Summer Love (7 page)

THERE
are only a couple more people who have to order before you and Tasha.

“Are you getting something?” Tasha asks. “I think I want the No Frills.”

You look at the menu. The No Frills is just lobster and mayo on a toasted hot-dog bun.

You weren't feeling that hungry when you started the trip over to the food trucks, but now with the smell of toasting bread and lobster, you're starting to change your mind. You read the rest of the options. There's the Hot Stuff, which involves chili powder. You're not so much interested in that. There's the Garden Variety, which has some lettuce and celery and cabbage worked in there. You figure that'll probably just dilute the flavor of lobster. Then there's Drawn and Quartered—chunks of lobster, drawn
butter, a toasted bun, and a squeeze of lemon. That looks pretty good to you. And it has been a while since you ate.

“I'm going for the Drawn and Quartered,” you say.

“Mmm,” Tasha answers. “Then your lips will be all salty for when you kiss the lobster-roll guy.”

“Tash!” you say.

The two people in front of you get their lobster rolls, and you and Tasha step forward. You're in front of the ordering window now, and the lobster-roll guy leans out his little window.

He smiles at you, and his grin takes over his face. It looks like the kind that could be in a toothpaste commercial.

“I was waiting for you to get to the head of the line,” he says. “What can I get for you?”

You swallow. You can't believe he noticed you—like, really noticed you, out of all of the people in line.

“Um,” you say.

Tasha gently nudges you.

You clear you throat and smile. You need to get it together here!

“One Drawn and Quartered for me, and a No Frills for my cousin,” you say, indicating Tasha. Then you add, “please.”

“Pretty and polite!” Lobster Roll Guy says. He winks at you as he prepares your order.

“Oh, she's more than that,” Tasha tells him.

Lobster Roll Guy smiles again, but this time he only uses half of his mouth, not his whole toothpaste grin. “I bet she is.”

Then he turns to you. “What are your favorite chips?” he asks.

Chips? You look at the display of potato chips running along one side of his food truck.

“Salt and vinegar,” you say, “but I don't need any chips.”

“Those are my favorite, too!” he says, as he hands you Tasha's roll. You pass it over to her and wonder if he would've said that no matter what you'd answered.

“What about you?” he asks Tasha.

“Jalapeño,” she answers.

“Spicy,” he replies, handing you your own roll.

“Don't you know it,” Tasha says, taking a bite of hers. “Mmm, this is delicious.”

You and Tasha pay, and Tasha says, “Want to go eat these by the wharf?”

You do, but you also want to keep talking to Lobster Roll Guy.

“There's a great bench that's kind of hidden by
the enormous trawler at the edge of the pier,” he tells you, as he hands you two bags of potato chips—one salt and vinegar and one jalapeño. “These are on the house.”

“Thank you!” you say. You were kind of hoping he'd invite you to . . . well . . . to do something. But since he hasn't, you wonder if you should invite him. He has made it kind of clear that he likes you . . . at least, you think he has.

“SO,”
Tasha says. “Lobsterman or Surfman? Jean Paul sounds sexy. I think you should try it out.”

“And leave Lobsterman to you?” you tease.

“We'll see,” she says. “But this weekend is about you! Your birthday, your kiss—excuse me, your flirt-and-maybe-a-kiss-if-you-feel-like-it.”

You nod your head. “I'm glad you got it right this time.”

You think about it. It could be cool to learn to surf. But you're not so sure how good you'd be.

“What if I stink at it?” you ask Tasha.

“So you'll need some extra help. That means more time with sexy Jean Paul.”

You consider that.

“What if he's, like, forty?” you ask. “And gross?”

“Then you chalk it up to taking a chance, and
you'll see if you like surfing. And if that happens, I promise we'll find a party somewhere tonight where you can find some other cute guys.”

You're getting close to the front of the line, so you have to decide pretty quickly.

“Yolo,” Tasha says. “I mean, seriously, yolo.”

You do only live once. Which means, time for a surf lesson.

“Good luck with Lobsterman,” you tell Tasha. And you follow the arrow on the sign toward the surf lessons.

When you get there, an impossibly tall guy with impossibly sharp cheekbones and long wavy sun-bleached hair is zipping up a bag of stuff. He's wearing a wetsuit unzipped and hanging down around his waist. His chest is bare and hairless. His face is close to hairless, too—just a few patches of prickles—which makes you realize that he's probably closer to your age than you initially thought.

“May I help you?” he asks in French-accented English.

This must be Jean Paul.

“I think so?” you say, cursing yourself for turning the declaration into a question. “I saw
the sign for surf lessons. Are you closed for the day?”

Jean Paul sweeps his eyes over you from your ponytail down to your toe polish. “I was going to close,” he tells you, “but perhaps I can stay open for one more lesson. One half hour is forty dollars.”

You'd brought your wallet with you to the lobster- roll truck, and you know you have forty dollars in cash in there.

“Okay,” you say. “A half hour sounds good. I've never done this before.”

“A virgin!” Jean Paul says, and laughs. “I'll call you Mary.”

You feel your cheeks turn pink. You know that he was just talking about this being your first time surfing, but that word made your mind go somewhere else, and you're pretty sure it made his go to that same place. And once the image of Jean Paul naked is in your head, it's hard to get it out.

“Mary's fine with me,” you say, “but what should I call you?”

He shrugs. “You can call me Jean Paul,” he says. “That's my name.”

“Nope,” you tell him. “Not fair. If you give me a fake name, I get to give you one.” You try to think
of something clever, something slightly risqué, but nothing is coming to you. “How about Poseidon?” you finally say.

