Read Online Beach Blondes: June Dreams, July's Promise, August Magic (Summer) by Katherine Applegate - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Katherine Applegate
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loop over your wrist and then you stick the pointy end in here.”
“Why?”
“’Cause you need that to start it.”
“Why don’t they just use a key, like normal machines?”
“See, because this way if you were to fall off, the loop stays on your wrist and that pulls out the pin thing so the Jet Ski stops and doesn’t go running off out into the Gulf of Mexico and end up in Haiti.”
“Are you sure this is going to be fun?”
“Absolutely. Okay, now to start it, I think you push this button, this green button. And if you want it to go, you press on this red button with your thumb.”
Marquez pressed the starter button. The Jet Ski engine coughed and sputtered. She pressed it again, and the engine roared to life. “Nothing to it!” Marquez yelled.
Summer was beginning to get a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, the feeling she often got when she knew she was doing something not exactly intelligent. But Marquez was enthusiastic, gunning her engine loudly, and the enthusiasm was contagious.
Summer started her own engine, feeling the unfamiliar vibrations through the soles of her bare feet and up through her spine.
“Okay, it started!” she yelled to Marquez.
“Better go slow till we’re out from under here,” Marquez suggested. She pressed her throttle button and the Jet Ski moved forward. Then it stopped, straining against the rope.
“I think maybe you should untie your rope!” Summer shouted, grinning. Now she was getting caught up in it. They were going to arrive at the fabulous Merrick estate on roaring Jet Skis like a couple of modern mermaids. Much cooler than showing up on foot, all worn out from the walk.
Marquez cast off her rope, and Summer did likewise.
“Real slow, now,” Marquez cautioned. She eased her Jet Ski away, carefully guiding it through the pilings.
Summer pressed her own throttle button. The Jet Ski reared and plunged like an out-of-control horse, and then, in a blur, it was roaring through the narrow pilings.
Summer took her finger off the throttle. She was several dozen yards out in the water, well clear of the house. She realized she was shaking and trying very hard not to admit to herself that her head had missed a low beam by two inches at most.
“That’s what you call slow?” Marquez said, coming alongside.
“I think I pressed too hard. Now what?”
Marquez pointed across the bay. “Straight across to the other side. It’s only maybe half or a third of a mile.”
Summer grinned. Now that she had survived the first part, the rest felt like it would be easy. She pressed the throttle again, a bit more carefully, and aimed for the far shore. The Jet Ski roared off with Marquez close alongside.
It was the most exhilarating thing Summer had ever done. The Jet Ski seemed to fly, skimming over the surface of the water, hopping from ripple to ripple, sending up a shower of spray in all directions that soon had Summer drenched, hair flying in the hot breeze.
She glanced back and saw the stilt house silhouetted against a sky turned red by the setting sun.
This was why she had come to Crab Claw Key. This very moment. This sense of being in a new place, doing new things with new people. This overpowering, exhilarating feeling of perfect freedom in the middle of a perfect world.
Soon they were far out in the bay, and the tiny waves let the Jet Skis go airborne, taking off from the slopes of a swell, coming clear out of the water before slapping down again and surging forward.
Then the engine coughed. Speed fell away. The Jet Ski wallowed heavily, power gone. Marquez pulled alongside, idling her engine. She looked as exhilarated as Summer felt, her dark curly hair wild, her eyes lit up.
“What are you doing?”
Summer pushed the starter button. A rasping sound. “I don’t know. It just stopped.” She tried the starter again. More rasping, a sputter, a rasp.
“Try it again,” Marquez suggested.
“Oh no. Is this the gas gauge?” Summer tapped the
“Why?”
“’Cause you need that to start it.”
“Why don’t they just use a key, like normal machines?”
“See, because this way if you were to fall off, the loop stays on your wrist and that pulls out the pin thing so the Jet Ski stops and doesn’t go running off out into the Gulf of Mexico and end up in Haiti.”
“Are you sure this is going to be fun?”
“Absolutely. Okay, now to start it, I think you push this button, this green button. And if you want it to go, you press on this red button with your thumb.”
Marquez pressed the starter button. The Jet Ski engine coughed and sputtered. She pressed it again, and the engine roared to life. “Nothing to it!” Marquez yelled.
Summer was beginning to get a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, the feeling she often got when she knew she was doing something not exactly intelligent. But Marquez was enthusiastic, gunning her engine loudly, and the enthusiasm was contagious.
Summer started her own engine, feeling the unfamiliar vibrations through the soles of her bare feet and up through her spine.
“Okay, it started!” she yelled to Marquez.
“Better go slow till we’re out from under here,” Marquez suggested. She pressed her throttle button and the Jet Ski moved forward. Then it stopped, straining against the rope.
“I think maybe you should untie your rope!” Summer shouted, grinning. Now she was getting caught up in it. They were going to arrive at the fabulous Merrick estate on roaring Jet Skis like a couple of modern mermaids. Much cooler than showing up on foot, all worn out from the walk.
Marquez cast off her rope, and Summer did likewise.
“Real slow, now,” Marquez cautioned. She eased her Jet Ski away, carefully guiding it through the pilings.
Summer pressed her own throttle button. The Jet Ski reared and plunged like an out-of-control horse, and then, in a blur, it was roaring through the narrow pilings.
Summer took her finger off the throttle. She was several dozen yards out in the water, well clear of the house. She realized she was shaking and trying very hard not to admit to herself that her head had missed a low beam by two inches at most.
“That’s what you call slow?” Marquez said, coming alongside.
“I think I pressed too hard. Now what?”
Marquez pointed across the bay. “Straight across to the other side. It’s only maybe half or a third of a mile.”
Summer grinned. Now that she had survived the first part, the rest felt like it would be easy. She pressed the throttle again, a bit more carefully, and aimed for the far shore. The Jet Ski roared off with Marquez close alongside.
It was the most exhilarating thing Summer had ever done. The Jet Ski seemed to fly, skimming over the surface of the water, hopping from ripple to ripple, sending up a shower of spray in all directions that soon had Summer drenched, hair flying in the hot breeze.
She glanced back and saw the stilt house silhouetted against a sky turned red by the setting sun.
This was why she had come to Crab Claw Key. This very moment. This sense of being in a new place, doing new things with new people. This overpowering, exhilarating feeling of perfect freedom in the middle of a perfect world.
Soon they were far out in the bay, and the tiny waves let the Jet Skis go airborne, taking off from the slopes of a swell, coming clear out of the water before slapping down again and surging forward.
Then the engine coughed. Speed fell away. The Jet Ski wallowed heavily, power gone. Marquez pulled alongside, idling her engine. She looked as exhilarated as Summer felt, her dark curly hair wild, her eyes lit up.
“What are you doing?”
Summer pushed the starter button. A rasping sound. “I don’t know. It just stopped.” She tried the starter again. More rasping, a sputter, a rasp.
“Try it again,” Marquez suggested.
“Oh no. Is this the gas gauge?” Summer tapped the
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