finger in his face. “I just marched in a parade for you. A parade through crowds of people! Don’t even get me started about feeling out of place.”

“Okay, okay,” he says. “I’ll do it.”

I hear a new band being announced at the bandshell and I panic.

“What time is it?”

“Two o’clock,” he says.

“We gotta go.”

“I’ve still got ten minutes for my lunch break,” he replies.