Chapter 8 Georgia
Eight
Georgia
I learn a couple key things during the lifeguard test.
The first is that Australians have very weird nicknaming customs. Mr. Bailey tells us he will respond to any variation of
“Truck Cap,” “Truckie,” “Truck,” or “Cappie,” but that most people call him “Caps,” which has taken on a captain implication. And after a few rounds of drills, he’s already freely spouting off nicknames for the twenty of us who’ve showed
up for the test. “Sandman” for the guy who trips and face-plants during a relay on the beach. “Leftie” for the one whose freestyle
stroke makes him look lopsided. And when the small group I’ve been partnered with wins the relay, I squeal in glee, leading
Mr. Bailey—er, Caps—to shout, “Do I hear a pod of dolphins? Pipe down over there, Dolphin!”
The second is that there’s no such thing as overpreparing.
I was so confident when I first arrived, but despite my days of practice and self-directed workouts, Caps’s militaristic drills leave me weak and breathless.
At one point he tells a girl to go sit in the shade and cool off because she looks like she’s going to faint or throw up, only to inform her once she’s recovered that she can go home—she’s been disqualified.
It sends a jolt of uncertainty through me. Deep down, I know the stakes aren’t that high. Even if I don’t get the job, I can
probably find one elsewhere—or take the summer to study and read and prepare for college. But just the idea of not accomplishing
what I set out to do, what I told everyone I was going to do, makes me queasy.
Still, I don’t want Caps to detect my queasiness and ask me to sit out like that other girl, so I grin and force myself to
give every exercise a hundred and ten percent.
My legs are more than a little wobbly as I finally walk back up the beach at the end of the test. We gather around Caps and
wait for him to make his final decision. He reviews his notes and looks at all our eager faces, then rattles off five names.
Four of them are guys. I’m shocked when the fifth is . . . Georgia Holliday.
So surprised, in fact, that I let out a little squee.
“Pipe it down there, Dolphin,” Cap says, taking his baseball cap off and re-bending the bill. Then he puts the hat back on
and assigns one other girl as an alternate. Everyone else is sent home in dismay, and the six of us remaining get our first
schedules and a set of rules.
Despite the full-body fatigue I was experiencing just minutes ago, the relief of landing a spot floods me with a wave of new
energy.
And that’s when I notice . . . him again.
Over where the beach tapers off into a wooded area.
It’s that boy with the red towel. He’s back, and he’s been watching our drills, though for how long I can’t be sure.
As I ride the euphoria of my victory toward the parking lot, I notice in my periphery that Red Towel Boy has picked up the towel in question and slung it over his shoulder, and now he’s .
. . jogging toward me with a strange confidence, like we were supposed to have plans later, like we’re already familiar with each other, even though I could swear I’d never seen him before his appearance on this beach two days ago.
“Wow, congrats,” he says. “That looked really, um. Hard.”
“Thanks,” I say politely. “Sorry, do we know each other?”
“Nope,” he says with a smile. “But I was watching you out there.”
“Really?” I find this response even weirder. He just admitted that he’s been sitting around staring at a complete stranger,
watching me swim. I point to the book in his hand—his thumb holding his page like the other day. “Looks like you came here
to read.”
He shrugs. “A little of both.” His eyes sparkle in the sun.
I take him in more carefully. His skin is a smooth pale brown, with a few dark freckles popping through on his cheeks. His
dark hair flops to the left, and he’s not wearing a shirt, though I can see one tucked into the back of his shorts. He is wearing a white shell necklace along with a simple silver chain around his neck. His board shorts hang low on his thin but
muscular hips. He’s close to my age, but definitely younger. I can tell by his boyish, unadulterated smile.
“Well . . . thanks?” I say again, starting to edge past him.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, before I can fully step from the sand onto the wooden path that leads to the parking area.
“Excuse me?” I turn back around to look at him.
“I was wondering if you would be open to, um, you get it.”
I stare at him. “Actually, no, I really don’t!” I hate to be rude but my brain isn’t comprehending what he’s doing. Because
what it seems like he’s doing is trying to ask me out, but that can’t be right. We have literally never met. Maybe he’s just some inexperienced
younger guy who thinks this is the way you flirt. . . .
“I just meant we could grab a bite to eat. You must be starving after that workout.” He smiles, and I’m astounded at the confidence.
He seems to have no idea how awkward he’s actually being.
