Float, page 18
“This is so stupid,” I muttered. “Why do people do this?”
“It’s fun,” Blake argued.
“That’s nice,” I said, propping myself up on my elbows so I could look up at him. “You guys must also enjoy ripping your own fingernails off, too, huh? Since you’re clearly a bunch of sadists.”
“Just paddle.”
I reached my arms out and dragged both of them through the sand on either side of me.
“Not like that,” Blake snapped. “Like you’re swimming, not making a snow angel. Come on. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen anyone do a front crawl or a doggy paddle.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Please end my suffering.”
“I’m sorry!” I howled. “I’m stupid, okay. Explain it to me like I’m stupid.”
Blake winced and opened his mouth, like he was about to argue that I wasn’t stupid. Instead he took a breath and said, calmly: “You have to alternate strokes. Pull your arms back one after the other, not at the same time. You want one forward when the other’s back.”
I did as he said, pulling my arms back one after the other. I felt like a windmill; a windmill that was getting sand shoved underneath her fingernails. But Blake was nodding at me and kept mumbling things like “There you go,” so I could only hope I didn’t look nearly as silly as I felt.
“Like this?” I asked.
“Exactly. Now for the fun part.”
“Oh no.” I highly doubted we had the same definition of fun.
Blake smiled to himself as he straightened out the surfboard beside mine, kicking a bit of sand onto my board as he scooted his closer. Then he dropped into push-up position over the longer board before lowering himself onto it, and I had to twist my features into a scowl to keep from letting my jaw drop open. Stupid boys with their stupid athleticism and stupid arm muscles and stupid floppy hair.
“Once you’re out on the water,” Blake said, still wiggling on his board as he tried to find a comfortable position, “you’ll have to wait for the right wave.”
His elbow bumped against mine.
“How am I supposed to know what—”
“I’ll be right next to you the whole time, so I’ll let you know the second I see a good one.”
I glanced back out at the ocean. Lena was standing on her board, legs apart and knees bent, careening across the top of a wave that was taller than she was.
“I have to do that?” I croaked.
“No.” Blake propped himself up on his elbows just in time to watch Lena slip off her board and tumble into the water. “Of course not. I’m not letting you take on anything bigger than a four footer.”
I nodded. That didn’t sound too horrifying.
“But you are going to have to stand up on your board,” he added, turning to give me a resolute look.
Oh fuck me.
“Can’t I just paddle?” I asked, batting my eyelashes at him.
I’d only meant to be teasingly persuasive. But suddenly Blake’s blue eyes got a bit wider, and the muscles in his arms tensed up as his fingers tightened on the edge of his surfboard. He swallowed—hard—before turning back to the ocean in front of us, blinking.
“Don’t be a coward,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse.
I couldn’t tell whether he was talking to me or himself.
“All right,” I huffed after a minute of silence—him staring out at the ocean and me picking the sand out from underneath my fingernails. “Let’s get this over with, then.”
Blake snapped out of his daze. He cleared his throat. “You’ll have to be able to pop up when you catch a good wave.”
“Pop up?” I frowned.
“You know, get up on your feet.”
“Okay.”
“Grab each side of the board,” he said, tapping the back of my hand that was closest to him.
I wrapped my fingers around the board, level with my chest, and then did the same with my other hand.
“And then what?” I asked.
“Then—all in one move, okay—you’re gonna push yourself up with your arms”—he straightened out his arms so he was hovering above the board with his knees bent—“and then you pull your feet under you.”
In one movement he brought his legs underneath him so he was crouching with his hands still clamped on either side of the surfboard. He smiled nonchalantly, acting as if he hadn’t just pulled out a regular James Bond move.
“I can’t do that,” I told him.
“Yes, you can,” he insisted, still smiling.
“I’m going to break my leg.”
“You’re so overdramatic.”
“Both of them.”
“Well, it’s a good thing the Marlin Bay General Hospital is only three minutes away then, isn’t it?”
I narrowed my eyes at him, and he narrowed his back mockingly. His lips curled upward, though, and within a few seconds he was snickering like an idiot.
“You’re incorrigible,” I huffed, looking down at my board and tracing patterns across the waxed surface with the tip of my finger. I wished I hadn’t pulled my hair up; it was harder to hide my unwilling smile when I didn’t have a curtain of tangles to hide behind.
“C’mon,” Blake said merrily, knocking his elbow against mine, “your turn now.”
Positioning my hands on the sides of the board again, with as much strength as I could muster, I pushed myself up and brought my legs underneath me. My left knee dragged a little on the wax, but at least I made it up without falling over and eating sand.
Blake laughed.
“What?” I hissed, challenging him to make any sort of remark about my poor coordination.
“Nothing.” Blake shook his head, still laughing, and a lock of his dark hair fell across his forehead. “Why don’t you try it again, though. Maybe a few more times, actually. Just for practice.”
The next several minutes were painful, especially for my knees, which kept scraping against the wax on my board. I did manage to fall over a couple of times, and so when Blake finally declared me an expert at popping up, I had sand in my hair and all over the side of my wet suit.