“You have made me a god!” Jean Paul responds. “
Poséidon, le dieu de la mer à la mythologie grecque
. I studied him at the university last year. It was a required class for all who were—I forget the word in English—freshman?”

You feel yourself blush even more as you nod. You were just trying to think of something having to do with the ocean. Also, it sounds extra sexy when he speaks French. Nothing like the way your French teacher sounds at school.

“If I'm Poseidon, then I'm changing your name,” he says. “You're Amphitrite.”

“Poseidon's wife?” you say.

“
Absolument
,” he answers. “Now, Amphitrite, I will teach you to surf!”

Jean Paul gives you a wetsuit to zip over your bikini—the kind with short sleeves that comes to your knees—and locks your stuff up in a little set of lockers under the surf school tent. He zips his wetsuit up, too, which is really too bad because now his chest is covered. Then he pulls a longboard off the rack and hands it to you.

“Okay,” he says, “put the board under your arm and follow me.”

It's a little awkward and ungainly, but you do what he says and follow him closer to the water. He puts his board down on the sand, and you put yours down next to him.

“First,” he says, “we practice getting up on the board. You are right-handed, yes?”

You nod.

“
Bon
,” he says. He lies down on the board and tells you to watch him. “It's a four count.
Un
, you push up with your arms.
Deux
, you move your right leg forward.
Trois
, you bring your left leg in front of your right.
Quatre
, you stand up! Then use your arms to balance. Let's do it together.”

You mimic everything Jean Paul does, and count along with him, hoping your French accent isn't too terrible. You know your
quatre
doesn't sound like his, for sure.

“Good, now faster!” he says.

You go faster, even though your shoulder muscles are starting to hurt from
un
—the push-up maneuver. Once Jean Paul is happy with your stand-up speed, he wraps the surfboard's Velcro ankle strap around your leg. You shiver when his fingers brush your skin.

“Now, the ocean!” he says. “I'll hold your board, and when a small wave is coming, I'll tell you when to stand and let you go.”

You take a deep breath. You totally got the hang of standing on land, but standing in the water seems like another thing entirely.

“It's okay if you fall,” Jean Paul says. He must've seen the fear on your face. “Besides, I named you a sea goddess. You were born for this, Amphitrite.”

You screw your courage to the sticking place, the way your tennis coach/ninth-grade English teacher always told you to do before a match. “All right, Poseidon,” you say. “I'm ready.”

“Fantastique!”
Jean Paul says.

He leaves his surfboard in the sand and heads into the ocean. You follow behind him, your board Velcroed to your leg.

“This is good,” he tells you when the water is about waist deep. “Now, you lie down on your board, and get ready, and I'll tell you when to go.”

He hangs on to the back of your surfboard and you balance on it like it's a raft, but you're not relaxed at all. Your arms are tense, your palms ready to push up at a moment's notice.

“Okay,” Jean Paul says. “It's coming . . . and . . . go!”

You count in your head,
un
,
deux
,
trois
,
quatre,
and you're up! You're totally standing on a surfboard! You're surfing! And then just as quickly as you're up, you feel the board wobble and you're not balancing quite right, and you go tumbling into the water. But as you pop up, you know there's a huge grin on your face, because that felt awesome. It felt more than awesome. For a few seconds there, you really were Amphitrite, goddess of the sea.

“You okay?” Jean Paul shouts. “That was great for your first time! You made it up! That's more than a lot of people can do.”

You walk through the water back to where you started. “I'm great!” you say.
“Fantastique!”

“You are,” he says, laughing. “You want to do it again?”

“Definitely,” you tell him.

You climb on board and wait again, and then Jean Paul lets go and the wave comes and you're up again, and down again. You do it over and over and over, more times than you can count, but you can't seem to stay up for more than a few seconds.

“What am I doing wrong?” you ask Jean Paul.

“It's here,” he says, touching your stomach. “Your core.”

You feel butterflies right where he's touched you.

“And keep your legs loose. Not too tight. You need to feel the board and compensate.”

You take a breath. “Okay, one more time,” you say.

You're pretty sure you've gone way over your half-hour lesson, but Jean Paul hasn't said anything, so you don't, either.

You climb on the board and get ready. He lets you go, you count to four—in French—and you're up! You concentrate on keeping your legs loose and your core tight. The board moves, and you compensate. You do! It moves again, and you're still standing. Your arms are out at your sides for extra balance, and you ride the wave all the way to shore. When you hit the sand, you jump off the board.

You turn around to look for Jean Paul, and you see him running toward you.

“C'est magnifique!”
he says, as he lifts you up in his arms. “Amphitrite, that was perfect!”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, and he kisses you on the cheek before he puts you back down again.

“That felt fabulous!” you tell him.

He looks at you out of the corner of his eye.
“Riding the wave, or being in my arms?” he asks.

You laugh. “Both,” you admit.

“I thought perhaps you would say that,” he says. “But I want my arms to feel better than surfing, so let's try again.”

Your heart hammers in your chest as he lifts you up once more, but this time he presses his mouth to yours and catches your bottom lip between his teeth. He teases you with his tongue, and then slides it into your mouth. You wonder if in addition to being a sea god, he's also a kissing god.

Tasha was right, you only live once, and you're so glad that during this one time you live you get to be wrapped in the arms of a sexy French surfer and kiss him on the weekend after your sixteenth birthday.

CONGRATULATIONS!

YOU'VE FOUND YOUR HAPPY
ENDING!