Read Online Pulled Under (Sixteenth Summer) by Michelle Dalton - Free Book Online

prouder. This was the reason we started here.
    “You’ve got it,” I say as I stand up. “You’ve figured out step one. That means it’s time to move on.”
    I start walking out toward the boardwalk and he follows me.
    “But I haven’t figured out anything,” he says. “I just noticed the difference. I don’t know why they’re different.”
    We keep talking as we snake our way through the clumps of people on the boardwalk. “You don’t have to know why. You just have to know that it’s true. We all have different theories on why.”
    “Really? What’s yours?”
    “My theory is unimportant,” I tell him.
    “Maybe so,” he says. “But I want to hear it anyway. I don’t just want to figure out what the beach is about.”
    “What do you mean?”
    He looks at me. “I’d like to figure you out too. I find you . . . intriguing .”
    I worry that this makes me blush, so I look down as I smile.
    “Okay,” I say. “Come over here and look out at the ocean.”
    We walk over to the railing that overlooks the water.
    “I think it’s because tourists are like waves. But maybe that’s just me. I always think everything is somehow related to surfing.”
    “How are tourists like waves?”
    “When a wave comes at the beach it looks like the water is coming toward the land.”
    “Isn’t it?”
    “Not really. It’s mostly an optical illusion. The wave is a force of energy that travels through the water and makes it rise and fall. It also pitches forward and falls back a little, but the actual seawater basically stays in the same place. And once the wave is gone, the water is all back where it started. Tourists do the same thing. They come rushing toward town and it’s all so very exciting, but they’re not here for long. That means they have to squeeze everything into that short period of time. They’re so rushed that they’re willing to go into a gift shop and buy shells with real money when all they have to do is walk along the beach and pick them up for free. That’s loony tunes. So to me they’re like waves that come crashing on the shore, and we’re like the water. They have fun. They rise and fall. But it’s not relaxing. And once they’re gone, we go back to normal, like nothing ever happened.”
    “That’s . . . deep,” he says, taking it all in. “Are you always so philosophical?”
    “Hardly. I just spend a lot of time thinking about waves.”
    “Okay, so what’s our next stop?”
    “Next we are going behind enemy lines,” I say as we start walking down the boardwalk again. “But you have to promise me that under no circumstances will you buy anything while we’re there.”
    “If it’s another ice cream shop, I might not be able to resist. That junior sundae just triggered the hunger without fully satisfying it.”
    “It has nothing to do with food, but I mean it. You have to promise.”
    “All right, I promise not to buy anything,” he says. “But where am I not buying anything?”
    Just saying the name brings a scowl to my face. “Surf City.”
    S urf City is huge. It’s a surf shop on steroids. And like steroids, everything about it is phony, especially the girls. Their boobs are big, their tank tops are small, and their knowledge of surfing is comically inept. Take for example the girl at the door who greets us in Hawaiian. You know, because even though we’re five thousand miles away from Hawaii, it just sounds so surfy.
    “Mahalo!”
    Of course she has no idea that mahalo means “thank you” and not “hello.”
    “Ma-hello to you, too,” I say back, with a tinge of snark as I shake my head.
    I lead Ben up to a second-floor landing so we can fully survey the landscape. The lower level is filled with swimwear, clothing, and accessories while the upper has surfboards in every color of the rainbow. Every inch of it’s gleaming, and everywhere you look there’s another walking, talking Malibu Barbie.
    “Welcome to the belly of the beast,” I say as I look out