Page 73 of Summer Love

I look away, then back at her.

She tears the tape with her teeth, quick and precise. She presses the corners flat, checks that it sticks, then crosses the street to put up another one on the community board, between a flyer for beach yoga and the crumpled photo of a lost dog. She works fast, not looking around.

She turns the corner and disappears. I’m left standing on the sidewalk with my bag full of wax.

I turn around. Another poster is stuck to the Market’s window, right next to the door. I squint and make out two words: Surf School.

What?

Luke didn’t say a word. Traitor.

I step up to the poster and pull.

The tape resists. I pull harder. One corner peels, then the rest follows.

The poster’s in color. Pro layout, with a logo I’ve never seen before—a stylized sun above a wave, clean lines. Slick as the fancy schools up in Santa Cruz. At the top, in big letters:

Benefit Day

Coral Bay Surf School

Below: food stalls, a raffle, intro surf lessons, entertainment. It’s clear, easy to read—it makes you want to show up.

Until now, I’ve always been the one making the posters. A black marker, a sheet of paper.

Fundraiser

Walker Surf School

Sunday, 10 a.m.

Luke used to run off the copies for free on the Market’s machine. We’d tape up fifteen around town and call it marketing.

The poster in my hand is from another world. Benefit Day. Not Fundraiser. And she even ditched Walker.

It sounds better. And it pisses me off.

She’s always been good at this.

The worst part is nobody asked her to do it. She could’ve half-assed it, but no. She changed the name, designed a logo, thought of every detail.

For a surf school she has no reason to save. For a town she ran from.

I read it again, then stick it back up.

The tape’s a little shot in the left corner, so I press down hard with my palm to make it hold.

“Hell,” I mutter.

I tuck the bag under my arm and walk off with my wax.

CHAPTER 25

Summer

SUNDAY

Iget to the surf school just after ten.