It Comes In Waves by Erika Marks Page A

swells or the sun or the thrill of being there with him, Claire didn’t know and she didn’t care. As soon as she cleared the white water and found herself in the lineup with the same boys who’d crossed in front of her father’s car just hours earlier, her rhythm couldn’t fail. Every set was hers and she carved better than she’d ever carved the summer before. She saw the boys eye her suspiciously while she sat on her board, bobbing in their company, the wary looks that said,
We think you’re just a kook with a crush and ten bucks says you drop in on us the next break.
    After her first wave, they just stared.
    But there was only one pair of eyes she hoped to catch and hold.
    â€œHoly crap!” Foster hollered as he paddled over to meet her between sets. “Where’d you learn to surf like that?”
    â€œWe spent a month with family and friends at Wrightsville Beach last summer,” Claire said. “I met a group of kids who taught me how to surf and I snuck off to ride with them every chance I got. My parents thought I was at the movies.”
    â€œYou got that good in a month? That’s like some kind of prodigy thing, huh?”
    â€œI guess I just took to it, that’s all.”
    â€œNo kidding. Remind me not to compete against you in a heat.”
    â€œI’m not that good,” she demurred.
    â€œYeah, you are,” he insisted. “Hey, didn’t you see the way these guys shut up as soon as you got up on your board and carved the heck out of that first wave? I think Andy Bosworth pissed himself.”
    Claire tilted her head to hide her blush.
    â€œAre you hungry?” Foster asked. “We could get changed and grab a bite at the Crab Trap. Shep and Jill are probably there.”
    Hungry? God, she was ravenous. By now her parents and the Danverses had surely cleaned their plates and were scouring the beach for signs of her. They might even have called the police—Claire wouldn’t put it past her father.
    Still, she answered, “Okay.”
    â€œI hear you just put a half dozen boys to shame out there,” Ivy said when they’d returned to the shop. “And I
also
hear I’m to call you Pepper from here on out.”
    Claire smiled at Foster, his eyes dancing down at her. Pepper. She liked that. “Thanks for letting me borrow everything, Mrs. King. I washed the suit and hung it up in the storeroom. If you tell me how much it costs, I’ll send you the money as soon as I get home.”
    â€œIt’s Ivy,” she said, “and don’t you send a dime. Take it with you. It’s yours now.”
    â€œTake it,” Foster insisted. “You’re coming back tomorrow to ride with me again, aren’t you?”
    Claire smiled, not wanting to break the spell of their magical ride, of this whole universe she’d stepped into barely an hour before.
    Ivy turned to Foster. “You make sure she comes back, Fossie. I like her. I might just like her better than you.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    T hey took a beat-up lime green sedan into town—“We call it the Pea Pod,” Foster explained. “It’s kind of a communal car”—that smelled of ripe bananas and was filled with squares of board wax that slid across the dashboard every time they hit a bump. He zoomed them right past the Danverses’ rented beach house (where Claire’s father’s Cadillac was still parked) and flew up Ashley. Barefoot, drunk on seawater and sun, her hand out the open window, hot air blowing their hair and voices around the car, Claire felt as carefree as one of the pelicans that flew overhead.
    â€œEver been here before?” Foster asked as he parked them in the Crab Trap’s dirt lot.
    Claire stuffed her feet into her sandals and looked up at the restaurant. “Never,” she said.
    â€œTheir crab bites will make you cry,” he promised.
    She smiled.