“This is torture,” I grumbled. “I hate surfing.”
“Why do you always get so pissed off when you’re not good at something right away?” Blake asked, getting to his feet and dusting sand off his legs. “How do you think anybody gets good at anything? You’re not supposed to be good at it right away. You’re allowed to suck. How can you possibly decide you hate surfing when you haven’t even been in the water yet?”
His words were like a physical slap to the face. Maybe I needed it, but it still stung.
“Right,” I quipped as I stood up along with him. “I’m sure this’ll be much more fun when I’m inhaling salt water.”
Blake’s expression was one of annoyance, but the slightly pained clench of his jaw told me he didn’t find talking about my impending death funny. I thought of our lessons, and how quick he always was to drag me to the surface, even when I was only under a few seconds longer than was comfortable, and even in the controlled environment of an unoccupied public pool. He was constantly on edge. Constantly anxious. Even when he hadn’t liked me very much, he’d dived into the Atlantic Ocean to save me.
There was something there. And I wasn’t so self-centered as to think it was entirely about me, because I also remembered what he’d said about his mom.
She’d drowned. I didn’t know how, or when, but she’d drowned.
Maybe that was the question I needed to ask him.
“Last chance,” I whispered. “We could still go get burgers.”
Blake laughed, but it was strained. For a moment, it looked like he was considering it.
“Waverly!”
Lena’s shout carried across the beach like she was screaming into a bullhorn. I looked out at the water to see her sitting on her surfboard, bobbing on the waves a little ways out. Alissa and Jesse were farther off, trying to tackle a set of large waves that’d appeared.
“Get in the water already!” Lena bellowed.
I laughed nervously.
“I’m coming!” I shouted back.
Blake clapped his hands down on my shoulders and turned me to face him. I stared at the faint freckles on his nose for a second before allowing myself to meet his gaze, seeing a hint of concern in his eyes.
“You’ll be fine,” he told me.
“You’re psychic now?” I grumbled.
“I’ll be next to you the whole time.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to center myself. If I was going to die out there, I at least wanted to remember this moment—the wind on my face, the sand between my toes, and the weight of Blake’s hands on my shoulders.
“Okay,” I breathed.
When I opened my eyes again, Blake was staring down at me with a funny sort of look on his face. My cheeks went red hot, but I willed myself not to chicken out and start blabbing about the weather or something.
“Waverly?” Blake asked, his eyebrows knitting together and his lips flattening into one straight, serious line. His gaze, locked on mine, drifted down—briefly—to my lips.
“Uh-huh?” I asked, my heart starting up its imitation of a chimpanzee beating a pair of bongo drums.
Kiss me.
Please.
I’ll pay you.
“Hurry up!” Jesse’s shout broke through whatever tension our little staring contest had created. “Jeez. And you guys say I’m the slow one!”
Blake’s hands shot off of me like he’d been burned, and he spun on his heels and grabbed the front end of his surfboard. I watched his back muscles go tense and knew I’d lost him. Whatever he’d been about to say—or do—was forgotten.
And I was going to die having never kissed a boy.
Chapter 15
The Atlantic Ocean rolled out like a wide grey carpet in front of me, stretching as far as the eye could see. I walked forward until the sand underneath me stuck to the bottom of my feet and made sloshing sounds with each step I took. I stopped walking at the edge of the water and lined my toes up with the line of residual foam along the shore.
I heard the shrill sound of Jesse’s scream, followed by a splash and then Lena’s boisterous and slightly maniacal laughter. Maybe if I turned, dropped the surfboard I had tucked under my arm, and sprinted for the parking lot, they wouldn’t see me.
A large, warm hand settled on the small of my back.
Blake was standing beside me, and the look in his eyes said Don’t even think about it. Not to mention, the hand he had on my back kept me from making a break for it.
“Go on,” he said, pushing me forward.
I stumbled one step into the water and shrieked as a little wave of foam rushed over my bare feet.
“Nope!” I cried, spinning on my heels and taking a leaping step back to dry land. “Nope, nope, nope!”
But Blake was faster than I was.
His arm shot out and looped around my stomach, and the next thing I knew, he was pulling me along with him. And I was heading—backward—into the Atlantic Ocean, both my heels and the little rudder at the end of my surfboard dragging in the sand.
“Quit being such a baby,” he said, sounding amused.
I opened my mouth to make an admittedly lame comeback about his face being a baby, but a wave of salt water smacked against the back of my thigh; I could feel the cold through the heavy fabric of my wet suit, although it was a bit muted.
“Mother of all that is holy!” I wailed.
“I thought you were supposed to like the cold,” Blake pointed out, releasing his hold on my middle so he could grab my shoulder and spin me around. We were knee deep in the ocean.
“It’s not the cold I’m bad with,” I snapped, “it’s the water.”
“Which is why,” Blake said, “I’m going to be right next to you the entire time. Now put your board down and let’s go; Lena’s gonna wring our necks if we don’t hurry up.”
I knew he had a point.