“Listen, that’s really sweet, but I don’t even know your name—”
“Benny,” he says, sticking out a hand. “Benny Suarez.”
“Okay, Benny, it’s nice to meet you,” I say, looking at his hand but refusing to shake it. “But you don’t even know my name, and you don’t know me at all.”
“So you’re saying your real name isn’t Dolphin?”
Despite myself, I laugh. “Correct.”
“So, what is it?”
I glance around, wondering if anyone is watching this interaction.
Surely someone is going to walk over and tell this dude to stop hitting on me in public like this.
It’s not like I’m getting stranger-danger vibes at all—he seems way too innocent for that—and it’s not like I don’t think he’s cute.
He’s totally adorable. But he should probably be taught some manners, and I hesitate.
Would giving him my name be rewarding his forwardness?
“Look,” I tell him, as kindly as possible. “You seem really nice, Benny, so I appreciate the offer. But I have a boyfriend.
And I should probably get home.”
If this news dampens his interest, it’s only evidenced by the slightest movement in one eyebrow. Then he says, “Wait, I don’t
want you to get the wrong idea.”
“Wrong idea?” Now I’m annoyed. He’s trying to walk it back?
“I really want to be a lifeguard next year.” He shrugs again. “I can’t qualify this year—turning sixteen in a few weeks.”
Ah, so he’s basically Daisy’s age. That checks out.
“But next year I’ll make the cutoff,” he goes on. “Figured since you killed it out there, maybe you could walk me through
what you did to prepare? Also, this book I’m reading sucks, and I’m really bored. I have a few hours till I told Lita I’d
meet up with her, and she won’t care if I’m a little late.”
I take a small breath and relax a bit. Maybe I was just reading into things because of Benny’s flirty personality, his winning
smile, and that unwavering gaze. He’s just an eager kid who wants to become a lifeguard.
“Well . . .” I stall. I know I don’t have to pick up Daisy—Mateo will give her a ride. And Mom certainly won’t care if I stay
out for a bit. She doesn’t have a problem with us coming and going as we please, as long as we always text her our locations.
Half the time she’s so lost in a manuscript she truly won’t notice whether we’re there or not. As for Dave, he holes up at
the Laurel library every day anyway.
It’s not my custom to hang out with boys I’ve never met before. But there’s something disarming about Benny, how easy-breezy he is, that puts me off guard. I hear myself saying, “I guess so, sure,” before I’ve even fully registered it.
His smile grows, revealing dimples. “Great!”
“Put on a shirt first, though,” I say, starting to walk ahead of him, toward my car. Then I turn to look at him over my shoulder,
catching another glimpse of his sun-kissed chest and abs as he pulls the T-shirt over his head. “By the way, I’m Georgia.”
It turns out Benny walked to the lake from Lita’s house (“Lita” being what he calls his grandmother), the little yellow one
up on Greenvalley Lane, a curving dead-end road I have sometimes gone for runs on.
He walked here because he’s too young to have a driver’s license.
So, naturally, I will be the one to drive.
After throwing on a pair of linen shorts over my bathing suit along with a matching top, I take Benny into town to get kale
smoothies.
While we wind through the woods to get there, Benny plies me for pointers on training and how to impress Mr. Bailey, though
as we talk, I realize that it’s not really something you can verbalize. I’d have to see how strong a swimmer Benny is to get
a realistic sense of whether I think he would qualify next time. He asks if I’ll watch him swim sometime and offer feedback,
and I nod noncommittally.
Then I start blathering about Rhys and how he’s got this fancy financial internship and that’s why he’s not around. I don’t know why I’m talking so much about Rhys . . . I suppose I just want to be extra sure that I’ve made it clear I already have a special someone in my life.
While putting in our smoothie orders (I notice Benny says, “I’ll have what she’s having,” when they take his) he tells me
this is his first time up at Laurel Lake. His abuela got a job up here and invited him to stay with her for the summer, so
he thought he’d check things out.
“Are you new here too?” he asks.
I shake my head. “We used to come every summer, up until three years ago.”
“Wow, you’re lucky. It’s beautiful here. So, what happened three years ago to stop you?” he asks, and I can feel him studying
my profile.
I stare at the whirring blenders behind the counter. “Just . . .” I’m not telling this stranger about my dad’s death. It’s
too much. “You know, life got in the way. Anyway,” I say, searching for a change of subject, “if you think this is pretty,
you should see what the lake looks like from above. There are some great mountain trails with lookout points. And on the ski