So Zoe doesn’t only know everything about Bobby, she knows his friends, too. Damn. Maybe Bobby is interested in her and she’s just too dense to pick up on it. A guy doesn’t introduce you to his friends and let you hang around with them unless he wants to make you his girlfriend.
Crap, I so don’t want to be the odd girl out on this little adventure. Maybe I should cut out now. Stupid. Who cares if Bobby is interested in Zoe? They are welcome to each other. I wasn’t really interested in him anyway. I might as well go. Beach. College guys. It could be worse.
Yep, still going.
We stop at Zoe’s house to change our clothes. The bikini I borrow from her really doesn’t work well. I’ve got bigger tits than Zoe—they’re practically popping out—and slimmer hips. I need to roll the bottoms to keep them up. As for the sweats, she had to grab those from her dad’s closet. Hers on me were so baggy and short in the legs they looked ridiculous.
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. I look a little slutty, but I definitely have nothing to be ashamed about over my body. I scrunch up my nose. I’m not an in your face with my boobs kind of girl.
Is this too obvious?
Pathetic or hot?
I groan. Why am I debating this? I’m not a chase-a-guy kind of girl either. Guys chase me. If Bobby isn’t interest, well then, that’s his problem.
I leave my sweat top unzipped and step into the bedroom. Zoe is lying on her bed, staring at her laptop, dressed and waiting for me.
She looks up and laughs. “I love your videos.”
Oh fuck.
I tense.
“What are you talking about?”
Her eyes brighten. “You’re Kaley’s World on YouTube, aren’t you? You are the one who makes the talk show videos with the messed-up Barbies dancing on the strings. It’s so fucking funny. Don’t pretend it’s not you. They’re epic.”
Busted.
No point lying about it now.
But how the hell did Zoe Kennedy of all people figure it out?
I drop down on the bed beside her. I shrug. “It’s just lame and something to do.”
Her eyes widen. “It’s not lame. Have you looked at how many views you get on every video? It’s like, thousands. The most I’ve ever gotten on anything I’ve posted is forty-three views.”
I scrunch up my nose. “Would you mind not telling anyone I’m the one doing those videos? The point of posting them under an alias and never showing my face is so that no one knows. How did you figure it out?”
She grimaces. “I sort of invaded your privacy by checking out your phone while you were in the bathroom. You should really password-protect your phone. I saw the Weebly web-hosting icon. I hit it. And, bam, up came Kaley’s World.”
I snatch my phone from the bed. “Fuck, how could you do that? That’s like an unwritten law. So not cool, Zoe.”
I instantly start to click in a passcode. I hate codes and I’ve never needed one. Chrissie is not a privacy invader but, fuck, it seems there are different rules in LA if you want to keep your shit your own business, even with your friends.
There.
Done.
I toss my cell onto the bed in front of her.
I give her the black stare.
She flushes. “Don’t be pissed at me. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but you’re just so interesting. Probably the most interesting person I’ve ever met.”
I roll my eyes. Interesting? Me? First I’m extreme and now I’m interesting.
I shake my head and let out an aggravated sigh. “Listen, I want us to be friends, but you can’t be poking around in my personal crap. Don’t do it again. OK?”
She nods. Contrite. “So why do you make those videos?”
Fuck. Didn’t she just hear me say I don’t want her snooping in my shit? “I just make them when junk happens in my life. A way to blow off steam. Nothing more.”
She stares at me like she gets it, but in all honesty I don’t even really know why I make the Kaley’s World videos. It’s just who I am. I photograph everything. I make films. I post videos. I blog. It’s how I cope with my thoroughly fucked-up existence.
“Well, they’re hilarious. I didn’t know you were so funny.” She springs from the bed. “Are you ready to go?”
I shrug in that bitchy girl way that says I don’t really want to go anymore and shove my phone into my tote and head for the door.
Zoe is silent as we drive to Redondo Beach. Damn it, why does it make me feel so bad to see her sulking in the passenger seat? She’s the one who crossed the line.
I glance at her. “Listen. I’m not pissed. OK?”
She looks at me, startled. “Oh. I didn’t think you were.” She smiles. “Sorry. I guess I zoned out again. I do that a lot. It really pisses Bobby off.”
Bobby again. They both claim they aren’t interested in each other, but he invites her surfing and she keeps bringing him up.
That’s starting to piss me off.
“Well, we’re in Redondo Beach,” I say stiffly. “You’re going to have to unzone and tell me where to go.”
Zoe gives me directions. A few minutes later we’re parked in a nearly full lot hugging the beach. I stare through the windshield. The waves are huge for California. The water is crowded with guys on boards. The signs posted on the barrier wall say High Surf Warning. Beach Closed.
We climb from the car and I follow Zoe. As we cross the sand, I stare out at the ocean trying to figure out which surfer is Bobby, but from here they all look the same.
Zoe stops at a giant cluster of beach towels, boards and chairs, the area crowded with fit, tanned bodies. It looks like they’ve been here all day. There are drinks, food, and music blasting. There are also girls—Bobby’s surfer mob is co-ed—and by the bikinis and bodies I’m seeing it was definitely lame to leave my hoodie unzipped thinking that’d wow him and to worry Zoe’s too-small top makes me look slutty.
My gaze narrows.
I wonder which one of those beach bimbos is Bobby’s.
Zoe is quickly swallowed up in fast greetings. Her face is awash with excitement as she drags me around the circle, introducing me.
She drops down on a towel and gestures me to join her.
“This is Seth Morgan,” she says. “He went to the academy last year—”
“Thankfully paroled for good behavior,” the guy next to her interrupts, winking at me.
Zoe laughs. A little too loudly for the comment. “Now he goes to UCLA. It’s where I’m applying.”
My eyes widen. She’s practically gushing over him. I do a fast, guarded inspection of Seth. Long tousled blond waves. Bright blue eyes. Deep California tan. Perfect teeth. Perfect body. Wearing a wetsuit unzipped with the top hanging low on his hips.
Definitely out of Zoe’s league.
He holds out a beer to me. “Do you want something to drink?”
I shake my head. “No, thanks. I’m driving.”
He offers it to Zoe. She reaches. He pulls it back, then she laughs—too loudly again—and grows pouty until he hands it to her.
“Why do you always mess with me?” Zoe chides.
He shrugs and lies back, staring at the ocean instead of her. Jeez, what a jerk. He seems like a prick. For her sake, I don’t like him.
She takes a sip of her beer. “Are you going back out again?”
He shakes his head. “Not all of us are as crazy as Rowan. Blown out. It’s too intense.”
I stare out at the ocean. “Which one is Bobby?”
Zoe points. “Black board.”
Thirty minutes later, every one of Bobby’s surfing buddies have left the water except him, and he has yet to take a wave. I’ve watched Grandpa Jack surfing enough times to know what Seth said is true, and to know exactly what the guys are saying in their surfer lingo about the tide, the waves and the current. Conditions out there are getting gnarly.
Why is he still out there?
The way everyone around me is laughing and talking and waiting for him tells me that I shouldn’t worry about Bobby. Zoe says he’s into extreme everything, and this is definitely extreme.