Kristen Read Free

what to do with her hands, she slipped them under her neoprene-covered butt, which felt like a cold seal.
    Dune flipped around and faced her. “You might want to take that off.”
    “What?”
Kristen squeaked. She was excited times ten that her crush was obviously crushing back, but come
awn
! Taking things off was moving a little fast, even for a pro surfer. She squint-glanced back up at the boat, wondering if Brice could hear his son’s advances. But he was ten feet away, eating a jelly donut and flipping though a copy of
Surfer’s Journal,
totally unaware.
    “Your
necklace
.” He wrinkled his sunburned nose disapprovingly. “It could break.”
    Kristen gripped the gold heart-shaped locket around her neck. “Oh.” She smile-sighed with relief, while flipping the Coach logo to the back. “I can’t. It was a gift from Massie. I pinky-swore I’d keep it on all summer.”
    “Massie?”
Dune narrowed his light brown eyes. “The same Massie who turned my used-to-be-cool sister into a deck dork?” He chin-pointed at Ripple, who was sitting on her blue-and-white–striped towel trying to rub suntan oil on her lower back. She looked like an angry ape swatting at a mosquito.
    Ooops.
    Kristen ran her pale fingers through the dark, lapping water to avoid his disapproving gaze. He booger-flicked a piece of sea grass off his board. “A promise is a promise.”
    “I like that.” Dune pinched the shark tooth strung around his neck on what looked like the thick leather lace of an old Topsider. “I made this at surf camp in Cali when I was ten, with my best buddy, Reid. I’ve never taken it off.”
    Awwww.
Kristen touched her rubber-covered heart. If there was something higher than a hang-ten, he was it. Cute, loyal, athletic, and middle class. Dune was a total CLAM.
    “Just make sure it’s on tight.” He winked and then gazed beyond her shoulder toward the barge.
    Afraid of losing his attention to a passing bird or sailboat, Kristen quickly lured him back. “Why do you like surfing so much?” she asked, knowing he would spend hours on the topic if she’d let him.
    Dune returned, his eyes darting across her wet cheeks like he was reading her freckles. “For me . . .” He paused thoughtfully. “Surfing is about truth. It’s pure. When you’re faced with a wave, you can’t pretend to be something you’re not. Either you can ride it or you can’t. There’s no faking. It’s honest.”
    Kristen’s lips twitched. Her belly bubbled. And the Long Island Sound blurred like it was coated in Vaseline Lip Therapy. Kristen’s central nervous system was sending an urgent message: Dune had just received an upgrade. Infatuation just got bumped up to luh-uv. This was serious.
    “Look!” he shout-pointed at the barge as it carved through the blue water and tooted toward them.
    Kristen began searching her mind for ways to stay in Dune’s good graces without risking her life—and pride—riding the wave of a floating garbage truck. But all that came to mind was how much his skin was the color of caramel. And how much she loved caramel.
    The barge turned left and began carving out the first set.
    “Last one standing has to paint Ripple’s toenails!” Brice shouted, leaping up from his perch on
Old Man.
He tossed his burnt orange longboard over the rope rails, then stride-jumped in behind it, landing a couple inches from Kristen and Dune.
    “Can you keep treading?” Dune practically shoved Kristen off the board before she had time to answer. He lay flat on his belly and began butterflying his arms toward the swell. “First watch how I do it,” he called over the hum of the barge. “Then I’ll be back to teach you.”
    Suddenly, something squirmed inside Kristen’s stomach. She ran her hand along the belly of her wet suit, wondering if maybe a sea creature had wiggled its way inside. But there was nothing there. Just the sickening feeling of abandonment.
    What now?
Her heart began to thump like the techno beat in