Jill Smolinski - The Next Thing on My List

The water reached him midchest, and I bobbed, hanging on to the board. We were no closer than we’ d been when we chatted on the beach, but somehow being in the water made it seem strangely intimate.

Troy proceeded to give me the same instructions Chase had-only he said that when the right wave came, he’ d give me a shove.

‘ So do you surf?’ I asked, bobbing.

‘ Once in a while. Not so much now since I get up at three in the morning for work.’

‘ Gosh, that’ s the time I’ m usually stumbling home drunk.’

‘ Right. You strike me as that type.’

‘ You don’ t know-I could be,’ I said, finding myself mildly irritated that it was so obvious I wasn’ t a party girl, even though he’ d clearly meant it as a compliment.

We chatted a bit about his favorite surf spots, and then he told me to get ready-that the waves were picking up. I clambered onto the board, my arms reaching to grab the top end and my butt and legs dangling in the water. I was pointed toward shore like a rocket ready to launch. Troy was behind and slightly to the left of me-not the proximity to my rear I would have chosen had it come up for a vote.

‘ When I say go, start paddling,’ he instructed. I glanced behind me, and a swell began to build. When it reached me, he shouted, ‘ Go!’ My hands grabbed at the water, and the wave started to lift the board. Troy put one hand on the back of the board, the other on my lower back, and gave a strong, hard shove.

Suddenly I was soaring. This was catching a wave, and-my suspicions had been correct-I’ d never done anything like it before. It felt as if the water beneath me had turned into a sea of hands that kept spiriting my board up and forward-gliding and skipping and lifting until I was shrieking with the unexpected thrill of it and wishing that this amazing rush would never, ever have to end.

Chapter 9

I ‘ d driven past Oasis probably a hundred times but had never before been inside. I generally try to avoid tropical-themed bars located in minimalls. When Brie, her girlfriend Chanel, and I walked in, however, it was surprisingly large and lively and-for a Sunday evening-crowded.

‘ Good, there’ re mostly guys here. Less competition,’ Brie said, tugging on the snug tank top she wore especially for the occasion because it was the color of baby barf-no worries she might upstage me. Chanel had announced that surely there’ d be no brothers at a place called Oasis in a minimall so she might as well wear an ugly shirt, too-a gesture I would have appreciated more if I didn’ t happen to own the same shirt.

No matter. All that was important was that I meet the dictates of #8: Be the hottest girl at Oasis.

To that end, I wore the aforementioned silvery blue top with the sequin action going and the low-rider jeans I’ d bought for the blind date. I spent forever blow-drying my hair. Truly a child of the eighties, I can’ t help myself: When it comes to hair, I still equate bigger with better. I did, however, pass on Brie’ s offer to do my makeup for me. (I’ d almost taken her up on it until she’ d boasted, ‘ I do one face and it works on everybody.’ )

We took a seat at a high cocktail table in the center of the room. The waitress came by, and Brie and Chanel ordered pink ladies, and I asked for a Chardonnay.

‘ So now what?’ Chanel said when our drinks arrived.

I quickly surveyed the people around us. ‘ I suppose as long as we establish that I’ m the hottest woman in the room, then we’ re free to have our drinks and go.’

‘ I can’ t see everybody good from here-let’ s check it out,’ Brie said. She and Chanel grabbed their drinks and left to case the room. I stayed at the table, trying to be& hot? Ugh. Could I please go back to my idea of setting myself on fire? Truth was, I’ d never felt so ridiculous in my life. I felt silly because Brie and Chanel were walking around deciding if I was the prettiest girl in the room and even sillier because I kind of hoped I was. I understood what Marissa was after: that thrill of feeling that every eye is on you because you’ re beautiful, not because you’ re fat. But most of the eyes here weren’ t on women, but rather on the TVs in the corners broadcasting a Lakers game.

They returned, their faces a twist of pity. ‘ Over there, by the jukebox, behind that pillar,’ Brie said. ‘ She’ s hotter.’

Chanel nodded. ‘ The boobs are fake, but she’ s got kind of a Lindsay Lohan thing going. You know, real fresh but slutty.’

I craned my neck. Crap! She was hot! ‘ I can’ t compete with that! Now what am I supposed to do?’ I whined. ‘ Keep returning again and again hoping to hit a slow night? There’ s always going to be somebody more beautiful!’

‘ You don’ t need to worry about it,’ Brie said ominously. ‘ We’ ll get rid of her.’

‘ What are you planning to do?’ I asked, mildly alarmed.

She reached into her purse, and I feared what she might whip out. She merely freshened her lipstick. ‘ We got a few ideas. I figure we’ ll stand there and talk about a designer shoe sample sale in the parking lot. That ought to get her moving. If that doesn’ t work, maybe we’ ll say we saw a rat in the kitchen.’

After they took off for their second mission, I was left to sip my drink alone. I was in the midst of checking out the bartenders, wondering which one Marissa had a crush on, when up walked Troy Jones, a beer in his hand and a grin on his face. ‘ You were right, you do clean up nicely,’ he said.

‘ Ha, ha.’

‘ I hope you don’ t mind my stopping by. I was in the neighborhood, mooching dinner off the folks.’

‘ Aren’ t you fortunate. I have to drive to the Valley to get a decent home-cooked meal.’

‘ You here by yourself?’

‘ No, my girlfriends are off& ‘ Er, eliminating hot chicks? ‘ Saying hi to people they know.’ I glanced over to where Brie and Chanel stood. They were having what appeared to be a loud conversation with much gesturing behind the Lindsay Lohan look-alike’ s table and being completely ignored.

After I invited Troy to pull up a chair, he gave a nod toward the bar. ‘ That’ s the guy my sister had the crush on-in the pink polo shirt. She thought he looked like the lead singer from Nine Inch Nails.’

It was hard to decide what seemed stranger: that the sweet girl I pictured Marissa Jones to be would have had a thing for Nine Inch Nails or that she thought anyone in a pink polo shirt could resemble Trent Reznor.

‘ I see that,’ I said.

‘ Thought I’ d point it out-in case you needed to know.’

It took a second for it to sink in this time. ‘ Fishing again?’

He took a swig of his beer instead of answering.

‘ It’ s not about the bartender,’ I said.

‘ I didn’ t think it was. So you don’ t need to chat him up or anything?’

‘ Nope.’

I knew he was here hoping to see the list, and he had every right to-in fact, I had no claim to it in the first place. Still, I was worried he’ d be disappointed. There weren’ t many crossed off yet, not as many as should have been. To stall, I asked, ‘ So how did you get into traffic reporting?’

‘ Ah, cleverly changing the subject. I’ ll tell you, but I’ m saving the steamy stuff for my best-selling memoir.’ He leaned back and gave me an exaggerated dreamy stare. ‘ It started at the age of three when I got my first tricycle& .’

‘ Is this where everything goes murky and we have the flashback?’

‘ You prefer the short version? Basically, I’ m a motorhead through and through. Got my driver’ s license at sixteen. My motorcycle license the same year. Took me till seventeen to get the pilot’ s license-and they don’ t let you fly commercial until twenty.’