Blake took a few more steps into the water until it came up to the middle of his thighs and set his board down; it floated, bobbing up and down with each wave that rolled by. I watched him sling a leg over the board so he was straddling it, and then lean forward until he was on his stomach. He looked over his shoulder and frowned at me.
“Are you coming or what?”
I dropped my surfboard into the water, following his lead. Paddling turned out to be a lot more strenuous when there was actually some form of resistance. Blake, with his massive swimmer’s shoulder muscles, had to stop several times and wait for me to catch up as I panted, dragging my arms through the water and wincing every time my fingers brushed against slimy seaweed.
“You need to work out more,” Blake told me.
“I know,” I conceded.
“Seriously, no wonder you can’t tread water.”
“Okay, I get it.”
Blake kept his mouth shut for the next minute and a half while we paddled farther out into the ocean. I was relieved when he stopped paddling and sat up again; my arm muscles throbbed in protest. I rested my chin on my board and let my sore limbs dangle in the water, trying not to think about how many hundreds of feet below me the ocean floor had to be.
“Lena’s heading over,” Blake said suddenly.
I lifted my head and turned to look over my shoulder. Sure enough, the Fletcher twin in question was paddling our way, her face framed by a few dripping-wet curls that’d slipped out of her ponytail. I sat up—with a great deal of struggling and so much teetering that Blake reached out a hand to steady me so I wouldn’t capsize my surfboard—and turned back to grin at Lena.
“Hi!” I called as she got closer.
“So.” She beamed back at me. “How do you like the water?”
I really hope I didn’t grimace.
“It’s great!” I croaked.
“See! Told you it’d be fun!” Lena said.
Her arm shot out and, before I could brace myself, clapped me on the back in what I think was supposed to be a friendly gesture. But Lena could probably bench press a live grizzly bear, and so I was sent pitching forward from the sheer force of her patting me on the back.
My surfboard tilted.
I let out a noise of distress from somewhere at the back of my throat and my hand shot out, as if I could somehow turn into Jesus and catch myself from hitting the water.
And I did.
Well, at least I thought I did, for a second. Then I noticed I hadn’t spontaneously become the Son of God; Blake Hamilton had reached out and grabbed my board with one hand and the wrist of my outstretched arm with the other.
“Careful there,” he chuckled, steadying the surfboard.
I let out a breathless laugh of relief.
“Whoops,” Lena said, grabbing the back end of my board and holding it steady so I could sit back up. “Sorry about that. I’m used to surfing with Jesse. He’s steadier than he looks.”
Lena’s eyes narrowed suddenly.
Blake’s grip on my wrist had slipped somewhere in the midst of me trying to get back on the middle of my board and find my balance, leaving our hands braced together. The warm tingle of a blush spread from my neck to my hairline and I immediately pulled my hand out of Blake’s grip. But it was too late. Lena had seen us practically holding hands, and the smug expression playing on her lips told me I’d never hear the end of it.
“Really?” I cleared my throat, flustered and suddenly hot all over. “I always thought Jesse seemed sort of, I don’t know . . . uncoordinated.”
Lena’s smirk grew wider, but she decided to humor me.
“He used to be a gymnast, actually. I think my mom might still have some photos of him from sixth grade. He had to wear these stupid spandex tights—”
“Lena! Shut up!” Jesse screeched from across the water.
“Okay, okay!” she bellowed back, then turned to me and added in a hushed tone, “I’ll show you them later. You should come over for dinner or something. My mom wants to meet you, and my dad’s always happy for an excuse to break out the barbecue. He makes a mean steak.”
Well, how could I argue with that?
“I’m so in,” I told her.
“You’re invited, too, Hamilton,” Lena added. “We could make a whole event out of it, have a big family dinner in the backyard.”
I took this as an excuse to look over at Blake.
The bruise on the right side of his jaw, the one he’d gotten at Ethan’s house party, was already beginning to turn a putrid shade of yellow. I wondered if the spot underneath my eye, where I’d been elbowed, looked just as nasty. But Blake’s smile distracted from any ugliness the spot on his jaw might’ve caused.
“Sounds fun,” he said. “I’d love to.”
A big gust of wind carried over the water, ruffling through Blake’s hair and slapping me directly in the face. I winced and turned, blinking briny mist out of my eyes.
Several yards off, Jesse and Alissa were sitting atop their surfboards, just talking. Jesse had a hand on Alissa’s board to anchor her to him; it was just about the cutest and most romantic thing I’d ever seen, even if they were a bit of a mismatched pair.
Blake still had a hand on the edge of my board so I wouldn’t drift away from him.
“So,” I said, realizing I was starting to get a funny feeling at the pit of my stomach, “I’m hungry. Any chance we can leave soon and get some burgers or something?”
“Not so fast,” Blake chided, tilting his chin up in a teasingly authoritative manner. “You haven’t surfed yet.”
Why would he bring that up?
The asshole.
“But I—”
“C’mon, Waverly!” Lena jumped in, punching me on the arm as lightly as she could—which would probably still leave a bruise. “It’s easy once you get the hang of it. You have to at least try.”
